by Jack Mars
“No.” Barnard shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Be ready for anything,” Reid repeated.
No one spoke for several minutes as the NH-90 sped toward the Jade Star . Reid’s knee bounced involuntarily against the floor. The minutes were feeling like a very long time.
Across from him, Maria pulled off her headset and gestured for him to do the same. The roar of the rotors was near deafening, but she leaned over and spoke directly in his ear.
“Listen,” she said, “just in case something goes awry down there, there’s something you should know…”
He had a feeling he knew what she was going to say. His fingers found hers and squeezed. “I do know. And I feel the same.”
“No, Reid. You don’t know.”
He furrowed his brow. “You just called me Reid.”
“That’s your real name, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yes.” Did I tell her that? I must have.
Her lips brushed against his ear, moving, but not uttering anything. There was more she wanted to say, but she seemed hesitant to do so.
“Hey,” he told her. “We’re going to come out of this on top. So whatever it is you want to tell me, how about you save it for our second date?”
She gently kissed his cheek. “Okay.” Then she leaned back and put her headset on. He smiled at her, trying to appear reassuring, but she stared out through the open doorway with a faraway look in her eye.
He followed her gaze. There was nothing but blue water in every direction, a vast sea spanning the distance between two continents as the chopper hurtled west.
But then, something came into view—a long shape, entirely white, growing larger by the moment.
The Jade Star ’s deck was oblong and lengthy, the bow coming to a sharp point at the front of the boat. At its stern was a raised cockpit, white and enclosed. Reid counted the decks as they drew near; there were eight in all. Many of them would be staterooms for guests. Finding the virus would be no simple task.
“Baraf, binoculars.” Reid held out his hand and the Interpol agent passed him a large black pair, military-grade and heavy. Reid peered through the lenses and leaned forward to get a better view of the ship as they made their approach.
On the top deck was a swimming pool, surrounded by deck chairs, hot tubs, a bar, and… and much to his surprise, dozens of lounging tourists. He scanned the deck slowly, left and right, in disbelief.
No one was panicking. No one seemed to be in the grip of terror.
For a moment he felt a tinge of alarm up his spine. He was wrong; this ship was not hijacked. But it’s heading in the wrong direction , he remembered. These people, the passengers of the cruise ship, they had no idea what was happening. Khalil’s people must have carried out their plan quietly.
He directed his gaze toward the rising white tower of the control room, but the windows around it were dark. He couldn’t see what might be happening beyond them.
He adjusted his focus and panned low, below the cockpit, and caught sight of a trio of figures crowded around a bizarre-looking object. Reid couldn’t quite tell what it was. He adjusted the binoculars and fixed his gaze on it. The object was small, and painted sky-blue. As they drew nearer he saw that it was in the shape of an X…
No , he thought, not an X. Those are wings. And a tail.
He lowered the binoculars. That’s how they got it to the cruise ship . “I’ve got eyes on a UAV,” he said into the radio. An unmanned aerial vehicle—what most would call a drone, though this particular one was fixed-wing, built for distance. And to carry a load. “That’s how they got the virus from Marseille Fos to here. I’m sure of it.”
“They’re going to hear us coming,” Baraf warned. “Be ready, Agents. We need to act as soon as we’ve touched down.”
Reid nodded. “Maria, Watson, secure the console. I don’t know if the captain is in on this or not, but we need this boat stopped. Make sure to search them for weapons, phones, detonators, anything of the like. Baraf, sound the emergency alarm, and then get to the evacuation point. It looks like the lifeboats are affixed to deck four. And be careful; Khalil’s men want these people to stay on the boat.”
“And you?” Maria asked.
“I’ll go after the virus.” Reid glanced through the binoculars again. The three men were still there, surrounding the drone near the rear of the deck. The virus is there , he thought. I can’t lose sight of them.
The NH-90 dipped from its low altitude and approached the cruise ship. Many of the tourists looked skyward at the sound of the blades, shielding their eyes from the sun in confusion as the chopper neared. People rose from deck chairs or left their seats at the poolside bar to watch the oncoming military helicopter.
There was little they could do to gain any further element of surprise. Reid brought the binoculars around to the drone again—but the three men who had been huddled around it had vanished.
Where did they go? He tracked left and right quickly, scanning the deck, but saw nothing. They couldn’t have just disappeared. They ran off to hide. Or to stow the virus. Or worse…
He caught movement and focused as two figures came into view again from the base of the cockpit. They each had something in their hands. Reid almost realized it too late.
“Incoming!” he shouted as automatic gunfire tore at the helicopter.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Reid ducked as low as he could while strapped in and covered his head with both hands as bullets pounded and clanged against the side of the chopper.
“Hang on!” The pilot yanked the stick. The NH-90 spun in place ninety degrees, now moving sideways as it continued to descend toward the cruise ship.
Watson reached into his jacket for his Glock 19, but a stray bullet struck him in the shoulder. He grunted through gritted teeth as blood sprayed against the seat back.
“Watson is hit!” Reid shouted.
“I’m okay,” he hissed, gripping his shoulder. “Just set us down!”
The fusillade of bullets ceased, at least for a moment, and Reid hazarded a glance through the binoculars. The two men were each carrying a Sig Sauer MPX—gas-operated submachine gun, nine-millimeter rounds, thirty-round detachable box magazine . They were reloading. The NH-90’s ballistic tolerance could handle another sixty rounds, but the people inside couldn’t.
Sheer pandemonium broke out on the top deck, with people scurrying every which way, dashing below deck, trampling each other in the melee. Some dove for cover behind whatever they could while others simply ran.
Reid tore off his headset and unstrapped himself from his seat, pulling his Glock at the same time. He looped one hand into a nylon strap hanging from the ceiling and then leaned out the open door, aimed carefully, and fired down on the two assailants.
The Syrian men scattered for cover. It gave the pilot the precious few seconds he needed to make a precipitous drop down toward a now-open span of the ship’s deck. The sudden loss in altitude made Reid’s ears pop, but he shook it off. They were no more than twenty-five feet from the surface.
“Setting down!” the pilot announced. No sooner had he said it than another bout of gunfire ripped the air, tearing at the side of the helicopter. The pilot pulled on the cyclic and the chopper spun again.
Reid’s feet lost the floor with the unexpected rotation, and for a moment his body was half outside the cabin, swinging by one arm. His pistol fell from his grip. He watched it fall the short distance to the planks of the deck below.
It’s not that far , he thought. I’ve fallen farther.
He let go of the strap as the chopper came out of its revolution. For a moment he felt weightless, careening through the air in an indiscernible direction; in the next instant that direction was most definitively down. He miraculously struck the deck feet-first and immediately tucked into a roll. Pain shot up and down his bad knee, but he was able to spring back up again and flatten himself behind a round white column. The chopper roared overhead, but not loud eno
ugh to drown out the frantic screams and shouts of passengers as they dashed madcap in every direction.
The bullets stopped again. Thirty rounds went quickly in a submachine gun. These men weren’t military; they were amateurs, he knew, or else they would be alternating and reloading one at a time.
He leapt out from his position and rolled again, this time grabbing his fallen pistol as he tucked. Reid came up on one knee not fifteen feet from the two assailants.
The pair of Arabic men froze mid-reload, staring at him in utter bewilderment.
Reid took only half a second to make sure no one was in his line of fire. He squeezed the trigger twice, and both Syrians fell.
Behind him the chopper set down gently on the deck and his teammates jumped out to join him. He retrieved the two submachine guns and passed one off to Maria. “Secure up top and stop this boat!” To Baraf he said, “Start evacuating!” He pointed at Barnard. “You stay in the chopper!”
Watson groaned as he climbed down from the cabin. Reid frowned, but the agent waved his hand. “Don’t even say it. It’s not that bad, and I’m tired of you being the only one that gets to show off. Go. Find it.”
Reid nodded. He scrambled down the length of the deck as passengers shoved and found hiding places. He had spotted three men from above. Two were down. He had no doubt that the third was in possession of the virus. But where had he gone?
“Get out of here!” Reid shouted and waved his hands. “Evacuate! Get to the lifeboats!” His shouts were all but unheard over the chaos on the top deck. The few people who did heed his warnings cowered in fear and ran the other direction—Reid was holding one of the two submachine guns.
Reid stopped trying to plead with them and instead shoved his way toward the nearest stairs. The third terrorist had undoubtedly vanished below deck, he reasoned, to hide. And it was a large ship.
He ran past the pool and bar he had seen from the helicopter, holding the gun aloft, barrel pointed upward. Most of the passenger had only heard the chopper and the gunshots; they hadn’t seen the source, so merely the sight of the gun gave him a wide berth without being trampled by the panicking tourists. He watched with dismay as one man jumped overboard, literally diving over the glass partition that separated the deck and a nearly fifty-foot drop to the sea. Another unfortunate passenger was shoved into the glass and then right over the side.
He hoped Baraf got to the alarm soon, or the entire boat would be gripped in this mayhem.
The stairs leading down into the cruise ship’s decks were carpeted, the walls done in cherry wood-panel and well-lit by warm lights in the ceiling. It was designed to feel cozy and inviting, like the interior of a home—a strange contrast, he couldn’t help but note, to the turmoil happening upon them. He stuck as close to the gold banister as he could, with the MPX in one hand and his Glock in the other, shouting all the while.
“Out of the way! Get to the lifeboats! Move!”
People crowded the stairs, either fighting to get down them or misinterpreting the source of the gunshots and struggling to get up. It was going to be impossible for him to run or move quickly, and even more so since he was completely unfamiliar with the layout…
As much as he didn’t want to threaten anyone, he couldn’t deal with this sort of disorder. Reid fought his way to the center of the staircase and fired his Glock, just once, straight up in the air. The swarm of passengers ducked as a chorus of screams rang out.
“Down!” he ordered. “Everyone down! To the lifeboats, now!”
That did the trick. No one wanted to be near the crazed gunman, or even on the same ship as one. The flood of bodies rushed downward, draining away from him like a pulled plug.
Once he had some room to move he descended the stairs and glanced down the long, carpeted corridor. Dozens of brown doors stared back at him from either side of the hall; he was on a stateroom deck.
He groaned in dismay. It would take far too long to search the entire ship for the virus. Think, Reid. If you were them, where would you take it? Where would you put it?
He got his answer just a moment later. A shrill, harsh tone rang out, loud enough to make him jump instinctively and level both weapons. It rang again, rhythmically, accompanied by flashing lights in the ceiling.
The alarm. Baraf had turned on the emergency alarm.
Suddenly the hall was alive with activity, stateroom doors flying open and passengers filling the corridor. Murmurs of confusion mingled with shouts—until a woman close to Reid noticed the guns in his hands and shrieked.
“Police!” he yelled in the brief space between alarm rings. He didn’t have the time to explain the CIA or their presence aboard the boat. Instead he raised both his hands, the guns still in them, and shouted, “Lifeboats! Go!”
He flattened himself against a wall as passengers filed past him quickly, pushing each other out of the way to get down to the evacuation points. As he stood there, being jostled by elbows and assaulted by shouted questions that he ignored, he realized it.
The evacuation points. If he was the terrorist wielding the virus, that’s where he would go—prevent people from leaving the ship while holding leverage to keep them at bay.
And if it was released prematurely, every person on this ship would die.
He followed the crowd, moving with it, keeping the guns pointed upward and keeping his eyes open and scanning as he headed back toward the stairs. The people were a mélange of nationalities, it seemed, judging by the anxious chatter he could overhear—some Scandinavian, others from the UK, some Americans, a handful of Asians. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t help but profile; anyone with darker skin that could potentially be Arabic got a second look, but the few he saw seemed to be just as panicked as their fellow passengers.
As the throng pushed down the stairs to the next deck, Reid noticed a tightly packed group crowded around a pair of elevators, people desperately smashing the button. He knew that in an emergency situation like this the elevators would stop running; these people were waiting for cars that would never come.
“No elevators,” he shouted to them. “Down the stairs, let’s go.” Before anyone could inquire about his two weapons he added, “American law enforcement. Let’s move, people, in an orderly fashion—”
“Just what is going on?” a woman asked him, her voice high and screeching. She was American, middle-aged, with her hair in a bun as tight as her strained words. “Is the ship sinking? Are we in danger?”
“He wouldn’t have guns if the ship was going down!” shouted a male voice, British, from somewhere behind Reid. “And I’m sure I heard shots fired!”
The woman’s eyes widened in shock. Several people in the vicinity gasped audibly. “Is it terrorists?” she asked.
“Please, there’s no time for that,” he implored them. “Just get down to the lifeboats. You’ll be safe.”
The American woman was clearly dubious, but with the knowledge that the elevators didn’t work she didn’t seemed interested in standing around. She joined the pressing crowd as they poured down the stairs.
Someone touched Reid’s elbow. He spun, growing angry at the tourists’ hesitation. “No more questions…” He stopped himself and blinked in surprise. “Barnard? What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “I told you to stay in the—”
“I am a doctor,” Barnard said, quietly but forcefully. “I am an expert, and I am trained. The only reason I’m here is to help you find the virus, and that’s what I intend to do.” He stuck a hand out expectantly.
Reid had to admit, he appreciated the doctor’s courage. Just fighting his way down here was likely no easy task. He handed off the MPX. “It’s a full clip, thirty rounds, but they go fast. Use with caution.”
Barnard cocked the gun with a fluid motion. “We have a lot of ship to cover. Have you searched this deck?”
Reid shook his head. “I’m heading down to deck four. If I was the Syrians, I would want to cut off the evacuation. They might need people—as hosta
ges or as carriers.”
“Lead the way.” Barnard slung the MPX over his shoulder by its strap and followed closely behind as Reid pushed his way through the surging crowd. On the stairs, an elderly man lost his footing and vanished beneath stampeding feet. Reid shoved people out of the way and helped him up by an elbow.
“Even if we can get these people onto the lifeboats,” said Barnard behind him, “we can’t promise them they’ll be able to go to shore.”
“And we won’t,” Reid said back, as quietly as he was able over the din of the crowd. “You said the profile of the virus was six to eight hours, right? They’ll have to stay in the lifeboats for at least that long, until they’re cleared to come into port at Marseille.” At that point it would be out of his hands and up to the WHO and French authorities.
If he thought the upper decks were chaotic, deck four was utter anarchy. On any other day the deck was intended for leisure—lining a wide avenue in the center were duty-free shops, a café, two restaurants, and a number of other shopping outlets, not unlike an American mall. But currently the entire area was choked with more than a thousand writhing, angry, anxious people, shouting over one another, breaking into shoving matches, and in more than one place, actual fistfights.
At the stern of the deck was the evacuation point, a single double-wide door that led onto an outdoor balcony and, further down, the lifeboats. Each boat was a long, yellow vehicle, fully enclosed and able to seat a hundred twenty bodies—not unlike a school bus without wheels.
Reid clung close to the wall and shoved his way past passengers, shouting as he did. He quickly found that “police” was a better cognate for the multicultural crowd than “law enforcement,” so he yelled out, “Police! Step aside!”
Barnard hurried along behind him. “My god,” he muttered. “These people are going to kill each other…”
As they neared the exit doors, Reid spotted Baraf helping crew members to get people at the head of the crowd as orderly as possible. Baraf was shouting himself red in the face, ushering people two or three at a time through the doors while literally holding back those who tried to shove past him.