by L. J. Martin
There were no ports below, so she had no idea where they were headed when she felt the vibration of the engines.
She’d bide her time, but if one of those filthy fuckers dared to lay a hand on her or the girls under Mike’s protection, he was going to get a hell of a surprise.
The hell of it is, Simone may die from neglect, not too much unwanted attention.
As soon as we’ve secured the asshole who kept yelling he was American—as if I give a rat’s ass and, in fact, it only makes me hate him more—with cable-tied wrists in the back, feet folded and bound to wrists, he’s thrown in the captain’s closet. I decide it’s time for the second part of our plan.
Now I must figure out exactly what the second part is?
“Any ideas?” I ask Alistair.
“We now have radios, which obviously are on channel with lots of other wogs all over the ship. So, we change channels. How about twenty-three? A lucky number for me as I was chest wounded and it missed all the vitals when I was that age. Smashed a rib, but missed heart, vessels, and barely nicked a lung.”
“Sounds good to me,” and we reset the radios.
“Now,” I suggest, “it’s a floor at a time. Let’s trade weapons,” and he gives me the KRISS Vector and spare magazines. The KRISS is much shorter and a more viable weapon in urban battlefields. The close quarters of the ship qualify as urban. He keeps Mumin’s longer AK.
“Now what?” he asks.
“I’m going floor to floor. I’ll radio the floor number and you open the doors when I’m locked and loaded.”
“Yes, Alistair cautions, “but first let’s activate the intercoms and tell all to stay in their suites.”
And I caution back, “We don’t want to alert these assholes that we’re on the bridge.”
“The way the radios have been crackling, I’m sure they know this Mumin guy is out of pocket. I’ll be surprised if they aren’t on their way. I’ve got a smattering of Arabic.”
He makes the announcement in Arabic then broken English, as if he’s one of the hostiles. So many Arab countries are represented among both terrorists and crew, including an American, his accent won’t be questioned. Then he turns to me. “You get out of this area and I’ll reclose the fire doors leading here.”
“Good thinking. Make damn sure they don’t get in. Watch those big windows. They can get over the top and drop down to see what’s going on.”
“Ten four,” he says, then adds, “Get going, let’s not let them start planning. Take the Glock, too—I’ve got Mumin’s AK—and the suppressor may come in handy.”
“One thing first.” I go to the desk and grab the device that we presume was to detonate the explosives that would have destroyed the ship. The wings of the bridge extend out six feet past the hull on either side, so bridge occupants can see some of the ship behind and following seas. I investigate the device and see it has a battery compartment on the back and pray that these pagan bastards are not smart enough to program the device so if the battery compartment is opened, it signals.
But I also don’t want the device to short out and send a signal when I do what I plan to do. So, I hold my breath, open the battery compartment and pop the nine-volt battery out.
I’m able to exhale, so I presume that means I’m not fried in LPG hell. Then I walk to the edge of the wing and open a small slider and drop the device into Davy’s locker. I only hope they don’t have a fallback with another haji holding another device somewhere else on the ship. I guess if I see a ball of flame enveloping me, I’ve miscalculated.
Then I suggest, “Turn the phones back on. We may need to communicate with someone locked in their suite.”
“Good idea,” he replies and starts searching the control panels, finds a switch near the intercom systems and gives me a nod.
“I’m out of here,” I inform Alistair, and head down the hall and out of the bridge. No one is in the short hall outside between me and the fire door, so I head that way, get ready taking a combat stance, and radio Alistair. “Deck Nine.”
The door swings aside and in ten strides, I'm passing the stairway that only goes down from Deck Nine. In a few strides I’m at a glass door looking out at the deck that overlooks the pool, one deck below.
I drop low and creep on elbows close enough to the edge to peer down. Four hostiles are enjoying the pool, splashing and laughing. I find that a bit strange, but so far damn near everything that’s happened has been more than merely a ‘bit’ strange. Then I realize that outside they have no way to know the fire doors have closed. And no one can get outside to tell them. Since they’re swimming, radios are with their clothes in a pile at the far end of the pool.
I go prone and decide to ruin their fun. I think about trying my luck with the suppressed Glock then remember how water muffles explosive sounds.
My next decision is one grenade or two? This likely is one of the few opportunities to use the explosive devices without compromising passengers.
Hell, one should do. They’re intent on taking a small beach ball away from one another so the timing is good. It’s a foreign grenade, maybe Russian, and I presume works the same as its American cousin, so I pull the pin, count to two and lob it. They don’t even notice the splash. It erupts like a miniature sub depth-charge with a four-foot-high bubble, ten-feet in diameter. The two nearest the blast are immediately floating face down, the two furthest are bleeding and confused, so I put one suppressed 9mm in each of their chests; I’d be ashamed to miss at no more than fifty feet. Now there are four floating face down. One I didn’t see, as he was under a sunshade, runs to the side of the pool looking very confused that the swimming pool exploded. Then he seems to get it and shades his eyes and looks up as a nine mil takes him about the bottom of the rib cage and knocks him to his back. He rolls and is crawling as I put another between his scapula. I’m embarrassed about the first not being chest center but then, hell, two out of three ain’t bad.
These dummies are too damn easy, I think, just as a three-shot burst stitches the wall behind me and as I scramble back as far as possible from the edge, another three-shot burst blows the glass door all to hell.
42
I dive over the, now glassless, low transom into the hallway, crab the first twenty feet, then crouch and run a few feet to the stairway, descend four stairs at a time to a landing, then slow, and creep the second set. There’s another glass door out to the pool, but I see no one, so I hustle to the fire door leading to the forward suites on Deck Eight, then pause to count my expended Glock cartridges. I had one in the chamber and a twenty-four shot extended clip. I fired four, so twenty-one left. I recall that there are over thirty suites on Deck Eight forward, so I imagine there are at least two guards.
I radio Alistair. “Deck Eight,” and crouch with the Glock extended in a two-handed grip.
A guard is standing just inside, looking very relieved that the door is finally open, then his mouth drops open as I put one in his chest, knocking him to his back, and one in his head as I pass. One is good, two are better—double tap my Marine Corps instructor drilled into our heads. I have to jerk his AK47 hard to get it free as his full weight is on the sling. I figured using his weapon was better than taking the time to unsling my KRISS Vector, but I was wrong. Another guard at the far end of the hall, at least two hundred feet, already has his long arm shouldered. I dive behind the fallen soldier and use him for a rest, flip the safety and the selector to three shots, as three shells splatter the fire door behind me. Then another three hit the jamb on the far side.
I pull one off, then realize the dumb bastard didn’t have one in the chamber. I work the slide as shells thump into the body beneath me, splattering me with goo. I fire a three-shot burst and he spins away, crawls a little, then all I can see are his legs extended out from the indentation where he’s leaning on a suite door.
On my feet, I close the distance between us until I’m less than a hundred feet from him. I shoulder my weapon and put three into his extended legs. He
screams and throws the AK he’s carrying out into the hallway. I see his stretched arms as if he’s surrendering.
So, I move forward. But as I come up on him, I see his eyes roll up in his head and he slumps forward. He’s through, as a four-foot circle of blood surrounds his legs, permeating the hard hallway carpet. I must have blown away both femoral arteries and he bled out like pouring water from a pitcher.
Another hallway down.
A couple of the more adventurous passengers are peeking out of their suites, so I yell, "There are grenades, two rifles, and two side arms here. Arm yourselves. We're taking the ship back." Then I have an afterthought. "You'd be wise to hide these bodies."
Deck Seven next.
I get down the stairway to the Deck Seven mid-ship fire door without incident, get in position, and radio Alistair.
The door flies open, and I flatten myself against the sidewall, surprised to be confronted by armed men then realize they’re passengers, I yell, out, "Friendly, hold your fire," and am pleased to see muzzles lowered.
"We got one wounded, but two dead Muzzies," one of the AK47-wielding passengers calls out, and I see an older gentleman leaning against a hallway wall, obviously with both a thigh and a torso wound. But he struggles to give me a thumbs up and I give him a quick salute back. It seems Deck Seven is already in good hands.
"Stay locked and loaded," I yell to the crowded hallway, then spin on my heel and head back to the stairway only to hear Arabic chatter and footfalls.
More firepower called for, I unsling the KRISS, and wait. I know there's more than one, but only one rounds the bottom of the stairway and has his AK going to his shoulder. He should have tried a hip shot as I stitch him from belly button to broad grimace. He reels back, and I hear yelling and retreating footsteps. I reach the bottom of the stairs in time to see another soldier rounding the landing halfway up. I'm not fast enough to blow his legs away but rather take a few stairs, just enough to be able to reach through the stiles and heave my second grenade up to the top of the stairs.
I retreat as the roar rips through the stairwell and don't wait but rather go down to the Deck Six fire door. I radio Alistair on the run. It opens, and I'm greeted by the slap of passing 7.62 lead, so close it makes my left ear ring. I hit the floor on a knee and empty my clip down the hallway, then stand and grab for the Glock as I can't get the damn thing free without standing. I've failed to remove the suppressor so the frickin' thing is hard to handle with the length, but I get it raised as a guard peeks around from a door indentation. I snap a shot and he fades back into the doorway, unharmed. Another at the far end of the long hallway has taken a knee and is firing away. I'm knocked ass end over teakettle and momentarily think I'm cut in half, then realize a shot has hit the magazine on my belt. I spin with the impact, hit the deck, and, prone, manage to hit the far guard. But the other one is still hidden in the doorway.
I'm surprised to hear two muffled shots and that guard spins out of the recess to the far side, hits the wall and slides down it, leaving smears of blood.
"Who's there?" comes a voice from that doorway.
"Reardon, American, friendly," I yell back and am pleased to see the old CIA guy, Drummond or Weinstein, or whatever the hell his name is, stick his head out, then step out. He’s shot the guard through the door. Following him closely is his travelling companion, the strikingly beautiful Hispanic chick. She comes out in a crouch, her handgun held in both hands as she pans the hallway.
Then I catch a movement down the hall.
"Watch it," I yell, and jog past them. "The other guard is down, but maybe not out."
When I come even with the second guard, he's on his hands and knees, blowing blood from a fatal neck wound so I put him out of his misery with another to the back of his head. Again, I’m pleased I'm not hindered by rules of engagement. I do take the time to strip away his two grenades to replace those I've used. I throw his AK and sidearm to Weinstein and his lady.
Then I limp back to the stairway end of the hallway.
My hipbone is hurting like hell, but I realize it's only from the bruising of my magazine being blown away and my belt half ripped off. No time to stop and whine. With a yell to Weinstein, "More weapons here. Organize your people," I head for the stairway. I can't help but add, "Sorry, couldn't stand down." He smiles and gives me a thumbs up as men begin to appear out of the cabin doors.
Deck Five is next.
Descending the stairs to Deck Five is a new problem altogether. It's obvious by now the bad guys are totally alerted to the rebellion. I must presume they’ve been chattering on other channels on the handhelds. I can only hope and pray some zealot is not figuring a way to detonate the LPG tanks and blow us all to hell. The stairway to Deck Five lands next to a wide-open lobby, that will be on my right, and beyond it is the casino, casino bar, and a couple of shops. Then there’s the main bar, which is also ship-wide, and a seventy-foot deep room.
To my immediate left is the fire door and, on the bow side, are some thirty to thirty-five suites.
I wish I had some good old flash-bang grenades, but I have only frags. I fear chucking them ahead of me into the lobby or the bar. If I'm to be one of the good guys, it would tar my image to take out a few old blue-haired passengers.
I know only about ten words in Arabic, I knew more years ago while serving in Iraq, but have tried hard to forget them.
So, I yell out, "As’ salam alaykum," in greeting, thinking I might fool someone.
"Fuck you, infidel," is replied, in an accent, and it's not a Brooklyn one. I guess my accent is not so great.
Now what? I can't chuck a grenade as I have no idea who’s in the lobby.
Then the voice rings out again. "Throw out your weapon or we blow the ship up."
Discretion is the better part of valor I decide, so I spin around and haul ass back up the stairs and to a side door leading to an area where the shore boats—tenders—are stored, then go over the rail and drop down to a deck just outside the lobby, an area from which boarding and departures are normally made.
I drop as combat-ready as possible since I'm facing a glass door into the lobby, from which I was being cursed. But I see no one.
As stealthily as possible, I open the door and slip inside. The hotel counter is to my right and beyond that, across the hall leading to the casino and bar, is the concierge counter. I can't see who might be behind the hotel desk, but the far one is empty. I know there are offices beyond the counter space.
I creep forward, and a desk attendant comes into view, still in his nice hotel uniform. He looks very frightened and is standing behind the counter with both hands conspicuously flat on the countertop as if ordered to remain that way.
He cuts his eyes at me, then looks down, back at me and down again. Without lifting his hands, he points down the index fingers, both left and right of him. I can only surmise that bad guys are hiding behind the counter on either side of him, awaiting him greeting me as I wander into the lobby from where I was on the stairway. He remains silent.
43
It's time to take a risk, so with the KRISS in one hand and the Glock in the other I step out directly in front, so I can ventilate the counter without hitting the hotel guy.
I put three shots from each weapon, spaced a foot apart from just beyond the width of the deskman out. Screams, slamming, and banging erupt as I drop back, and the deskman flees into the office behind, slamming the door so hard the counter vibrates.
From behind the counter, a clip is emptied through the wooden face, but I'm back behind the adjacent wall and it merely shatters a couple of waiting room chairs and a glass case beyond. I'm surprised to note the fire door itself, across the room, has taken a couple of hits that appear to have penetrated.
Then moans and gurgles come from behind the desk. I'm peeking around but can't see down behind the counter when the desk clerk reappears in the office doorway with a heavy paperweight in hand. I can see him swing it hard. It sounds like he's beating a watermelon.
Then he places the bloody paperweight on the counter, returns his hands flat there, and looks at me with a white-faced big-eyed barely perceptible nod.
"It's safe now," he mutters, a little Orphan-Annie-eyed as if in shock.
I can't help but smile. He's finished a terrorist off with a snow-globe, snowflakes still swirling around a cherubic angel inside. Christian revenge.
"Collect their weapons and stay locked in the office," I instruct him. "Can you use those AKs?" I ask.
He gives me a nod. "I was an Eagle Scout."
I can't help but shrug and smile. So, satisfied, I limp for the fire door leading to the cabins.
I'm sure the guards behind this fire door are well forewarned with the amount of gunfire just outside their posts.
I get on the radio and announce to Alistair, "Deck Five."
He starts to say "Ten," and I presume he was about to give me a ten four, when I hear nothing but automatic fire over the radio. Then it goes dead.
I back away from the door and call again.
Alistair hears the clattering on the bridge roof as Reardon is calling him to switch open the Deck Five fire door. He’s reaching for the switch and about to give Reardon a ten four when a pair of combat boots appears outside the windows, dropping down to a narrow ledge above where he can get a foothold. He's only dropped to his waist when another pair appears next to the first.
So, Alistair steps back into the doorway. He wants to take out both of them, so he waits until the second set catches up with the first. The windows are six-feet-tall so both hostiles don’t have to bend to see inside. He waits until both are in place, then sprays the window with a half clip and both hostiles disappear, falling backward. Alistair knows it is at least a twelve-foot fall to the roof of Deck Seven.