Silent Running

by Don Pendleton

  “Well, Colonel,” he said, “I’m glad that you’re going over there to have a little look-see then. And—” he reached into his own locker to pull out his wet suit “—I’m honored to be able to help you.”

  “This is supposed to be a solo trip, Chief.”

  “Oh, I understand fully, Sir,” the SEAL said as he started to pull on his wet suit. “But it’s real easy to get hung up in the escape hatch on this tub. And if that occurs, someone has to go up there and get you free or we can’t dive again. I’ll have to go through the hatch with you to make sure you clear the tube.”

  Bolan watched the SEAL strap his waterproof weapons case to his chest. “And the hardware?”

  “Sharks, sir.” The SEAL grinned. “There’s a lot of sharks in these waters. Every time we surface, we put a diver in the water to keep them off.”

  Bolan smiled. “Do you have a compass I can borrow?”

  “This is better.” The SEAL brought out what looked like a wrist compass, but wasn’t. “It’s a magnetic mass detector. It’ll guide you to that thing blindfolded.

  “Also—” he clipped a gadget onto the hood of Bolan’s wet suit “—this’s a beacon that’ll let us know where you are at all times. That way, if you get lost, me and my boys’ll be able to find you.”

  “You’re going to get your ass in big trouble for this, Chief, you know that.”

  The SEAL smiled. “You know something, Sir? I’ve got over twenty-eight years fin time in this man’s Navy, and I’m about ready for a well-earned retirement. In fact, I’ve got the papers sitting in my desk right now. On my way to the escape trunk, I think I’ll just stop by the old man’s office and drop them on his desk.”

  Bolan wasn’t adverse to having a little professional help, but he wanted to make sure that the SEAL knew what he was getting himself into.

  “Before you do that, Chief,” he said, “you need to be advised that we’re not going to have any backup on any level. If we’re able to free those people, we’re not going to get a medal for it. If we screw up and get killed, all hell’s going to break loose and your family won’t ever learn how you died or where you’re buried.”

  The SEAL lost the smile in his eyes. “Been there, Sir, and I’ve done that,” he said. “I’ve been on my own before with all that political deniability bullshit. I used to swim with SEAL Six.”

  SEAL Team Six was the Navy’s premier dirty-little-jobs organization. Moamar Khaddafi lost what he had claimed was a fertilizer factory hidden inside a fortified mountain complex courtesy of SEAL Six. The chemical samples the team recovered, however, had identified the “fertilizer” as nerve gas. As far as volunteers went, he could do a lot worse than a SEAL from Team Six.

  “Were you on the Libyan thing?”

  The SEAL winked. “Libya, Sir?”

  Bolan grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

  “And I don’t even want to know who you learned to swim with, Sir,” the chief said. “I learned to recognize you guys years ago when I was working in the Delta.”

  If the SEAL wanted to think that he was a Company man, Bolan wasn’t about to enlighten him. He’d been accused of being much worse than a CIA officer. And, recently, the Company had been winning back the hearts and minds of the public.

  “How’re you fixed for hardware?” Duffy asked.

  “I’m covered for handguns, but could use one of those waterproof H&Ks you guys use.”

  “Sound suppressor and laser sight, right?”

  Bolan nodded. He put his 93-R and Desert Eagle in the waterproof weapons bag, followed by the borrowed SEAL H&K MP-5 SD-3.

  When the two were ready, the other SEALs went with them to the escape trunk to assist.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Richard Spellman hadn’t made much progress in finding where the women were being held captive on the Carib Princess. Initially, after he’d freed himself, he thought that he might be able to locate a clue by noting how many terrorists stood guard on each deck. His thought that there would be more guards watching over the decks holding the men rather than the women hadn’t proved to be true.

  One thing he hadn’t expected was how few of the ship’s original crew were still on board. From his short sojourn on the Princess before the hijacking, it had seemed as if there had been at least one crew member for every two guests. Now, though, the only crewmen he had seen were those working in the galley and the engine room, and there weren’t many there, either. Where the rest of them had gone, he didn’t have a clue. The up side was that with so few crewmen, there were fewer eyes to spot him as he tried to learn his way around.

  AS THE CARIB PRINCESS had drawn closer to the Bravo 108 platform, Captain Rawlings had brought the Sandshark to within five hundred yards of the cruise ship. When it went dead in the water again, he wanted to waste no time getting into position to launch Colonel Cooper.

  “She’s reducing turns, Sir,” the sonar man stated. “Coming to a stop.”

  Rawlings turned to his com. “Bring us along the lee side, about two hundred yards out.”

  “Aye, Sir,” the com answered. “Two hundred yards on the lee.”

  “Chief Duffy,” Rawlings said over the intercom, “we’re coming alongside. Prepare to launch. Mr. Brognola, report to the control room.”

  Brognola reached the com right as the sub maneuvered into position close enough to the Carib Princess to launch the divers.

  “We’re in position, Sir,” the helmsman reported. “And all stop, but for steerage.”

  Rawlings picked up the ship’s intercom. “You ready to go back there, Cooper?”

  “We’re ready to go, Captain,” Bolan sent back.

  “We’re 196 yards from the target on the lee side,” Rawlings said. “I have to keep the boat at two knots for steerage, but you need to get clear of the hull as soon as you can. If I have to get under way suddenly, I don’t want you to get caught up in the screw wash.”

  “I understand,” Bolan sent back.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  THE INSIDE HATCH to the escape trunk could only accommodate one man at a time, so the SEAL went in first. Bolan followed and joined the chief under the air bubble flange. As soon as the inner hatch was closed, the SEAL reached over to give Bolan’s scuba gear a final check. “You ready, sir?”

  Bolan put his mask in place and said, “Let’s do it, Chief.”

  “Roger. And remember, I want you to exit first.”

  “Got it.”

  Duffy turned a valve and opened the outer hatch. As soon as the trunk was flooded, the SEAL tapped Bolan on the head. He ducked out from under the air bubble flange and pulled himself up through the trunk. Once outside, the current was strong enough that he held on to the open hatch to keep from drifting away. As soon as the SEAL joined him, Bolan let him lead the way.

  Even sixty feet under the surface, the waves felt like hammer blows. The current, though, was working with them and the swim took less time than expected.

  Duffy signaled a halt a few yards from the ship’s stern and motioned for Bolan to stay put while he went up to take a closer look. When he came back down, he took a speargun with a grapple head from his harness and motioned for Bolan to join him on the surface.

  The two men swam to a point along the side where the ship’s superstructure met the fantail. Duffy aimed his CO2 speargun at the railing and fired. With the waves tossing them around like corks, the spear missed and fell back into the water. Duffy loaded another, aimed again and fired.

  This time the grapple head caught on the railing and the SEAL tugged on the spear’s line to lock it in place. Duffy motioned for Bolan to go up first.

  Using the grips tied into the line, Bolan went up hand over hand, rolled over the railing and freed his Beretta from his weapons bag before signaling for the SEAL to join him.

  The SEAL moved up the line and was coming over the railing when a sudden wave knocked him off balance. He slipped on the wet deck and fell back against one of the ra
iling posts.

  “You okay, Chief?”

  “You know,” the SEAL said with a grimace, pain showing in his eyes, “I think I just broke my fucking arm.”

  “Can you swim back to the sub?”

  The SEAL shook his head. “No way, man.” He tugged at the H&K subgun strapped to his chest. “I’m staying here. I can still shoot.”

  “Look, Chief,” Bolan said, “you got me on board and that’s what I needed. But I’m not going to be able to do what has to be done if I’m working with a one-armed man. You know the drill. I’ve got to leave you behind and I want you back in the water. If you get captured, you’re just one more guy I’m going to have to rescue.”

  “I’m really sorry about this, Sir.” The SEAL shook his head.

  “It’s not your fault, Chief, but I want you back on that boat.”

  “I’ll send one of my other men over.”

  “No, I don’t want anyone else going to the wall for me. Believe me, there’s a good chance of some big-time political shit rolling downhill over this, and you don’t want any of your people to get caught up in it. Save them for an occasion when they can do their job and not have to pay a price for it.”

  Swimming back to the sub one-handed would not be much of a problem for the SEAL, but getting back into the water was another story. If he hit the water with the arm unsecured he could pass out and drown. Taking the sling from Duffy’s H&K, Bolan helped the SEAL strap his arm to his side.

  “That should hold it in place.”

  The SEAL nodded. “It’ll do.”

  Bolan helped the man to his feet and over to the railing. The SEAL stiffened and saluted with his left hand. “Good luck, Sir.”

  “You, too, Chief.”

  The SEAL turned and dived over the rail into the storm-lashed waves below.

  BOLAN SLIPPED off his fins and tossed them over the side with the rest of his scuba gear. On this expedition, he’d either win or die on the Carib Princess and, whichever happened, he wouldn’t be swimming away until his business was concluded. Picking up the SEAL’s ammo carrier, he slung it over his back and hooked the extra subgun onto his harness.

  The hatch into the superstructure was unlocked, and once inside the passageway, he saw a ladder that would take him down to the lower decks. Fortunately the vessel was an older cruise ship, not one of the floating palaces featured in all the vacation adds on TV. That was both good and bad for what he had in mind. The good part was that he wouldn’t have so much space to work his way through. The bad part was that he wouldn’t have as much space to hide in, either.

  As a first step, he had to make sure that the diagram the Farm had faxed to the sub matched the reality of steel. The ship was old enough that it could have gone through any number of refittings and relying on the original blueprints could be fatal.

  The first change he ran into was the compartment that had been labeled Linen Supplies on the blueprints. The sign on the door now read Deck Chairs. He wasn’t concerned with the supply of towels, but it showed that the blueprints were outdated.

  That meant that he’d have to do a complete recon before he could start getting serious.

  CAPTAIN RAWLINGS planned to maintain his position off the cruise ship for as long as he could in case something went wrong out there and the two men had to return to the sub. While his two guests talked a good talk and sure had a lot of pull with powerful men in high places, pirating a ship on the high seas was a lot different than a land operation. The plan sounded good, but he half expected it to fail.

  His expectations were realized when he saw the indicator light for the escape trunk outer hatch flash on. When that indicator glowed, it meant that the trunk was being opened from outside the hull.

  “Aw shit,” he muttered.

  “What is it?” Brognola asked.

  “They’re coming back.”

  “What happened?” Brognola couldn’t keep himself from asking.

  Before Rawlings could tell him that he would have to wait until the men were inside, the intercom clicked in. “Captain to the sick bay, please.”

  “Let’s go,” Rawlings told Brognola.

  As everything else on the Sandshark, the sub’s medical facility gave new meaning to the word compact. It had one operating table and room for a gurney. Rawlings was surprised to see Master Chief Bill Duffy lying on the gurney having his wet suit cut off of his upper body.

  “Where’s Colonel Cooper?” he asked. “Did you reach the ship?”

  “We did, Skipper.” The SEAL winced as a corpsman nudged his arm. “For a spook, he’s a hell of a swimmer.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Skipper,” the SEAL said, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I slipped on the fuckin’ deck plates and broke my fuckin’ arm.”

  “Where’s Cooper now?” Brognola asked.

  “The last I saw, he was on board and getting ready to do his thing.”

  Brognola relaxed.

  Having the chief go with Cooper had been the only thing Rawlings could think to do to give the spook a little more of a chance. Now the man was alone on a ship with an unknown number of terrorists.

  Rawlings turned to Brognola. “What do we do now?” he asked, surprised to see that his guest was smiling.

  “We wait for Striker to get settled in over there and go to work.”

  “Do we keep station here,” the captain asked, “in case he wants to come back?”

  “No, he’ll be staying there until the job’s over.”

  Rawlings shook his head and sent up a quick prayer, knowing that he’d never see Cooper alive again.

  CAPTAIN RAWLINGS had the helmsman take the Sandshark out halfway between the Carib Princess and the oil rig again. Now that he had his rules of engagement sorted out, he was anxious to go to work if the opportunity presented itself. He didn’t need his radar operator to alert him to the choppers this time. He was close enough to the hijacked cruise ship to clearly see through the scope as the terrorists boarded the helicopters and got ready to take off.

  “Guns,” Rawlings ordered as the rotors on the terrorists’ aircraft started to turn over, “prepare to engage two enemy rotary wing targets.”

  “Prepare to engage, aye,” the weapons officers replied. “Weapons hot.”

  “They’re lifting off now,” Rawlings said. “Fire when you have the targets.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Target One acquired,” the weapons officer said. “Fox One.”

  The sub shuddered as the Sea Sparrow missile left its launch tube.

  “Target Two locked on and Fox Two.”

  Again the rumble of a launch sounded.

  With the range as short as it was, there was hardly any time lag before the missiles impacted.

  “I have Splash One,” the weapons officer announced. “and Splash Two.”

  Rawlings watched through the periscope as the flaming wreckage of the two Mi-8s crashed into the sea. “Good shooting, Guns.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  NGUYEN CAO NGUYEN was alone on the bridge of the Carib Princess when the helicopters were launched. As he had done before, after issuing his orders, Diego Garcia had gone back to his cabin. The Vietnamese was watching their flight through his binoculars and was stunned to see an explosion on the first helicopter blossom in midair.

  Something had shot it down!

  He hadn’t seen any high-flying jets, but he also hadn’t been specifically looking for them, either. He was reaching for the intercom to Garcia’s cabin when the second aircraft exploded, as well.

  One of the bridge crew said that he thought he had seen a launch plume rising from the sea, but that couldn’t be. The radar didn’t show anything anywhere near them on the sea. The missile had to have come from some kind of high-flying aircraft they couldn’t spot.

  The choppers had launched into the wind and the explosions were so close that the smell of burning jet fuel hit him. The odor also carried a stench of charred flesh he remem
bered well from his homeland.

  The sound of the explosions brought Garcia back onto the bridge. He stood silent for a long moment, staring at the fuel burning on the wave tops.

  “Bring a hundred of the passengers up on deck,” the Cuban suddenly snapped. “Half of them men and half women, and tie them to the railings facing outward. I want the Yankees to understand that any further moves they make against us will result in their deaths.”

  “But what are we going to do now?” Nguyen asked.

  “We will continue on,” Garcia said. “They have not defeated us yet and they will not.”

  “But where do you want me to go?” Nguyen asked. “Without the helicopters, we can’t attack the oil platforms.”

  “We have one more weapon in our arsenal—” the Cuban’s eyes glittered “—and it will more than make up for the platforms we did not get a chance to destroy. In fact, this weapon will make up for everything the Yankees have done to the Mother Country for the last fifty years.”

  Nguyen frowned. The Matador plan had been carefully thought out to bring enough pressure on the American economy that it would collapse of its own weight. The aftermath of the Islamic attacks on 9/11 had shown the world just how fragile the Yankees really were. The expensive government bailouts of failing industries, the unprecedented jobless rates and business bankruptcies had shown the world their real weakness.

  The vaunted strength of the American people depended solely on their buying and selling goods that no one really needed to have. For them to maintain their position in the world market, they had to constantly keep expanding their economy by producing more and more every year. Anything that could halt that process would bring a collapse they might never recover from. Cutting oil supplies had been seen as the best way to start.

  “Set a course for Miami,” Garcia said. “And once we are on the way, come into my Operations Room and I will tell you how I will deliver the crushing blow.”

  Nguyen sorely missed Elena Martinez and Juan Gomez right now. Garcia was obviously insane, and he didn’t think he could take out the Cuban by himself. In fact, he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.