“Ray’s dead?” Jake sank into a chair. Triblehorn nodded. “How about the chief of staff?” He was a captain.
“On the beach.” Junior officers were gathering, listening and looking at Jake.
Jake looked around the compartment, slightly dazed. He was now responsible for the ship and every man aboard her. Legally responsible. Morally responsible. He was in command.
He rubbed his eyes. They were still smarting from the smoke in the passageways. Ray Reynolds dead! Oh, damn it all to hell. And the poor guy just got his new front teeth!
He tried to think. The terrorists. Helicopters were coming in to land when the shooting started on the bridge. He glanced at the television monitor. The screen displayed a black-and-white picture — from the camera in the television booth just under Pri-Fly — of the helicopters on the flight deck. This was a live picture, real time. He could see people, sentries, some of them lying on the deck and some walking slowly near the machines. The choppers were Italian civilian machines.
“The senior marine officer? Get him down here.” One of the junior officers trotted toward a phone. Jake looked up at Triblehorn. “What’s the situation in the plant?”
“No damage. Both reactors on line. All boilers on the line.” Triblehorn gestured vaguely. “That evaporator that gave us all that trouble last week is acting up—”
Jake cut him off. Evaporators were the least of his worries right now. “Are the marines guarding the entrance to the engineering spaces?” Yes. “Can we get underway?” Yes. “How soon?”
They discussed it. Ten minutes warning. Jake thought hard. “Get things fixed so you can turn the screws within a minute of the decision. Tell the first lieutenant to be ready to slip the anchor chain.” They would just let the chain go, leaving the anchor on the ocean floor rather than taking the time to raise it. If they had to.
“Aye aye, sir.” Triblehorn turned to his junior officers. “You heard him. Do it.”
Jake walked over to the DCA’s desk with Triblehorn right behind. He was on the phone. When he hung up, the three of them reviewed the damage control situation. The fire in Bay Two was under control and would soon be extinguished. Power was off throughout the compartments above the bays and on both sides. Above the bays in the O-3 level, the fumes from the fires in the hangar and the communications spaces still contaminated the air. The DCA was opening the watertight hatches on those levels and ordering degassing fans positioned and started to clear the smoke from the ship. Several hundred tons of the water-foam mixture had been used on the O-3 level and was still slopping around in those spaces, but its effect on the trim of the ship was negligible.
Six bodies had been discovered in the communications spaces and were being removed. At least twenty-six men had been killed fighting fires in the hangar bays, most of them when aircraft exploded. Six marines were dead on the flight deck, shot. And four marines had been killed by grenades thrown by the intruders. Four men were believed to be missing under the rubble in Bays One and Two. Over fifty men were in sick bay being treated for everything from gunshot wounds to smoke inhalation. Last but not least, the DCA reported, all the operations spaces on the O-3 level had been evacuated and the communications equipment in those spaces had been damaged by the heat and smoke and AFFF. It would be a half hour before he could let the operations specialists back into those spaces and get power restored. Meanwhile, the ship was not communicating with anyone. All the radio gear was either smashed or severed from the antenna system.
“Where are the gooks?” Grafton asked as Lieutenant Dykstra joined the group. He was wearing marine battle dress, with helmet and flak vest and ammo belt.
“Three choppers have landed on the flight deck, sir,” Dykstra reported, gesturing at the television monitor. “The intruders are on the bridge and in Flight Deck Control and on the flight deck.”
“Why didn’t you shoot those choppers down before they landed?” Grafton asked the marine officer.
“Commander Reynolds felt that it would be better to wait. With the hostages and all …”
Hostages. Yes, that is what the Americans on the bridge and in Flight Deck Control were — hostages. Jake Grafton sagged into a chair and ground his knuckles together helplessly. Do you sacrifice the lives of defenseless people to foil the intruders, or do you passively resist and wait for an opening, perhaps saving innocent lives? What is it the professional negotiators always say? “Play for time: time is on our side, not theirs.” Well, in the usual terrorist incident that is true. The terrorist’s goal is publicity. But are these people terrorists? Is this crime being publicized? If so, why did they attack the communications facilities? What is their objective?
Exasperated, he looked from face to face. The officers were staring at him, waiting for him to make decisions and issue orders. The military system in full fucking flower! “Do you people have any ideas or comments? I’d desperately like to hear some.” Blank looks. They were as off balance as he was, but he was the man responsible. “What are these fuckers up to, Dykstra?”
“Maybe they have mines planted below the waterline, sir. Maybe they’re planting more firebombs. I think they’re going to try to sink us.”
Jake snorted. If so, they were taking their time about it, although they were off to a fair start. “Triblehorn?”
“I think it’s political, CAG. I would bet the ranch they are making announcements to the media this very minute. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that we have four TV choppers circling overhead right now, with Dan Rather in one of them.”
“You think we’re all hostages, is that right?”
“Yessir. They’re bearding the paper tiger.”
Bearding the muscle-bound tiger would be a more accurate description, Jake thought. But no. It’s one thing to hijack an airliner full of civilians and wave a pistol in the pilot’s face for the cameras. What we have here is quite another thing altogether. This is an act of war. “I think we had better wait and find out what their objective is before we go off half-cocked,” Jake Grafton said quietly. “So I’ll wait a while. Dykstra, get your men around the edge of the flight deck with enough firepower to drop those choppers in the water if they try to take off. No shooting unless and until I say so. Triblehorn, get this ship ready to get underway. That card may be only a lousy deuce, but I’ll play it if I have to. DCA, get the fires out. We’ll have no options at all if we sink.”
If we sink, Jake thought savagely. Mother of God!
* * *
At the same time that Captain Grafton was learning of his accession to command, Gunnery Sergeant Tony Garcia was having his T-shirt and sweater cut off him by two corpsmen in sick bay. They had him stretched out in a passageway on a mobile hospital table equipped with stirrups. They must have got this damned thing from a gynecology clinic, he mused, trying not to dwell on the fire in his side.
A doctor wearing a blue smock splotched with blood stopped and peered at his side. “Nasty. Get an X-ray after you bandage it. May be some internal bleeding. Won’t know till we see the film.” He paced away muttering about bullet and bone fragments.
The corpsmen rolled the table down the passageway.
“Hey you guys,” Garcia said. “When we get done with X-ray, how about putting me in the ward with Sergeant Vehmeier?”
Sailors sat on the deck with their backs against the bulkhead. Many of them were coughing and all had little green oxygen bottles with masks to suck out of. These are the smoke-inhalation cases, Garcia surmised.
The corpsman rolled him under a large X-ray machine and positioned a giant cone above his chest.
Just like fucking Vietnam, Garcia told himself, only the trip to the hospital was a whole lot quicker. No ride in a Huey strapped to a stretcher, absolutely helpless if the damned thing got shot down or crashed. And the wound ain’t so bad, either, all things considered. That machine gun round in the gut had been a real dilly. At least he was conscious, which was something. In Vietnam he had hemorrhaged until he passed out and woke up with ne
edles in his arm and a tube down his nose all the way to his stomach and a tube up his dick and ninety-five brand-new stitches. Those doctors had almost cut him in half. Eleven months in the fucking hospital. Never again. He had told himself that about a million times through the years. Never again. The next time he was just going to die. Nothing could be worth going through that again.
Jesus, Vehmeier got blasted by that fucking grenade. That silly shit. Why in hell did he fall on that bastard? That Vehmeier … it was enough to make a grown man cry, that a guy like Vehmeier …
One of the corpsmen rolled him from the X-ray room and parked the bed along a passageway bulkhead, then hurried away. “Hey, man,” he called, wanting to be beside Vehmeier, but they paid no attention. They were busy, he told himself, and Vehmeier wouldn’t know he was there anyway. They probably got six IV needles stuck in him and have given him enough dope to supply Los Angeles for a week. Too bad about his hands, but with artificial hands he can do everything except pick his nose.
He wondered if he was bleeding internally. He had seen enough bullet wounds to know that there was no way to tell just from looking. You observed the patient for signs that he was losing blood, and if it wasn’t visibly coming out of holes, it must be internal bleeding. And shock looked like hemorrhaging. He wondered if he was in shock. He felt cold, but they had put a blanket over him. Mild shock maybe. He took several deep breaths, trying to see if his lungs were working properly. His side felt as if he had a knife in it. Maybe he shouldn’t do that. Maybe a busted rib would penetrate his lung.
Wonder if that foray on the bridge did any good. He had knocked that one gunman down for sure and maybe the other guy. Those sailors had been shot, but there was no other way. They would have approved, he told himself. They would have wanted him to try.
One of the corpsmen returned, the one with the glasses. “The doctor says you have two cracked ribs, but there are no bullet fragments in your chest. Just an ugly surface wound. You were very lucky.”
Yeah. Very lucky. That slug could have went into my gut and there is no way my gut could take another, not with all that scar tissue down there. Very lucky. Yeah. “How about wheeling me in with Sergeant Vehmeier.”
“Who?”
“That marine that was brought down here a while ago with his hands blown off. He fell on a grenade.”
“Oh. He’s dead. Sorry.” The sailor walked away. It was a busy night.
“Come back here, you fucking swabbie!” Garcia’s voice was coldly furious. The sailor paused and turned, uncertainty on his face. “You said Sergeant Vehmeier is dead?”
“Yeah, Sarge. He was dead when they brought him in here.”
“I’m ‘Gunnery Sergeant’ to you, pill-pusher. Now get some fucking tape and put a permanent bandage on this wound.” Garcia slid his legs off the edge of the bed and hoisted his torso erect, feeling slightly dizzy and nauseous.
“You can’t—”
“Do I have to get the fucking tape and do it myself?”
The sailor scurried away.
Where did they put that fucking rifle?
* * *
As the helicopters had settled onto the angle of the flight deck Colonel Qazi marched Admiral Parker down the ladders toward the flight deck with his pistol in his back. He saw no one. The ladderwell was empty. Except at the last flight of stairs before he reached the flight deck level — Qazi’s dead Palestinian lay where he had fallen, still crumpled against the door. The door gaped several inches. He made the admiral step over the corpse and push the door open.
He heard a sound to his left and stepped behind the admiral. The barrel of a rifle pointed at him below one frightened eye. “If you pull that trigger, you’ll kill the admiral. If you don’t, I will. After I kill you.”
Several seconds passed, then the eye and barrel disappeared. Qazi listened as the man retreated.
The wounded man had died. The muscles in his face were slack and his eyes stared fixedly at nothing. The other body lay undisturbed. But their weapons were missing. And their gym bags. The door to Flight Deck Control was open a crack. One of his men there opened it wider and nodded.
On the flight deck he met Noora and Ali. They were surrounded by armed men and had Jarvis between them. More men lay in a circle around the helicopters, their weapons at the ready. The engines of the helicopters were still and the rotors stationary.
Qazi set off diagonally up the flight deck, heading for the catwalk forward of Elevator One. Behind him Ali and Noora shepherded Jarvis along. Immediately behind Jarvis was a man carrying one of the trigger devices. It weighed about forty pounds and was slung across his back on straps. Qazi kept the admiral’s arm firmly in his grasp. Youssef, the Palestinian leader, carried two backpacks over his shoulders. Two gunmen preceded the party and two followed. Two more were out on each side. “Faster,” Qazi told the men in front, and they picked up the pace.
24
The power was off in the forward mess deck. Emergency battle lanterns provided the only illumination. The unarmed sailors who packed the place gaped when they realized that the officer in whites with tape over his mouth and wrists handcuffed together was Admiral Parker. Ali and his troops pointed their weapons and gestured. The sailors hastily retreated through the watertight hatches into the passageways beyond with many backward glances at Admiral Parker, who watched them go impassively. Qazi’s men dogged the hatches shut again behind the last Americans.
The entrance to the forward magazine was a hatch leading downward. It was marked with a warning in red: “Unauthorized Personnel, Keep Out. This Means YOU.” Everyone donned gas masks: Noora helped Jarvis with his, and Qazi placed one on Admiral Parker and ensured it was properly positioned on his face and functioning correctly. Then Ali and his men opened the dogs on the magazine hatch and lifted it to the open position.
The first man through the magazine hatch found the compartment below empty. It was merely a security access area. A large vault door stood at the end of the compartment with a television camera immediately above it. The gunman put a pistol bullet through the camera and the red light just below the lens went out. He could hear the muffled sound of an alarm. He quickly set a shaped charge on the door, then stood to one side and detonated it. Within seconds his companion, Youssef, slipped a hose attached to a metal canister through the small hole in the door punched by the explosive and opened the valve on the canister. As the gas hissed through the hole the first man methodically set plastique charges on the vault door. When he had the fuses set, he scrambled away up the ladder. Youssef secured the valve on the canister, pulled the hose from the hole, and scurried after his companion.
The explosion jolted the mess deck. Down the ladder the two men went again.
The access compartment was in total darkness. Shattered glass from the fluorescent tubes in the overhead and the emergency battle lanterns lay on the deck. The security door was off its hinges and badly warped. Smoke eddied uncertainly. The two men pulled the door free and groped their way into the next compartment.
One of the three marines in the compartment was still conscious, so the intruders shot him. They ignored the others. The gas would keep its victims out cold for several hours. Qazi had insisted on the use of nonlethal gas; not because of any concern for the victims, but just in case one of his key people had a defective mask.
Another hinged watertight door stood against the forward bulkhead of this compartment. It had no locks, but opening the door would be fatal if there were armed marines on the other side. The two gunmen set another shaped charge and backed away. It exploded with a metallic thud.
Youssef approached the hole with his canister. He never got there. A marine on the other side of the door put his rifle against the hole and opened fire. The M-16 slugs spanged against the canister and tore into Youssef’s arm and ripped his throat apart.
The demolition man huddled against the door. He pulled his backpack off and began packing the dogs with plastique, working in the darkness without his flashl
ight entirely by feel. Bullets sprayed periodically through the one-inch hole blown by the shaped charge as the muzzle flashes strobed the smokefilled atmosphere. The demolition man cringed under the lashings of the thunderous reports of the M-16, magnified to soulnumbing intensity in this enclosed steel box. Between rifle bursts he could hear an alarm ringing continuously.
In the compartment on the other side of the door, the senior of the three young marines there was trying desperately to inform someone of their plight. The overpressure from the shaped charge that blasted a hole in the door had practically deafened them. Still, the sergeant could hear well enough to learn that the phones and intercom box on the wall were dead. He had already triggered the alarm, which also rang in Central Control, in the main engineering station, and on the bridge. One man was vomiting; he already had too much of the gas. The man at the door changed the magazine in his rifle and sent another burst through the hole. The rifle sounded to him as if it were being fired in a vacuum.
The senior marine was Sergeant Bo Albright from Decatur, Georgia. He groped through the silent, choking darkness for the bulkhead-mounted controls which would flood the magazines. He found them and pulled the safety pin from the lever that energized the system. He pulled the lever down. A row of green lights illuminated above a series of six buttons. He jabbed the first two buttons and held them. In three seconds the lights turned from green to red. He pushed the buttons in succession until all the lights were red.
In the compartment two decks below his feet that ran the width of the ship, the actual magazines, water rushed in from the sea.
“Get away from the door,” Albright screamed into the ear of the rifleman. Together they pushed a desk away from the wall and crouched behind it with their rifles. They were as far away from the door as they could get. Albright stuck his fingers in his ears, scrunched his eyes shut, and opened his mouth. He waited.
The plastique around the door detonated. The concussion jolted them with the wallop of a baseball bat.
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