Sea Of Terror db-8

by Stephen Coonts

Cougar Twelve, Dean

  Deck Eleven, Atlantis Queen

  Friday, 0552 hours EST

  It took him almost five minutes, with Ghailiani's protesting help, to hobble through the bar and into the health club farther aft. Two men were standing by the large glass windows, one with a camera balanced on his shoulder.

  "Halt!" Dean had snapped, raising the AK. "Who the hell are you two?"

  One of the two turned, raising his hands slowly. "Uh… press!" he said. "News reporters!" He seemed to be trying to decide whether Dean and Ghailiani were terrorists or rescuers.

  The other man continued filming through the window.

  "Get the hell down!" Dean said, deciding that the two were what they claimed to be. They would sort things out later.

  Moving past, Dean and Ghailiani emerged cautiously on the open deck again. By that time, helicopters were arriving, filling the sky in every direction, British Merlin transports and Super Lynx gunships, this time, along with gray U. S. Navy Seahawks off the Eisenhower; British SAS troopers were fast-roping down from the cargo deck of a Merlin hovering above the Queen's smokestack onto the Deck Twelve Terrace. Other soldiers stood on the Atlantean Grotto Pool deck, their weapons aimed at a half-dozen ragged-looking tangos on their knees, their fingers interlaced behind their heads. A pair of Sea Harriers, hovering practically wingtip to wingtip, stood over-watch off to port. Evidently, the last group of tangos had surrendered rather than face those chain guns.

  A pair of SAS troopers, anonymous in gas masks and balaclavas, confronted Dean with raised weapons as soon as he limped through the door. Dutifully he surrendered the AK and raised his hands.

  "It's okay!" Walters called. He was standing next to a stack of tarp-covered Stinger missiles, along with Brisard and several other Black Cat team members. "He's American! He's one of ours!"

  With his rather unmilitary blend of civilian clothing and combat vest, Dean decided he was lucky the Brits hadn't shot first and checked for ID later. SAS troopers were already shoving past him through the door, returning a moment later with the two newspeople in tow.

  To port, the Pacific Sandpiper slowly passed the Queen, moving bow to stern, one of the SEALs standing on the bridge wing, waving. Between the Queen's turn to port and the Sandpiper's slowing and turn to starboard, the oncoming plutonium transport missed the cruise ship by a good eighty yards. Hell, it hadn't been close at all. The Queen's Azipod thrusters were good.

  Cabin 27, Pacific Sandpiper Friday, 0559 hours EST

  Fuchida was waiting for them in the cabin where poor Moritomi had died.

  He'd been able to hear as the commandos stormed through the ship, hunting down the remaining hijackers, alone or in small groups, and killing or capturing them. He suspected that both Inui and Yano were dead by now; they'd both been determined to take as many of the enemy with them as they could, and to die fighting.

  Kozo Fuchida, however, had been thinking since Moritomi had taken his own life, had been thinking a lot.

  The Kokusaiteki Kakumei Domei had been born from the ashes of the Japanese Red Army, which had sought only to humble the West and to support the Palestinians in their cause against Israel. The reborn KKD, however, had begun with a more foctised cause — the end of Japan's atomic energy program.

  There were millions of Japanese who supported that aspect of the KKD's program. Japan and the Japanese people had always been sensitive to that issue, thanks to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Fuchida had gotten his start demonstrating against nuclear-armed and nuclear-powered warships of the U. S. Navy being based at Sasebo, right across the bay from Tokyo itself. He and Moritomi had sworn an oath to help al-Qaeda carry out its plan for nuclear terror, exploding a dirty bomb in New York Harbor that would poison tens of thousands, perhaps millions, of Americans.

  But Fuchida's omi, his burden of obligation, still rested with the leaders of the KKD. By now it was clear that the Americans had stopped Operation Zarqawi — named for a pathetic terrorist captured and killed by the Americans in Iraq. The world would not now see the object lesson of a radioactive dirty bomb exploding in a metropolitan area, would not. learn the dangers inherent in the PNTL shipments.

  His choice now was to die with the others:. or to surrender.

  Non-Japanese still thought of the Japanese people in light of World War II, of kamikaze and banzai attacks, of ritual seppuku and a disregard for life. What Westerners never seemed to understand was that the Japanese had a very high regard for life; they simply had a higher regard for the requirements of omi.

  The cabin door burst open, and a black-clad arm appeared, holding a flash-bang grenade.

  "Don't shoot!" Fuchida yelled. "I surrender!"

  There would be a way, somehow, to continue the fight another day.

  Cougar Twelve, Dean

  Seahawk medevac

  Friday, 0615 hours EST

  Almost twenty minutes later, with the sun just rising above the horizon, the OED team and NEST had reported that the explosives in the hold were secure. By that time, Dean was on board a Seahawk medevac chopper, along with an unconscious Llewellyn, a half-conscious Yancey, and several other wounded personnel and Black Cat operators, and on his way back to the Eisenhower.

  America was safe. But the debrief, Dean thought, was going to be a bitch.

  The hijackers should never have been allowed to get that close to American waters.

  He suspected that there would be some policy changes in the very near future.

  Chapter 29

  Bridge, Atlantis Queen Passenger ship docks New York City Friday, 1702 hours EST

  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome to New York City."

  Captain Phillips hesitated, uncertain as to what to say. He exchanged glances with Charlie Vandergrift, who shrugged and looked away. Behind him, the man in the business suit, a "Mr. Johnson" of the State Department according to the ID card he'd flashed, stood listening as well.

  Outside, the armada of boats and small craft that had descended on the Queen as she made her way north into the mouth of the Hudson River continued to circle and hover; horns, bells, whistles, and a cacophony of noise continued to sound from the fleet. The entire city, it seemed, had shut down in order to welcome the Atlantis Queen to her unexpected berthing at the city's passenger ship docks — Luxury Liner Row, as they were known to the crews of the ships that used them. Nearly all major transatlantic liners had docked here over the years, including the RMS Queen Mary 2 and the MS Freedom of the Seas.

  "The nightmare is over," Phillips said at last. "As you can tell from all of the commotion outside, we're being given a truly magnificent welcome to the United States. For those of you who wish to debark, our agents ashore will see to it that you make the appropriate travel connections. Those who wish to remain aboard are welcome to do so. We expect to remain in New York City for approximately one week for maintenance and service, before returning to Southampton.

  "Arrangements have been made with several major hotels in New York City for those of you who wish to stay. Transportation will be provided at the head of the pier, and your luggage will be sent along to your rooms later.

  "I'm sure all of us join together in giving thanks to the brave British commandos who carried off an unprecedented, truly incredible rescue of this ship, and of all of us aboard… while we were hundreds of miles out at sea." He glanced again at Mr. Johnson, who nodded. "As I'm sure you all can imagine, the press will be eager to interview anyone who was aboard the Atlantis Queen during the hijacking. Remember that you have the right not to speak with the press. You've all been through an extraordinarily trying week. You don't need to face that particular gauntlet unless you so wish.

  "Royal Sky Line deeply regrets the circumstances of this past week. Our representatives will be in contact with you in regard to any and all monetary or legal claims that may have arisen as a result of this… incident.

  "Thank you. All of you."

  He hung up the intercom handset. "Satisfied?" he aske
d Johnson.

  "You did fine, Captain Phillips. Our government thanks you."

  "I do not like lying."

  The man shrugged. "It's necessary, sometimes. As are oaths of secrecy."

  Phillips hadn't liked that part, either. He and his bridge crew had been required to sign documents promising not to divulge certain pieces of information, under penalty of twenty years in prison and a one-hundred-thousand-dollar fine. He still wasn't sure of the legality of that. Phillips was, after all, a British subject, not a citizen of the United States, and he wasn't sure the U. S. State Department could require him to sign such an oath. A phone call to the British consulate in New York City that morning for clarification had ended with instructions to sign… and that the legal work would all be sorted out later.

  Frowning, he walked over to the bridge window and looked down on the surging mass of cheering, waving people gathered at the head of the pier. It looked like Twelfth Avenue had been blocked off to accommodate the crowds.

  He suspected that some sort of fix was already in the works. Two hours after his conversation with the British consulate, he'd received a phone call from another cruise ship line, one of Royal Sky's competitors… and the offer of a new command.

  And what a command! Late last year, the first of a new class of cruise ship had been launched — the magnificent Oasis of the Seas. She was bigger and more luxurious than anything yet afloat: 360 meters long, with a displacement of over one hundred thousand tonnes, sixteen passenger decks, and a capacity of 5,400 passengers, with a crew of 1,500. She had a five-deck-high area in the center of the ship called Central Park, open to the sky and filled with lush tropical vegetation, shops, and upscale restaurants, and featuring the Rising Tide Bar, which would actually travel up and down through three decks. Arched glass domes in Central Park called the Crystal Canopies would channel sunlight into the ship's public areas below. The Oasis of the Seas and her sister vessel were astounding triumphs of marine architecture and art.

  And Eric Phillips was being offered her captaincy.

  Apparently, both the Ministry of Trade and Sir Charles Mayhew expected Royal Sky Line to file for bankruptcy. The company had been running close to the wire to begin with, and the company's solicitors were expecting a storm of lawsuits engendered by the hijacking, not to mention the loss of tens of millions of pounds in returned fares. The company, after all, had not made good on its promise of a luxury cruise through the eastern Mediterranean.

  And that despite all of the new state-of-the-art security systems.

  It would be quite an honor to command the Oasis of the Seas… but Phillips wasn't sure he would accept. During the hijacking, he'd been forced to choose between the safety of his passengers and the safety of those thousands of people down there on Twelfth Avenue. His attempt to ground the Queen and the Sandpiper off Newfoundland had failed, and he'd spent the rest of the voyage locked up in the wardroom area until those commandos — American commandos — had freed him that morning.

  Eric Phillips felt… broken.

  He wasn't sure he could ever face the responsibility for almost seven thousand souls. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to retire and never go to sea again.

  But he also knew that once the sea was in your blood, it never let go. Now was too soon to make anything like a final decision. He needed time..

  But he did know that he would not accept his next command as a bribe for his silence.

  Pier 88

  Passenger ship docks New York City Friday, 1730 hours EST

  Andrew, Nina, and Melissa McKay walked down the starboard gangway together, stepping onto the passenger ship pier off of West 48th Street in west Manhattan. It was a brilliant, clear, crisp September afternoon. Seagulls wheeled and shrilled overhead, and the air smelled of mingled salt and big city. In the distance, a roar like heavy surf echoed back from a wall of skyscrapers.

  As Nina stepped onto the concrete of the pier, her knees almost gave way. God, it was so good to be home.

  "Look, Mommy!" Melissa cried, pointing excitedly to a massive, looming gray shape alongside the pier directly ahead, just beyond a quay converted into a park. The park was filled with cheering, waving people, as was the deck of the ship behind it. "An aircraft carrier! Maybe it's the one that rescued us!"

  "No, I don't think so, sweetheart," Andrew replied. "That's the USS Intrepid, and she's a part of a naval museum now. The ships that helped us are still out at sea."

  He started pointing out to her two other exhibits at the Intrepid Museum — a submarine tied up at the near side of the Intrepid pier and the bizarrely out-of-place droop-snooted bird shape of a Concord SST, rising on its raft next to the dock.

  Nina smiled. By all rights, Melissa should have been somewhere between exhausted and unconscious, but she was showing no signs of running down. Andrew had taken her to the ship's library that morning to look at a book about aircraft carriers when she learned that their black-clad rescuers had flown in off of a British carrier called the Ark Royal

  After the dramatic rescue of the passengers and crew of the Atlantis Queen early that morning, there'd been neither time nor inclination for sleep. The three of them had been interviewed by some men in conservative dark suits while the ship was still cruising west past Long Island. Apparently, everyone on board was going through a thorough debriefing before they could go ashore; the McKays and the other passengers who'd been held in the ship's theater had gone through the screening first, so they were among the first to be allowed to leave… thank God.

  A polite but very serious gentleman from the U. S. State Department had asked the questions, but the men standing behind him, Nina thought, were from a different government agency. FBI? CIA? There'd also been several armed soldiers present. She wasn't positive, but she was pretty sure that the purpose of the interview was to make sure none of the surviving al-Qaeda terrorists walked off the ship pretending to be legitimate passengers.

  Nina watched Andrew take Melissa's hand as they walked across the pier for a closer look at the Intrepid, and wondered — yet again — what the future held for them.

  Andrew, Nina thought, had been uncharacteristically subdued since they'd been caught by the terrorists at the lifeboat early that morning. The memory sent a small shudder through her; the small group of passengers had been herded forward at gunpoint, and their captors had argued loudly with one another in Arabic. She'd thought they were trying to decide whether or not to kill the would-be escapees then and there.

  Instead, they'd been roughly shoved into the theater with dozens of other captives and told they'd be "dealt with" later.

  Nina had watched Andrew struggle with the situation. The man had always been so damnably competent, so frustratingly right about everything… a white knight convinced he could handle any situation, and who always knew the right way to do it. During the hijacking, though, he'd been helpless — they'd all been helpless — and she'd seen that knowledge torture him. He'd wanted to gallop in on his charger and save her and Melissa from the bad guys, and his best attempt to do so had only made things much, much worse, had almost gotten them all killed. It hadn't been his fault, certainly; apparently the terrorists had set the Ship's Security system in such a way to alert them to just such an attempt by the hostages, and there was no way any of them could have known that.

  But since their capture Andrew had been taking his helplessness badly.

  Trying and failing might even have been good for him.

  Nina walked up beside him and took his free hand. "Will you have dinner with us tonight?"

  Andrew looked down at her, surprised. "Sure," he said, the word a mumble. "If you want."

  "No promises," she said. "But I really do want to talk."

  "No promises," he agreed. "But… hell. We've just been given a new chance at life, right? At living?"

  "We'll see where it takes us," she told him. And she squeezed his hand.

  * * *

  Andrew McKay felt the squeeze of Nina's hand and squ
eezed back. He was still sorting through what needed to be done. They'd told them on the ship that hotel rooms were being reserved for all of the liberated passengers off the Queen — and how many tax dollars had that cost? he wondered. Still, it would give him and Nina a chance to talk.

  They hadn't done much of that on the Queen. Things had been moving too quickly, too desperately, for that.

  Just like the past six months.

  A soldier in full combat gear and holding a rifle was standing a few yards down the pier, waving them along, so Andrew tugged gently at Melissa's hand. "We've got to move along, honey," he told her. "Mommy and I are talking about having dinner tonight together. Do you think you'd like that? Or do you want us to go to the hotel and let you sleep?"

  "How can I be sleepy, Daddy?" Melissa said. "We're home Well… almost. But we're in New York And we didn't get to see New York when we flew out to England!"

  That seemed to explain everything.

  He wondered if he and Nina could make things work. He honestly wasn't sure he wanted to go back. So much had been said, so much had not been said… and so much trust had been lost.

  He'd always thought of himself as able to make things work. Everything but his marriage, apparently. And his life. But they had been given a second chance.

  And it was certainly worth exploring.

  Mall Concourse Deck One, Atlantis Queen New York City Friday, 1737 hours EST

  "No, I don't think you understand," Fred Doherty said, angry now. "Do you people have any idea who I am?"

  "We know who you are, sir," the man in the dark suit said. "But your equipment has been impounded."

  "That's, like, a hundred, a hundred-twenty thou worth of gear, man!" Petrovich cried. "Counting the computers and the transmitter! And it'll come out of my salary if I don't turn it back in!"

  "We've already given you a receipt for your equipment, Mr. Petrovich. And your people can pick it up after we've had a chance to go through your recordings." "To do what?" Doherty demanded. "To determine whether or not there is material there that could be prejudicial to national security," the man said.