Linda and Eric opened up. Terrorists who were caught in the open raced for cover, rounds screaming past them before the pair could zero in and put the men down.
Return fire came from eight different directions. Linda’s chin was bloodied by a shard of wood torn from the rail, and as much as she didn’t want to lose the last of the light she had to stay under cover from such a deadly barrage.
When it lessened, she fired blind at the riverbank below the quay in case anyone was tying to climb it again. Then, over the sharp stench of cordite, she smelled a familiar odor: wood smoke.
She looked aft just as the smoldering decking that had been hit by the grenade caught fire. The flame was low and smoky, but every second saw it grow. If it got out of control, they were as good as dead. The Saqr would become their funeral pyre.
“Mark, get that. We’ll cover you.”
Alana crawled from his side and approached Linda. “He’s working on something. I’ve got it.”
“Stay low,” Linda cautioned, impressed with the archaeologist’s courage.
The flames rose higher, first illuminating only the ship’s stern. But, like a rising sun, the light’s reach expanded rapidly. The terrorists used this to their advantage. They could see the vessel more clearly, and their accuracy improved.
Thirty feet from Linda, Alana slithered right to the edge of the burning section. She saw it wasn’t the deck afire, but a bench for the helmsman. She swung onto her back, braced her feet under the burning seat, and heaved. Rather than fly over the side of the ship, the bench broke in two, showering her with embers.
Alana beat out the ashes where they seared her skin, ripped her T-shirt over her head, and with nothing to protect her skin but the thin cotton she worked on snuffing out the fire by hand. All the while, Linda and the gunmen traded shots over her head.
By the time Alana extinguished the last of the stubborn flames, her shirt had all but burned up, and most the skin on her palms was gone, leaving behind nothing but raw red meat that hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life.
The pain was so intense, she couldn’t crawl on her hands and knees, but rather had to slither like a snake to return to the others.
Linda shined a penlight on Alana’s injuries and gasped.
“I’ll be all right,” Alana managed to say.
“Cover your ears,” Mark Murphy whispered urgently.
He waited a beat, studying the array of winking flashlights over the touchhole of one of the Saqr’s great cannons. When he thought the time right, he slipped a timer pencil into the gun’s touchhole, where it sank into the plastic explosives he’d rammed down the barrel. Between it and the muzzle was a cannonball made up of dozens of small metal spheres fused lightly together.
The timer went off, detonating the plastique, and the gun belched the grapeshot in a ten-foot tongue of flame. The ropes secured to the cannon to prevent the recoil from pushing it across the deck failed at full stretch, and the two tons of bronze rocketed through the opposite rail and plowed into the steep riverbank below the pier.
The impact of the grape was lost in the gun’s mighty roar, but when Murphy looked out to where he’d aimed two of the three flashlights were no longer there.
It was as if the cannon’s blast had signaled the end of round one and the beginning of the second. The gunmen opened up with renewed fury, rounds chewing at the Saqr as if to tear it apart piece by piece. The three Corporation operatives fired back, but the weight of the onslaught kept them pinned.
The cry of the terrorists’ charge carried above the din. They were coming with everything they had.
Eric took a glancing bullet to the shoulder when he tried to shoot back and stem the tide. Unable to hold his rifle against the wound to aim, he flicked to full auto and raked the ground thirty feet from the Saqr’s side, creating a curtain of lead the terrorists couldn’t penetrate.
When the rifle bolt snapped back on an empty magazine, Murphy took up the duty, blasting away in a desperate bid to break the charge. His gun, too, fell empty. Linda screamed like a Valkyrie as she hosed the dirt. It didn’t matter if she hit anyone. The intention was just to keep the terrorists back long enough that their courage would fail and they’d retreat for cover.
Bullets whizzed all around her, but to her absolute relief she saw the muzzle flashes were coming from farther and farther away. The charge had broken. They had stopped them.
She slipped down below the bulwarks, her entire body vibrating as an aftereffect of her rifle’s recoil, and she was covered in oily sweat. “You guys okay?” she called to her people as the gunmen’s fire slowed.
“I took one to the shoulder,” Eric reported from the darkness.
“I’m still pissed at myself for not grabbing the night vision goggles from Linc,” Mark said bitterly. “We go spelunking, and I forget the most important piece of gear we would need.”
“Alana?”
“I’m here,” she called softly, her voice pinched with pain.
“Mark, give her something from your med kit.” The sound of gunfire that had risen and fallen erratically over the past ten minutes dribbled away to silence.
Everyone’s ears rang, but not badly enough to miss a man’s voice calling out from the cavern entrance. “I will give you this one chance to give yourselves up.”
“Holy crap,” Eric exclaimed. “I know that voice.”
“What? Who is it?”
“I listened in when he and the Chairman were talking aboard the Oregon. That’s the harbor pilot, Hassad or Assad or something.”
“That explains the ambush on the coast road,” Murph surmised.
“Doesn’t change anything for us, though.” Linda thought for a moment, then shouted back, “I think General Austin McAuliffe said it best when he was asked to surrender during the Battle of the Bulge. In a word: nuts.”
Murph grumbled sarcastically, “Oh, that’ll go well for us.”
Round three started in earnest.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE FIRST PIECE OF GOOD NEWS CABRILLO HAD HEARD IN a while was that he was familiar with the supertanker slowly overtaking the Libyan frigate. She was the Petromax Oil ULCC Aggie Johnston, and several months earlier the Oregon had saved her from being hit by a couple of Iranian torpedoes by firing one of their own at the sub that had launched them.
They were close enough now that he had to assume all communications could be monitored by the Gulf of Sidra. To get around that, he found the ship’s e-mail address on the Petromax website and sent its captain a note. It was far from convenient, and their exchanges went back and forth for nearly ten minutes before he could convince the captain that he was the commander of the freighter now shadowing them from a thousand yards away and not some lunatic kid e-mailing from his parents’ basement in Anytown, USA.
As Juan waited for each reply, he lamented that Mark and Eric weren’t aboard. Those two could have hacked the parent company’s mainframe to issue the orders directly, and he wouldn’t have to explain what he wanted from the floating behemoth and why.
A fresh e-mail appeared in his inbox.
Captain Cabrillo, It goes against my better instincts and my years of training, but I will agree to do what you’ve asked, provided we don’t come within a half mile of that frigate and you provide the same sort of protection you did in the Straits of Hormuz if they fire on us.
As much as I want to do more, I must place the well-being of my ship and crew above my desire to help you unreservedly. I’ve spent the better part of my career operating out of Middle Eastern ports and hate what these terrorists have done to the region, but I can’t allow anything to happen to my vessel. And as you can well imagine, if we were loaded with oil rather than running in ballast the answer would have been an unequivocal no.
All the best,
James McCullough.
PS: Give ’em one on the chin for me. Good hunting.
“Hot damn,” Juan cried, “he’ll do it.”
Max Hanley was st
anding across the pilothouse chart table, the stem of his pipe clamped between his tobacco-stained teeth. “I wouldn’t get that excited when you’re contemplating playing chicken with a fully armed frigate.”
“This will be perfect,” Juan countered. “We’ll be inside his defenses before they know what we’re up to. We worked the vectors as we narrowed the gap and kept the tanker between us and the Sidra the whole time. As far as they know, there’s only the one ship that’s going to pass them. They have no idea we’re here, and won’t until the Johnston breaks off.”
He typed a reply on a wireless-connected laptop as he spoke:
Captain McCullough, You are the key to saving the Secretary’s life, and I can’t thank you or your crew enough. I only wish that afterward you’d receive the accolades you so richly deserve, but this incident must remain secret. We will flash your bridge with our Aldis lamp when we want you to begin. That should be in about ten minutes.
Again, my sincerest thanks,
Juan Cabrillo.
Spread across the table was a detailed schematic of the Russian-built Koni-class frigate, showing all her interior passages. Also there were Mike Trono and Jerry Pulaski, who would be leading the assault teams. They were well-trained fire-eaters who’d seen more than their share of combat, but Juan wished Eddie Seng and Franklin Lincoln would be in on the attack with him. Behind Trono and Pulaski were the ten other men who would be boarding the Libyan ship.
Outside the starboard windows lurked the thousand-foot slab of steel that was the Aggie Johnston’s hull. With the Oregon ballasted down to lower her profile and the supertanker nearly empty, the Johnston seemed to loom over them even at this distance. The accommodation block at her stern was the size of an office building, and her squat funnel resembled an upended railroad tank car.
“Okay, back to this. Do we all agree the most likely place for the execution is the crew’s mess?”
“It’s the biggest open space on the ship,” Mike Trono said. He was a slender man with fine brown hair who’d come to the Corporation after working as a pararescue jumper.
“Makes sense to me,” Ski remarked. The big Pole was a former Marine who towered half a head over the others. Rather than wear combat clothing, the men had donned sailors’ uniforms that Kevin Nixon’s staff had modified to resemble the utilities worn by Libyan sailors. An instant of confusion on an opponent’s part on seeing a familiar uniform but an unfamiliar face could mean the difference between life and death.
“Why a ship?” Mike asked suddenly.
“Sorry?”
“Why carry out the execution on a ship?”
“It’ll be next to impossible to triangulate where the broadcast signal originates,” Max replied. “And even if you can, the vessel’s long gone by the time anyone comes out to investigate.”
“We’re going to enter the Sidra here,” Juan said, pointing to an amidships hatch on the main deck. “We then move two doors down on the right to the first staircase. We take it down one flight, then it’s left, right, left. The mess will be right in front of us.”
“There’s gonna be a lot of sailors in there to watch,” Jerry predicted.
“I’d agree, normally,” Juan said. “But as soon as we make our move, they’ll go to general quarters. The hallways will be deserted, and anyone left in the mess is going to be a terrorist. The legitimate crew will be at their battle stations. We take out the tangos, grab Miss Katamora, and get off that tub before they know we were even there.”
“There’s still one problem with your plan,” Max said, relighting his pipe. “You haven’t explained our exit strategy. As soon as we pull away, Sidra’s going to nail us. I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to suggest that another team board her, carrying satchel charges. The Oregon can disable some of her armaments during the attack, and they can blow up what gets missed.”
Hanley wasn’t known for his tactical insights, so Juan was genuinely impressed. “Why, Max, what a well-reasoned and carefully considered plan.”
“I thought so, too,” he preened.
“Only thing is those men would get cut down long before they could approach the Sidra’s primary weapons systems.” Juan pointed to the schematic again. “They’ve got emplacements for .30 caliber machine guns on all four corners of the superstructure. We can knock out the ones we can see, but the two on the far side are protected by the ship itself. Our boys would be cut to ribbons.”
“Send Gomez up in the chopper and hit them with a missile,” Hanley said, defensive that his plan was being questioned.
“SAM coverage is too tight. He’d never get close enough.”
Max looked crestfallen, and his voice was a little sulky when he asked, “All right, smart guy, what’s your idea?”
Juan peeled back the naval drawings. Beneath them was a chart of the Libyan coastline due south of their current position. Juan tapped his finger on a spot ten miles west of them. “This.”
Max looked from Juan down to where he pointed and back up again. His smile was positively demonic. “Brilliant.”
“Thought you’d like that. It’s the reason we’re delaying the attack for a few minutes. We need them close enough for this to work.” Cabrillo added, “If there isn’t anything else, we should all get into position.”
“Let’s do this,” Mike Trono said.
The men descended the outside stairs to get to the main deck. Juan and Max lingered a moment.
“You still look a bit peevish,” Cabrillo said to his best friend.
“You’re going into the lion’s den, Juan. This isn’t like when we sneak into some warehouse in the middle of the night by knocking out a couple of rent-a-cops. There are some real bad apples on that ship, and I’m afraid as soon as they realize something’s up they’re going to kill her straightaway, and this’ll all be for nothing.”
A glib reply died on the Chairman’s lips. He said somberly, “I know, but if we don’t try they’ve already won. In a way, this war started in these waters two hundred years ago. We as a nation stood up back then for our core principles and said enough is enough. Wouldn’t it be something if we end it here, too, fighting for the very same things?”
“If nothing more, it would be rather poetic justice.”
Juan slapped him on the back, grinning. “That’s the spirit. Now, get down to the op center, and don’t hurt my ship when I’m gone.”
Max shook his head like an old bloodhound. “That’s one promise you know I can’t keep.”
Once they gave Captain McCullough the signal, the massive tanker altered her course southward toward the Libyan frigate. It was done subtly and without warning, but inexorably the distance between the two vessels shrank. On her original course, the Aggie Johnston would have passed the Sidra with a five-mile separation, but as the trailing distance closed so, too, did the range. Staying tight to her flank, the Oregon, too, closed in on its prey.
The radios stayed quiet until the tanker was a mile astern and two miles north of the frigate. Juan had a portable handset as he waited in the shadow of the gunwales with his men. With the sun beginning to set behind them, the worst of the day’s heat had abated, and yet the deck was still too hot to touch comfortably.
“Tanker approaching on my stern, this is the Khalij Surt of the Libyan Navy. You are straying too close for safe passage. Please alter your course and increase your separation before coming abeam.”
“Khalij Surt, this is James McCullough of ULCC Aggie Johnston.” McCullough had a smooth, cultured voice. Juan pictured him standing around six-two and, for some reason, bald as an egg. “We’re experiencing a rogue ebb tide right now. I have the rudder over, and she’s starting to respond. We will comply with your directive in time, I assure you.”
“Very good,” came the curt reply from the Sidra. “Please advise if you continue to have difficulties.”
McCullough had stuck to Juan’s script, and the first act of the play had gone perfectly. Of course, the tanker’s captain would maintain his headin
g and, in the process, buy the Oregon more time.
Ten minutes went by, and the speeds of the ships relative to each other had narrowed the gap by another half mile. Juan thought the Libyans would have called much earlier. He considered it a good omen that there didn’t seem to be any alarm.
“Aggie Johnston, Aggie Johnston, this is the Khalij Surt.” The man’s tone was still cool and professional. “Are you still experiencing difficulties?”
“A moment, please,” McCullough radioed back as if pressed for time. When he didn’t respond for two minutes, the Libyans repeated their request. This time, a bit more forcefully.
“Yes, sorry about that. The ebb intensified. We’re coming out of it now.”
“We did not experience this tidal action you seem to be facing.”
“That’s because our keel is forty feet down and stretches for three football fields.”
Easy, Jimmy boy, Juan thought.
Juan and the captain had worked it out so the next call originated from McCullough. Two minutes after the last comment, he was on the horn again. “Khalij Surt, this is the Aggie Johnston. Please be advised our steering gear just failed. I have ordered an emergency stop, but at our current speed it will take us several miles. I calculate I will pass down your port beam with a half-mile clearance. May I suggest you alter your speed and heading.”
Rather than slowing, the tanker began a steady acceleration, her single prop churning the water into a maelstrom at her fantail. This wasn’t in the script, and Juan knew that McCullough was ignoring his own preset conditions in order to get the Oregon in as tight as he possibly could. Cabrillo vowed to find the man and buy him a drink when this was over.
The Sidra had begun to turn away and gain speed, but she was still going slow enough that her maneuvers were sluggish. The tanker dwarfed the warship as she started to cruise past, moving at eighteen knots only a third of a mile off the Libyans’ rail.
Juan felt the Oregon’s deck shiver ever so slightly. Her big pumps were rapidly draining seawater from her saddle ballast tanks. They were going in.
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