Medusa Rising

by Cindy Dees

  Nine…ten. Viktor pointed at a kid in the front row who was screaming his head off. Too bad it wasn’t one of the twins. He’d enjoy blowing them away after all the headaches they’d given him over the last two years. “I’m starting with you, there, in the yellow shirt. You’re making too much noise so I’m going to kill you first.”

  That shut them all up. Like turning off a faucet. Oh, they sniffed and sniveled, but the noise level dropped precipitously. He raised his AK-47 into a firing position, sighting in on the loud kid. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Michael pictured Viktor down in the kids’ area issuing some sort of ultimatum right about now—unlock the bridge or else somebody would get shot. Hopefully the bastard would have the decency to threaten one of the staff members and not traumatize some innocent kid.

  The men behind him started to get fidgety, and he murmured over his shoulder, “Steady, gents. Viktor will get us in. Just be patient.”

  Amateurs. Experienced operators wouldn’t have to be told to cool their jets. No matter how committed to their cause these guys were, a decent counterterrorism rescue team ought to be able to pick them off. Not so the American contingent, however. Those guys were highly disciplined. Highly trained. Damned closemouthed, too. They didn’t talk to anybody outside their tight little cadre. He never had figured out exactly who they were or where they’d gotten their training. But they could very well be trouble when it came time for a rescue.

  God, so many details to work out and find a way to report. So much to do in the next few days, and so damned many innocent lives riding on his getting it exactly right.

  A movement on the other side of the door captured his attention. A white uniformed ship’s officer was approaching what was probably a number pad set off to the side of the bridge entrance. A beep, and the door swung inward.

  First things first. He had a bridge to take as peaceably as possible. Over his shoulder he murmured, “Let me do the talking, lads.”

  He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  Michael’s voice came across Viktor’s headset, stopping Viktor at the very last instant before he blew the little rugrat’s head off. The Irishman reported quickly, “We’re in.”

  Viktor eased up on the trigger and smiled coldly at the child, who was frozen in terror. He’d been no older than that boy the first time he’d looked death in the face in the form of a French soldier in a riot line. This experience would be good for the brat. Would build some character in him.

  It took under a minute for Michael to announce, “We have secured the bridge. The Grand Adventure is ours.”

  Exultation shot through Viktor’s gut. And a grand adventure it was turning out to be, too.

  Aleesha leaned against the wall, trying hard not to smile, while one of the real welders knocked Karen’s solders off the bridge doors. Even underneath his mask, she saw the guy bust out in a big grin every now and then. The SEALs were still inside, blustering themselves blue over the damage to the bridge doors and bitching about it not being safe to lock them in like this—ohh, puhlease. Like they never did anything in their careers that wasn’t safe? Smitty was lying in a hospital, having come within an inch of losing his life in the name of realistic training. More likely, Lipton and his boys were just royally ripped that the entire naval base was laughing at them. Poor babies.

  She started when a beeping noise erupted from Vanessa, who was standing beside her. Probably Jack wanting an update on their little stunt. But then her own beeper buzzed and then Karen’s and all the other Medusas’. What was up with that? If she didn’t know better, she’d say they were getting launched on a mission.

  And then she heard more beepers going off. From inside the bridge of the ship. Bud’s SEAL team was also getting a launch call. What was going on? Both teams were in a training cycle right now, not on call for actual missions.

  The welder finished opening the door and turned off his torch. The SEALs stepped out, all business, any vendettas against the Medusas forgotten for the moment. “You guys get a call, too?” Bud Lipton asked.

  Vanessa nodded in the affirmative. “Any idea what’s up?”

  “Nope, but the call came from JSOC headquarters.”

  Aleesha frowned. Why did anyone at the Joint Special Operations Command abruptly need to talk to so many operators? Her gut screamed that something very bad was going down.

  Bud snapped, “I’ll drive. Let’s go.” He jerked his head for them to follow. They all raced down the midship passageway, Lipton shouting, “Make a hole!” as he led the way down the ladder.

  Both teams crammed into the SEALs’ lone van, and Bud drove them across the base at the speed of heat. They crowded into a secure briefing room filled with nothing but a table and a speaker phone. They’d barely wedged into the room when a Navy captain—the equivalent of an Army or Air Force colonel—stepped in. He squeezed to the end of the conference table where they could all see him.

  Without preamble, he said, “We’ve received a maritime distress call from a cruise ship called the Grand Adventure. JSOC has terminated all training and put all available resources on standby for an immediate launch, pending confirmation of the information we’ve received.”

  “And what’s that information?” Bud asked tersely, all business.

  “We got a single radio transmission from the Grand Adventure indicating that it has been hijacked. She’s carrying 2500 passengers and a crew of a thousand. The captain only had time to say that armed terrorists were holding several hundred children at gunpoint and he was about to hand over the bridge to the remaining terrorists.”

  Aleesha felt ill. How in the world were they supposed to rescue 3500 innocents in the tight confines of a ship? It was an impossible task. And it looked like the Medusas were about to get sent out to do it.

  Chapter 4

  Michael Somerset looked at the spotless bridge and its defiant officers dispassionately. Son of a bitch. Viktor had pulled it off. The Alliance controlled the nerve center of the whole damned ship. Now to subdue the crew and passengers. Michael moved to the microphone at the captain’s console, pushed the button that activated an electronic bell over the PA system and flipped the switch that sent transmissions throughout the ship. Amazing how much information was available from the manufacturers of ship components—like how their radios worked.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a situation has arisen that will require utmost cooperation from every last one of you. A group of armed men has taken control of the Grand Adventure and is currently holding several hundred children hostage. Do not make any attempt to see the children or rescue them or there will be severe and regrettable consequences. Lest you question the truth of my words, the captain will now verify what I have said.”

  One of the other gunmen prodded Dageskold forward. Michael looked the grim-faced captain in the eye and said soberly, “You know the drill. Don’t do or say anything foolish. Don’t try to give the crew any instructions or emergency codes. In particular, do not use the phrase ‘golden anchor.’”

  Captain Dageskold blinked at that one. He probably wasn’t expecting the hijackers to know the ship’s secret distress code. It was used to alert crew members to any urgent problem on the ship without panicking the passengers.

  Michael continued, “I’m going to give you a short statement to read. Do not deviate from it in any way. Understood?”

  Another nod from the captain. Michael held out the microphone and a piece of paper. He couldn’t resist giving the guy one last warning, murmured under his breath so the other hijackers couldn’t hear it. “For God’s sake, don’t test the bastard with the gun on the kids. He wrote this statement and he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

  Dageskold gave Michael a long, hard look. Eventually the guy nodded tersely.

  The captain took the microphone and the typed statement. The Swede cleared his throat and began to read. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Dageskold. The Grand Adventure has been boarded and is in the control of
an alliance of freedom fighters. They are holding several hundred children hostage to ensure your cooperation. Make no mistake. While the alliance does not wish to harm anyone onboard, they will do what is necessary to maintain control of the ship. I urge everyone to cooperate to the fullest extent.

  “All passengers are ordered to bring their ship identification cards and report to the restaurants immediately. Those passengers who dine at the early seating are to proceed to the Safari Lounge, and those who dine at the late seating are to proceed to the Galaxy Room. You will be given further instructions there.

  “All crew members—no exceptions—are to bring their crew identification badges and report immediately to the ship’s theater. Attendance at these three gatherings will be checked against the ship’s manifest. One hundred percent attendance is mandatory or there will be serious consequences to the children. You have five minutes to be in place, starting now.”

  Michael snatched the microphone out of the captain’s startled hands without warning. No need to let the guy sneak in some other signal that they weren’t aware of. At this point, full cooperation by everyone was the safest route through the minefield he now walked.

  The phones started to ring in the ship’s security office just off the bridge, but Michael ignored them. Idiots. Go to the theater like everyone else, he told the callers silently. Hadn’t they heard the captain?

  “You won’t get away with this,” Dageskold announced as angrily as a stolid Swedish man speaking in English could manage.

  Michael shrugged. “Looks to me like we already have.” He said to his team of men over his throat microphone, “You know what to do.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. To take responsibility for ordering what came next. He was being weak, dammit, and he couldn’t afford that right now.

  His fellow hijackers nodded crisply, gesturing with their weapons for the officers who comprised the senior crew to step into three groups. Michael scanned the group, looking at faces and black and gold epaulets denoting rank on crisp white shoulders. He stepped forward.

  “Lieutenant Johannson, you’ll stay here with me. Lieutenant Leider, I need you to step out of line, as well.” Two young women stepped forward, fear evident on their faces. The ship’s token female officers. Of course, the ship’s hospitality director was also nominally an officer, but she was out and about on the ship. No matter. They’d find her and pull her out when the crew assembled in the theater.

  Pushing six feet tall, blond and Norwegian, Inger Johannson was a bridge officer. With all the autopilots and navigation computers up here, she’d have no trouble managing the ship on her own. He’d read up on the ship’s controls just in case, but he hoped she wouldn’t take after her Viking ancestors and do anything crazy to get herself shot in the next few days. Hannah Leider, a German, was a junior ship’s engineer. Another useful, albeit not completely necessary, person to have at her post.

  Keeping them alive was more about using them to maintain nominal control over the crew as this scenario unfolded. It had been his idea to spare the women officers what came next, in fact. He’d never dreamed he’d actually see this nightmare unfold. He’d assumed all along that he’d bust the ring wide open long before it actually carried out its plan. But here he was, trapped in the jaws of hell and helpless to stop the carnage around him.

  Michael nodded at the other hijackers, watching grimly as the rest of the officers were marched out the door. Thank God he’d been assigned to stay up here during the next part of the plan.

  “Have a seat over there, ladies.” He gestured to a navigation table far away from the ship’s controls or radios. “Make yourselves comfortable. We could be here a while.”

  The plan was to give the victims twenty minutes so every last straggler on the ship could get into place. Michael watched the minutes tick off slowly on the bridge’s big, red, electronic time display. Jesus, it was hard to sit here and do nothing. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop what was coming. To get up and make a radio call to the authorities. To beg for all the help they could muster to stop this insanity. But it wouldn’t do any good now. A madman was pointing guns at children. Michael’s only hope was to maintain his cover and watch for an opportunity to do something—what, he had no idea—to take back the ship without endangering the kids.

  About ten minutes into his silent vigil, the bridge door opened. He spun and dropped into a firing position all in one reflexive movement. Alberto. With a woman in tow. He lifted the muzzle of his MP-5 up and out of firing position as the Spaniard gave the woman a shove, nodded at him, turned and left the bridge. Yup, Alberto had places to go and things to do all right. Michael’s jaw tightened in helpless frustration.

  A disheveled woman righted herself and tugged her uniform jacket into place. Lieutenant Commander Gwyndolyn Klammerstand-Kvordsen. The ship’s hospitality officer. Most people just called her Gwyn. And with a mouthful of a name like that, he could understand why.

  He gestured toward the map table with the muzzle of his weapon, and she moved over to it as directed. She started to speak to the other two women there—no doubt her outgoing, friendly nature asserting itself—but he cut her off with a sharp gesture of the gun.

  “Sit.”

  She did as he ordered, subsiding into silence. That had to be hard for her. According to Antonio, who’d worked on board for months, she never shut up.

  He didn’t intervene when she reached over and squeezed the two young lieutenants’ hands, however. Who was he to deny them a little comfort?

  When exactly twenty minutes had passed, he stood up. The women cringed away from him, almost as if they intuitively knew violence was about to happen. He walked over to the communications panel and flipped on the speakers so he and the women could hear the goings-on from the ship’s theater.

  “Since you three can’t be downstairs with the rest of the crew to hear the briefing, I’m going to pipe it up here for you.” God, he didn’t want to listen to this. But if the three women across from him were going to get through this mess alive, they had to understand the rules of engagement. And, in a weird way, it felt like a necessary penance for him. If he couldn’t stop what was to come next, he should at least stand witness to it.

  Viktor’s French-accented voice came across the speaker on cue. The guy was nothing if not punctual.

  “Ladies and gentleman, your ship has been taken over by L’Alliance de la Liberté.”

  A pause to let the initial buzz of reaction subside. When it faded away, tomblike silence came across the speaker.

  Viktor continued with cool precision, “We are now holding all of the children on this ship at gunpoint. If any of you attempt any sort of takeover, some of those children will be killed. Lest you make the mistake of thinking I am not serious, I have brought a portion of the ship’s officers with me to demonstrate my seriousness.”

  Shuffling noises came across the speaker, and Michael envisioned the officers being herded forward onto the middle of the stage.

  A gasp from the collected crew verified that he was right.

  Michael braced himself, his heart pounding in adrenaline-induced stress. He gritted his teeth and locked his gaze on the women sitting across from him. Even though he was expecting it, the abrupt burst of gunfire made him jump. A grisly image of pristine, white uniforms soaked in blood leaped into his head.

  The speaker squealed as screams ripped across it, filling the bridge with the sound of horror. A matching scream rose into his throat, but he inhaled it back into his lungs unspent. To their credit, the three officers with him made no sound, although they all went a ghastly shade of gray and their gripped hands convulsed until their knuckles were snow white. The engineer, Leider, swayed slightly in her seat, but remained upright, staring at the weapon in Michael’s hands.

  He took a deep breath and said carefully, “In case the three of you didn’t catch that, the Alliance just shot all of the officers in the theater. The same thing has just happened or will happen to the r
emaining officers who are split between the ship’s restaurants. You three are the only ship’s officers left.”

  The briefing room was silent, each of its occupants lost in his or her own thoughts while they waited for more details. Aleesha tried to picture what was going on aboard the shiny, white behemoth the Medusas had escorted out of port just twenty-four hours ago. The only image that came to mind was utter terror. Guns pointed at children? It was the ultimate nightmare scenario. This crisis, at least, offered up a simple choice. The lines between good and bad, right and wrong, were clearly drawn. Save the kids, wax the hijackers. Anybody vicious enough to use innocent children as hostages was unquestionably in need of taking out. Pointing guns at children—her indignation mounted the longer she thought about it.

  Thank goodness this mission was one she could wrap her brain and her moral dilemma around. The last thing the Medusas needed now, when they were still establishing themselves within the Special Forces community, was for one of their members to declare herself a conscientious objector.

  So, how were the SEALs reacting to this impending mission, anyway? She glanced down the table. For all the world it looked like all six of them were sleeping. Their eyes were closed, chins buried on their chests. Was the thought of rescuing 2500 innocents from armed hijackers really that routine? But then Vanessa shifted in her chair, and six pairs of SEAL eyes flew open, wary and alert.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  Aleesha leaned forward as her boss and the SEALs launched into a tactical discussion of possible ways to take back the Grand Adventure. Although the consensus seemed to be that it wasn’t going to be easy, nowhere in the conversation did anybody express doubt that it was possible. The idea of failure simply didn’t cross these warrior’s minds.

  Was she truly cut out to be one of these supremely confident operatives?