America jtf-2 Page 29

  “Nothing out there.”

  A burst of gunfire came through the hole. Another round of ricocheting bullets bounced around the bridge.

  “They’re up to something, ma’am. The firing is slackening. Means either we’ve killed a lot of them, which I doubt. Or, they’ve decided to do something else, and whatever it is, it won’t be good for us. You oughta try that radio again and see where the cavalry is,” he suggested, nodding at the forward bulkhead.

  Early’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the area around the radio. The speaker was intact. Should still be working. Then she saw the dangling transmission cord that had been connected to the handset before the fight had begun. They could hear, but they couldn’t contact anybody. Most of what happened now was out of her hands. She hoped whoever was coming would get there quickly.

  “Merchant vessel to my starboard,” came a voice from the speaker. “What are your intentions? You are closing my port side.”

  Early looked through the windows. The ship was in a starboard turn with the bow of another ship entering into view from the right. Two chains rose from the surface of the ocean into the bow of the vessel.

  “I am anchored and unable to maneuver. Request you alter course immediately, merchant vessel!” the voice shouted.

  The silhouette of the anchored merchant vessel slid rapidly across the bow of their ship.

  “What’s going on?” Kelly asked.

  Senior Chief Leary slid back from the hold in the starboard hatch and pulled himself up behind the bridge console. “The compass is going around clockwise,” he said.

  “What are the rudders doing, man?” Kelly asked, then commenced coughing.

  “Rudders, rudders, rudders,” the Senior Chief muttered as his eyes searched the damaged console. “What do they look like?”

  “There should be a gauge or display unit up there that shows the angle of the rudders so you know how much of a turn you are in.”

  Leary looked a few more seconds. “Dammit! Ain’t nothing up here, Lieutenant. Must have been part of this—”

  The barrel of a gun poked through the lower half of the damaged hatch, turned toward the Senior Chief, and fired a burst before being jerked back.

  One bullet grazed his right shoulder. “Damn — shit — fuck!”

  “Okay, Senior Chief. If you can’t find it, you can’t find it.”

  “Don’t need to find it,” Early said, pointing forward. “I think we’re going to miss this ship, but if we’re in a circle, then we’re going to come back this way again, and if that ship is still there, we may hit her.”

  The familiar metal bouncing sound of another grenade sent the Senior Chief and Early diving for cover on the left side of the helm console, their bodies draped over the wounded Lieutenant. The explosion filled the bridge with fresh dust. Early’s ears hurt as she picked herself up.

  “Everyone—” she started, then realized the Senior Chief was gone.

  Early stood up, her weapon pointing toward the buckled hatch.

  She saw him. He was scrambling along the rear bulkhead, over pieces of sharp metal cutting his knees. Leary reached the buckled hatch, threw himself to the deck, stuck the barrel of the AK-47 through the opening, and fired. The automatic gunfire was accompanied by a litany of cursing, parental epithets, and descriptive socially unacceptable metaphors that only a career sailor could learn by actively working on the job. If the bullets didn’t kill them, the language surely would wound them.

  “Lieutenant Early, this is Coast Guard Cutter Cyclone. We believe we have you identified. Five minutes to rendezvous, ma’am. Acknowledge, please.”

  There was no way she could acknowledge. Five minutes. In battle, five minutes was a lifetime. It didn’t sound like much, but time was measured in seconds when bullets were flying, and minutes became like hours. They had little choice. They had to hold the bridge. If the Coast Guard was going to broadcast what they were doing, then Early couldn’t afford to allow the terrorists to take the bridge.

  Unknown to the three was that only five of the terrorists had remained in the passageway outside the bridge, and Senior Chief Leary had killed two of them.

  * * *

  Tamursheki had determined that once he couldn’t take the bridge without losing more than the one killed when they’d first assaulted it, they had to follow through with their mission. “Boulas, you and Nafiz harass them. Keep them where they are for ten minutes, then join us at the back of the boat so we can leave.” He helped carry the one wounded man with them down the ladder.

  Tamursheki stopped at the medical clinic and had the others help the three who could barely stand to the aft portion of the vessel. He glanced at the man wounded on the bridge, ran his hand along the Jihadist’s head, and turned, leaving the man bleeding on the medical table.

  By the time the Coast Guard transmitted their time line across channel sixteen, Tamursheki and his men had already inflated two Zodiac rafts stored near the huge van anchored to the stern weather deck.

  As the men moved the rafts toward the port side of the merchant vessel, Tamursheki and Qasim stood near the small welded-shut door leading into the van. Unseen by the two was the small camera attached to the top bulkhead behind them — a camera that connected to the monitors on the bridge.

  “What do you think, Amir?” Qasim asked. “Is Alrajool right and this is all a ruse?” The large Arab reached up and slapped his hand on the side of the huge van.

  Tamursheki reached above the sealed hatch and with a key opened a small door, revealing a series of lights and buttons. “Even if for some heretical reason I lacked faith in the righteousness of Abu Alhaul, my common sense tells me that no one would go through this much trouble to fool those who would gladly give their lives for him with only a snap of his fingers.”

  A steady rain replaced the deluge of only an hour before, and the waves beating against the sides of the ship had settled down to an occasional breaker over the top of the deck. Tamursheki watched the wake of the freighter curve as the ship turned, unaware that damage to the automatic pilot of the bridge had shoved the rudders over, causing the ship to start circling.

  Not being a mariner, the shape of the wake meant nothing to him. Tamursheki reached up and touched his forefinger to a small sensor that immediately glowed red. A second later, the biometric reader recognized the terrorist leader, and the glow changed to green. Satisfied, he grinned at Qasim and with a series of quick flicks the five green lights glowed red. A digital readout below the control panel started ticking backward using Arabic numbers.

  Tamursheki shut the small door and locked it. He pulled the key out and looked at it for a moment before drawing back and throwing it toward the port edge of the ship. The turn of the ship shifted the wind at that instant while the ship rolled to the right, catching the key and causing it to drop unseen on the edge of the deck.

  “It’s time, Qasim. The weather is improving, and once the clouds and winds are gone, the Americans will have helicopters and boats all over this area. We can assume our prisoners have already told them where we are. Regardless, we know the Americans will mount an attack soon.”

  Qasim followed Tamursheki to where the two Zodiac rafts waited. With the exception of the three laying on the floor of the rafts unable to move, moaning through blistered lips, the others waited impatiently. Of the twenty-two who started, nine of them remained healthy enough to make shore. The three lying on the bottom of the raft would do their mission in the hospitals of America. He and the others would continue with their mission. Boulas appeared around the edge of the forecastle. He had been one of the two men assigned to keep the Americans busy on the bridge. Tamursheki and the man’s eyes met for a moment before Boulas lowered his eyes. That meant there would be thirteen of them to go ashore and complete their mission. The explosion of the ship would serve to distract the Americans while they sailed these small rafts to the beach.

  “Let’s go,” he said, motioning to the men standing alongside the raft nearest the edge.
Tamursheki looked behind the ship. The wake was curving sharply. It dawned on him that the ship was turning, but the effect of a turning ship on launching rafts was lost to him. He looked forward at the bow of an anchored merchant vessel. He recognized it as a tanker. The bow of their freighter continued to turn, passing within a couple hundred yards of the anchored tanker. If Tamursheki had a rocket grenade launcher, he could create a spectacular diversion for their escape.

  The ship tilted to port for a moment and then back to starboard. A wash of water pushed the key to the van’s control panel across the deck, bringing it to rest against the raised deck of the hold opening. Waves crested higher between the two ships as they passed.

  Tamursheki jerked an AK-47 out of the hands of one of his men, aimed it at the bridge of the tanker, and fired. Not just one burst but several, pleased as he watched the paint chips fly from the white bulkheads of the bridge. He ceased firing and held the gun aloft, looking around at his men. There! That should show them who we are. Let their hearts tremble with fear.

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ!” the speaker on the bridge erupted. “That son of a bitch is shooting at us. Coast Guard, you still out there?”

  “This is Coast Guard Cutter Cyclone. Who just fired on you? And, what are you doing on this channel? We ordered everyone off this channel and onto either eighteen or fourteen.”

  “Fine, fine, young lady, write me a ticket. This is Cypriot tanker Mykonos. I have you three miles off my port beam. You keep going the direction you’re heading and you’re going to sail right by us. Look to your left. You see that freighter making a right-hand turn? That’s the asshole who just shot up my bridge.” The voice paused for a moment and then in a more calm tone continued, “No one injured, but they sure as hell messed up my paint job.”

  “What is your location, Mykonos?”

  “We’re west of Cape Henry lighthouse, nine miles, at anchor. If this guy keeps circling, he’s going to hit us, and there’s going to be one awful boom. We’re carrying a cargo of natural gas. I am weighing anchor, but that’s going to take me a few—”

  “Mykonos, where did the shots come from?”

  “It came from that freighter,” the person replied, his voice betraying his irritation. “I’ve already told you that.”

  “We know, Mykonos, but from what part of that freighter?”

  “Aft. There’s a group of assholes standing around a van tied down onto the stern deck. Wait one,” he said.

  * * *

  Hearing the exchange, Kelly looked at the other two and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Sounds like our captors may have given up on us and are back doing something to that thing on the stern.”

  “Navy Intelligence said that van may hold an explosive device,” Early said.

  “If it is, then it’s gonna have to be one big explosion from out here if they think it’s gonna do anything to—” She stopped as her mind reeled with implications.

  The three looked at each other, their eyes revealing that each had the same thought.

  “You don’t think?” the Senior Chief asked, his voice trailing off. “Damn!” Early met his eyes, then shook her head. “Damn, ma’am. I don’t suppose we can just sit here and wait for the cavalry to arrive?”

  “Coast Guard Cutter Cyclone, this is Mykonos. One of my officers tells me he sees inflatable rafts on the stern of that runaway ship with what looks like people already in them. Maybe they’re abandoning ship. Christ! That’s all I need right now — a runaway, unmanned ship off my port beam. Coast Guard, Mykonos. I’m out of here. Out!”

  Early and the Senior Chief hunched behind the left side of the destroyed helm console, their bodies over the wounded Kelly. Early looked up at the monitor where the van showed in the center of it with people walking back and forth. Whatever the two men were doing at the van, they had finished. What if they were arming it?

  “If it’s a nuclear device and explodes at sea, the wind’s going to carry radioactive water vapor toward shore and across Virginia Beach,” Senior Chief Leary offered.

  “They’d better hurry,” Kelly said.

  “They’re not gonna make it in time, Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant Early’s right. We’re going to have to do something.”

  Kelly pushed against the deck, straightening himself with his back resting against the helm console. He pulled the old Brazilian 9mm Uru automatic weapon into his lap. Early noticed specks of rust on the gun. She hoped it would work when he used it. There hadn’t been any gunfire for a few minutes, but eventually they’d work up the nerve to attack them again.

  “Good luck. I’ll hold the bridge,” Kelly said. He held the gun in his left hand, the barrel resting on the deck, his right hand placed over the wound, pressing down on the handkerchief he must have pulled from one of his flight-suit pockets.

  Early started to say something, and Kelly raised his hand. “Don’t say it. I’ll still be here when you come back. Do what you have to do.”

  She looked at Leary. “Senior Chief,” she said.

  He nodded. “Guess if the damn thing explodes, I won’t need that vasectomy the missus has been bugging me about.”

  Early glanced at Kelly, who winked and nodded at her. She wondered if she would ever see him alive again. Then she pulled the hatch shut as she stepped through and onto the mesh platform the three of them had used less than an hour before to take the bridge. Inside, Kelly watched the lever seal the hatch. Kelly was confident that the gunfire from outside was only meant to keep them inside the bridge. The bounce of another grenade caught his attention, and then he heard it roll. He looked right, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the grenade stop about five feet from him. He threw himself to the left as the grenade exploded, everything going black. He never felt the pain of hitting the deck. The earlier wound started a fresh wave of bleeding, but Kelly was unconscious and unable to stop the flow.

  Outside the damaged hatch, Nafiz turned and ran toward the aft portion of the ship to join his fellow Jihadists and to where that coward Boulas waited.

  * * *

  Macolson stuck his head inside the compartment. “Commander!” he shouted above the noise of the waterjets and the diminishing storm outside. “We’re fixing to break apart. Coast Guard is going to speed up and head to the port side of the freighter.” He made a motion with his finger pointing to the right. “I’m going to head to the starboard side and try to bring us close enough to—”

  The small boat heaved upward, throwing the Surface Warfare Lieutenant off balance, nearly tossing him off the bridge and into the small compartment where the team waited.

  “Okay, Skipper!” Tucker replied, giving the officer a thumbs-up. MacOlson had said enough for him to know what was going to happen. The Mark V Special Operations Craft would use the presence of the Coast Guard cutter as cover as they approached the ship from the right side. The challenge was going to be that the rogue freighter was sailing in a circle, which meant that about fifty percent of the time its starboard side was going to be exposed to the storm hitting it from seaward. MacOlson was a professional — or so Commodore West had told him. Maneuvering the small, unstable craft alongside the freighter was the least of their problems. Getting aboard the freighter without getting themselves crushed, drowned, or shot seemed far greater to him. He turned his head to the right and looked at Sam Bradley, who met his gaze.

  She smiled. “Something bothering you, Commander?”

  He leaned down so his lips were near her ear. “We’re going to have to pull ourselves aboard once Mac brings the boat alongside. That means a dangerous ascent. I think you had better remain here until—”

  Sam held up her hand and leaned away from him. “You can stop right there, Commander. I’m the lead medical person on board and I’m going on board with you. We’ve got a wounded American up there.”

  “And he or she isn’t going to get any treatment if you go and get yourself killed.”

  “True, but that’s t
he risk we take for the big bucks they pay us for doing things like this,” she said, winking.

  “Okay, five minutes!” MacOlson shouted from the hatchway, holding up his left hand with fingers spread. “Five minutes until we’re alongside starboard aft.”

  Starboard side aft, Tucker thought, biting his lower lip slightly. The van with the bomb aboard it was tied down on the stern weather deck, which meant that he and his team were going to be coming up right in the middle of the terrorists and this “unknown” weapon. The sound of rain hitting the small porthole behind his head reminded him they also had nature to contend with. Nature could be the worst enemy or best friend of a warrior, depending on whether you were winning or losing. It should work in their favor. The terrorists should be focused on the Coast Guard cutter closing on their port side, which may give them sufficient opportunity to make the deck.

  MacOlson dashed out of the small bridge area, down into the compartment, and then out the back. A second later he stuck his head inside. “We’re here, Commander. Boats is firing a hook. The ship has wire safety lines. They should hold the lines you and the others are going to climb up.

  “Ready?” Tucker asked the teams.

  “Bien sur,” replied St. Cyr.

  “Of course,” said Tibbles-Seagraves.

  The remainder of the team acknowledged him and stood, everyone slipping one arm through the strap on their M-4 Carbine so the automatic rifles were tucked tightly against their backs. Tucker noticed that sometime between the dock and here, everyone had managed to finish their preparation for the fight. Pant legs wrapped tight inside socks held together by tied shoelaces. With the exception of the two foreign officers, the camouflage utilities were the same. St. Cyr’s was nearest to theirs, but his had far more patches of light green and Tibbles-Seagraves was the only one in a utility uniform composed of shades of blue. Tucker realized the Brit’s uniform was the only one that would really fade into the colors of the ocean.