by Cindy Dees
“Who are the players involved so far?” Vanessa asked.
A sigh from Wittenauer. “The Grand Adventure is in international waters. The Dominican Republic is the nearest sovereign nation at the moment, although the hijacking itself took place near the Bahamas. The ship’s registry is the British Virgin Islands, the crew comes from all over the damn place and the bulk of the passengers are American. Take your pick.”
Aleesha rolled her eyes. What a mess. She didn’t need years of experience in the Special Forces to know a political goat rope when she saw one.
Wittenauer ran a hand across his face, and Aleesha took a critical look at the bags under his eyes and the pasty quality of his skin. The guy probably had gotten no sleep at all last night. Not much help for it, though. Wittenauer’s job was to fight for resources and elbow room so his teams could do their jobs. He could have all that political wrangling.
Viktor stood by the railing of the promenade deck, well forward of the spot where he’d picked up the first batch of weapons. He watched their supply boat pull alongside the Grand Adventure once more, this time to shuttle up several large bags of gear.
He refrained from looking up at the sky. There probably was a surveillance satellite up there already, looking down at the ship. No need to flash his face to the powers-that-be behind those high-resolution cameras. He was happy to hide behind the American contingent and their burning desire for fame. For now.
Two of the Montfort boys pulled up the heavy bags, and a few of the Americans hauled the weapons and equipment to their headquarters in Michael’s suite.
With a quick wave to the men on the dinghy below, Viktor followed the last bag inside and upstairs to Deck 9 and the Irishman’s suite. Michael was already inventorying the contents of the bags, checking everything against a typed list. An organized man, Michael. Methodical. Solid. The kind of man Viktor liked to have at his back. An excellent second in command.
Michael looked up from his clipboard and nodded tersely. “Everything’s here. We’re good to go.”
Viktor nodded. “Good. Is the cell phone detector at hand?”
Michael reached into one of the bags and handed over a small box about six inches wide by twelve inches long and about three inches tall.
Viktor turned it on. An electronic display across the front lit up with bars of green and red lights that would flash whenever it picked up a cell phone signal nearby. The illegal gadgets had been invented by criminals intent on hijacking cell phone numbers. Viktor planned to use this one to check for any rogue cell phones that hadn’t been turned in earlier. He expected there’d be a few.
Cluttered now with piles of weapons, ammunitions, explosives, suits of body armor and anything else they’d anticipated a need for, the suite felt claustrophobic. He stepped into the hall with the cell signal detector. All of a sudden a stroll around his ship sounded appealing. To survey the kingdom, as it were. And of course to nail anyone who’d disobeyed his orders and was trying to call for help.
To their credit the SEALs didn’t seem the least bit bothered by brainstorming with a bunch of women operators. The discussion got heated as plans were hashed out, revised and occasionally discarded. But it was never about gender. The men were happy to consider the Medusas’ contribution.
Gradually as the day progressed, a plan took shape. The Medusas would sneak aboard with radios, parabolic microphones, spy cameras, microtransmitters and, of course, weapons and ammunition. They’d hide until they could make contact with some of the crew. Once they knew how the hijackers were managing the bulk of the passengers, if possible, the Medusas would find a way to join the hostages and blend in.
The worst-case scenario would be if the hijackers were holding all the passengers in one location. Then the Medusas would have to rely on straight stealth to hide and observe. The best-case scenario would be for the children to be in one spot, which would make them much easier to rescue, while the other passengers and crew were free to move around the ship to, say, eat. The SEALs and Medusas planned for both, along with a dozen scenarios in between.
Late in the afternoon a schematic of the Grand Adventure was finally delivered by courier and rushed to the planning room. The decks were assigned letters, A for Deck 1, B for Deck 2, C for Deck 3, etc. from the bottom of the ship up. Then the ship was split into ten sections from front to back, one being the nose of the ship, and ten being the very back. Once the Medusas had made radio contact with the SEALs via a super-secure frequency, the SEALs would act as their plotters in the TOC, the Tactical Operations Center. The Medusas would report sightings of the terrorists and hostages by deck and section. For example, an armed hijacker patrolling the promenade deck at the back of the ship would be reported as “One Tango pulling guard duty at E10.”
A three-dimensional model of the ship was already under construction, and by midnight tonight, the SEAL plotters would place tiny figurines of Tangos, along with adult females and children, in their exact locations around the ship as the Medusas reported them. A 3-D computer model of the data would also be plotted in real time. While the high-tech approach had more cool factor, at the end of the day, many counterterrorism teams preferred the old method of scale models and tiny human figures to help them mentally prepare for what the rescue mission would look like.
Priority number one for the Medusas was to locate the children. Priority number two was to scope out the number of hijackers, how well they were armed and where they were arrayed. Additionally, the Medusas would be responsible for learning the ship’s routine, assessing how competent the hijackers were and finding any holes in the Tangos’ procedures that could be exploited. And third, Wittenauer’s bosses—as high up the food chain as the White House itself—were screaming about finding out who the hell these folks were. It would be the Medusas’ job to answer that, as well.
If they got the green light for this mission, the Medusas were going to be busy campers aboard the ship.
Jack bit back a curse and thought better of flinging his pen across the table. The Brits were insisting on participating in any rescue operation aboard the Grand Adventure. It was an election year in England, and the prime minister wanted the publicity. The guy was being flat pigheaded. But the U.S. had the Medusas and the British didn’t. Thankfully, Stanforth hadn’t wavered in his promise to keep their existence secret, despite Britain’s intransigence.
President Stanforth looked only slightly less exasperated than Jack felt, but he sounded perfectly calm over the speaker phone. “Edward, I understand your concern about a British ship being boarded by Americans. But we have to think about the children, here. The ship is right off my coast, I’ve got an aircraft carrier twenty-four hours away and numerous other Navy assets already in the area, and I’ve got CT teams in place and ready to go right now.”
Jack kept his facial expression neutral at that whopper. No counterterrorism team would dream of moving on the Grand Adventure without a hell of a lot more information than was currently available. But what the British politician didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. The existence of the Medusas was a closely guarded secret and it needed to stay that way. Only a handful of operators, JSOC’s senior staff, and the president himself knew about the snake ladies. Stanforth couldn’t reveal to the Brits why it was vital that the Americans run this op.
Of course, it wasn’t a done deal that the Medusas would be used. General Wittenauer was worried that the women didn’t have enough field experience. Jack scowled down at the glossy conference table. They could pull it off. He knew them. They had the heart for it. Once they decided to do something, everyone and everything had better get out of their way. They attacked problems as fiercely as any operators he’d ever met.
One step at a time. First, he had to get this roomful of politicians and the corresponding roomful of politicians in London to agree to hand the op over to JSOC.
Stanforth leaned forward and punched the button to disconnected the call. “Jesus H. Christ, those people can be stubborn,” he snappe
d, in a rare display of frustration. “No wonder we declared independence from them.”
“And why are you being so stubborn, Mr. President?” the Secretary of State asked dryly.
“Because I’m right. We’ve got the best chance of getting all those people off that ship alive.”
“The Brits have highly competent Special Forces of their own,” the Secretary responded.
Stanforth looked down the table at Jack. Was that look a request to tell about the Medusas or was the president just punting the question to him? God, he hated political maneuvering. It was like wrestling with water.
Jack spoke carefully. “The Brits are good. No doubt about it. But the simple fact is, we’re the best suited for this situation. The Americans are in the best position to collect the intelligence that a raid on the ship will require. Also, the boarding force may need to be very large. If the hijackers disperse throughout the ship, we’re looking at clearing over a thousand rooms with something like fifteen hundred hostages scattered among them. The coordination necessary on an op this size is mind-boggling. The last thing we need is confusion caused by trying to coordinate British and American forces who’ve never trained together for a scenario even remotely like this.”
Truth be told, the Americans, even working alone, had never trained a rescue on this scale. But his point was valid. This op was going to be incredibly difficult to pull off. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell this roomful of Nervous Nellies that. Wittenauer had made it crystal clear that Jack was to make sure control of the op got handed off to JSOC, and JSOC alone.
The Medusas and the SEALs boarded choppers at midnight. They would fly out to a U.S. Navy tender ship currently steaming west out of the U.S. Virgin Islands toward the last-known location of the Grand Adventure. Tenders were basically floating convenience stores, delivering fuel, water, food, mail and a host of other supplies to naval vessels. But more to the point, tenders also had helicopter pads and could launch a fast boat holding a half-dozen operators and their gear.
With their gear crammed in all around them and some turbulence, the flight was uncomfortable for the Medusas. Tropical Storm Evangeline had spun west off the Cape Verde coast of Africa a few days back, and the leading edge of it was tickling the eastern Caribbean. Forecasters gave it a fifty-fifty chance of turning into a hurricane in another four to five days as it hit the warm, shallow waters of the western Caribbean. Another reason to get aboard the Grand Adventure now and get this situation resolved.
Vanessa was miserably sick the whole flight, but Aleesha had laid in a huge supply of Dramamine and airsickness sacks, and Vanessa wasn’t close to filling the sacks yet. The good news was the motion sickness pills she’d prescribed for her boss the minute it looked like they might actually end up boarding the ship were beginning to mitigate the worst of her reaction to the bumpy flight. The bad news was Vanessa had to jump out of the pan and into the fire by stepping onto the gently rolling deck of the tender ship.
Aleesha tsked her sympathy. If only she had access to grandmama’s herb garden back home, she could whip up a remedy that would knock out Vanessa’s upset stomach toute suite. As it was, all she could do was pat Viper’s heaving shoulder and hold her hair out of her face as she emptied her already-empty stomach.
“Give it a few hours,” Aleesha said in her soothing doctor voice. “Those pills will kick in and you’ll feel right as rain.”
Vanessa threw her a bleary glare. “I damned well hope so,” she croaked before she yanked a fresh airsickness bag out of Aleesha’s hands.
“Hey, look at it this way. Morning sickness is going to be a piece of cake after this.” Aleesha grinned.
Vanessa straightened abruptly, equal parts horrified and indignant. “Perish the thought. Can you just imagine Jack as a father? Good Lord, he’d bark orders and bully his children to death.”
Aleesha shrugged wisely. “You never know. He might turn out to be a big, cuddly, teddy-bear pushover.”
That put a speculative look on Viper’s face. Until Vanessa bent over double and let Aleesha shove yet another sack under her. It was a hell of a way to start a mission. She didn’t envy her boss one bit. Aloud she commented, “With your luck, we’ll get green lighted while you still have your pretty little head stuck in a toilet.”
Sure enough, the call came a couple of hours later, just as their fearless leader heaved up the dry crackers she’d choked down at Aleesha’s insistence. As Vanessa shoved resolutely to her feet, she glared at Aleesha. “You’ve got to cut out that voodoo prediction stuff, especially when it foretells this kind of misery for me.”
Aleesha shrugged, grinning. “If it keeps you alive, I’m going to go right on listening to my intuitions. Take another two pills, and I promise, this will be the dose that makes you feel human again.”
She handed her boss a pair of small tablets, significantly more concentrated than was available, even with a prescription, in retail pharmacies. These suckers would shut down an elephant’s digestive tract. Vanessa’s motion sickness didn’t stand a chance. She hoped. Every single Medusa would have to be firing on all cylinders for them to get aboard the Grand Adventure safely and undetected.
Chapter 8
No doubt about it, Jack was impressed with Stanforth’s negotiating acumen. The Brits, particularly the prime minister, were beyond cranky at the idea of backing off from this op. The PM could seriously use a military crisis and its successful resolution to help him in the polls. Stanforth was implacable, however, and stuck doggedly to his guns until the Brits finally gave in. What tipped the scales was the presence of the Teddy Roosevelt carrier just north of the Bahamas. The Brits knew when they were outgunned, and a full-blown carrier group—complete with frigates, destroyers and various support ships—already on scene was more than they could match any time in the next week. Nonetheless, some English noses were seriously out of joint, in spite of how deftly diplomatic Stanforth had been.
The conference call was disconnected. The president leaned back in his chair and looked at Jack from down the table. “Well, you’ve probably fouled up next month’s G8 economic conference all to hell, but you got what you wanted. Full American control of this crisis. Satisfied?”
Jeez. When the guy put it that way, it felt like the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders. But it wasn’t as if he hadn’t carried the responsibility for saving lives before. Although, five hundred kids and a thousand women was a hell of a lot of lives.
“Yes, Mr. President. I’m satisfied,” he answered soberly. “Now all I need from you is the go-ahead to take back the Grand Adventure.”
“Not so fast, young man,” the secretary of state said from the president’s end of the table. “You can’t just go charging in there without a clear statement of goals and operational parameters.”
Jesus H. Christ. Here it came. The political interference that always screwed these things up completely. He ought to tell them to take their goals and parameters and stuff them, but he was only a lousy lieutenant colonel with no clout to back up his big words. Common sense said to suck it up and keep his mouth shut. Except he’d been the guy out in the field before, bent over and screwed hard by these very men. He couldn’t stand by and let it happen to some other Special Forces team, not if he was sitting right here and could stop the clusterfuck.
Jack swung his gaze to the secretary of state and said politely, “What sort of parameters did you have in mind, sir?” He couldn’t help the extra emphasis. It just came out.
The secretary puffed up importantly. “There’s a lot of potential for foreign nationals to get hurt or killed. We have to be careful in how we accomplish this mission.”
Ya think? “By all means, sir. Why don’t you tell me exactly how you’d go about taking over that ship and rescuing all those people. I’ll pass it right on to the operatives who actually put their asses on the line. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to do it your way.”
The guy bristled and Stanforth intervened mildly. �
��There’s no need to be sarcastic, Jack.”
Jack sighed and turned to the president. “I’m sorry. It’s just that a hell of a lot of innocent lives are riding on this discussion. With all due respect, sir, the more parameters and limits you folks put on the op, the more likely people are to die. This is what we train for every single day. We know how to do our job. I didn’t interfere when you were dealing with the British prime minister—being a politician is your job, and you did it masterfully. Tell us you want the hostages rescued and the ship freed, and then stand back and let us do our job the best and safest way it can be done.”
He bit off any further pleas. He wouldn’t beg in front of these men. He shouldn’t have to. Damn it all, Hal Wittenauer could have this job!
The tension level in the room eased a bit, and Stanforth nodded. “Well said, Jack. And, unless anyone has any further comments or objections, you’ve got your green light. Go save those women and children the best and safest way it can be done.”
Jack nodded and replied crisply, “Yes, sir.”
At the president’s nod of dismissal, Jack closed his briefcase and stood up to leave the table. As a Secret Service agent showed him out of the room, it didn’t escape him that the president had assiduously avoided the topic of minimizing the use of force. Lord knew, he wasn’t about to bring up the subject. He wanted his spec ops teams to have the freedom to do whatever was necessary to save the innocents and take back the ship from the hijackers. Including blowing the terrorist bastards to kingdom come.
Stanforth’s silence was all about plausible deniability. If the president never gave the order to kill the bad guys and never discussed the issue, then his hands would be clean if someone complained later about the hijackers getting waxed. For it was inevitable that Tangos would die before this was all said and done.
Viktor stepped into the kids’ adventure area and had a quick look around. The children’s staff looked harried, and the general tone in the room was one of whining. A few of the ship’s crew were clearing away the remains of supper, and the older kids were in the midst of getting out mattresses and spreading them on the floor in preparation for the curfew he’d imposed. Everyone went into lockdown in their cabins at eight o’clock. Nobody was allowed out of her room after eight. The arrangement let his team get some rest, and it cut down on the potential for the hostages to put their heads together and come up with any stupid ideas.