As the survivors dived into the real heart of the ship, the attacking Coalition force hesitated only moments before following. Soon the entire force of forty-two men entered the bowels of the ship in pursuit.
The great gray lady was crewing live Americans once again, but she was old and tired and very near collapse as the remaining men swam for their lives into her darkened belly.
Jack dived under the concrete memorial and came up under her frame to catch a breath. He held his Beretta up out of the water, ejected the nearly spent clip, and silently slipped in one of his spares. He shook his head in anger after losing another three people to the Coalition.
He heard loud talking as more men entered the memorial from the harbor side. Where in the hell had they come from? The afternoon search of the harbor had been thorough; they had made sure that all the tourists had exited the area and there were no surprises awaiting the dive team.
As Jack moved from frame strut to frame strut, he heard equipment smashing and men walking overhead. He spit out some of the foul-tasting water, then froze when he heard a woman's voice.
"I am speaking to Colonel Collins. I know you are the military officer that was at the warehouse in New York and Mr. Keeler's offices in Boston."
Jack did not move. The gentle lapping of the water underneath the memorial masked his breathing, but he was still prepared to dive deep if bullets started punching their way through from the deck above.
"I know that your facility at Nellis has Ms. Laughlin and Mr. Rothman under quarantine. They tell the wildest and most fanciful stories, don't they? They really are quite insane, you know. It must be the inbreeding."
Jack's eyes followed the voice through the decking above his head. The woman was moving left to right and coming very close to the spot where he had rolled into the water.
"I must tell you, and whatever entity you work for, that you have caused me concern here. This was supposed to be a no-violence endeavor. Your interference will just be the cause of more deaths."
Jack thought he had a good spot where he could shoot through the deck and hit the woman, but then he decided to hold his fire. He wanted her alive because now he knew that she was at least culpable in the murders of his people.
"We will get to the two Ancients eventually, Colonel. It's just as the message I instructed be left for you in New York stated: You're not that secret anymore."
Jack closed his eyes in anger as he heard her arrogant chuckle.
The dive team, or what was left of them, was hold up in the ship's number-three galley. They had lost one more SEAL and another three salvage divers on their way in. Everett and the rest of the team were fast running out of darts, just as the enemy seemed to have an endless supply.
Carl took a quick head count and saw that they were down to two SEALs and five unarmed navy divers, plus himself and one park ranger. They had their backs up against a solid steel bulkhead behind good protection; a large cast-iron stove was stopping most of the tungsten darts. Now they would be picked off one at a time or they would run out of oxygen. Neither fate suited him all that much.
Growing angry at the no-win scenario, Carl reached for his plastic writing board and quickly wrote, "What is above the galley?" He quickly showed the board to the others.
The park ranger quickly wrote, "Number eight antiaircraft mount."
Carl pointed to a large hole in the steel ceiling of the galley. What he was indicating was the hole that the 776-pound aerial bomb dropped by a Japanese pilot over sixty years before had made in its plunge into the forward magazine for number-two gun mount. As they looked upward, they could see the open water through two decks.
Carl used his thumb and index finger to mimic a gun, asking for the two remaining SEALs to cover him.
The chief held his board up and quickly wrote, "No way, there are at least thirty to forty attackers in the galley and companionway!"
Everett looked at the jagged hole again. He thought he could squeeze through. He handed the bronze plate he had removed from the safe to the park ranger and then quickly started to remove his tanks. The others looked at him as if he were nuts. The SEALs turned and fired off a few darts and then reloaded their last tube of ammo. Before Everett removed his mouthpiece for the last time, he wrote on his board, "If I'm lucky, you'll hear three taps when I get there--get everyone inside the big ovens and cover up!"
With one last look at the incredulous faces of the salvage team, Everett started taking deep breaths. Then he removed his mouthpiece and tapped the chief on the shoulder. The two SEALs popped up and started pumping darts into the darkness of the mess area, not really knowing if they would hit anything. The idea was to keep their enemies' heads down until the former SEAL followed through with his crazy plan.
Everett held on to a flashlight as he pushed up hard with his legs. His body left the deck and he almost made it into the large hole in one fell swoop, but his shoulder hit one of the jagged edges and his momentum stopped cold. He felt a dart plunge into his neoprene wet suit and lodge in the soft folds of his side; luckily, it was only skin it caught. He adjusted his angle and kicked with his fins, and the dart in his left side hit the opening on the way through. The sudden flare of pain almost caused him to expel the precious air he had stored up in his lungs. Nevertheless, he kicked once more and he was through.
Carl shone his light around. He was in a small crawl space between decks and he hurriedly looked around for the ladder he hoped led out to the antiaircraft mount. He suddenly saw it about six feet away. It went upward and in the opposite direction; and went down toward what he was hoping to find. He just hoped he remembered the schematic correctly.
As he descended into the hold, his captured breath was expanding in his chest. Carl eased up and forced himself to slow, lowering his blood pressure intentionally and allowing small amounts of air to escape his lungs. As he used a handrail to guide him, he saw ahead through the light a small hatchway that was bent almost double, but still open. That had to be the small locker that served the number-eight gun mount. He just hoped that salvagers had left what was stored there intact as too dangerous to be moved. As he held the sides of the hatchway, he pulled himself into the armored locker.
The eeriness he felt inside was palpable. He shone the light on the deck and saw the bubblelike rise of steel where the explosion below had buckled the deck above. The forces involved had been so tremendous that the armor decking had separated into layers.
Carl looked around. Time was running out as his lungs were starting to ache as he continued to expel air a small amount at a time. Still he did not see anything that he needed. The armory looked to be empty. Then he saw them. They were in the silt of sixty-five years' accumulation, buried like the men around them, and were like skeletal fingers poking from a grave.
Before he could reach even for one, he started to grow dizzy. He shook his head and looked around him. Calmly and orderly he checked every upper corner of the locker. Finally, he saw something that could help him. There, hanging from the ceiling, was a vent cover. It was off and it angled downward. He just prayed his luck held. He kicked to the vent and tore the remaining small rivets free, then stuck his mask up and inside. He worked his way up and then the large ventilation shaft angled back and out of the locker. Where it angled, he found what he desperately needed: air. Air that had been trapped long ago and could not escape due to the particular curvature of the vent.
He took a deep breath, expecting a horrible stench, but instead it was as if he had opened a door to a springtime day. The smell was a pleasant one, like that of a bakery not far from the house where he'd grown up. The air that filled the vent had come from the ship's bakery. On the morning the Arizona died, the cooks and bakers just at that moment had been serving breakfast. He was grateful as he filled his lungs with the aroma of long-dead biscuits and cinnamon rolls.
When he had his fill, he replaced his mask and backed out of the shaft. He then aimed for the deck and retrieved five of the items he had come for.
The SEALs were out of darts. They turned back to face the others and could see their faces through the glass of their masks. It was over. The park ranger, knowing that the map could not be allowed to fall into an aggressor's hands, raised the bronze plate and started to bring it down onto the corner of a steel table, hoping to damage it enough to be useless.
As he was starting to bring down the plate map, three loud taps sounded in the overhead. The ranger remembered what Everett had written and went straight back to the large ovens. He opened the first wide door and squeezed inside; the others soon followed. Several darts bounced harmlessly off the cast iron as the second of the large oven doors closed.
The attackers soon felt comfortable enough to show themselves as dive lights came on, and several even smiled behind their rebreather masks at the inane attempt of the navy men to hide at the last possible moment.
Above them, in the hole made by that fateful Japanese bomb, Carl Everett was about to deliver another kind of projectile. He had found three five-inch antiaircraft rounds in the silt. He had taken these and tied them off with the det cord that he was assigned to bring along with the quarter-pound charge of C-4 to open the safe if need be. Then he attached the small charge to the large rounds and made fast the blasting cap. He hoped he wouldn't kill everyone along with his targets. Everett started to run out of air just as he started his makeshift plan.
The Coalition assault team were starting to swim forward with the arrogance of the victor when they saw something slide down from the steel overhead. The thirty men of the inside team stopped and looked on and then finally one of them turned his light onto the strange object. Eyes widened in horror as they realized what they were looking at: three large bulletlike rounds tied together by yellow detonation cord attached to an explosive charge. Their eyes followed the cord up into the gaping hole, and then they froze as they saw Everett in the void beyond.
Everett saw the attackers look up and knew that they had seen him. He quickly waved his hand in a good-bye gesture, then turned his hand over and flipped the stunned attackers the bird. Then he twisted the small electrical switch for the detonator. He pulled away from the hole as the charge raced through the det cord to ignite the blasting cap stuck into the small charge.
The C-4 went off, striking the cordite inside the shell casings, and that set off the warhead of the five-inch antiaircraft shells. They exploded downward into the stunned Coalition divers and struck the deck below them, creating a manmade fusillade of shrapnel that struck everyone in the attacking team. Half of them were killed immediately, while others were just maimed, while still others only had their eardrums punctured. The force of the underwater blast was so great that glass face masks imploded into their flesh of their wearers. Silt was cascading around the mess area and galley, looking as if a deep London fog had rolled in.
Above, the detonation lifted Everett from the crawl space and smashed him into the deck above. The last of his air was forced out of his lungs. He gathered what senses he had left and shot through the hole and into the clouded mess area. He did not clear enough vision to see around him, but he knew that there were dead men floating all around him as he made for the galley. Once there, he found his discarded tanks and placed the mouthpiece into his mouth and inhaled deeply.
When that immediate need was satisfied, he went to the large ovens and gave a silent prayer as he opened the first door. A finned foot immediately smashed his face mask. He yelled, spitting out his mouthpiece, just as the chief saw who it was. Everett was waving desperately for them to get out before more company could show up.
Below the monument, Jack was still holding one of the support struts when his body lifted in the water. Large bubbles started to rise around him as air and cordite escaped through the open and empty bridge area of the Arizona. He heard running feet and shouts above as men looked into the water.
It seemed like ten minutes later when Jack heard men shouting out to people unseen to raise their hands. Then he heard curses, and he knew that the dive team had surfaced right into the waiting hands of their attackers. He closed his eyes and cursed, knowing that he had no choice now. He could not wait on the failsafe he had set up earlier. He slowly made for the outer wall of the memorial and brought himself out into the open night.
Once out in the clear, he held on to the memorial with one hand and pulled himself around to the window he had broken earlier. He raised his head and looked over the edge into the interior. It was indeed worst-case. He saw Carl, his hands on his head, with the rest of what was left of the dive team. Bloodied and weary, they were being pushed and beaten with assault rifles.
Jack shook his head. He was tired of hiding. He brought the pistol up, but then hesitated as he saw the woman. Dressed in black pants and a black leather jacket, she stood in front of one of the rangers, removing something from him. She held it up to the light and then brought it down reverently.
"Thank you for recovering our lost artifact. You have been most helpful."
That was enough. As far as he could tell, the woman was without a weapon, so he aimed at the two men on her left, who were busy looking after the devastated dive team. He started to squeeze the trigger. That was when all hell broke loose around the Arizona Memorial. Unseen and at Jack's orders, a platoon of U.S. Marines had been dispatched from Pearl and left to stand guard just to the dock side of the USS Missouri. The great battleship had shielded the strike force as they approached after Jack had used his radio to alert them when the attack had begun. It had seemed like they took their own sweet time, but Collins knew that they could not have just come barging in like the cavalry of old.
Several Zodiac attack craft circled the memorial as Everett ordered the remains of the dive team down. Automatic fire was striking the white memorial from marines firing from their own moving platforms. Collins used this diversion to open up from close range from his position behind the enemy. He dropped six before they knew that they had an antagonist in the rear.
Soon the Zodiacs started screaming for the gangway that led to the memorial. They exited the boats and started forward, firing as they came on. Seeing that her situation was hopeless, the woman started to turn and run. Jack fired his 9-mm and the round struck just where he had aimed it, in the woman's calf. She fell and the plate map went sliding away as it struck the deck. She immediately got up and limped until she found an open slat. She dived in toward the land side of Ford Island.
Jack gained the platform and ran for the plate. He took it and then looked for Carl. He was relieved when he saw his friend standing. They locked eyes. Jack threw Everett the plate Frisbee-style, then Jack dived through the opening after the woman
Everett ran to the window, holding the plate and his injured side, and saw Jack's form as he swam after the woman who had just gained the swampy shore area of Ford Island.
Collins easily followed the woman through the darkness. She was leaving an easy trail to follow in her panic to escape. He heard her clearly through the bushes and cattails ahead. Then he heard a splash as she fell into the wet weeds.
Dahlia was looking around in panic when she saw the figure standing in the moonlight.
"Don't just stand there, you--" she started, and then she saw that the figure was wearing civilian clothes, and then she knew. "I have very valuable information to trade for my life, Colonel."
The dark shape did not move. He just raised his weapon and ejected the spent clip. Then, with deliberate slowness, he inserted his last one. He charged the slide forward and chambered a round.
"You need to know that Tomlinson didn't die in Chicago. It was his plan all along to leave the States; he has no need to be here any longer," she said as she was suddenly praying that someone, anyone, would show up and stop what she knew was about to happen.
"You're not so secret anymore."
"What ... I ... please, you need me." The pleading in her voice was clear. The last of the marines' gunfire ceased and several loud whistles and sirens from the harbor patrol bl
ared as Pearl woke up to the assault on their revered Arizona.
"I need my people back. Can you give them to me?"
Dahlia saw the raised gun and finally knew what it was like to face imminent death. This man was going to murder her.
Jack raised his weapon and fired.
The three Coalition divers had come close to catching Jack unaware. At the last second, the light from the rising moon caught the glass in one of the face masks of the divers. Jack had just enough time to fire directly over the head of the woman, who had thought for sure the American colonel was going to murder her.
The first of the Coalition divers went down with a hole placed cleanly into his forehead, but the other two ducked into the murk of Ford Island. Jack dived for cover just as twenty silenced rounds whacked the damp soil around him. As he looked up, he saw the woman disappear into the cattails and reeds. He took quick aim and fired five times at the spot where she had vanished, but the area had suddenly become motionless.
As Collins stood, helicopters started shining large searchlights around the area of the memorial. He reached for his radio to inform them to search Ford Island for the woman and at least two Coalition men. As he raised the small radio to his mouth, he realized that it was not going to work. He had been in the water so long that seawater had shorted out its workings. Collins reared back and threw it into the reeds.
At that moment, Everett broke through the reeds and saw Jack.
"Jesus, Jack, I thought you bought it. The woman?" he asked as he walked forward.
"Order a sweep of the area. Maybe they can find her, but I suspect she has nine lives."
"Yeah, maybe, but with you taking shots at her, I bet she's only got one or two left."
Dahlia was getting her leg tended to by one of the few survivors of another botched raid. Because of this colonel, she was on a losing streak. She winced as the diver placed pressure on her wound as he wrapped it.
Ancients (event group thriller) Page 27