by L. J. Martin
“Bull, calm down. This, too, will pass.”
“It always does, Martha. Just remember I love you. If something happens, tell the kids and grandkids papa will save a place for them in heaven.”
The General walks to the wide sliding glass door in their suite. “Jesus,” he says.
“What?” Martha asks, stopping on her way to the bathroom.
“Son of a bitch,” Bull says, shaking his head.
“You’re scaring me, Bull. What is it?”
“The ship is dead in the water. Some junk heap of a freighter with Arabic writing on the stern is pulling away from the ship. No telling what…or who…they transferred to us.”
Martha disappears into the bathroom, but Bull walks to the little bar sink and combs his hair, then goes to the closet and begins dressing. In fifteen minutes, Martha sticks her head out. “I’m going to shower. Bull, you have your uniform on? And you left the slider open.”
“Yes, darling, I have my uniform on. I’m not facing some foreign scum in my pajamas. And I’m enjoying the fresh air.”
“But Bull, won’t they be offended by your uniform?”
He gives her a look that would wilt a rose, clears his throat, and says in a calm tone, “When was it you saw me unwilling to offend someone who hates the United States of America?”
She can’t help but give him a tight smile. “I guess ‘never’ would be the answer to that.”
“Go take your shower. You’ll want to comply with their demands to wrap your face and cover your head. Hijab, remember. Like you did the last time we were out of the compound in Saudi.”
“I remember.” She gently closes the door.
He’s just finished tying his tie, when the doorbell jingles.
He takes a deep breath, and under his breath he says aloud, “Probably not smart to mess with an old man who’s way past his life expectancy. Old men don’t fight fair.”
Bull throws his shoulders back and walks to the door, he opens it to see Malik, his butler, and behind him, two uniformed men in desert camo. Dark-skinned men with hair much longer than he would have tolerated in his troops.
“Malik,” he says, in the way of a greeting.
“I’m so sorry, General, Sir. These men have weapons and say you have to come with them.”
“They came on board the ship from that freighter?” the general asks.
“I believe so.”
“That ship that just pulled away." Then he smiles. "That ship that is sinking?”
“I…I don’t…” Malik turns to the two armed men. One of average size, one much larger but still not as large as the General. Malik rattles something off to them in Arabic, and they look at each other in astonishment, then both run past the General and out to the deck and lean on the rail to peer at the Bit Tawfīq.
They are both turning back, when the General hits them like a Steeler’s linebacker, his arms spread wide, he sweeps them in front of him over the rail. The three of them spiral to the sea, forty feet below. Only the General goes into the water feet first. He has toes pointed, one hand cupping his personals and one over his eyes. The other two hit hard, flat on the back for one, the stomach for the other. They won't fare well from forty feet to water seeming like concrete.
Malik runs to the railing and looks over to see all three surface, one of the two soldiers is slapping the water as if he cannot swim. The other seems unconscious.
Bull Tolliver has one by the collar and is dragging him to the other, who claws at the General as if he’s trying to climb aboard. But the General spins him around, throws a beefy arm around his neck and pulls him close. Then the second man who’s facing away is sucked in close.
Bull has an arm locked around both their necks, with them both kicking and waving their arms slapping the water as he forces them under. All three of them go below the surface, then resurface, then go down again.
Malik is shouting as loud as he can and Martha runs from the bathroom, a large towel circling her body. “What’s happening,” she yells.
“The General Sir, men with guns come and pointed guns at him and ordered him to come with them. He dragged them over and all falled to the ocean.”
She leans over the rail in time to see them surface one more time, then all three disappear under the water. She screams a scream that reverberates and makes Malik retreat back into the suite.
“Report that,” Martha yells to Malik, who runs to the phone and dials, then turns to her.
“The phones, they dead.”
She looks back at the water, and begins to sob, then shakes her head in defiance as she watches for a couple of minutes, bites her lip, dries her eyes, then turns to the butler. “Get out of my room. Go somewhere and report my husband is overboard.”
“And the two…”
“Fuck them,” she says, and goes back to the bathroom, pausing only to chastise Malik again. “Malik, I said get out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and is quickly out the door, moving like a turpentined cat.
She goes to the mirror and says to herself. “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away. And the good ones take a few enemies with them.”
She returns to the railing and stands staring at the surface, hoping against all hope that Bull will reappear.
33
I enter our suite only minutes after Connie arrives as she's just now removing her scarf.
“Have they searched the room yet?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking."
"I can see you're fine."
"Right. Okay, some female terrorist who called herself Alia, with two armed male guards at the doors, gave us some instructions and more threats. The bad news is they separated all the Jewish women, called them out by name, and took them somewhere.”
“Same with the men. I’ve got to check the SAT phone and see if Pax has called back.”
“Don’t get caught with the phone. We’ll need it.”
“I hope Simone and her ladies were there. I didn’t notice her boys with the men’s group.”
“The girls were there, eyes like saucers and even with the veils I could see they were white as sheets.”
"And they're safe back in their suite?"
"They went upstairs, and I stayed on six. So, they were good that far."
“Block the door. These guys will have passkeys and won’t be knocking. I have to step to the open slider to use the phone and it could be too far back to the john to hide the phone in time.” I fetch the phone from the space above where I’ve hidden it, go stand near the open slider, and see the call light is blinking. I immediately call Pax.
“What's happening?” he answers.
“Raghead terrorists, maybe as many as three dozen. Hell, maybe more. They claim to have the ship rigged with a couple of hundred pounds of explosive, and she’s a dual-powered vessel with thousands of pounds of LPG. She’s a floating bomb.”
“I’ve called Matt Patterson, our buddy in the local Federal Marshal’s office and he’s contacted the CIA. He’s already called me back and said they are already on it. I'm sure the fleet is already steaming your way. What can I do?”
“From Vegas? Not a damn thing, I imagine. I don’t know if this ship is totally disabled or what, but she’s dead in the water. They brought a tramp freighter alongside and offloaded many of the bad guys who are now on board. The tramp has retreated but only a couple of hundred yards.”
“How far are you from Taj?”
“Malta? A long way but he’s likely our closest asset.” Taj is an old buddy, former Brit military but now running an electronics shop on Malta, an island south of Italy. He lost a leg in Libya, so his mercenary career is over. He has three sons, however, and knows every operative, legal and otherwise, in Malta, Italy, Greece and North Africa.”
“I’m calling him,” Pax snaps.
"Can't hurt. See what he can learn."
“You can’t come in. I'm not dressed,” I hear Connie shout.
Shouting, in Arabic, r
ings through the door.
“Bogies at the door,” I say, and quickly disconnect and hustle into the bathroom to replace the phone. I’m tempted to snake a handgun out, go ahead and deep six a couple of these pricks, but I still don’t know what we’re up against and don’t want them panicking and blowing us all to hell if they truly have explosives that will detonate the LPG tanks.
I’ve got to bide my time. I have an idea, but need all my military buddies, or anyone capable on board to participate. Right now, we have a communication problem.
What do you do when you're outnumbered? You separate and eliminate. The objective is to get them separated so the odds are even or at least closer to even.
Connie sees me in the bathroom doorway and removes the desk chair she's propped under the knob.
"Sorry, she says. I was not dressed." I can see her slip her compact into her pocket and know it's the compact that's actually a stun gun. I hope she doesn't have to use it.
The door slams open, back against the wall, and a couple of very irritated slime balls dressed in camo and holding AK47's step inside. We've emptied a small wastebasket and filled it with some jewelry, a fat chunk of cash—over two thousand U.S. and three hundred Euros— our driver's licenses, and some credit cards.
That should make them believe it's all we have. I’ve made a pair of fine slits in the mattress, only a little over a dollar bill wide along a bead where it won’t be noticed, and have slipped over twenty packs of twenty-one hundred-dollar bills and ten one-ounce gold Swiss francs in a fan around the slits. I never travel without dough, and this is something over fifty-four thousand bucks—only nine thousand of which is declared to keep from filing a ton of paperwork. Dollars are normally good around the world, but gold always seems to work.
Connie, sitting on the bed, points to the wastebasket.
"Out," one of the hostiles says, motioning for us to retreat to the outside veranda. We do, and he closes and locks the slider behind us. Then they begin toss the suite, dumping all drawers, they pull our suitcases from under the bed and open them but don't lift them. Had they, they'd likely notice the weight of the pair of KRISS Vector's in the secret panels inside. But they don't, only running hands through every zippered pocket and then kicking them aside.
We have tense moments as they go through the luggage, and one throws the mattress off the bed. It’s a silent moment as one of them disappears into the bath. But he comes out and continues to rifle the room.
They don't spend more than ten minutes shaking down the room, then dump the contents of the wastebasket, the valuables, in the pillowcase. One walks to the slider and unlocks but doesn't open it. He yells through the glass, "Wait move, we leave."
So, we do. We wait until they've left the room.
Had they discovered our toys I'd have had to try chucking them both overboard.
Now, I've got to check on Simone, Gretchen, and the kids.
But things are getting goosey, so I retrieve a Glock and its canvas holster from the compartment above the toilet, then decide it might be a little loud, so I grab a K-bar as well. In seconds I have them both on my belt.
“Stall them, if you can, while I’m gone,” I say to Connie as I exit the room and mount the railing.
“Good plan. Tough execution,” she yells after me as I kip up to the deck above, then work my way to the side and realize I’m facing Bull Toliver’s room. The slider opens and it’s Mrs. Toliver in a robe. She has a hanky in one hand and waves me her way.
I throw a leg over the rail. She puts a finger to her lips, shushing me.
“Bull dragged two of them over the rail and drowned the bastards.”
“And the General?” I ask.
I can see her jaw clamp, then she gets it out. “He went with them. God damn their black hearts. Our butler saw it all.”
“Is he with the terrorists?”
“Malik? I don’t think so. They treated him like dirt as well.”
“Play dumb. Stay tough. We’ll get through this. I gotta go.”
She merely nods, but with tear-filled eyes. I hustle back and swing around the partition onto the kids’ deck.
I’m happy to note the slider is ajar and drop silently onto the veranda of the two-bedroom suite, expecting to be greeted by the kids.
Nothing, and the reflection of the sun on the glass doesn’t allow me to see inside. I creep to the six-inch opening where the door’s ajar, then realize the blinds are drawn. I ease the curtain aside, then hear Patty’s panicked voice. “No, no, no don’t.”
And a male laugh, followed by a husky voice in Arabic.
I slip the curtain aside just enough to peek inside and see the back of a camo-clad soldier. He’s pulling his shirt off and staring down at Patty who’s on her back on the living room couch, both arms extended trying to fend off her attacker. Her blouse is ripped away, her breasts exposed, and her pants torn open.
No one else is in the room.
34
As quietly as I can, I open the slider enough to slip through.
As I do, I palm the K-bar. Unfortunately, some light floods the room as I slip through the drapes. He’s a big raghead but blinded by the light as he turns. He’s holding his trousers with one hand and trying to shade his eyes with the other to see if it’s merely the wind that has blown the curtains—or something else. Patty sees me coming, but to her credit, merely shakes her head and grits her teeth at her attacker. I detect the hint of a smile and a glint in her eyes. I know I’m welcomed by one of the two in the room.
Before he can determine the source, something else—me—is bringing the butt of the K-bar down directly on his pate with all I can put behind the blow. His skull indents as his jet-black eyes roll up in their sockets. Happily, he only makes a little grunt and hardly any impact sound as he hits the carpeted floor. Very little blood seeps from the crater in his noggin. When your heart stops, so does the flow of blood.
“Simone?” I asked with a whisper, and Patty points at a bedroom door. “Only one?” I ask, again whispering, and she nods.
This soldier is atop Simone on the bed, his pants down, his shirt thrown aside, covering his AK47, which is on the carpet.
She’s fighting him, her legs together and twisted to the side as he’s holding her shoulders down and trying to force a leg between hers.
“You fucking bastard,” she says, and he laughs.
But his laugh is cut short, turning to gurgle, when the K-bar goes to the hilt through his side, and I’m sure, through a kidney. This kill isn’t as clean as the first. Blood sprays from the wound as I hang onto the hilt and the blade slips out as he scrambles away toward his rifle. He bends to retrieve it, a weak screech coming from him as he does. I give him a shove with my running shoe on his butt and he slams headfirst, and hard, into the wall, and collapses holding his side. He has one hand down on the floor propping himself and glaring at me, holding the other hand over the spurting wound in his side.
Like I’m going for a three-point field goal, I give him all I have with a kick under the chin that lifts him a foot in the air. When he lands, He’s out cold, and he’ll be totally cold soon as no one can bleed like that for long. He blows a few bubbles of blood. Guess he bit his tongue half off. Then he rolls back and forth, gurgling, then stills.
“Motherfucking pig. Goat-fucking cocksucker,” I hear from the obviously very offended young lady behind me. She turns to me, “The asshole took a selfie…a friggin’ selfie, holding me down. I want to cut his penis off and stuff it in his mouth.”
I turn to her and shake my head. “Where the hell do you learn stuff like that?”
She’s standing stark naked, with her hands on her hips. I have to glance away to keep from looking her up and down, and do, still shaking my head.
Then I turn back to Simone. “Get towels.” I grab a top sheet off the bed and try to get it under him so blood doesn’t cover the floor, but as soon as I do, he stops spurting and I know his heart has found little to pump and has stopped.
“You worthless piece of shit,” Simone says, and spits on her attacker.
Patty is in the doorway, half put back together.
“Get dressed,” I snap at Simone.
“I have to take a shower,” she says, and starts for the bathroom. I grab her and spin her around.
“Get the fuck dressed. You two have to help me heave these assholes overboard. In case you don’t know it, there’s another three dozen of the pricks on board.”
To her credit she nods, but still heads for the bathroom and is quickly back in a robe. We head for the living room first. The girls each grab a leg and we struggle through the room and out to the deck.
“Wait,” I command, then look up and down the length of the ship. At least no one is hanging over a rail checking things out. “Now,” I say, and we heave the smaller soldier over. It’s forty feet to the water and he hits with a splat. Again, I scan the ship, bow to stern, but see no one, thank God not even a pointing finger on the end of a camo-clad arm.
The larger of the two has two grenades on his belt, so I relieve him of those. Then we drag him out to the veranda, and again I check and see no one hanging over a rail.
This asshole has been too well fed and must go two-fifty. It’s all the girls can do to get their third of his weight up and over the rail, but they do.
“Sayonara, motherfucker,” I say, as he hits the water. Again, I check to see that no bogie is hanging over a rail, and luckily no one is. He splats so hard I can’t imagine no one has heard.
No one seems to have.
Then it dawns on me, the boys are missing. “Where the hell are Bryan and Terry?” I ask both girls.
“These two assholes came and took them away, then returned to have their fun.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Turned out not to be much fun for them,” then I get more serious. “I hope they just moved them and didn’t move them overboard.”