He never got the chance to draw his weapon. Richards jumped at the sudden flare of a muzzle, and the deafening crack that echoed across the empty sea. He staggered back, blood painting his rain-soaked jacket, only for a second shot to ring out moments later.
He fell, collapsing on the rocking deck with his own blood pooling around him, still wearing an expression of blank, uncomprehending shock.
Satisfied that his task was complete, Dmitry hit his radio transmitter. “It’s done. Secure the bridge. Hurry.”
CHAPTER 15
O’NEILL STOPPED IN his tracks, alerted by the distinct crack of a gunshot outside, his heart beating wildly as the realization began to dawn on him that nothing aboard this ship was what it seemed.
“Richards, give me a sitrep,” he demanded.
Nothing but static greeted him.
“Richards, sound off!”
Abandoning his plan to descend to the engine room, O’Neill drew his SIG automatic and sprinted down the narrow companionway, turning right then throwing open the outside hatch to exit onto the deck.
He emerged into howling winds and freezing rain that immediately stung his exposed flesh, the chill northerly wind adding to the falling temperatures. None of these things concerned him at that moment, however. Leaning out over the rail, he was able to make out the distinctive grey and red hull of the MLB in the churning waters below.
And he was just in time to see a lifeless body in Coast Guard gear shoved roughly overboard into the swell, leaving behind a red stain on the deck where he’d been lying.
“Oh, Christ,” he gasped in horror, realizing that Richards had just been murdered. For all he knew, Rodriguez and Watkins could be dead too.
It had all been a lie, he knew now. Dmitry and the rest of his “engineering” team were in fact the very men responsible for the deaths of the Ossora’s crew. He had no idea who they really were or what their objective in all this had been, but he did know one thing—he’d walked right into their trap. And now at least one of his crew was dead.
Such had been his focus on the terrible scene playing out below, he hadn’t immediately noticed a second man on the deck about fifty feet away, standing at the portside railing. It was only when the man let out a warning cry that O’Neill’s gaze turned towards him.
It was Iosif, the bald dome of his head now slick with rainwater and gleaming faintly in the glare of the newly reactivated deck lights. But O’Neill’s focus was less on the man than the weapon he was now swinging around to bear on him.
O’Neill reacted on instinct, throwing himself aside just as the first burst of automatic gunfire rang out. Some of the heavy-caliber slugs flattened against the ship’s superstructure, and another shattered the nearby viewing port, but others found their way in through the open hatch, ricocheting wildly around in the confined space like angry hornets. Pinned down, O’Neill could do little more than press himself against the deck and hope.
The thunderous show of firepower lasted only a couple of terrible moments before the shooter realized he’d failed to score a kill and ceased fire to reload. Using the momentarily lull in firing, O’Neill seized the outer hatch and swung it closed with a resounding clang. No sooner had it locked in place than several fist-sized dents appeared in the metalwork from the next flurry of gunfire, and he winced as a sliver of steel spalled off the hatch frame to slice the skin across his cheek.
O’Neill backed away several paces to where an emergency fire axe was fixed to the wall, inside a protective glass case. Shattering the case with his elbow, he wrenched the axe out of its holder and jammed it into the hatch locking mechanism. He didn’t imagine his makeshift barricade would last long, but hopefully it would delay his pursuer long enough to cover his escape.
Sprinting back along the corridor toward the stairwell, he keyed his radio. “Starke, anyone else who’s receiving, get the hell out and take cover! The Russians are hostiles! I say again, take—”
As he rounded the corner a dark figure leaped at him from the stairwell to his right, a huge bulky mass of muscle and fury. It was Oleg.
O’Neill whirled right and brought the SIG automatic into the firing position, finger tightening on the trigger, but Oleg’s arm swept up and knocked it from his grasp. The weapon flew through the air to land several yards away, skittering across the deck before coming to rest against a water pipe running upward between decks.
Seeing Oleg draw back his fist to take a swing at him, O’Neill dodged aside and struck out, feeling his fist connect hard with the man’s bearded jaw. The hit barely seemed to bother his opponent, and a moment later O’Neill grunted in pain as Oleg landed a solid blow to the side of his head, followed a second later by a right hook that left his ears ringing.
O’Neill threw another punch in desperation, but his opponent caught his arm and yanked him forward. Caught off balance, he looked up in time to see Oleg lean back and head-butt him. It was a perfect strike, and O’Neill groaned as white light flashed before his eyes.
Dazed, he staggered back as Oleg launched himself forward, tackling O’Neill around the waist like a quarterback and slamming him into the wall with bruising force. Oleg must have weighed a good two hundred and thirty pounds, and every one of them was now directed at O’Neill. The steel wall shuddered under the powerful impact.
Oleg snarled something in Russian before drawing himself back and driving his shoulder into O’Neill’s stomach again.
O’Neill had fought guys bigger and stronger than himself before. The key was to use their size against them, keep your distance, capitalize on their lack of agility to wear them down. That was the theory, at least. In reality, it was now a slugging match, pure and simple.
He raised his elbow up and slammed it into Oleg’s back, right between the shoulder blades. The big man grunted, and O’Neill struck again with all the force he could summon.
Oleg pulled back to throw another punch that would finish his opponent off. But just as he swung, O’Neill ducked to avoid the blow. The wall shuddered again as Oleg’s fist slammed into the metal shell with bone-breaking force.
As the Russian stood clutching his injured hand, O’Neill seized him by the shoulder and gave him a knee to the chest that knocked the air from his lungs, followed by two vicious right hooks to the face. His opponent staggered back, giving O’Neill the opening he needed.
Throwing himself to the ground, he snatched up the fallen SIG just as the Russian recovered and came at him again.
“Don’t!” O’Neill snarled, flicking the safety catch off.
Oleg stopped in his tracks, staring down the barrel of the weapon almost in confusion, as if he couldn’t work out why his opponent hadn’t fired.
O’Neill coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. He knew he’d regret this little tussle when he woke up tomorrow morning, assuming he lived that long, but adrenaline was doing a good job of suppressing the pain for now.
“Get down on the ground,” he ordered.
Oleg didn’t move, though his eyes had flicked from the weapon to the man holding it. It was clear that he sensed a weakness in his adversary; a weakness that he could exploit.
“Do it,” Oleg growled, spitting bloody phlegm on the deck. “You afraid, American?”
O’Neill’s finger tightened on the trigger, the weapon trembling in his hands as he struggled to act. Oleg took a step towards him, testing his resolve.
“Get the fuck down!” O’Neill shouted, taking a step back.
The Russian smiled, knowing he had his enemy on the back foot. O’Neill was in his mind a coward, too afraid to pull the trigger. He took another step forward, gathering himself to charge at his opponent.
However, before Oleg had a chance to act, the hatch on the port side flew open, helped by a burst of close-range automatic gunfire, and two armed men rushed into the corridor.
Just for a moment, O’Neill’s eyes met Dmitry’s, and he saw a fleeting look of triumph and malicious joy as the Russian raised his weapon.
Oleg
dropped to the deck just as Dmitry and Iosif opened fire simultaneously, spraying the far end of the corridor with 7.62mm projectiles.
O’Neill dived around the corner and felt something zip past his arm, tearing through his jacket and leaving behind a sharp, stinging sensation where it passed close to the skin. Getting to his feet, he went for the starboard access hatch, yanked the locking mechanism over and kicked it open, emerging into the darkness and freezing wind outside.
There was nowhere left to run. Fifty yards of open deck stretched out in front of him—an easy killing field for two men armed with AK assault rifles. He could try to make a stand in the hatchway, but his enemies had the numbers and the firepower. Sooner or later they would outflank him, and he couldn’t fend off two groups at the same time.
To stand and fight would be suicidal.
As he heard heavy footsteps approaching fast down the corridor, O’Neill turned his eyes towards the starboard railing and the dark churning waters below. The sea temperature had to be close to freezing. A man couldn’t survive more than a few minutes in it.
But what choice was there?
O’Neill sprinted over to the edge and vaulted up over the railing.
CHAPTER 16
O’NEILL BROKE THE surface with an agonized gasp as the freezing water clawed at him; a million tiny slivers of ice driven into every inch of his body. The pain and shock of the impact had been enough to take his breath away, but the onslaught of cold was far worse.
He looked up at the black, rust-streaked hull of the Ossora rising high and indomitable above him, like the flanks of some unclimbable mountain.
Focusing his mind as best he could, he tried to remember the layout of the ship. There had been an access ladder fixed to the hull on the port side, roughly midway along the main deck. Assuming the ship was constructed with any form of logic, there should be a corresponding ladder on the starboard side.
If there wasn’t, he could abandon any hope of survival.
Kicking and pulling himself along the hull with desperate strength, he soon found that he was moving with the strong current and wave action, which aided his efforts but put him in constant danger of being dashed against the unyielding steel walls. It also meant he’d need to get a good grip of the ladder first time, if there even was one, or risk being swept away by the waves.
Even with the sea drawing him onward, it seemed to take a lifetime to move along the hull, and he soon began to lose feeling in his hands and feet. That was how it started, he knew. Pretty soon his core temperature would start to drop too, his movements would grow sluggish and uncoordinated, his vision would blur and his decision-making would be impaired. Without even being aware of it, his body and mind would start to shut down as the cold overwhelmed them.
This thought lent fresh impetus to his efforts, and he kicked with renewed vigor, the hull plates sliding by faster now.
He was just beginning to feel a moment of hope when suddenly he was hit by something from above, the force of it driving him right under the surface. Freezing seawater filled his lungs, and panic gripped him as he fought and kicked frantically.
He finally emerged coughing and spluttering, desperately trying to draw breath. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of a torrent of water cascading from the side of the ship, and felt a surge of anger at himself. He’d swum right under the discharge from the bilge pumps, nearly drowning in the process.
But there was no time to berate himself further, because he’d spotted something else on the hull: a set of steel rungs ascending up to deck level. Rallying what remained of his strength, O’Neill fought his way towards them, trying to time his approach with the motion of the waves.
Almost there. He tensed and flexed his fingers, trying to regain some sensation and prepare himself for what was coming.
Another swell lifted him upward just as he came within range. The hull rushed suddenly to meet him, and he slammed into it with bruising force.
Groping blindly, he felt his numb fingers touch against something, and he seized on it. He gripped the lowest rung of the ladder and managed to hook his arm around it just as the wave receded below, leaving him hanging in mid-air.
He slipped a little, his tenuous hold threatening to fail, only for the water to rise up and envelop him once more. Realizing this could be his last chance, he used the force of the upswell to reach for a higher rung.
Climb! His mind screamed at him to climb, before his salvation was swept away.
He swung his legs onto the lowest rung of the ladder, got purchase, and began his slow, tortuous ascent, one rung at a time. A lifetime ago, when he’d first boarded the Ossora, the climb had seemed difficult and tiresome by itself. This time however, it was a living nightmare. Wind and spray and pellets of snow buffeted his already weakened and cold-racked body as he clawed his way upward, digging deep into whatever reserves of strength remained to him.
He was certain the metal rungs would have frozen his skin if he could still feel his hands, which barely retained enough function to grip the ladder. Twice his feet slipped away from him, threatening to plunge him back into the dark depths below, and twice he somehow managed to cling grimly on, gather his wits and continue.
He no longer looked up or down to chart his progress. It felt like he’d been climbing forever, and in some part of his mind he’d given up on ever reaching the top. It was an unattainable goal, he knew now; just something to be glimpsed in the distance but never reached. All that mattered was the next rung, and the next, and the one after that.
Then the rungs vanished, and instead of the black, pitted hull plates right before his eyes, he saw instead an expanse of flat deck. He felt like a man wandering the desert for days who had just laid eyes on a shimmering oasis.
Almost refusing to believe it, he heaved himself up over the lip of metal, then promptly collapsed on the deck and curled up into a fetal position. Somehow he’d made it, but he was deathly tired. And it felt so good to rest.
Just for a few moments.
No! He couldn’t allow himself to rest now. He might have been out of the sea, but he was still soaked and freezing. It would be so easy to fall asleep and die of exposure right there on the deck.
Heaving himself up, he rose to his feet on shaky legs, took cover behind the solid bulk of a mooring capstan and looked around, trying hard to stay focused. As he’d surmised, the access ladder had brought him on deck about midway along the ship’s hull. Behind stood the towering white block of the ship’s superstructure, brightly illuminated now, while up ahead beyond the cargo hatches lay the forecastle; the bow of the ship.
The choice now was which direction to take.
Returning to the bridge and crew areas would likely yield up dry clothes and a chance to get warm, but there were four armed men prowling the area to contend with. Barely able to walk, he was in no condition to take on anyone.
That left the forecastle, which was more of a machine space than an accommodation area. But at least it would give him a chance to escape the relentless wind and rain.
Making his decision, he turned and hurried towards it, keeping as low as possible to avoid being seen. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, his heart hammering and his steps leaden as he approached the raised deck at the bow of the ship.
A pair of access hatches, one on each side, were his only way in. Making for the starboard one, he tried the lock, relieved to find it hadn’t been barred from inside, and shoved it open, before stumbling inside and heaving it closed.
In the dimly lit machine space beyond, O’Neill let out a shuddering breath and slumped back against the wall, freezing and exhausted. He’d come as far as he could for now, and could go no farther.
That was when he heard it. The unmistakable click of a hammer being drawn back on a weapon.
“Don’t move,” a voice warned him.
O’Neill looked up as a figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the compartment.
CHAPTER 17
AFTER HEARING TH
E heavy splash of the Coast Guard officer impacting the water thirty feet below, Dmitry knew that if the fall hadn’t killed him, the sea certainly would.
Now up on the bridge, Dmitry stared out at the storm-tossed sea, his expression as dark as the churning waves that surrounded them as he held the satellite phone to his ear, waiting for it to be answered.
Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, an armed Coast Guard cutter was bearing down on them at flank speed. He’d listened in on their radio transmissions from the MLB below, shortly before destroying the long-range radio. If their reports were accurate, they would be here in under three hours.
He fully intended to be gone before they arrived. But to make that happen, and forestall further pursuit, he had much work to do in a short space of time.
Finally the call connected, and a breathless, raspy voice answered. “You’re late.”
Dmitry could feel a chill run through him at the brisk, reproachful greeting. His employer was not a man one kept waiting. “It couldn’t be helped. We’ve had some problems here.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Nothing we can’t handle, but we may have to bring the cargo ashore sooner than expected,” Dmitry explained. “I’d appreciate if you could have transport standing by.”
Silence greeted him for a moment or two. “I’ve invested a lot in this venture, and in you, Dmitry. I’d hate to think I’d made a bad choice.”
Dmitry managed to keep his voice calmer than he felt when he spoke again. “We will deliver the cargo as promised. You have my word on that.”
“I hope so, for your sake.”
The brief, terse exchange completed, he hung up.
“The two hostages are secured in the engine room,” Oleg reported, having stood in silence while Dmitry conducted his call. “Yuri is guarding them.”
Turning his gaze away from the turbulent conditions outside, Dmitry regarded his subordinate. One side of his face was cut and bruised from his earlier clash with O’Neill, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. The man was as tough as a bar of iron, if only marginally smarter.
Deadly Cargo: BookShots Page 6