by L. J. Martin
When they realize I’m not emptying a magazine into them, they yell out, “Passengers here. Passengers.”
“And the guards?” I reply, worried one was right behind them.
“Only one and he’s a putz. He’s in a pile, stomped to a grease spot, and no threat,” says one of the men.
“You have his weapon?” I ask.
“An AK and a fine SIG Sauer handgun. He had a dagger, but my wife just ran down and shoved it in the goat fucker’s gut,” he says, and gives me a big smile.
“They said they had the LPG tanks….” I don’t get it out before one of them interrupts.
“The door to the storage tanks is chained and locked with a hardened chain and padlock. One of the other bastards rigged it when he closed the door. I think if we open it, it blows.”
I give him a grimace of a smile. “Then I guess we shouldn’t open it.”
“All good, except,” he says.
“Except what?”
“I heard them say it had a timer, a failsafe in the event they couldn’t detonate remotely.”
“Fuck!” I can’t help but exclaim. “How long?”
46
The man merely shrugs. “Could be minutes, could be hours.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ve got to get back to my suite where I’ve got a SAT phone. One of you go below and shake the crew out of their quarters and tell them to prepare to launch the tenders and lifeboats…anything that floats. Two of you, whoever is ready to take the guards’ weapons and fight, come with me. We’ve got to take the bridge back and finish these bastards off, so I can communicate with the ship.”
I’m somewhat surprised, and pleased, to see the boys, Bryan and Terry, appear behind the men.
As I head for the stairwell to climb to my suite, two passengers, with weapons, fall in behind. And behind them, unarmed, follow Bryan and Terry. I’m proud of the boys. As I climb, I’m not surprised to be joined by the CIA operative Weinstein, then by Master Chief Willard ‘Willy’ Porter and four others carrying guards’ weapons.
Damn if we ain’t becoming a formidable force.
We go straight to my cabin and, as I recover my SAT phone and head for the veranda to call, the seven of them recon their situation and take inventory of the weapons.
I phone my buddy Pax, who picks up before the first ring finishes.
“You’re still alive?” he asks.
“No, this is my poltergeist calling.”
He, for once, doesn’t have a smartass reply to my smartass reply, instead continues. “I’m in New Jersey, stopped for fuel, on our way. We have four friends about to re-board the G5 for Mal…” he starts to say his destination then thinks better and adds, “…nearest airport. We have a State Department type on board, no names. I’ll call the instant we touch down.”
“We’re still down range,” I tell him. “I have a hunch we’re headed into Morocco, Algeria or maybe Libya from the direction the freighter left.” I’m sure the ‘State Department’ statement is total b.s. but said for the sake of NSA who listens, no matter what they claim, to all foreign calls. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Pax to have forged documents.
“Freighter?” Pax asks.
“Most of the women on board were offloaded to a tramp freighter that headed south.”
“All of them?”
“Plenty, including Connie and my charges.”
“Our Apache friend told me something odd was going down. He’s on it.”
I smile. Our Apache friend is Taj in Malta, an India Indian by heritage who we’ve ragged in the past about being a take-no-prisoners Apache.
Pax continues. “We’ll be near as soon as we can get near. Enjoying your vacation?”
I knew he couldn’t resist being smartass.
“Too much lead in the air,” I say. “Must be global warming.”
“Must be. Keep your head down,” he advises.
“Ten four.” I disconnect and the FBI or CIA guy or whatever the hell he is, Weinstein, reaches for the SAT phone.
“Let me see what the status of the cavalry is.”
I hand it to him. We don’t want to shoot at or, sure as hell, get shot by an invading SEAL team.
He makes a quick call, then while still on the phone, gives me a crooked grin. “They say to stand down.”
We both laugh, then I ask. “SEAL ETA?”
“Classified. But hours away.”
“Tell them in case we’re not waiting with supper, not to board. We’ll either be dead or gone and the ship could be ready to blow any time.”
He relates the message, and, as I suspected, they reply, “Stand down.”
“A little late for that good advice.”
He disconnects.
“Okay,” I say, “gentlemen, we’ve got to get to the bridge, announce all to the lifeboats, and get rid of the back shooters. We don’t want fire or hand grenades raining down on our escaping lifeboats, or worse, the ship exploding and blowing us all to hell just as we think we’re safe.”
As I finish, a uniformed guy I’ve seen around the ship steps into the doorway. “I’m Kevin Connerly, Staff Captain and second in command of this ship. You fellows are now under my command.”
I stride over and get in his face. “I don’t see your automatic firearm, Connerly. Your bridge is under the control of terrorists. Your captain is lying dead on the bridge. You gonna rush it with those stripes on your shoulders and overpower them with your authority?”
“No, but…”
“No buts, Connerly. If you want to help, make sure the tenders and all lifeboats are launched. Women and children first, of course. Then the old men passengers, then the men and your crew.”
But he’s still adamant. “No one is abandoning this vessel.”
“Everyone is abandoning this vessel, except for the dead and soon-to-be-dead terrorists on board, and as soon as you can get it done, as if the ship was already sinking.”
“You don’t have the authority…”
I shake the KRISS at him. “This is my authority and as soon as I inform the rest of the crew and passengers of the explosives attached to your LPG tanks, which we can’t get to, they’ll likely be happy to leave you aboard if you stand in their way. Now get the fuck out of my way.”
He looks over his shoulder at two other uniformed lesser officers. One of whom says, “I’d say get the fuck out of his way, Staff Captain.”
The man looks totally crestfallen, but steps aside. I wave for my new troops to follow but turn back to him as we leave. “If you don’t want ‘hundreds of lives lost’ carved on your gravestone, then get those boats launched.”
To his credit, he gives me a nod.
Now, to take back the bridge.
Frazier Mendleson, CIA section chief terrorism and member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, and the individual appointed to communicate with the terrorists has tried and tried to get this terrorist, Mumin, on the SAT phone.
To no avail.
He is not particularly surprised when he gets another call from the State Department, who’s had a call to their Libyan mission Chargé d’Affaires, Sally Ann Maddison from a second terrorist. They give him a new number for a terrorist who calls himself Musa.
So, the officer from the Algerian desk—where they have calculated, by course, is the destination of the small freighter—the officer from the Spanish desk, a CIA negotiation expert who’s watching a voice stress analysis machine on a nearby desk, and a Navy liaison officer who’s in direct contact with the 6th Fleet—which is only hours from the Blue Pearl—are seated in a semicircle around the desk Mendleson is occupying in the COM room of The National Clandestine Service section of the CIA in Langley, Virginia. Mendleson puts on a headset to await the answer of the terrorist.
It’s 1400 in Washington, which means it should be 2000 on board the Blue Pearl, only four hours before the time the terrorist Mumin said he would begin killing passengers—one every ten minutes.
Mendleson is getting very nervous by the
fifth ring, then a husky voice answers:
“Yes.”
“Mister Musa?”
“Yes. Is the gold in flight?”
“Mister Musa, we have not been able to contact Mister Mumin so have not received a location. We’re staging the flight in Gibraltar.”
“The imbecile Mumin. Is it ready to take flight?”
“Mister Musa, that’s thousands of pounds of material that has to be collected from half the countries in Europe, delivered to Gibraltar, placed on pallets, and rigged to parachute. It’s not only a complicated process to acquire, which we’re in the process of doing, but complicated to execute. I hope you’ll consider…”
“No. No extension of time. I will call you back with the next waypoint when you tell me the shipment is in the air over the oceanfront village of Melilla, Morocco. We have people in Gibraltar and will know if your plane is in the air. If you lie to me, I start the beheading.”
“That’s it? Melilla?”
“You will then be given another village waypoint. Not until you’re less than thirty minutes from dropping will you be given the exact coordinates.”
“You will be patient?”
“No, I will not be patient. I will behead the first passenger…” He hesitates a minute and Mendleson presumes he’s looking at his watch or cell phone. “…in exactly three hours and fifty-three minutes.”
“But we’re complying with your demands.”
Musa disconnects.
47
Mendleson turns first to the CIA negotiator. “What do you think?”
“His voice was not particularly stressed. In fact, I was amazed how calm.…”
Then he turns to the Navy. “What’s the status of the load?”
He laughs, sardonically. “Hell, that much gold would be impossible to collect in that short timeframe. Or probably a week. We still don’t even have enough lead put together to resemble gold.”
“How long?”
“Before their deadline.”
“And the fleet?”
“ETA six hours.”
“And the SEAL team?”
“They and their equipment are aboard the sub. The Montana is well beyond the straits and should be a thousand yards off the stern of the Blue Pearl in a little over fifty mikes. It will take another thirty mikes to launch the team, then fifteen or so for them to board the ship, if the garbage deck is open to the sea and ship. They can blow the door, but it will likely alert the enemy.”
“Then the crap hits the fan in an hour or so. Of course, the team’s been informed about this explosive device on the LPG storage tanks?”
“They have, as least as much as Weinstein knows. They have plans from a sister ship and, as long as the Blue Pearl was built to specs, they’ll be able to breach the LPG storage room and go after the explosives. I don’t envy them cutting their way into a room hosting tons of LPG. They have welding gear from the Montana and can cut through the walls without touching the door. There’s a demolition expert with them.”
“An expert who can disarm this device?”
“He’s good at building them, so let’s hope.”
“Hold on,” Mendleson says. His cell is ringing. He picks it up and says, “yes?”
Then disconnects. “We’re not sure what’s going on. But the eye-in-the-sky folks report lifeboats are being launched from the Blue Pearl.”
“Weinstein?”
“Haven’t been able to raise him.”
Harry Weinstein is only two paces behind me. He’s sent his lady associate to her lifeboat station. I’ve sent Master Chief Willard ‘Willy’ Porter to the outside to climb to the roof of the bridge and take out any guards there. He has my second KRISS, a spare magazine, and is accompanied by two other Glock-armed passengers.
The ship is dark except for emergency lights, I presume battery-operated, dimly lighting the hallways. I have my night vision goggles, but they aren’t needed. You can see enough to negotiate.
I’m followed by four who carry AKs we’ve recovered from dead guards.
I’ve been worried that the fire door leading to Deck Eight’s suites and beyond the bridge, may still be locked, but am not particularly surprised to see it blown to a twisted mess, and easily passed. Beyond it, the door to the bridge is completely gone.
We step over two dead terrorists as we move forward.
Also, I’m saddened but not surprised, to see Alistair Nelson in a bloody heap on the bridge floor and the windows shot and blown out beyond. I pause and whisper, “Rest easy, partner. God loves warriors who give their all.”
As we move forward, as silently as possible, a soldier peeks out of one of the rooms off the hallway, then jerks back seeing us and the machine pistol going to my shoulder.
I have a bit of a quandary. I’d like to clear the room by chucking a grenade through the doorway but have no idea who might be inside. My problem is solved by a white flag waving and a man with an Arabic accent yelling, “Surrender, surrender, surrender.”
“Throw out your weapons,” I yell. Two AKs, two battle rattle belts with daggers and grenades, and two sidearms land in the hallway.
“Step out with hands on your heads,” I yell again.
Two soldiers exit the room, as ordered.
“No one else inside?”
“Two dead men,” he says.
“Lie to me and you die.”
He holds up six fingers and points at the blown-out bridge windows.
I wave my people forward and carefully enter the bridge, panning my KRISS until I’m satisfied no one’s there if you don’t count the dead captain and terrorist, then move to the windows. Twelve feet below on the roof of the next deck six hostiles are standing, with their dead scattered around, seemingly planning their next move. I duck down and wave my people forward, giving them six fingers and pointing.
I need not have doubted any of them as all line up.
I count in a loud whisper, “One, two, three,” and as one we rise and begin sweeping those below with fire. Only two of the six hostiles get any shots off, and luckily, they have no accuracy.
We have the two living hostiles secured and I’m quickly on the ship’s intercom.
“This is an American, currently in control of the Blue Pearl. This is not a drill, I repeat, not a drill. Report to your lifeboat stations, with your life preservers, if possible. No one, I repeat, no one will be left aboard. This ship has been rigged by terrorists to blow all to hell. This message will not be repeated. I’m heading for a lifeboat.” And I disconnect.
I turn to my crew and point at the secured guards. “Untie them. They, along with us, are carrying the captain’s body and that gentlemen on the bridge floor to the lifeboats. No man left behind.”
We meet up with Master Chief Willy in the stairwell. “No one above,” he reports. “Many dead on the deck below the bridge.”
“We’re moving out, chief,” I say, and we double time it down five decks to Three, the lowest deck with access to the ocean’s surface. But I don’t pass Deck Seven without going to my suite, retrieving my gold coins and forty grand plus in good old American greenbacks, and packing my bugout bag and backpack with a few necessaries.
I’ve got to make two stops to check on ladies. I find General Toliver’s wife sitting on the edge of her bed.
“We’ve got to go, ma’am,” I say, as gently as possible.
“I don’t have to, young man. I believe I’ll just stay here.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” and I lie, “but the General asked me to make sure you were safe. So, even if I have to carry you.”
She eyes me with some fire in her eyes, then melts. “If the General said so.” And she walks out ahead of me, shoulders thrown back, erect. The General would be proud of her.
Then I turn her over to Master Chief Willy and head for Alistair Nelson’s suite. I’m not surprised to find Mrs. Nelson in a chair out on the deck.
Before I can speak, she’s at the sliding glass door and asks, “My husband gave his lif
e?”
I have to take a deep breath before I answer. “Yes, ma’am, bravely, saving all our lives by taking out a half-dozen terrorists. Your husband was a hell of man.”
“I know that, young man,” she says. Then adds, “That was you ordering us to the lifeboats.”
“Yes, ma’am, where’s your life jacket?”
She grabs it, follows me out, and we join the others near the stairway.
As we descend the stairs, on Deck Five, a camo-dressed soldier hops down the hall. Master Chief Willy chuckles. “That’s the raghead that was guarding my room.” The man hops our way, his wrists and ankles bound.
“Please,” he calls out, “I cannot feel my hands or feet.”
“Tied him a little tight?” I suggest to Willy.
“Should’a tied it tight as I could pull around his skinny neck,” Willy says with a snarl.
“We might get some info from him. Loosen his wrists. In fact, untie his ankles and wrists. He can help carry our mates.”
In thirty mikes, there are over four hundred of us, nearly all men, packed into four seventy-five-passenger shore tenders and several inflatable lifeboats. I’ve managed to get Mrs. Nelson on a tender with her husband’s body, with Mrs. Tolliver along to commiserate with her. The ship is disappearing behind us in the darkness.
We didn’t take the time to search the ship and have no idea if more terrorists are aboard, but if so, they’re going nowhere unless they float off on ship furniture. So long as they don’t pop up firing at our escape, I’ll ignore them. We’ll let the SEAL team sort it out if they insist on boarding, and I’m sure they will.
Harry Weinstein and the still camo-dressed soldier who informs me his name is Sa’id, is on my same life raft, and Harry is on the SAT phone as soon as we push away from the ship. He’s giving intel to the CIA to pass along to the Navy.
I’m not as gung-ho as I know the Navy will be, so can’t help but advise him to pass along to his people, “Tell them to stand down. Let the fucking tub blow to hell.”