Finally, they rigged a line and began pulling us up.
2230: Hauled up on deck, we were surrounded by six sailors with AK47s.
Things were looking up.
2240: While we were waiting for a doctor, Frenchman told me he’d lost one of his isotope detectors somewhere along the way.
No fear, he said. He could do the job almost as well with the one he had left.
2242: A seaman brought dry clothes. Despite our protests, we had to change on deck. We weren’t objecting out of modesty—though in Win’s case he probably really was worried about the random germs he kept mentioning. With no place for Frenchman to hide his radiation detector, the Cuban sailors saw and confiscated it at gunpoint. It was the one that looks like a PDA, and that’s what he claimed it was.
“What do we do?” Frenchman whispered to me.
“We’ll use our eyes. Shouldn’t take more than a week.”
Somewhat less important than the detector, the Cubans also confiscated our radios. These—supplied by the CIA—were designed to look like iPod Shuffles, the small clip-on MP3 players that are about half the size of a matchbook.
The sailor took all of our wet clothes—except for Win’s sweatshirt, which he insisted on keeping and wearing over the new shirt the Cubans supplied.
While we were dressing, a man came to look us over. He appeared to be a real doctor, with a stethoscope and one of those fancy little lights that doctors like to use on your eyes right before they hand you the bill.
What is a real doctor doing on the ship? I wondered.
I didn’t get a chance to ask. The doctor looked us over, said something to the mate in charge, then walked away. We sat on the deck, freezing our butts off, for more than a half hour. Mongoose and Frenchman both asked for a blanket, but the mate in charge of us didn’t answer. Finally, a seaman came up with a bucket of lukewarm soup. The taste was somewhere between black bean and brown dishwater. We pretended we were starving and lapped it up.
2320: We were led below to what turned out to be one of the cargo holds. It was empty.
One of the sailors stood guard outside the door.
2321: Mongoose and I began examining the cargo space, looking for an alternative way out. It turned out to be a very large rectangular box, with two doors in the bulkhead facing the bow. That included the one we came in through. Both were locked. The hatchway at the top, which Mongoose reached via welded rungs that ran up the starboard side of the hold, was closed and apparently locked. After about five minutes, Mongoose declared it couldn’t be opened from inside.
The deck we were sitting on was made of grating; we could see through it to the space below. Mongoose suggested that it was rigged to allow for the decking to be removed, making the hold deeper. Sure enough, there were bolts holding the decking to long I-beams running across the space. Win dug a small knife from his sweatshirt pocket that he managed to conceal and we used it as a tool. The first bolt took more than ten minutes to remove, but everything was easy from there.
2338: I was just about to slip through the grate when the door to the hold was unlocked. I replaced the grate as quietly and quickly as I could, while the others shielded me from view.
The mate who’d been in charge of us above entered.
“You will come with me,” he said, using English.
“Now what, Dick?” whispered Mongoose as we filed out.
I was about to tell him that we’d grab him and just leave him in the hold when I saw two other sailors, both with AK47s, in the passageway outside.
“Bide your time,” I told him.
I was half expecting more guards to be waiting farther down in the passage, but there were none. As we walked toward the ladder at the far end, I glanced at Mongoose. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
2342: As we started up the ladder, Mongoose drew even with the lead guard, who was walking about three paces behind the mate in charge. I had the sailor acting as rear guard. But I couldn’t get close—the slower I walked, the more he lollygagged.
I was about to reach down and pretend I had to tie my shoe when Mongoose made his move. I spun and threw myself at the sailor behind me. He was a good twenty years younger and thirty pounds heavier than I was, but I had surprise on my side. He fell back to the deck, his AK47 flying from his hands. I reached the rifle first but the Cuban sailor managed to grab the stock before I could pull it to my chest. He levered it away, then made the mistake of looking at the gun rather than me. I let go and punched him in the face.
It had no effect.
Another punch. Two.
He pulled the gun up and tried to smash the stock into the back of my head.
The fourth punch was the charm. He rolled to the side, still holding the rifle but dazed. I kicked him in the seat of his intelligence, pulled the gun from his grip, and rolled to my feet, huffing a hell of a lot more than I’d care to admit.
Mongoose, meanwhile, had grabbed the other man’s rifle and was squatting with it near the ladder.
Unfortunately, our impromptu plan failed to account for all contingencies. One specifically presented a problem:
The mate who’d come to get us had pulled a pistol from his pocket and held it at Frenchman’s head. He told us to drop the guns or he would fire.
2353: Mongoose asked me what I thought we should do.
I shrugged.
“As soon as he fires, he’s mine,” I said, raising my rifle.
I greatly preferred that Frenchman not be shot, since he was the only one among us who knew how to work the radiation detector. I watched the mate for a few seconds, waiting for him to tire and lower his gun.
Suddenly something flew across the narrow passageway. The mate jerked back, his gun lowered. I tapped my trigger and the gun roared, the report echoing loudly off the metal bulkhead of the passageway.
I’d aimed for his temple but in the dim light and all, I missed.
I hit his sideburn and ear instead.
“God, he’s dirty,” said Win, pulling his knife from the Cuban’s neck.
0002: We made our way up the bridge and took the captain prisoner. Unfortunately, he wasn’t particularly cooperative and it took a few blows from the butt end of Mongoose’s rifle to convince him not to alert the rest of the crew.
Frenchman and I went in search of his radiation detector with the help of the ship’s second mate. The mate was cowed by the rifles, but the look in his eye made it clear he would bolt at the earliest opportunity.
Frenchman didn’t look too much better. His hands were shaking when he took the detector off the desk in the captain’s cabin.
“Here we go,” he said, pressing the button at the bottom.
The instrument didn’t light up. He switched it on and off several times, shook it, and then tapped it hard against the cabin bulkhead.
It lit up. I grabbed our radios and ran back to give one to Mongoose.
0015: Frenchman and I were down in Cargo Hold Number 3, working our way around the perimeter. So far, our inspection had been a bust.
Mongoose called me on the radio. There was trouble up on the bridge. Two sailors apparently coming on duty sensed something was wrong and turned around before Mongoose or Win could stop them.
0018: The sailors aboard ship began to rebel. Mongoose and Win barricaded themselves on the bridge.
“We’re not going to be able to hold out too much longer up here, Dick,” Mongoose told me over the radio. “Time to abandon ship.”
I was about to tell him to go ahead when I saw shadows approaching around the corner of the far passage. There were three sailors, all with rifles.
Things are about to get a little more interesting, I thought to myself.
Then the shooting began.
( VI )
We’d worked out a plan with the navy to back us up. If they didn’t hear from us by 0100—one in the morning—they’d fly a helicopter overhead, claiming to be answering the distress call from the raft and looking for us.
But 0100 was
a good 0030 away.
Our only option was to fight it out.
Bullets whipped across the narrow passageway, puncturing the pre-Glasnost Russian steel as if it were Swiss cheese. Fortunately, the Cuban sailors were shooting like sailors—they either stuck their weapons around the corner and fired blind, or shot without turning the corner at all. So while the passageway was filled with smoke and my eardrums were numb, none of the bullets hit me or Frenchman, who’d collapsed onto the deck at the first bark of the guns.
I moved up the side of the passage, pressing so hard against the bulkhead that I probably put a crease in it. When a rifle barrel poked around the corner, I reached out, grabbed it, and pulled.
Its owner sprawled past me, landing facedown as his rifle flew a few yards beyond him. I slapped the butt of my gun against his head, stunning him into unconsciousness, then went to one knee, waiting for his companions. When they didn’t come, I curled myself around the weapon and threw myself into the elbow of the passage, gun aimed in their direction, trigger depressed maybe nine-tenths of the way.
The passage was empty. They’d run away.
“Frenchman, grab that rifle. The coast is clear,” I shouted.
He ran forward.
“There’s no bomb in this ship, Dick. We’ve been through the superstructure, the hold, all these cargo bays. There’s no bomb.”
“You’re positive?”
“Every place we’ve been. There’s no place else.”
“The crew quarters.”
“How could they put a bomb in the crew quarters? That’d be insane.”
As opposed to hiding a nuke and then sailing it toward New York in the first place? If that’s the measure of sanity . . .
“Come on,” I told Frenchman. “The crew’s quarters will be this way.”
Things were getting hairy up on the bridge. Mongoose had secured both doors, but the sailors had taken some furniture or something and were using it as a battering ram against the one at the port side. The bulkhead shook every time they hit it.
“Ain’t gonna last,” said Win grimly.
“You an expert on doors, too?”
“I’m a materials engineer. I’m telling you it won’t last.”
Mongoose went to the other side of the bridge and cracked open the door, then quickly shut it as he caught a glimpse of someone in the corridor. But he was too late—three or four Cubans sprang against it. Pushed back, he tried to raise his gun but couldn’t as the sailors rushed inside.
Win sprayed the entire bunch with his rifle. Somehow he managed to miss Mongoose—whether by luck or aim, it wasn’t clear. The sailors rebounded back into the passage, trailing blood. Mongoose threw himself against the door and secured it.
“We gotta get out,” said Win.
“Top of the bridge.”
“How?”
Mongoose turned, and in the same motion swung his assault rifle like a bat through the glass over the helmsman’s station. The window panel that covered the front of the bridge shattered, falling in shards on the instruments and deck. Leaning forward, Mongoose grabbed hold of the thick furring where the glass had been, tore it and the remaining shards down, then pulled himself through. He clambered on top of the bridge compartment and leaned back down.
“Let’s go,” he told Win.
A narrow catwalk was mounted aft of the bridge. Mongoose jumped over the rail and ran a few feet down the port side. A survival raft was lashed to the top of the superstructure, secured against the forward part of the funnel. He clambered up and undid two of the cable ties, then reached inside and grabbed the flare pack.
“Fire some of these,” he told Win, jumping back down. “Shoot ’em in the direction of the fleet.”
“They’re almost in the bridge.”
“Just fire the flares.”
Win did as he was told. Mongoose called me on the radio and told me what was happening.
“We may have to jump into the water,” he said.
“Go. The navy’ll be here soon. As long as you have the radio, they’ll find you.”
“Yeah.”
Just for the record, that wasn’t the most confident “yeah” I’d ever heard.
The Cubans with the makeshift battering ram gave it one last college try and pushed their way onto the bridge, spraying their AK47s as they went. Win dropped to the deck and fired the last flare through the open windshield. There was a thud, then a flash and red sparkle.
“We’re going off the side!” yelled Mongoose. He leapt up and pulled the raft clear of its last restraints, then threw it toward the water. “Jump as far as you can.”
“Yeah,” said Win, pulling his sweatshirt hood over his head before taking a running start toward the rail.
The ship’s crew had rallied for the assault on the bridge, leaving the crew spaces vacant for Frenchman and me. This wasn’t a big ship; there were no more than two dozen men aboard, if that.
So why had the galley been turned into a sick bay, complete with a full suite of medical machines and a dozen cots?
It was a very odd arrangement, so strange that I started checking under the cots and then pulling open the cabinets and lockers at the far end, trying to figure out what the hell the Cubans were up to.
“There’s no bomb in here, Dick,” said Frenchman. “Not even a watch with painted-on radium.”
I grunted, barely aware of what he was saying as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. A row of refrigerators sat near the head. They were small fridges, the sort you find in dorm rooms. Except these were chained shut.
A few well-placed rounds from the AK took care of the chain. I pulled the door on the first one open and knelt down. Trays of sealed test tubes filled the interior.
“You got any idea what this shit is?” I asked Frenchman.
“It ain’t nuclear material,” he said, holding the detector toward it. “We better get the hell out of here.”
I grabbed two test tubes and led him back out into the passageway. As I started up the ladder, I spotted someone ducking into one of the cabins beyond us. I launched myself after him, throwing myself against the door as he tried to close it. I wedged my foot into the space, forgetting I was barefoot.
The pain was all the motivation I needed. I bulled my way into the cabin, bowling over the man who’d tried holding me out. It was the doctor.
I had a few questions for him, but this wasn’t the time or place to ask them.
“You’re coming with me, Doc,” I told him. Before he could protest, I smacked the side of his head with the rifle butt. “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning, right?”
I scooped him over my shoulder and went out to find Frenchman waiting in the passage.
“Which way?” he asked.
“The way you’re pointing.”
“Up?”
“Better than down.”
We went up the ladder to the main deck, then found a door to the gangway along the side of the ship. While Frenchman raced forward with his detector, still not willing to admit there was no bomb, I looked for a lifeboat or some other way for us to get off the ship and get away in one piece.
The boat that had been used to get us was sitting on its davit, the cover still off. I dumped the doctor inside as Frenchman ran toward me.
“Nothing!” he yelled. “Nothing. Damn!”
I wasn’t sure why he was running until a muzzle flashed far behind him. Two sailors up near the bow had spotted him and were firing at him. I shot through the magazine; I may or may not have hit them, but they stopped firing.
But Frenchman was lying on the deck.
“Damn,” he mumbled.
That was the last thing he said, in this world anyway.
Mongoose swam for the raft, which was floating upside down about a dozen yards from the ship.
Win hit the water much harder than he expected, and between the shock and cold, his head was scrambled. He fought his way to the surface, but once there had no idea where he was. He stroked
frantically, furiously attacking the waves, but he wasn’t nearly the swimmer Mongoose was, and found it difficult to make much progress. In less than a minute, he was exhausted and began sinking under the water.
He fought desperately at first, but he was so tired that his arms felt like drain pipes filled with cement. The fatigue grew exponentially, until he was seized by an overwhelming need to sleep. His eyes had been closed practically since he hit the water. Now the rest of his body began to relax, giving up.
He was slipping downward when Mongoose spotted him a few feet from the raft. He spun around, tugging the raft with him for a stroke or two before letting go as Win sank. He caught him and hauled him back.
Right about then, the sailors who’d made it off the bridge without being burned spotted the raft and began firing at it. Mongoose didn’t realize this; all he knew was that the raft was sliding away from him. As he swam after it, something hit him on the back—a pebble, he thought, not bothering to ask himself who would be throwing rocks in the middle of the ocean.
He took a few more strokes toward the raft when a light went off in that dark skull of his and he realized the sailors were shooting at the raft. With Win hanging on his left side, he began pulling in the opposite direction. But he didn’t realize that he’d been hit by a bullet until his right arm locked up. His right trapezius muscle had been torn, the rest of the muscles in his arm and shoulder couldn’t handle the load anymore.
“Shit,” he mumbled, treading water with his feet. “Damn navy is never around when you need it.”
I tossed Frenchman’s limp body into the boat and began lowering us toward the water. The craft went down at a snail’s pace. Any second I expected one of the Cubans to run up and plaster me. But they didn’t.
The only one who seemed interested in me at all was Murphy, who managed to mangle either the line or the davit mechanism so that the boat stopped cockeyed five feet above the water. I didn’t even notice at first; I kept tugging, thinking I was going down. Finally realizing I was stuck, I reached upward to put my weight into a heavy tug—just in time for Murphy to undo whatever he had done and send the boat crashing down into the water.
RW15 - Seize the Day Page 36