The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  “Looks like we waited a little too long,” Harry says.

  “Water under the bridge. What now?” Angelina replies.

  He grabs the phone and tries John Chung, head of ship security, and gets no answer. “Looks like we’re on our own,” he mutters, then adds, “better at least wake some folks up.” He digs into the desk drawer, palms the SAT phone, heads out on the veranda, and gets the emergency response number in Langley. A recording of course, so he announces, “Harry Weinstein aboard the cruise ship Blue Pearl. We have an incident. Ship is under attack. I presume by those we’ve been tracking. This may be our last transmission.” He disconnects then asks Angelina, “Where can we hide this damn thing?”

  “Do we go out of here armed?” she asks, ignoring his question.

  “Not unless we want a running gun battle. Let’s tape everything under the bed up against the bedrail.”

  “Tape?”

  “Men never go anywhere without duct tape and cable ties. In my bugout bag.”

  “Let’s get to work. No telling how much time we have.”

  “Not much. They’ll be taking a count, and time will depend upon how many assholes are involved.” He glances out and is silent for a second, then turns to her. “Don’t look now, but there’s a freighter coming along side, and there’s a couple of dozen camo-clad boys aboard. I’d say we’re in deep shit.”

  “Then hide the weapons. Let’s comply and see what’s coming down. Play the dumb tourists.”

  Harry grabs his bugout bag and goes to work.

  “Don’t be a hero,” she cautions.

  He replies, “Wrap your face, young lady, cover your body best you can. Don’t make eye contact with any of them.”

  She hurried to her room, puts on long pants and a blue man’s work shirt, grabs a scarf she’d bought in Lisbon and covers herself.

  “Let’s hope they let us return and don’t find the weapons.”

  “God only knows,” Harry said, confidence seeming to fade.

  She’s silent for a moment, then crosses her arms. “I’m not going, Harry.”

  “They will search the cabins for holdouts.”

  “I’m not going. I’ll slip around the veranda petitions and hide in the cabin next door while they search this one, then slip back. I’m not going, I’m not giving up my weapon.”

  “Well, you got gonads, girl. See you when…if…I get back.”

  30

  There’s no way I'm going into the hallway as armed hostiles are patrolling, but there’s another way. Simone’s suite is one floor above ours and two toward the bow.

  “I’ll be back in short order,” I say. I head for our little veranda, climb up on the rail, grab the floor of the deck above, kip up and get a foot in the space below their railing. The deck railings are open so I can grab a stile and pull myself to the railing, then easily get both feet in the space below and vault the railing.

  A woman in the cabin screams and I put my finger to my lips, hushing her, then even more easily I broach the partition, swinging around, and drop to the floor of the next deck. Even if I slipped and fell the forty or fifty feet to the water, the ship is unmoving, and I’d likely find a way back aboard. Almost as soon as I hit the floor, the sliding glass door opens, and I’m face to face with General Bull Toliver.

  “Fucking ragheads,” he says.

  “Suggest you comply, General. Let’s recon the battlefield, then talk. I’ve got to move on.” And I quickly swing out and around the next partition and am on Simone’s deck. A wide-eyed Bryan runs to the door and slides it open. He’s white-faced.

  “What do we do?” he stammers.

  “Exactly what they command until we know the odds and what we’re up against.” I walk to Simone and place my hands on her shoulders.

  “I don’t want to go out there,” she says, with a choked sob.

  “Again. Do exactly what they say to do. I’ve got to go back to my cabin and square some things away. Be brave, but don’t be stupid. I’ll get us out of this, but not before I know I can do so and keep you safe.”

  She nods her head, but tears are streaking both her and Patty’s faces.

  Then I charge back out, broach both partitions until I’m over our cabin, swing back down, get my feet on our railing and am quickly back in our cabin.

  The KRISS Vectors are still in hidden compartments at the bottom of our suitcases. I know by the instructions they plan to search us. I can only hope there’s only a few of them on board, and with my old military buddies we might overwhelm them.

  I hide the handguns and our toys in a panel I discovered in the ceiling of the bathroom. It’s an access to the wiring and some of the plumbing in the suite above, and I can only hope the infiltrators don’t know of its location.

  When I’m out of the bathroom, I see Connie has used a long scarf to both cover her head and wrap her face. She has on an ankle-length skirt, and a nonmatching long sleeve tee-shirt.

  “What do you think this is?” she asks through her scarf.

  “Hopefully a kidnapping for ransom. If so, we have time. You have your .380?”

  “On my inner thigh. Hopefully they’ll have some restraint about searching the women.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” I say, then add, “And I don’t mean Allah as he’d likely rat us out.”

  I give her a wink. “And here I thought you were a slave to fashion. Your top and skirt don’t match. Brown and blue, how gauche.”

  “You might consider getting serious,” she says, and she’s not smiling.

  “I’ve always figured I’m gonna go out laughing,” I say, and give her another wink.

  “I don’t plan to go out for a hell of a long time. And I’m not leaving until I put some makeup on. So…”

  “So, what are the advantages of being a Muslim look alike. Veil, no makeup necessary.”

  “Under this veil is a Christian who will not sit on the right hand of God without her makeup. Hopefully we’ll meet back here.”

  I grab the SAT phone, step out of the slider and make one call. My buddy, Pax Weatherwax, who, of course doesn’t answer, so I leave a message. “Hey, pard, looks like we’ve got some raghead invaders on the ship. We’re in the Med somewhere short of Malaga. Call the cavalry.” I disconnect and hide the phone in the ceiling panel in the bathroom, then return and give Connie a hug.

  “Let’s see what we’re up against,” I say, and open the door. Only a few other passengers are in the hallway. At each end of the hall stands a crewman holding an AK47. Again, as I pass on the way to the main stairway—I have to go down a floor to reach the showroom—I pass the crewman who stands only two strides away and could be easily taken. But not until I see what I’m up against.

  I head for the showroom and fall in step with two dozen other men whose expressions vary between utter fear and red-faced anger.

  There are two crewmen/guards at the entry doors to the show lounge, another pair flanking each side of the stage below, and the room is filling with all chairs taken and men lining the walls and sitting in the aisles.

  I’m not surprised that the tall Black I’ve seen around the pool, a passenger, is at the microphone. He has an Uzi slung over his back and he’s not in cruise or pool garb, but rather desert camo.

  He smiles and his white teeth flash in a very dark black face. “Gentlemen, as you have probably guessed, you are under the complete control of Al Shabaab. My name is Mumin Amir, and your lives and those of your women are in my hands. Yes, there are only five armed men you can see, however, there are many others, and some of you may have noticed the small freighter on the starboard side of the ship. As we speak, she is tying up alongside and our many other soldiers are assisting another thirty well-armed soldiers aboard. You may wonder why you don’t merely charge the few of us. You think if you do, only a few of you will perish.” Mumin laughs, then adds, “You may have noticed the devices in the hands of my friends here on the stage and those at the doors as you entered, or the fact they appear ove
rweight. Those are explosive vests…”

  The men in the room can’t contain themselves and shout out a variety of insults. The man at the microphone swings his Uzi up, pans the crowd, and most of them silence. Then the few that don’t are silenced when he fires a three-shot burst into the ceiling.

  “You will be silent when I speak, or I will empty the rest of my weapon into the crowd. My soldiers are more than willing give their lives in service of Allah.” There’s some slight stirring in the crowd that immediately silences as he again pans the crowd with the muzzle of the Uzi. “Quiet, or quickly go to infidel hell.” And they quiet. “Those devices are what is known as dead man switches. Should they be released, the vests will detonate. And, of course, if my soldiers are attacked, they will be released. There are five hundred steel ball bearings backed by some very fine explosive. If my experience means anything, each vest, in an enclosed area such as this large room, will kill at least twenty and wound many, many more.”

  Murmurs run through the crowd, but not so loud the Black man is disturbed.

  The man who calls himself Mumin continues. “Now, know if you comply, and if your government and the Crimson Cruise line comply, you will be able to return to the sins of the infidel soon. If all comply. If not, the vests will be inconsequential, as the ship itself will become all our tomb. Over one hundred pounds of high explosive are situated next to the LPG tanks near the engine room on Decks Two and Three.” He holds up a device in his hand and pans it so all can see. “I have a controller that will blow this ship into very small pieces and you and your loved ones with it.”

  Again, low murmurs, then absolute silence.

  Then he commands, “I have a passenger list. I see there are several Jews aboard. We will now rearrange the room. All Jews will go to the aisle on the starboard side. Those of you not Jews seated there give up your place and move elsewhere.

  Soon there are thirty men in that aisle. I’m sure those Jews with names not normally attributed to Jews have been smart enough not to move. And I’m sure they’re wondering if they have any indication of their religion/heritage in their cabins or the ship’s passenger records, or in their room—things like jewelry with Stars of David.

  31

  I see the older guy who I’ve yet to meet, Harry Drummond, who Connie has told me is an FBI operative but loosely tied to the CIA, and slowly sidestep, inch by inch, the twenty feet to where he stands. This guy looks to be in his sixties, and I wonder how much help he’ll be if a little war starts aboard the Blue Pearl. He glances over at me as I sidle up to him.

  “Drummond,” I say, under my breath without turning my head his way.

  “Reardon,” he replies, also facing straight forward.

  “SAT phone, if we get a chance.”

  He nods. Then adds, “A shipload, coming aboard.”

  I’m silent a moment, digesting that, then say, “More targets.”

  He gives an almost indiscernible smile. I think I’m going to like this guy.

  And beyond Harry I see my drinking buddy, Marine Corps Master Sergeant Elroy ‘Rockin’ Roy’ Filson. Then I notice next to him is Navy Master Chief Willard ‘Willy’ Porter. I scan the room, but don’t see Major General Bull Tolliver. He’s among the missing.

  However, across the room is the Englishman, Alistair Nelson, former SAS, eyeing us as if he’s being left out.

  So, I continue my slow sidestep while the sand slug, Mumin, rattles on, until I’m alongside Filson, and out of the side of my mouth, ask, “Sarge, you in for a little revolt?”

  “Bet your sweet ass,” he replies, also under his breath.

  “I’ve got some thoughts, but let’s recon some more. I’m sure they’ll have to feed us, so stay close at chow, if possible.”

  I get a slight nod from both he and to his right, Master Chief Willie Porter.

  That means there are a least four of us, against maybe forty of them—five if we can tie up with Bull Tolliver. And who knows who else.

  Harry hadn’t made a move to join the other Jews on the side aisle. He was aboard as Harry Drummond and nowhere was his true name, Weinstein, available to the insurgents…at least so long as he knew.

  He made a slight glance at the guy who was slowly moving his way while the terrorist asshole who called himself Mumin let the crowd know he was in charge. Then he was pleased to realize it was Constance Nordstrom’s cohort edging alongside, the guy his superiors had said was slightly batshit crazy but good to have on your side. He judged the guy to be over six feet tall, two hundred twenty if an ounce, not more than forty years old, and confident. Maybe too confident.

  Mumin continues as soon as the Jewish passengers have gathered, and as another half dozen soldiers, each carrying an AK47, all dressed in camo and combat boots, file into the back.

  “Ah,” Mumin says, with a smile. “My fellow faithful have arrived. You should know that there are now over forty faithful combatants aboard this ship. They, and the over one hundred pounds of explosives strategically placed against many thousand pounds of LPG, will ensure your cooperation. You will now return to your cabins. Three of my fellows will appear at your doors to search all you own. You will gather your valuables and place them in the wastebasket in your room. And I mean all rings, watches, cell phones, cash, credit cards, and other identification. We have your passports from the ship's safe. Your cabin safes will be open for my men’s inspection. All medications will be…”

  An immediate roar of complaint sweeps through the room.

  “Silence,” Mumin snaps. “Medications other than pain killers or antibiotics will be returned. You need not worry. We want you healthy. You are of no use to us if dead and dumped overboard. As soon as things are in order, you will be called to lunch. We will not starve you.”

  The crowd quiets. “First to be escorted out will be the Jewish passengers. You will be led by one soldier and followed by three. Our brothers in Palestine would be pleased if you tried to rebel as we’d be forced to butcher and dump you overboard, so don’t give my men the excuse.”

  There is a quiet murmur as thirty or more Jewish passengers disappear out the showroom doors.

  “Now,” Mumin continues, as soon as they are clear of the room. “You will be escorted to your cabin floors by two soldiers, two rows at a time. You will not use the elevators but rather the stairs. Those of you who cannot manage the stairs will wait near the elevators until we have a soldier stationed at each floor to make sure you exit and return to your room. If your female companions are not already in the room, they soon will be. One last thing. Your life means nothing to me or my soldiers. I do not wish to harm you but will do so as easily as I smash a cockroach. Do exactly as you're told, and you may live to see your infidel loved ones.”

  To their great dismay, the Jewish passengers were not returned to their suites but rather led to Deck Three, past the small laundry room, and into the engine compartment. It is now quiet, at least not the usual roar, as all engines other than generators are still. A crewman stands near a closed door—a door with a sign that says, CAUTION LPG FUEL TANKS—which attracts their attention as against the door are two green tanks, ten inches in circumference by five feet in height, which might normally be filled with acetylene and oxygen for a welding job. However, these tanks have a cellphone and a yellow substance that resembles clay attached just below the gauges that normally would be telling the pressure.

  “That’s plastic explosive,” one of the men mumbles as they pass.

  “And thousands of pounds of liquid propane in tanks two decks high inside. I’m a boiler maker and used to work in the shipyard.”

  It is deadly quiet—other than the hum of generators—and dank in the engine room as they make their way down ladders only to be told to relax, their women will be joining them soon.

  One soldier, a very large man with a missing eye who calls himself Zahir, is left atop the ladder, looking down on them. The other three leave, slamming the engine room hatch behind them.

  One of the
men yells up to the soldier. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  “Sit,” the soldier says, “my name is Zahir and you will do as I say,” motioning them down with the muzzle of his AK. “Your women will be along soon. No talking.”

  “But…”

  The soldier immediately draws a bead on the man who spoke and yells, “No talking! But now pay attention.” He turns and opens the door marked, “Danger LPG Storage.” And wheels the tanks inside. He removes one end of a small chain from the mechanism on the tanks and attaches it to the inside doorknob. Then he closes the door, encircles the outside knob with a chain, runs it over the nearby landing railing, pulls it tight and clicks a hardened padlock shut. He walks to the rail, looking down on the Jewish contingency of passengers. “Those tanks are not filled for welding. They are filled with explosives. Our leader, Mumin Amir, a faithful subject of Allah, has the controller. You should pray no one attempts to take over the ship as he will, without fear, detonate the tanks and the LPG. If anyone opens this door all of us die. We have demands, and if those are not fulfilled, we all die.”

  To their credit, not a sound comes from the Jews. They plop down on the deck and remain quiet.

  32

  General Tolliver and his wife awake with a start when the first announcement rings through the ship. His wife, Martha, has been by his side for fifty years, and, since his retirement, they’ve been inseparable.

  “What’s happening? Are we sinking?” she asks, sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes.

  He’s on his feet by the time she finishes her question. “We might be better off sinking.”

  “What…what are you saying, Bull?”

  “We’ve had our eyes on some of the Muzzies on board and wondered if something was coming down. They know I am a General. Our butler, Malik, won’t stop calling me General and he’s a Yemini. I’m not gonna have those worthless bastards’ hand you my head.”