Marauder

by Clive Cussler

  Eric turned when he heard the footsteps and raised his MP5 to fire, but the terrorist knocked it from his hands with the butt of his AK-47. Eric didn’t let him bring the assault rifle to bear. He launched himself at the terrorist and tackled him to the ground, and they began to wrestle for control of the weapon.

  Linda wasn’t out from under the pipes yet and couldn’t reach her submachine gun. Instead, she drew the dart gun from her holster, but Eric and the terrorist rolled back and forth, keeping her from getting a clean shot.

  At that moment, the second terrorist came around the shed from the other direction. He must have heard the commotion and simply came to see what it was, leaving his own AK-47 behind.

  Still lying down, Linda snapped off a shot with the dart gun, but the angle was odd, and her dart hit the terrorist right in the leather belt he was wearing.

  The man heard the sound but didn’t realize he’d been hit. Then he saw Linda scrabbling out from beneath the pipes and sprinted toward her. She leaped to her feet just as he arrived and pinned her against the pipes.

  He chopped the dart gun from her hand and pressed his forearm against her throat, cutting off her air. His hot breath on her face reeked of tobacco and curry. Linda tried to push his arm away, but the wiry man was too strong for her. It was only a matter of time before she lost consciousness.

  She let go of his arm and ran her hand down his torso until she reached the belt. She grabbed the dart still jutting from the leather and yanked it out. With her vision tunneling, she jabbed the dart into the terrorist’s neck.

  His eyes went wide with shock, and he pulled out the dart, but it was too late. The injection directly into the artery made the effect of the drug nearly instantaneous. He sank to his knees and keeled over.

  Linda took a huge breath and looked over to see that the terrorist Eric had been fighting somehow had rolled away from him and next to the MP5. He picked up the submachine gun and was about to fire when Linda snatched the dart gun from the deck and shot him in the back.

  The terrorist whirled around and tried to grab at whatever had stung him. He stared at Linda in surprise, and then his eyes rolled white as he went down in a heap.

  Linda went over to Eric and held out her hand to help him up. Eric was rubbing the back of his head.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “He got me good with the butt of the AK, but I’ll be all right.” Eric looked around and saw the two terrorists lying on the deck. “Looks like you got them both. Nice shots.”

  She grinned at him. “Didn’t you know Annie Oakley was my great-grandmother?”

  “I almost believe that.”

  “Come on. Let’s take a look at that bomb.”

  They went into the shed and found the bomb situated directly under the main valve unit that the mass of pipes fed into. Linda shined her flashlight while Eric inspected it. There was an indicator with two bars blinking.

  Linda clicked on her mic. “Chairman, our hostiles are down, and the bomb is right in front of us.”

  “Good work. What’s the word on the bombs? Can we move them?”

  Eric, who could hear Juan as well, nodded. “That’s affirmative, Chairman. I don’t see any circuits or accelerometers that would be motion activated.”

  “Did you hear that, Hali?” Juan said.

  “Copy that,” Hali replied. “I’ll come up with it now. Are we dumping them overboard?”

  “I don’t advise that,” Eric said, picking up the bomb and putting it back in the sack that the terrorist had carried.

  “Why not?” Juan asked.

  “It may short-circuit as soon as it hits the water, which could put a nice big hole in the ship. The Dahar might not sink, but she could spill thousands of gallons of oil before it was brought under control.”

  “Might not sink?” Linda asked.

  Eric shrugged.

  “Is Eric shrugging?” Juan asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then we need to find that third bomb and get all three of them as far away from us as possible before they explode.”

  SIX

  Max Hanley, the driver of the Oregon’s submersible, grunted as he climbed out of the rear hatch. His youth serving on a Swift Boat in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta was long behind him, and exercise wasn’t really his thing, as evidenced by the generous paunch that Doc Huxley was always trying in vain to get him to reduce. Still, Max thought he was reasonably fit for a man his age, and his role as the Corporation’s President and the Oregon’s chief engineer kept him busy.

  The humidity caused sweat to bead on his brow now that he was no longer in the air-conditioned comfort of the Gator. The submersible was one of two on the Oregon. While the larger sub, Nomad, was built for deep dives, with an airlock and room for eight divers in full gear, the Gator was designed for speed and stealth. It was powered by a potent diesel engine for cruising fast on top of the water and by battery packs for operating below the surface to sneak up on ships, as they had done with the terrorists.

  Max had been listening in on the comm link and heard that the third bomb had still not been found.

  “Sounds like you’re getting nothing out of the others, Juan,” Max said over his molar mic as he tied the Gator to the terrorists’ boat. “Maybe our friend Tanjung here can give us some more info.”

  “Tell me you’re armed, Max.”

  “You worried about the old man?” Max joked. He and Juan were best friends, and together they had created the Corporation, not to mention designing and constructing both the old and the new Oregon.

  “I do hear a lot of grunting. You sound like a grandfather hoisting himself out of his favorite easy chair.”

  Max made sure not to make any more noise as he heaved himself over the boat’s gunwale.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a dart gun with me in case it seems like he’s starting to come out of it. And if I’d wanted cracks about the sounds I make, I’d give one of my ex-wives a call. Now, are you going to help me translate or what?”

  Max went over to Tanjung, who was dozing, and nudged him with a foot until he stirred. Max had a handheld radio that was tied into the comm system and held it up to Tanjung’s face.

  “Go ahead, Juan.”

  Juan spoke in Arabic, and for a moment it seemed like the young terrorist wouldn’t respond. Finally, he spoke as if he’d chugged a fifth of whiskey.

  “What did he say?” Max asked.

  “He’s convinced that what he originally told me is correct,” Juan said.

  “He seems like a newbie hired to drive the boat. Maybe he’s out of the loop.”

  “Could be.”

  Before they could try another question, a different voice cut in. It was Gomez Adams, the Oregon’s expert helicopter and drone pilot and a veteran of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the U.S. Army unit known as the “Nightstalkers,” responsible for carrying Special Forces operators into combat. He was back on the Oregon providing them an eye in the sky.

  “Oh, man, where did they come from?” His voice sounded both puzzled and angry, which was a bit concerning coming from someone as experienced as he was.

  “What is it, Gomez?” Juan asked.

  “I’ve got two guys on the deck walking toward the ladder down to the boat. They’ll be able to see over the side in less than ten seconds. Max, get under cover now.”

  Max may have been fit for his age, but getting back inside the Gator that quickly wasn’t going to happen. His only choice was to duck into the boat’s tiny wheelhouse.

  He retreated under its roof and heard voices above him. The terrorists obviously thought they still had the ship to themselves because they didn’t care how loud they were.

  Then they fell silent.

  “They’re looking over the side of the ship,” Gomez said. “They see the Gator and the man down.”
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  “Where are you, Juan?” Max whispered.

  “On my way up to you from the pump room,” Juan answered. Max could hear him breathing hard as he ran up the stairs.

  “Now they’ve got their weapons out, and one is climbing down the ladder,” Gomez narrated.

  “Great,” Max muttered, pulling the dart gun from his waistband. What he hadn’t told Juan was that the weapon had just one dart in it.

  “Tanjung,” the man coming down called out softly. “Tanjung.”

  The last thing Max wanted was for the terrorist to spray the boat with assault rifle fire. The second-to-last thing he wanted was for the man to take a pot shot at the Gator and put holes in it.

  “Gomez,” Max said. “I could use a distraction.”

  “One distraction, coming down,” Gomez said.

  A couple of seconds later, Max heard a sound like an angry hornet approaching. The whine of the quadcopter’s propellers was intended to be confusing to the terrorist, which was exactly what Max needed.

  The drone whizzed by, which was followed by a surprised yelp.

  “I think I’ve got his attention,” Gomez said.

  Max peeked out and saw the terrorist twenty feet above him holding out his AK-47 to try to get a bead on the flying menace. Max aimed the dart gun and fired.

  The dart hit the terrorist in the backside, causing him to swat at what he might have thought was a hornet’s stinger. A moment later, his grasp on the ladder loosened, and he let go of the rung, falling the two stories onto the boat’s deck.

  Knowing that the man at the railing wouldn’t take long to react to the strange events, Max scrambled over to the fallen man and picked up the AK-47. He pointed it up in time to see the terrorist above him swoon and fall back from the railing.

  Juan peered over the side and smiled at Max.

  “I see you’ve been making yourself useful,” he said.

  “All in a day’s work,” Max replied.

  “That’s seven of eight. One more hijacker unaccounted for. It must be Kersen. And he has the detonator.”

  Juan disappeared. Max heard him talking in Arabic to the man he had felled.

  After a pause, Juan said, “He doesn’t know where Kersen is, but he says the last bomb is inside the main pumping junction not far from here. They must have already been inside when we came on board.”

  “Not to be a nervous Nellie,” Hali said, “but my bomb just ticked down to one blinking bar.”

  “Ours, too,” Eric said. “Based on the time since the previous bar disappeared, I’d say we’ve got three minutes left before they blow.”

  SEVEN

  Hali dashed out of the Dahar’s superstructure with a duffel bag in hand and stopped in front of Juan out of breath.

  “Where should I put this?” Hali asked.

  Before Juan could answer, Gomez called out, “Movement on the bridge wing.”

  Juan looked up to see the final terrorist gaping at them from above. The mangled skin on the left side of his head identified him as Kersen, the leader of the terrorists.

  The one with the detonator.

  The distance was too far to use the dart gun. Juan snatched the submachine gun from his shoulder at the same time that Kersen fired his AK-47. Juan rolled across the deck, the bullets ricocheting behind him, and popped up to his knees to take aim, but the terrorist was already gone.

  “He’s left the bridge,” Gomez said.

  Juan sprinted toward the superstructure. “I’ll bet he’s heading for the free-fall lifeboat. As soon as he’s at a safe distance, he’ll blow the bombs with the remote detonator.” If Kersen had been planning a suicide mission, he would have blown them already. “Hali, find the last bomb in the pumping junction and make sure all three get off the ship.”

  “Aye, Chairman.”

  Juan flung the door open and ran inside to the stairs, the emergency arrows pointing the way to the lifeboat station on the stern of the ship.

  He burst through the exterior door and emerged onto the gantry in time to see Kersen jump into the orange lifeboat and yank the hatch shut behind him.

  Juan stopped to aim his submachine gun, but the lifeboat was already sliding down the rails by the time he got any shots off. The bullets hit the polycarbonate windows but did nothing more than crack them. Kersen stared at him with dead eyes and then went out of view as the lifeboat dropped into the water.

  Juan went to the railing and saw the bullet-shaped boat surface after its brief plunge and begin motoring away. A short distance away was a derelict freighter hugging the shoreline of an Indonesian island. Kersen had no time to wonder where the ship had come from.

  Juan keyed his molar mic. “Oregon, you are weapons-free. Destroy that lifeboat.”

  “Weapons-free, aye,” came the reply.

  A round housing slid down from the top of the ship’s forward mast, revealing a nasty-looking two-barreled Gatling gun called a Kashtan combat module. The Russian weapon’s dual rotary cannons could fire 30mm explosive tungsten-tipped ammunition at a rate of ten thousand rounds per minute.

  The twin Kashtan guns spun to life and swung around to aim at the lifeboat. Bright tracers lanced from them as the weapon system unleashed a torrent of fire, piercing the air with the sound of a giant buzz saw. The lifeboat was chewed to pieces, along with Kersen and the detonator. Within a second, it was nothing more than a burning hulk.

  “All clear, Oregon,” Juan said, a jolt shooting down his spine as he saw his ship on the high seas for the first time.

  Juan gazed at the tired vessel, knowing it was covered with a special metamaterial camouflage paint. Even though he knew what was coming, Juan was still in awe as an electrical charge was applied to the Oregon’s skin so it would change color. He watched as the rusty vessel changed appearance into a sparkling deep blue cargo ship with a white superstructure and black smokestack on the stern. She was less than a mile away off the Dahar’s starboard stern.

  Juan had never viewed the new and improved Oregon from a distance because she had been boxed up in a covered dry dock during construction. He’d been waiting a long time for this moment, and he swelled with pride now that he could take her in from bow to stern.

  The 590-foot-long break bulk ship, designed to carry any kind of cargo in containers, boxes, crates, or barrels, was equipped with four cranes on the deck. Each of the two pairs of cranes had their booms turned toward the opposite tower and secured together to form the crossbar of an H. The Kashtan gun was situated on top of the forward crane’s tower. A sleeve rose back up to conceal it. No one seeing the ship would ever know that the Gatling gun was one of the many surprises hidden behind the ordinary-looking façade.

  An object the size of a dishwasher took off from her deck amidships. It shot into the air and flew toward the Dahar. It was the Oregon’s cargo air drone, an octocopter that could lift up to one hundred pounds with its retractable claw.

  Juan wrested his eyes away from the ship and headed back to the bridge.

  “Status, Hali,” Juan said.

  “Gomez has the CAD on the way. All three bombs are ready for pickup. One minute left on the timers.”

  Juan reached the bridge at the same time the CAD swooped over the Dahar. The drone came to a stop over the bow, and Juan watched as it descended until Linda could latch her duffel onto the vehicle’s claw.

  As soon as it was secure, the octocopter leaped into the air and flew to Hali’s position.

  The drone hovered over Hali just a few yards from Juan, its blades wailing like banshees. Hali hooked up his duffel to the claw and backed away.

  “Go, go, go,” Hali yelled.

  “I’m out of there,” Gomez answered.

  The CAD shot into the sky and out over the water away from both the Oregon and the Dahar.

  Juan watched it fly toward the horizon and silently counted down
in his head. Finally, Gomez said, “A thousand yards out.”

  “That’s good enough,” Juan said. “Get rid of them.”

  “Bombs away.”

  A speck dropped from the CAD, which sped off. As the package hit the sea, a bright flash erupted, throwing a huge geyser of water into the air. Three seconds later came a thunderclap that rattled the ship.

  Juan had lost sight of the drone. “Did the CAD escape the blast?” he asked.

  “All systems functioning perfectly,” Gomez said. “Flying back as we speak.”

  Juan breathed a sigh of relief. After losing so much in South America during their last operation, he was glad to get out of this mission without casualties or destroyed equipment.

  He went out onto the bridge wing and looked down to the Gator. Hali was already climbing back inside. Juan turned toward the bow and waved at Linda and Eric seven hundred feet away.

  “Linda, are your hostiles secure?”

  “They won’t be going anywhere until someone unties them,” Linda replied. “And we’ve retrieved the darts.”

  “Good. Then you and Eric get back to the Gator.”

  “On our way.”

  Juan wished he could collect all the terrorists in one place, but dragging them around a ship this size while sedated would be a chore, especially with the Malaysian Maritime Enforcement Agency forces arriving by helicopter in the next thirty minutes. Besides, they had to erase all the video from the closed-circuit cameras before they left. Newer ships like this one had them all over the place.

  “Tick-tock,” Max said. “I don’t want to answer awkward questions about what we’re doing here in black clothes looking like the bad guys.”

  “You make a fine point,” Juan said as he went back into the bridge to wipe any video recordings of their visit. “But we can’t leave the crew locked up. On my way out, I’ll pass by the mess and set a cutter on the locking mechanism. We’ll activate it when we leave. Nice work, everybody. When we get back to the Oregon, margaritas are on me.”