by Jerry Ahern
“But if he is,” Babcock interjected, “he’s not going to be too eager to see us take it off the Empress and hand it over to the CIA. Just gives us something else to worry about at our backs while we’re trying to get the job done.”
“No, but if he is able to operate, he may be the first person we should look for after Cross. Before we go after Leeds. Vols might already have gotten his hands on it,” Hughes told Babcock and Argus. “And if he did, his primary concern will be getting it off as fast as possible. If he doesn’t think to second-guess this O’Fallon, Vols might go after the yacht as his means of escape. But at least he’s a professional, and in his own interests to stay alive and retake the ampule, he might do us some good.”
“I hope you’re right.” Babcock nodded sombrely.
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there, Lewis?” Hughes said cheerfully. “Now, about that weather report,” Hughes began again….
The weather was beautiful, the breeze strong and cool and the sun bright. And Seamus O’Fallon was able to hold the headache back for now, the pill having taken effect. But the pills seemed to work less and less well each time he used them. And he used them with greater frequency. Maybe the British doctor had been right and he was living on borrowed time; and the debt was about to be collected.
“Line them up over there now, lads, would ya.” He gestured toward the portside edge of what his diagram told him should be properly called the Beach Deck, the line removed and the guardrail taken down so there was nothing to prevent an incautious step plunging one into the whitecapped sea below. An incautious step or a moderately vigorous push.
A British battle cruiser had taken up position off the port bow and he was certain their binoculars would be trained on the deck and that they wouldn’t miss what was about to transpire.
He didn’t want them to miss any of it.
Six men with their wrists and ankles tied and their eyes blindfolded, each man wearing a Mae West. The irony of the concept of a life preserver did not escape him.
They would have parabolic microphones aimed at the Empress; but, just in case, he took up the blue and white plastic battery-operated loud hailer and squeezed the trigger handle tight in his fist. “This is Seamus O’Fallon speaking, leader of this stalwart group of freedom fighters combatting, in their own humble way, the dirty heel of British oppression in Ireland. We have asked that in the interests of promoting peace and harmony in Ireland, the British Prime Minister denounce the puppet regime of so-called Northern Ireland in the electronic media, and take oath that all ties with so-called Northern Ireland are henceforth abolished, all military aid ceased and a complete withdrawal of all British forces, both overt and covert, be begun immediately. We have asked that such a declaration be repeated before a special session of the United Nations Security Council. But, alas, the warmongering British government, in a sad attempt to hold to their last vestiges of Empire by whatever means they can, however sadistic, have refused to lift the yoke of oppression. No announcement has been made. It is with great personal sadness, peace-lovin’ man that I am, that this further step must be taken to show the British people and people everywhere how vile and heartless the British Government is. Lad!” And he called to Paddy and Jack and some of the others. “Shoot the poor people—and be merciful when ya do it, now. Then push their bodies over the side, will ya, now.”
He kept the loud hailer fisted tight so that it would aid the Brits on their warship in hearing the screams as the six men he had selected at random from among the holders of British passports were shot to death, the submachine guns Paddy, Jack and the others had roaring for the briefest instant, the bodies collapsing, all but two of them falling over the side of their own accord, the last two helped along by some of the lads.
Seamus O’Fallon shouted through his loud hailer, “ ’Tis a sad day, it is, when the British Government value wealth and power over the lives of their subjects.”
He put down the loud hailer and stared over the side.
The six bodies, despite a few bullet holes in the Mae Wests, floated nicely, bobbing up and down on the whitecaps. He wanted them there as a reminder.
The headache was starting to come stronger.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hans Liedecker, the German recreation officer, held one of the 12-gauge autoloaders in each hand, Cross glancing back at Liedecker and Jenny Hall, whom he had delegated to bring up the rear. Comstock was beside him, Comstock with the Browning thrust into his belt and another of the shotguns in both hands. Cross would have taken one himself for close range, despite the load, the shotgun not such a bad proposition. Would have taken one had he been able to find a hacksaw with which to get rid of a foot or so of needless barrel. They were at or below the waterline now, the corridor along which they moved opening onto the third from lowest level of the main cargo hold according to Liedecker.
For the past five minutes they had moved slowly and in total silence, the sounds of movement ahead of them, coming from the cargo hold.
Cross edged forward, the AKM at high port in both fists, Comstock falling in behind him, the shotgun held the same way. There was no pretty wallpaper here, no attractive carpeting, no occasional tables set with vases of attractively arranged flowers. There was a smell of diesel oil, the spotless decking beneath them grey painted steel, like the bulkheads and the overhead, and oddly Cross felt more at home with the decor, more like the navy he had come to know—how many years ago?
He kept moving, the sounds louder, men speaking English, joking, an occasional command in a louder, more authoritative voice, the commands the only things intelligible at the distance. There was something going on about an installation and setting it right. Cross thought they were probably talking about a bomb.
Large double doors, not watertight but equipped with panic bars, lay open at the very end of the corridor, from Liedecker’s briefing as they had entered this level, Cross knowing the doors would open onto a catwalk, the base of the cargo hold just below.
He continued moving forward….
Some of the male passengers from among the British had passed out, others still on their knees as they were told. He had refused to allow toilet privileges and so there was a strong smell of urine, mixed with the stronger smells of fear and sweat. He would not allow the female passengers to attend the male passengers who had succumbed, but made them sit with their hands tied behind them, on the floor under the tables. The children, untied, his men had herded together and put in the bathrooms. Windowless, the bathrooms were black as pitch, the electricity still turned off at his order. Soon it would be necessary to either restore the electricity or light candles and utilize flashlights for moving about. The day would soon be ended. But darkness was another way of demoralizing his hostages. In the casino, where the non-British passengers were being held, he had ordered that conditions be slightly better. Families were still broken up and the adults segregated by sex, the children kept apart, but he allowed the men to sit too and, in small groups, the hostage passengers were allowed toilet facilities.
His fingers moved over the keyboard, the headache rising within him. Young Martin and two other men, ones O’Fallon had planted among the crew, were entering the lounge, the taller of the two other men with a body over his shoulder. There should have been no bodies yet.
“Let’s see the body, Martin.”
Young Martin cleared his throat.
O’Fallon sat at the piano, picking out “The Rose of Tralee.” He’d taken up with a woman who played the piano and lived with her for more than a year and—so she had told him—he had a natural ear for music, even though he couldn’t read a note.
“One of our lads?”
Young Martin said nothing, nor did either of the two men with him.
“Speak up, boyo.”
“Tim McCarthy’s dead, Seamus. Throat slit, ear to ear it was.” Young Martin looked a little green about his face and his eyes shifted nervously.
“Let’s have a look at him, then,
” O’Fallon said slowly, standing up. The man with the body over his shoulder unslung it, young Martin and the other with him helping to get the body down on the little stage. O’Fallon looked down at him. It was Tim McCarthy, all right, his face already livid and chalky grey, the blood dried where the gash at his throat was, brown and crusty, another wound visible in his chest.
. “We found him in the stairwell leading to the deck where the armory was, Seamus. And the armory’s been cleaned out of all the shotguns. And Tim’s rifle and his pistol—they was gone, too, Seamus. ”
“The O’Fallon made him a grievous error, Martin. And Tim, here, he paid dearly for it,” O’Fallon said slowly, dropping into a crouch beside the body and touching his right hand to the cold right cheek.
O’Fallon stood up. He looked down from the stage toward where the male British passengers knelt in discomfort. The women, tied and huddled under the tables, peered at him from beneath the tablecloths which covered the tables. O’Fallon felt the headache washing over him and he raised to his full height and sucked in his breath and hammered both fists down on the keyboard, screaming at the top of his lungs, “What will O’Fallon tell this poor boy’s widowed mother! What now!” He took up his submachine gun and sprayed it into the piano, the glass shattering, shards of it flying everywhere, the women screaming, his own men stepping back. He wheeled toward the British hostages again. “Bled like a kosher slaughtered steer, he was! And, damn it all, some bloody bastard’s gonna pay dear! Dear!” And he jumped from the stage, nearly losing his balance, one of his men reaching out to him, O’Fallon brushing him off.
O’Fallon stopped his headlong rush, swaying on the balls of his feet, his breathing coming faster as the pain filled him. A Brit with red hair and frightened brown eyes. O’Fallon grabbed him up, tearing the adhesive tape from his mouth, plastering it against his forehead then ramming the muzzle of his submachine gun into the man’s abdomen. “Fuck you!” O’Fallon triggered a burst, the body twitching, blood vomitting out of the mouth as he shoved the body away and there were more screams. He waved the submachine gun at them, shouting, “Martin! Get me the bloody intercom switched on if it means electrical power for the whole bloody boat! Do it, now!”
He advanced a pace, looked down at his kill and spat on him.
Chapter Twenty-four
There was a loud hum and lights went on everywhere in the corridor, Cross flattening himself against the bulkhead, Comstock hissing, “Good God …”
“Hang loose,” Cross answered.
The speaker on the opposite bulkhead crackled and a voice—it sounded like the voice of the devil—came over the air. “The rotten bloody bastards who slaughtered Tim McCarthy, the only support of his widowed mother. Listen close now! O’Fallon knows you by name. A Mr. Cross, a Miss Hall, a Mr. Comstock.” There was a pause. “Crewman Alvin Leeds.”
“Passenger list,” Comstock murmured. “But at least they don’t have Leeds.”
“Listen,” came the voice again. There was a woman’s scream, and the speaker crackled with terrible static, a noise so loud Cross tried to shield his ears, a sound like something ripping and tearing. Then the voice, the speaker still crackling static. “That was me killin’ a bloody British whore. I have me little British brats, too. I start killin’ a woman and a child every five minutes until the three of you appear before me in the Seabreeze Lounge. Four minutes, fifty-five seconds!” There was a loud click, and then an even louder one as the lights went out again and the panic lights tried to glow again.
Cross looked back toward where Jenny Hall and Liedecker were, Jenny standing square in the middle of the corridor, mouth open, tears streaming down her cheeks. She took out her pistol and for a moment, Cross thought she was going to shoot herself with it, but she threw it down, Cross dodging back in case it discharged. And then she was running, back along the way they’d come. Cross snapped, “Comstock!” and he pushed the AKM into the Britisher’s hands. “Cover the hold!” Cross was running after her, not daring to shout, Jenny disappearing around a bend in the corridor, the stairwell not far beyond. Cross reached the bend, skidding, half tripping, launching himself into a dead run, arms out at his sides, mouth wide and gulping air.
She was at the entrance to the stairwell now, Cross right behind her.
She disappeared inside. Cross hit the entrance as the door started to slam, punched it back, the door swinging wide, banging against the bulkhead, Jenny taking the stairs two at a time running. Cross threw his body toward her, his left hand catching at her right ankle, closing over it, pulling her down as he hurtled up and forward, his right arm closing around her waist, bulldogging her, both of their bodies, intertwined, rolling back down the stairs, Cross taking the impact as they crashed against the deck at the stairs’ base.
“Let me—” Cross’s hand went over her mouth. She tried biting him, her hands free, scratching at his exposed flesh, clawing at him. His legs scissored around her, trying to pin her, the nails just missing his eye and gouging along his cheek. His right hand flicked outward, slapping her, her head snapping back. She started to scream again and he did the only thing he could. His left hooked upward, catching her at the tip of the chin and decking her. His hands caught at her before she fell back. And Cross held her face in his hands, still straddling her, looking down at her. “I can’t let you go.” He drew her to him and just held her for a long second. The lights came on again. The speaker in the stairwell over their heads clicked on again. Abe Cross knew what he would hear.
And he knew he’d kill this man O’Fallon for it, not a man at all but a devil incarnate….
Vols advanced on knees and elbows toward the open doors, deciding that with the speaker blaring now was the best time, despite the light. He crawled between the open doors and onto the catwalk, peering down, the shotgun and the AKM left behind with the West German, Liedecker.
A half dozen men, laying out ropes of plastic explosives, the ropes uncoiling from open packing crates.
These madmen had planned this well.
He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, trying to ignore the horrible voice of this homicidal maniac. It was one thing to kill for your country, to kill men who would just as easily kill you if they had to, but no more willingly. This man—this O’Fallon. Vols opened his eyes. Six men. Each armed with an assault rifle or submachine gun. Could they be taken? Where else were there explosives?
And then he heard the plaintive voice of a young child, saying, crying, “I’m scared! Mommie! Mommie! Mo—” There was the burst of static which Vols knew was gunfire. There were screams, then the shriek of a woman’s terror and another burst of static.
And then the voice of O’Fallon. “Five minutes or two more. I got enough to keep this goin’ longer than you can keep listenin’, I do!”
Vols only realized he’d been biting his lower lip when he tasted the blood.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Ready, Lewis?”
“Ready, Mr. Hughes.”
“Whenever you wish then.” Hughes gave a final tug at the shooting muffs and raised the Beretta 92F, inserting the magazine up the butt and working the slide release. The slide followed forward and the hammer followed down, the safety on, just as it should be. His right thumb moved the safety up and he snapped the pistol into a two-hand hold and fired, pulling the first shot through double action, emptying all fifteen rounds as fast as he could. Like the other magazines before it, this one functioned flawlessly, the slide locking open over it when the last shot was fired. Hughes bent over to peer through the spotting scope as he moved the DeSantis night-simulation glasses up to his forehead, squinting his eyes against the sudden brightness. He had shot out the chest of the silhouette at twenty-five yards except for one hole which was in the thorax. He theorized this was the first round, the one fired with the stiffer double-action pull.
He looked to his left toward the next position. Lewis Babcock was removing his glasses and inspecting the performance of his pistol as well. It was taki
ng some time, but there would be time enough to reach the objective. The aircraft which would carry them would not be ready for another—Hughes checked the Rolex on his left wrist—thirty-five minutes. That meant another fifteen minutes he could allow for range time.
Time forbade making a test jump, or trying to run through even the most basic aspects of the mission; but, there would be no possibility of success if they could not rely on their weapons.
Babcock was taking up one of the H&K submachine guns, getting ready to try his first magazine. Hughes began the same, stripping away his shooting muffs because they would not be needed.
The Azores were almost due east and the aircraft which would carry them would only dogleg to avoid the islands themselves and any watchful British eyes. Latest information from Argus indicated the SAS were mounting a full-scale attack force that would soon be ready to go, thanks to the cooperation of Portugal. Word also was that O’Fallon and his band of gangsters had begun killing hostages.
As soon as one magazine was emptied, Hughes would load the next, the purpose of the exercise not to test marksmanship. However that might be lacking, now was not the time to correct it. Rather, they were function-testing each weapon they would use and each magazine, only with the first and last magazine from each taking the extra time to test the weapon’s accuracy.
Hughes kept firing.
Cross was not the sort of man to sit idly by while O’Fallon executed hostages, which meant one of two things: Cross was either in action somehow, or dead.
Hughes kept firing.
As his hands worked, his mind worked, but to the same end, the success of the mission. Sound and light grenades, ear and eye protection in the event one of the grenades had to be detonated in an area where they would have to remain. Gas cannisters to be utilized if possible, the kind that would knock out everyone who breathed it quickly. But only the innocent would wake up again, because it was predetermined that none of the terrorists would leave the Empress except in body bags. Gas masks in sufficient quantity to make available to Cross, this Leeds fellow, the female CIA-er and themselves. And also one more. Just in case it was worthwhile to keep this KGB man Vols conscious.