The Briton began to worry. What if the crew had been executed and thrown overboard? Their presence might simply be a bluff to stop the Filipino navy from sinking the freighter in retribution for this act of hostility.
“Have you got anything over there, Calvin?” McCarter asked.
From the other side of the galley, amid the tables, James shook his head. “Nothing. All clear so far.”
“Then let’s head through that hatch to the other side,” said McCarter. He consulted his smartphone, which contained the deck plan for the ship as provided by the Filipino navy. The freighter was not a navy vessel, of course, and there was no reason to think the deck plan was up to date. Some functionary could very well have downloaded this business from the internet, and in fact probably had, likely finding the web site for the manufacturer of the boat or for the freight company whose name the ship sailed under.
Damn, but he was getting old, worrying about every little detail. He held the Tavor tighter, grateful for the bullpup assault rifle’s compact profile in the close quarters below decks.
But where were the hostages?
He gamed it out in his mind. If he were holding the vessel, he’d want any high-value assets, such as the hostages, somewhere far below the upper deck, where it would be most difficult to get to them. And he would want a lot of room in which to fight, preferably with lots of cover. That meant the ship’s cargo hold. Vessels like this had large holds. After all; that’s what they were designed to do. The metal cargo crates, like the ones he had seen lashed to the deck, would be perfect for cover and concealment.
He checked the deck plan once more and nodded to himself. There it was, then. That was where they had to go.
“Through this hatch,” McCarter told James, “is an anteroom compartment of some kind. Beyond that is another compartment with a manway to the lower level, where we’ll find the entrance to the hold proper.”
Somewhere, back in the direction from which they had come, a woman screamed.
James looked at McCarter. “Did you…?”
“Yes, mate, I heard that,” the Briton acknowledged. “Could you have missed a compartment when we swept the living quarters?”
“Don’t think so,” James said. “But it’s possible.”
“Come on.” McCarter led the way as the two men threaded the path back through the galley and into the corridor with the bunk compartments. Once more, both men checked each compartment in turn on his side of the corridor. There was one door, however, that was dogged shut, positioned in roughly the middle of the passageway.
“This wasn’t locked before,” James said. “I remember checking it. Couple of bunks inside, plenty of clutter. Nothing much else.”
“Pop it,” McCarter said.
James nodded and produced an adhesive charge from one of his gear pouches. He placed it near the center of the hatch wheel, pressed the button and then backed down the corridor with McCarter.
The explosion echoed through the corridor, making their ears ring. The hatch, however, swung slowly open on creaking hinges. Its lock mechanism had been gutted by the blast. Metal shrapnel had embedded itself in the bulkhead opposite the hatchway.
The Briton tensed, waiting for the gunfire he was sure had to come. There was nothing. He risked a glance with just one eye around the corner, through the open hatch. Still nothing. He did, however, see a clump of blankets beneath the bottommost bunk. It was the sort of thing you would miss while looking for armed terrorists, as it presented not threat, but closer examination made him think there might be a man hidden there.
The woman’s scream came again, and it was there, in that room. It was very loud. This time the scream was accompanied by a loud buzzing and clattering. James moved up to watch the Briton’s back as McCarter stepped into the compartment and located the source of the noise.
It was a wireless phone.
McCarter held it up. A call was coming in, prompting the phone to emit the scream they had heard. The volume on the device was all the way up, which was why they had been able to hear it.
“Who the bloody hell would have a ringtone like that?” said McCarter.
“That’s sick,” James declared. He took the phone from the Phoenix Force leader and found the setting to switch the phone to silent. Then he thumbed through the device a few times. McCarter, meanwhile, shoved one boot into the clump of blankets beneath the bunk. There was nothing there. James looked up from the phone. “Jump scare,” he said.
“What’s that?” said McCarter.
“In a horror movie,” said James. “A jump scare is when, like, a cat comes leaping out at our heroes, so the audience jumps, but there’s nothing really there.”
“Too right,” McCarter said. “That’s more or less what this was, I suppose. That isn’t one of the pirate’s phones, is it?”
“We don’t know they’re pirates,” James said. “Could be a mercenary team.”
“Pirates in the functional sense,” McCarter said. “They invaded and captured the vessel.”
“Fair enough,” James agreed. “But, no. I’m looking through the photos on here. Whoever belongs to this phone has plenty of pictures from the deck of this very ship. Weather, sunsets, that kind of thing. Obviously one of the crew. I don’t speak the lingo, but I recognize enough words in context in these text messages. This is a sailor’s phone.”
“You’re sure?”
“David, there’s enough porn saved to this phone’s image gallery that I could not be more sure,” said James.
“Ah, well,” McCarter said. “Gets lonely out to sea, I imagine.”
“Right,” James said.
“Let’s head through the galley, then,” McCarter directed. “Time’s wasting. Check, check,” he added. “How are things up on deck, lads? Anything moving?”
“All clear up here,” Manning reported. “Any sign of the hostages below?”
“Nothing yet,” McCarter said. “We’re on it.”
“Good hunting, David,” the Canadian said.
In the anteroom, James took the lead and slid down the ladder to the lower deck. McCarter followed. There was nothing remarkable here, but when they hit the next hatchway, the door felt strangely heavy. When James eased it open, they came face-to-face with a man handcuffed to the wheel on the opposite side.
“English?” asked James. “Do you speak English, friend?” The man was Filipino and was dressed in worn canvas pants, boat shoes and a faded T-shirt advertising a science-fiction movie franchise.
“I speak English,” the sailor said.
McCarter took up a position guarding the corridor beyond, which led to the hold, at least according to his smartphone’s deck plan. James, meanwhile, started patting the man down. He found a standard ink pen with a plastic cap, smiled and took the cap from the pen. Using his belt knife, he sliced the pen cap in two.
“Hold still, bud,” James said. “I’m going to pick these cuffs and get you out of there.” He set to work with the halved pen cap. “I must be…rusty at this,” he muttered, working the lock. “What’s your name? You’re part of the crew, right?”
“Boyet,” the sailor said. “I am part of the crew of this vessel, yes.”
“Where are the others?” McCarter asked. “Did you see them? Are they alive?”
“There was a guard,” Boyet explained. “When the fighting started to happen above, he became very afraid. He brought me from the hold and chained me here. I think he was going to use me to protect him.”
“Human shields,” James said under his breath.
“He ran back to the hold,” Boyet said. “He left me here to die. I have waited for a couple of hours, chained to this door.”
“Open, says me,” James said. The handcuff popped, freeing one of Boyet’s arms. He massaged it gratefully, extracting himself from the hatch wheel as James popped open the other side. “Like riding a bike,” James added.
“The other members of the crew are in the hold,” said Boyet. “The pirates have explosives
. They have put explosive vests on my crewmates. They did not have enough vests for everyone. I was lucky not to have been given such a thing.”
“You are that, friend,” McCarter said. “What can you tell me about the invaders?”
“Pirate trash—” Boyet spat “—wearing Chinese uniforms. I have seen the type in many local ports. I do not know where they got their weapons and their uniforms, but they are not men of China. They are cowards. They have locked themselves in the hold because they do not know what to do. Their leader is a black man with but one eye. He is called Mhusa. He holds the detonator for the explosive vests.”
“How many pirates?” McCarter asked.
“The ones on the upper deck were many,” Boyet replied. “But if you are here…”
“They’re not a problem,” James said.
“Mhusa has a dozen men,” Boyet said. “There are half a dozen crewmen wearing the bomb vests and another ten or twelve merely held prisoner.”
“All right,” McCarter said. “Boyet, get above. Announce yourself loudly as you approach. My men are waiting, guarding the entrance to the lower decks. They’ll see to it you’re taken care of. My friend and I are going to go rescue your crewmates.”
“Go with God,” Boyet said. He did not need further prompting. He hurried off.
The two Phoenix Force commandos made their way silently to the hatchway that led to the cargo hold. The wheel moved easily to the touch. That was actually a bad sign. If the pirates were feeling secure in their hostage measures, they would not feel the need to brace the door. And this Mhusa, if his finger was on the detonator, might be a little quick to start blowing things up if he thought was being threatened.
“Slowly, slowly,” McCarter urged. “Go silent, Calvin.”
James nodded. He finished easing the door open and the pair stepped through. The cargo hold loomed ahead of them, only dimly lighted by a few electric cells set high in the walls behind metal cages. The lamps buzzed loudly.
There metal shipping crates were piled high, giving the enemy plenty of places to hide. A kind of clearing had been made toward the center of the hold, where crates small enough to move had been shoved aside. Collapsible chairs, dragged from elsewhere on the ship, had been set up here. A stereo was playing music.
“I don’t believe it,” James said.
“Bugger all,” said McCarter. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
The hostages were seated in a ring near the edge of the “clearing” in the hold. They looked tense and nervous, as half a dozen of their number wore explosive vests and were more than close enough to kill the others if they went off. But the pirates themselves, their Chinese uniforms disheveled and, in some cases, partially discarded, were carousing in the center of the cargo hold, drinking from whiskey bottles and singing in broken English.
The English was the least surprising part of it all. A pirate crew of mixed nationality would need a common language. English was one of the more prevalent languages in the world, useful for conducting business. It was also relatively easy to learn compared to, say, Chinese, and more used than French or German.
The idea that, during a hostage op, these men would simply repair down here and start partying…it blew the mind. They were pirates, according to Boyet, and one did not expect a high degree of sophistication from such scum, but this… All the high-tech weapons in the world could not help you if you could not simply stay on the job long enough to complete your mission.
McCarter brought his Tavor to his shoulder. Through its optics, he scanned the group of pirates until he found a large black man with a rag tied across his head to cover one eye.
“Mhusa, I presume,” McCarter said to James.
“Shall we?” James asked.
“We shall,” McCarter declared.
Driven by some sixth sense, Mhusa looked up and locked eyes with David McCarter.
The Briton pulled his rifle’s trigger.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Schwarz was crawling through the tunnel, his Beretta machine pistol and his flashlight leading the way, when his secure sat phone began to vibrate in his pocket. The combined sensations only made his ribs hurt more and he was reminded of the beating he had taken at the hands of Fitzpatrick.
He touched his earbud transceiver, tapping it three times in rapid succession. Schwarz himself was one of the people who had helped design the communications equipment. The three taps would open the line from the Farm but also patch the transmission in to all three Able Team members.
“You have reached Able Team,” Schwarz said in a sing-song voice. “We can’t come to the phone right now, probably because we’re busy fighting evil in another dimension. I’ve always said that, sooner or later, we would transcend these earthly states and become interdimensional heroes who—”
“Gadgets,” Lyons said. “You’re overindulging.”
“I’m stuck in a death tunnel,” Schwarz said. “It lends itself to whimsy.”
“I’m not going to ask,” Price said. “We have an identification on that dead Asian man whose image you forwarded.”
“Go ahead, Barb,” Lyons said.
“Your corpse is dead,” Price explained.
“Uh,” Schwarz said. He kept crawling through the plywood tunnel, feeling like he was crawling his way into a coffin. “Wasn’t that what we knew already?”
“No, you’re not following me,” Price continued. “Your stiff is a known Chinese black-ops agent. His file tags him as ‘Simon Lao,’ although only Lao is his given name. His history is so shady, his file back-filled with so many false identities, that we’re not sure where the real Lao starts and the cover identities end. He’s officially died three times that we can verify, and possibly in a couple of other instances.”
“Sounds like a bad dude,” Lyons said.
“Bad enough that the Chinese disavow any knowledge of him,” Price said. “They got real defensive when we made inquiries, and that tells us something. Normally, when they don’t want to acknowledge an intelligence breach, they just don’t. They get all nonchalant. But this time they issued through channels an emphatic denial, stating they had no knowledge of the man we call Simon Lao, that he most definitely did not work for Chinese intelligence and under no circumstances whatsoever would he be conducting operations on American soil on behalf of the Chinese government.”
“Which pretty much means that’s exactly what he was doing,” Blancanales said. “We’ve repeatedly dealt with Chinese operations on American soil.”
“Call it part of our ongoing mostly cold war with China,” Price said. “But, yes, we think there’s a pretty good chance that whatever Lao was doing here, he was running an operation of some kind or involving Rhemsen in that operation.”
“So we’ve got a go to take down RhemCorp and Rhemsen himself,” Lyons said. “Tell me don’t.”
“Hal will have to pay some visits to a few folks on the Hill,” Price said. “We don’t want to look like we’re in the business of interfering with American businesses, and we absolutely do not want to disrespect due process. But I think everything we’ve uncovered while sifting through RhemCorp’s computer records, plus the violence already perpetrated by men hired by Rhemsen, gives us cause to take him into custody. If he resists, there’s nothing you can do but take him down.”
“That’s music to my ears,” Lyons said. “Do you have the location of his Atlanta property?”
“It wasn’t as easy to find as the Hilton Head parcel,” Price said, “but Bear has it. I’m transmitting the data to your smartphones.”
“Yeah, about Hilton Head,” Lyons said. “We’re stuck in some kind of horror-movie trap here.”
“Say that again, Carl?” Price said.
“He’s absolutely right,” Schwarz said. “Death tunnel, remember?”
“How long until you can extract?” Price said.
“We’re going to finish up here,” Lyons said, “and make sure all the loose ends are tied up. There’s a nest of Blackstar goons h
ere that I want to make sure don’t get to go play any more reindeer games.”
“We really need to work on your action-hero expressions, Carl,” Schwarz said. “I’m not following that at all. And I’m stuck in a death tunnel. We’ve talked about the death tunnel, haven’t we?”
“At least in there,” Lyons commented, “he can’t play that game he likes.” He paused. “Barb, what are the implications of Lao’s involvement with Rhemsen? Is China behind the attacks in the South China Sea?”
“Not according to the intel we’re being fed by Phoenix,” Price answered. “That’s what doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s got Hal stumped, too, and he’s got a meeting set with the President this afternoon.”
“Then we’d better stop messing around and get back to it,” Lyons said. “Let us know if anything else pops up.”
“And we’ll let you know if any more dead guys fall out of the sky on us,” Schwarz said.
“Shut up, Gadgets,” Lyons said.
“Good luck, boys,” Price said. “Farm, out.”
“Gadgets,” Lyons said, “what is your progress?”
“Give me a minute,” Schwarz answered. The tunnel through which he was crawling was starting to become narrower. He was worried that if it got much smaller he would never be able to come out the other side of it. Of course, that was probably the whole “trap” part of the plan.
The surface beneath him changed. He had been crawling on plywood this whole time, but suddenly he felt the coolness of metal ribs beneath the wooden floor. The way ahead was blocked by strips of hanging plastic, like something you might see in an industrial meat-packing plant to separate one area from another. Or a beaded curtain, the way folks used to do it in the 1970s. Honestly, he had never understood the purpose of beaded curtains.
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