Deadly Apparition

by G. Ernest Smith

  “Take him below,” said the man.

  Two sneering men stepped forward and seized Castillo’s arms. These men had a personal hygiene problem as well. They had an even worse aroma than their captain. They had long greasy hair and lined faces. The one on his right had a long scar down his left cheek and was missing three fingers from his left hand.

  • • •

  The crew watched helplessly as their captain was unceremoniously hoisted onto the deck of the galleon. Taylor zoomed the picture in tightly on the galleon’s deck. They could see only the top of Castillo’s head. They also saw the big man strike him.

  Susan Lambert had to stifle a sob. “We have to help him!” she cried.

  “Damn right,” spat Tanaka. “Bastards!”

  “Why the hell would an old windjammer like that fire on an American warship?” questioned Taylor.

  “They’re waging some imagined war against the U.S.,” said Tanaka. “Terrorists do it all the time.”

  “Terrorists with a windjammer,” muttered Taylor. He had to say it out loud just to see how insane it sounded. He shook his head and slumped in the command chair. “My first impulse is to put a fish into that thing. But that won’t help Don, will it?” He took a deep breath and looked around the room. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  As they watched the screen, the sails of the galleon filled and it began to get under way again.

  “Pilot, shadow that thing. Stay within a mile of her.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll stay with her.”

  “How much damage do we have?” Taylor asked Tanaka.

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll go up and take a look.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Tanaka and Taylor emerged through the deck hatch behind the sail and began to inspect the ship’s hull. There were three 8 inch dish-shaped indentations in the sail, four flaps of anachoic panels were hanging off the hull and one of the Apparition hull tubes had been smashed.

  “I don’t think we suffered any serious damage, sir,” said Tanaka. “The pressure hull seems okay. It’s made of six inch HY-100 grade steel. We have superficial damage to the sail where the steel is thinner.”

  “Yeh. But we need to cut away these panels. We can’t reattach them, and they’re just going create drag in the water. Tell that torpedoman to come up with the torch and get to work.”

  “You mean Haberman, sir?”

  “Yes. I think that’s his name.”

  “He’s one of those we left behind to make room for the test crew.”

  “Great!” Taylor blew out breath loudly, like a boiler venting. “Maybe you could get some people up here with hack saws.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll think of something.”

  Taylor stared off to the south at the distant galleon. “I wonder what’s going on over there.”

  • • •

  Castillo was tied to a wooden chair in a dark windowless room with heavy foul air that was ripe with the rotten odor of decay, and there were dark stains on the floor. Blood? There were two flickering iron lanterns hanging on opposite walls and chains and shackles attached to the stained wall facing him. There was also a table against the wall next to him with a cross, knives and a grill with red hot coals in it. There was just a hint of some kind of incense in the air. The overall effect was stomach-churning.

  “The sea beast is following us, capitan,” said Estevez.

  “I know,” said Cordova. “Keep the guns loaded and ready. If it moves on us, notify me immediately.”

  “Yes, capitan.”

  Estevez exited, leaving only Castillo, Cordova and the two other serious-looking men standing in the corner.

  Cordova was looking at the contents of Castillo’s pockets. He could not identify anything here. He held up a long black thing and said, “What is this?”

  “A pen,” replied Castillo.

  “A what?” asked Cordova.

  “You don’t know what a pen is?” asked Castillo, incredulously. “Let me go! You have no reason to hold me!”

  “I don’t think so. Demons are full of tricks.”

  “I’m not a demon! I’m a man just like you. Enough’s enough! I’m American. You have no cause to hold me. I don’t know where you come from, but…”

  “Silence,” bellowed Cordova. “You are aboard his majesty Phillip’s ship San Luis Hidalgo, and I am captain Martin de Cordova, second Duke of Almaguer.”

  Oh my God, thought Castillo. These re-enactors play it right to the hilt. They go for very tight realism. He didn’t see a cell phone or even a wrist watch on anyone.

  “I saw you fall from the demonic leviathan. Do you control it or does it control you?”

  Castillo said nothing. He only glared indignantly.

  “Do you work for Satan?”

  “Satan?” Castillo blinked in disbelief. “What’s wrong with you people?”

  “I saw you!” roared Cordova. “Do you deny that you came from the sea beast?”

  “No…y-yes…” sputtered Castillo. “Wait…”

  “Prepare him for questioning, Francisco.”

  The man missing fingers on his left hand stepped forward and cut Castillo’s shirt away, so that he was bare chested. Then he brought forward the grill of red hot coals and a branding iron. He began to heat the iron in the bed of coals, blowing gently on it, making the coals glow.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Castillo, eyeing the coals nervously.

  “You are going to confess that you work for Satan,” said Cordova. “Or are you in league with Drake?”

  “Who’s Drake?” asked Castillo, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

  “Drake is the Godless queen’s hound. She slips him from his leash and orders him to attack us from time to time.”

  He picked up the branding iron and held the glowing end close to Castillo’s bare chest. “Are you one of the Godless queen’s mongrels? Eh?”

  Castillo said nothing. This man was psychopathic. No telling what he was capable of. In fact this ship was probably full of them. He had to get away from here.

  Cordova laid down the iron and picked up Castillo’s command phone. “What’s this?”

  Castillo said nothing.

  Cordova pushed a button and the screen lit up. He sucked air and dropped the phone to the floor and stomped on it with his boot as if he were trying to crush an insect.

  “Satan!” He pointed a finger at Castillo. He took the cross from the table, held it toward Castillo and began reciting a rite of exorcism.

  • • •

  “I’d give anything for a SEAL team right now,” said a frustrated Taylor.

  “We don’t have a SEAL team or the swimmer sub, sir,” said Tanaka, “but we have two inflatables and all the SEAL weapons and equipment aboard.”

  “Weapons? What kind of weapons?”

  “Assault rifles mostly,” answered Tanaka. “MP-5’s, and there are a couple grenade launchers, and a sniper gun, and a 50 caliber, and…”

  “A 50 caliber? That’s a big gun! What the hell do they have one of those for?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  Taylor closed his eyes tightly, massaged them with his finger tips. “Is there anyone on board who can handle a sniper gun?”

  “There is a supply guy who is a competition shooter, sir,” said Lieutenant Maria Guerrero from her navigation station. “Green, I think his name was.”

  “Green?” said Tanaka reflectively, shaking his head.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Taylor.

  “We left him behind. I’m pretty sure,” said Tanaka.

  Lambert cleared her throat. Taylor turned toward her and elevated his eyebrows. Lambert turned to McConnell and whispered something. McConnell whispered back.

  “Do you have something to contribute, Miss Lambert?” asked Taylor.

  “Well, Crystal and I have worked together at QVR for awhile, but not until we met at a gym in Glasgow did I discover that we’re both athletes. She represented England in the Olymp
ics. Her sport was the biathlon.”

  “That’s nice, but…” Taylor stopped short. “Wait. Isn’t biathlon that thing where they ski and shoot?”

  Crystal McConnell nodded and smiled shyly.

  “Did you win a medal?” asked Taylor.

  “No,” said McConnell, “but it wasn’t because of my shooting. I had a perfect score, but I’d sprained my ankle.”

  “Do you think you can handle a sniper rifle?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to see it.”

  Taylor turned to Tanaka. “Let’s get that gun up here and let Miss McConnell take a look at it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tanaka raced off.

  They waited silently until Tanaka returned with a long black hard case. He opened it and McConnell came forward and knelt down next to it. She picked up the rifle and got its heft. “It looks like an SR-25,” she said quietly. “Light, about 12 pounds, probably fires a NATO round, a 7.62, a big magazine, 20 rounds.” She laid the rifle down, picked up the scope, flipped up the end caps and put it to her eye. “Nice!” She expertly slid the scope into its receiver on the back of the gun and locked it down. She stood up, put the stock to her shoulder, took a shooter’s stance. “Ejects brass to the right, about a two and half pound trigger pull.” Finally holding it by the barrel, she set the rifle’s stock down on the deck and said, “Yes, I can handle it. It’s a very fine gun.”

  “Good!” Taylor smiled broadly showing white even teeth and clapped his hands. “Now, I’m going to jump right to the bonus round and ask you the 64 dollar question.” He leaned forward and pinned McConnell with his eyes. “Do you think you could shoot a man?”

  McConnell began to shake her head in the negative, but Taylor put his right palm up to her and said, “Before you answer. I want you to know that 90 per cent of all people who are asked that question say, ‘no’, but when put in the proper context, they find they can. If they are defending themselves or saving the life of a loved one…a son, a daughter, a mother or father, the answer changes for 75 percent of them. When you have to choose between shooting a low life or allowing your loved to be murdered, the decision is much easier.” He paused to allow McConnell to absorb this. She only blinked. He wasn’t sure he was getting through to her. She was hard to read. “I’m going to ask you again. Do you think you can shoot a man to save Don Castillo or a member of this crew? Take your time with your answer.”

  McConnell compressed her lips and stared at Taylor. She knew this was important. She turned and looked into Susan Lambert’s anguished face and something passed between them. She turned back and took in Taylor’s intent stare. His eyes were the same shade of brown as the comfortable old padded leather wingback chair she had back in her flat in Glasgow. She loved the comfortable way it embraced her and made her feel secure. “Okay,” she said to Taylor. “I can do it, but may I practice first?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Taylor, slapping his thigh. “We’ll find a way for you to get some shooting in up on deck, but we have to move fast. We need to get Don back before something happens to him. He would do the same for any one of us.”

  Agreement all around.

  Chapter 7

  Castillo liked to think of himself as a tough hombre, cut of the same cloth as strong football heroes and determined title characters in the John Wayne movies. But he was not. As soon as the pain started, he caved. After two applications of the red hot poker, he admitted he was Satan. He would have admitted he’d fathered a rattlesnake to get them to stop. The burnt skin on his chest was still smoldering and the searing pain was so crippling, he couldn’t breathe. He could only gulp small mouthfuls of air. He no longer tried to conceal his sobbing. Tears from his eyes were dripping down his chest now and when his salty tears got into his wounds it renewed the pain. His vision was bleary, his sinuses were filled, and his heart was hammering. He was afraid he was going into shock.

  Cordova was looking quite smug. He had gotten his confession. But it had come too easily. He was not ready to stop yet. “So now, Don Castillo, I want to know about the bastard queen, Elizabeth.”

  Castillo wished to be gone from this place, but more than that he wanted to strike at this man. He hoped that Kansas was nearby. He hoped Mason Taylor would put a fish into this floating band of lunatics and blow them to smithereens. He didn’t want rescue. He didn’t want his crew to see him like this. He had peed himself. He only wanted to die and take these miscreants with him. “Come on, Mason. Do it! Put a fish into this barge and kill them all!” he said to himself in English.

  “So,” sneered Cordova. “You know the language of the godless queen and her mongrels. What is she planning, Don Castillo?”

  He said his name mockingly as if the Don was a title of nobility as it used to be in old Spain. “I…don’t…know,” croaked Castillo through swollen lips.

  Cordova stepped forward and back-handed him sharply.

  • • •

  Taylor came up on deck to hurry along the crewmen who were cutting away the damaged acoustic panels. He was in a rush to get Castillo back. He didn’t know what these pirates might be doing to him. The wind picked up and the sea got rougher causing the boat to rock. Submarines wallowed on the surface because of their round hulls. They were only stable when they were underwater.

  Crystal McConnell came up on deck with the sniper gun slung over her right shoulder and Taylor hardly recognized her. She had a totally different demeanor. She was wearing a brown leather jacket, black calfskin gloves with the fingers cut out of them, her chestnut hair was fastened in a ponytail which protruded through the opening in her black Kansas ball cap, and she had on a pair of wrap-around reflectors. He could read determination in the set of her mouth. She walked with purpose. All business. She called to Taylor’s mind a line from an old song:

  She’s a Killer Queen

  Gunpowder, gelatine

  Dynamite with a laserbeam

  Guaranteed to blow your mind

  She had brought an assortment of jars and bottles as targets. She turned and said, “Could you throw some targets for me?”

  “Sure,” answered Taylor. She slammed home a magazine, cocked the firing mechanism and laid down on the deck. She adjusted the set of the bipod twice, then nodded to Taylor. He picked up a mayonnaise jar and threw it as far as he could.

  POW! POW! POW!

  She shattered it on the third try.

  “This is hard!” she said. “I’ve never tried to shoot from the pitching deck of a ship before.”

  “I never said it would be easy,” said Taylor. He threw more jars and bottles for her. She expended twenty rounds and on her last six targets, she’d hit them on her first try. “I think you’re ready,” said Taylor.

  “I think I need more practice,” she answered.

  “We don’t have time for more practice,” said Taylor. “We need to get Don.”

  She studied Taylor’s face. “He’s your close friend, isn’t he?”

  “You could say that. We’ve known each other for about three years, but I think we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well in that time. We’ve been very involved in the day-to-day operations of the Kansas and her crew, and we’ve had many drinks in celebration and in sorrow.”

  She studied his handsome face. Taylor gave her a protected feeling. They were about to go into danger yet she felt oddly comforted knowing Mason Taylor was in command of the operation. He seemed so confidant, so sure. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

  Taylor called a meeting in Kansas’s wardroom and went over the plan. Taylor had asked for volunteers for the assault team and had gotten 57 volunteers, but the SEAL inflatable assault craft could only hold 8 so he selected people he thought most capable. Susan Lambert insisted on leading the assault. He at first refused but finally gave in because of her relentless insistence. She did not know weapons, but she was probably the most fit of the crew. He put an MP-5 assault rifle in her hands and showed her where the safety was.

  A problem with Taylor’s rescue plan was
getting the 50 caliber to the top of the boat’s sail. The big gun weighed nearly 100 pounds and each ammo box also weighed in at 100 pounds. The Browning 50 caliber was designed to stop armored vehicles and aircraft. The brutish weapon could punch holes in one and a half inch steel plate. Taylor still questioned why the SEAL team needed such a diabolical thing, but at this point, he was only thankful. The big gun was going to be very useful in the upcoming operation.

  When all was in readiness, they took their positions. Taylor knew the Browning 50 caliber because of his time on a Navy destroyer. This was before his submarine days. He had fired the big gun only twice, but he remembered the specifics of its operation. The crew had securely set the gun into position in Kansas’s sail anchoring it on the edge of the bridge well and Crystal McConnell manned the sniper gun in the watch well in the sail right next to it. She and Taylor knelt side-by-side in the top of the sail ready to provide fire support to the boarding party. Although McConnell was not military, she had made a connection with Taylor. They were comrades in arms about to go into battle. He had her back and she had his. This is the type of operation that bonds warriors forever. It’s in the heat of battle that they discover who they really are and what they are truly capable of.

  “Let’s do this,” said McConnell, sighting through her scope.

  “Right,” said Taylor. He donned a headset and said, “Is everybody ready?”

  “Assault team ready,” said Lambert.

  “Control room ready,” said Lieutenant Maria Guerrero, who was in the command chair and monitoring camera views.

  “Okay,” said Taylor. “Maria, start closing the distance. Move us up to within a hundred feet of the stern of the galleon.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Lieutenant Guerrero. “Closing on the galleon.”

  Tanaka was crowded in beside Taylor. His job was to feed ammo belts to the Browning when it started firing. It consumed an enormous amount of ammunition when it fired. Tanaka was huffing loudly with the effort of laying out the heavy belts.

  “Could this be construed as an international incident, sir?” asked Tanaka.

  Taylor couldn’t believe what Tanaka was implying. “I’d say when they fired on an American ship and kidnapped the skipper, they created an international incident. And I don’t care what country is involved in this, in firing on us, they initiated hostile action. Besides, I’m more concerned about getting Don back than operational protocol. His life may be in danger.”