by Michael Howe
“He says he’s got most of them filled.”
“Good. Tell him the target is above him, not below. I also want you to get all the passengers in one place . . .”
“The Main Dining Room’s the largest, but there’ll be standing room only.”
“That’s unfortunate, but it won’t kill them and this guy we’re chasing very probably will, if he gets the chance. I’m going to wake Ray Fuentes and have him organize security there. You have any men who can be trusted with weapons?”
“A number. I’ll have Mr. Winters work with Fuentes.”
“Good. And have Ellison join them when he’s finished posting men below. The four of us are going to hunt this SOB before he comes up with something else.”
“Jerry,” he then snapped into the walkie-talkie, “our man is on deck—he’s just launched all the lifeboats . . .”
“What? In this weather? Is he trying to trash them?”
“It looks that way. I want you and Ted to meet me and Alex at the suite. We’ll arm ourselves properly and track this bastard down.”
“Roger.”
“What the fuck’s that?” demanded Brad when he felt the rumbling of the lifeboats as they rolled over the side.
“No idea,” replied Wendell Gardner. Gardner stood and looked out the window onto the storm. “Can’t see anything. Something must have broken loose somewhere. If it’s important, they’ll tell us.”
When Chrissie had thrown Brad out of her suite, he’d ended up in a cabin on the main deck, one level below the boat deck and two below Chrissie’s suite. He’d started drinking tequila early and was still at it, in his cabin, explaining to Wendell what was wrong with everybody else in the world.
“Fuckin’ ship’s a disaster.”
Wendell smiled. He enjoyed getting people cranked up.
“And this bullshit about having to go jam ourselves into the dining room with a million retards. Those navy guys are on a power trip. Whenever they don’t know what to do, they dream something stupid up for us to do. If something bad’s going to happen, it’s going to happen where all the people are. We’re much safer here, drinking in peace.”
Wendell didn’t bother to answer, although he did intensely dislike the military.
A few minutes later the tour guide noticed lights moving around on the deck outside the window. He returned to it and looked out. “Something’s happening. I’m going to take a look.”
Brad waved his consent.
Three minutes later Wendell was back, soaked and frozen. “Somebody’s launched all the fucking lifeboats,” he cried, a note of fear clear in his tone. “There’s no way they can get them back aboard. If something happens to the ship, we’re all dead.”
Brad looked up at him. “Bullshit.” He then passed out on the couch.
Boatswain MacNeal stepped out onto the port boat deck and immediately wished he hadn’t. He’d failed to dress properly and it was now too late to do anything about it. He cursed himself for his stupidity, then again when he saw that all three boats were gone, each set of falls bouncing and twitching like a fishing line with a shark on it. He struggled into the wind and across the icy deck to the rail and looked down, flashing a hand spotlight as he did.
There they were, he thought with a mixture of surprise, anger and fear. The remains of the three boats were right below him, tangled up in one dark mass, pounding against the ship’s side and against one another as they were dragged through the churning water. How in God’s name was he going to recover them?
James Ives was scared, but more than that he was angry. He hated being stuck in the middle of a crowd. He hated it all the more when he was being shoved and stepped on by people who were even more panicky than he.
“It will be okay, dear,” he reassured his wife—just to keep her quiet, if for no other reason—as they were carried down the passageway toward the Main Dining Room. They passed a media crew standing in a cabin, documenting the surrounding chaos. God! he thought. That’s the end! To be shown round the world trapped and surrounded by a mob of terrified idiots. It was enough to make him almost forget his own fear.
“Please move along as rapidly as you can.”
Ives looked to the side and saw one of the navy guys in his blue coveralls standing in a cabin. The guy who’d been limping ever since he arrived. He looked sick. Barely able to stand.
“They’re gone!” somebody behind him shouted. “The lifeboats are gone. The crew must have taken them. They’ve left us here to die.”
What shit, he thought as somebody rammed him from behind, almost knocking him to the deck.
“Keep moving there.” It was that Ellison fellow. The security director, or something like that. “Don’t stop, damn it! Keep moving! That’s right, all the way back.”
The room was already crowded, and Ives guessed that only about half the passengers had arrived. As the mob behind pushed him ahead, he forced his way to the left, toward the windows, dragging his wife with him.
When he finally reached a window, he jammed his face against it and placed both hands on either side, attempting to block out some of the light. He couldn’t see much, but he could see enough. There were lights moving around on deck, and the dark blobs that should have been there—the lifeboats—were missing. Maybe they were there, but he didn’t think so. Whoever had been shouting was right. The goddamned boats were gone. They were all dead.
The room was becoming uncomfortably hot and noisy, even though most of the passengers thought they were talking quietly. The air began to vibrate with terror as more and more realized they now had no escape.
“Shit!” said the first of MacNeal’s men to arrive on the scene. “What the hell do we do now?” There was a note of despair in his voice.
“When I tell you, we’re going to cut that mess loose,” replied MacNeal in the most confident, authoritative voice he could muster. “For now, you find the bolt cutters in the boat tool chest while I check the other side.”
“Okay, Boats.”
“Remember, don’t do a damn thing until I tell you.”
“Okay, Boats.”
Both men were shouting to be heard above the storm.
MacNeal ran through the superstructure and out onto the starboard boat deck, where he found two of his men hanging over the side, looking down. He joined them to discover that the situation wasn’t quite as bad. All three boats were there, being dragged stern first, but none had swamped. They weren’t as tangled, and they hadn’t been beaten to shit by the waves’ pounding them against the ship’s hard side. At least not yet.
“Bridge, this is MacNeal,” he shouted into his walkie-talkie.
“This is Covington, Boats.”
“The boats on the port side are a total loss, Captain. When you’re ready, I want to cut them away before they beat their way into the ship. I think we may be able to salvage one or two of the starboard ones.”
“How soon before you’re ready to cut?”
“Four or five minutes.”
“Very well. I’m going to stop the port shaft now. Just before you cut the first boat, let me know so I can turn away. All we need now is a rat’s nest of one-inch wire wrapped around the screws.”
“Aye, Captain.” He then turned to the two men, who had now been joined by three others. “While I’m cutting away the boats on the other side, I want you to use the spare blocks to re-rig the forward falls on davits three and five. And find the longest damn boat hooks you can.”
There were a total of three deckhands waiting for him when MacNeal made it back to the port side.
“You have the cutters?” he demanded.
“Yes, Boats.”
“Good. Now two of you stand by the number six aft davit. When I say ‘now,’ you’re going to cut the fall and jump the hell back because the wire’s going to whip around like an angry sidewinder.”
The two men moved aft while MacNeal put the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Bridge, this is MacNeal.”
“Yes, Boats?”
>
“We’re ready, Captain.”
“Very well. I will start a slow turn to port in thirty seconds. As soon as the first boat is astern, I’ll shift the rudder. Once we’re back on our base course, I’ll advise you so we can ditch the second one.”
“I understand, Captain.”
“I am starting to turn . . . Now!”
MacNeal waited until he could feel the ship’s stern beginning to slew to starboard and then shouted “Now!” Straining, the two hands squeezed and twisted the bolt cutter’s handles until the wire parted with a snap. And then fell, limp.
“Christ, Boats, it’s not paying out!”
“God damn it,” groaned MacNeal as he looked over the rail. The aft boat was hopelessly tangled with the others. “Bridge, this is MacNeal. We’ve cut the falls for boat six but it’s so tangled with the others that it won’t budge.”
Within ten or fifteen minutes Marcello Cagayan’s patience ran out. He loosened the strap on the rifle and put it over his shoulder. He then collected up the spare magazines and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. He’d heard the announcement directing all the passengers to the Main Dining Room. Except for the boatswain’s people trying to save the boats, there’d be nobody on deck but him. He exited the funnel for the last time and made his way down to the second deck, all the way aft. From there he could see the empty davits and the men working on them. He would have liked to see what was left of the boats themselves, but they were hidden by the hull. He could see the men on both sides of the ship—they were now only about thirty yards away—but he realized that to get a decent shot he was going to have to lean out over the rail. Being right-handed, he decided to work on the starboard side. He checked to make sure a magazine was inserted in the rifle then leaned over and waited, the wind jamming him hard against the rail.
“Roger,” replied Covington, who’d been watching the operation from above. “I’m going to get back on course and then we’ll trying freeing four and see if the two of them will leave.”
“Roger.”
Once Covington had turned the Aurora back downwind, he turned to port again and told MacNeal to cut away the number four boat. The cutters clicked and the cut wire jumped a few feet, then collapsed. “Captain, the two of them are now riding on number two’s falls.”
Covington pounded the rail in frustration as the ship continued to turn slowly. He was very conscious of what he didn’t know—just how many yards of one-inch wire were trailing back from the tangled mass of boats. If it was more than fifty, and he came right, to get back on the base course, he ran the very real risk of getting the wire tangled around one or both screws. If he kept turning much longer, he would soon find himself back across the trough, in the position that had almost killed them before. “Cut away number two right away, Boats. Then pray.”
“Now! Cut!” grunted MacNeal.
The wire parted with the crack of a small cannon and flew through the sheaves and over the side. While MacNeal watched the tangled mass drift astern and off to one side, Covington watched as the bow swung to the left, soon to be pointing directly down the alley between the two monster waves on each side, the joystick gripped in his right hand.
“There,” he finally mumbled to himself. The mess had passed astern. He flicked his wrist, moving the joystick and the rudder to the right. The ship was not a racing yacht, but she did respond in time to avoid Covington’s worst nightmares. MacNeal and his three helpers raced back through the ship to the starboard boat deck.
“The target’s a young Filipino engineer named Cagayan,” repeated Mike as he slipped into a set of chest armor. “We don’t know where he is at the moment but he’s almost certainly not below. He’s either on some weather deck or someplace in the superstructure. We also don’t know if he’s armed or not.”
“Are we assuming he just killed Hensen or are we assuming he’s a terrorist?”
“Very good point. There’s nothing in that message guaranteeing that a terrorist is aboard. If there are any other explosive devices aboard, they may be controlled by timers or GPS position indicators. But we don’t know, so we’re going to have to assume that there are other devices and that Cagayan controls them. That means that we want him in condition to tell us what and where they are.”
“How’re we going to find him?” asked Ted.
“We’re going to sweep the interior spaces, starting on deck four and working down. As we go, we’re going to lock every lockable door. So get your armor on. Also bring night vision gear and rifles, in case we end up chasing him on one of the weather decks.”
When Boatswain MacNeal reached the starboard side, he found that the men he’d left there had made considerable progress re-rigging two of the damaged falls. “Okay,” he said, “this isn’t going to be easy, but we have to get a hook through the forward ring on two of those boats. Then we’ll be able to lift them level, maybe without beating everything to shit in the process. Any volunteers to dangle and get the hook in place?”
“I’ll give it a try, Boats,” offered one of the younger and more ambitious deckhands after a pause.
“Good . . .” Before MacNeal could finish the sentence, another young hand who was working partway up the davit, reeving the wires through the sheaves, arched his back and cried out. Without another word the kid dropped into the storm.
“What the hell!”
Then Gibson, the hand who had volunteered to dangle, collapsed on deck, clutching his chest.
“Everybody take cover,” shouted MacNeal. “Get under the overhang of deck three and get into the shadows.” He grabbed his walkie-talkie.
17
The Drake Passage
“Boss, this is Alex,” whispered Mike’s walkie-talkie, barely audible above the wind that was howling along the fourth deck. “At some point very recently the target was hiding in the funnel—on what Jerry tells me is called a blower flat—and it looks very much like he had a rifle hidden here.”
“We’re on our way.” He then called Covington.
Mike and Ted continued forward, using their night vision gear to scan every corner and every shadow. When they reached the funnel, they found Jerry standing outside. “He’s been here, Boss, and he left some wrappings that look as if they were secured around a rifle.”
“So where the hell is he now?” Mike asked, thinking aloud.
“Bridge, this is MacNeal,” whispered the walkie-talkie again. “There’s a shooter someplace on this ship. He just shot two of my men. There’s nothing we can do about these boats until we get some cover. And send Dr. Savage.”
“Ted, you get down there and keep those men under cover. The rest of you spread along the starboard side. We’re going to go down deck by deck. Maybe the bastard’s still there, waiting to get another shot.”
“Bridge, MacNeal, this is Chambers. Make sure Dr. Savage stays in the superstructure. Take your casualties to her. We only have one of her.”
“Roger.”
“Roger.”
Wearing his enhanced vision goggles, Mike moved carefully down the port side ladder leading from the aft end of deck four to deck three. At the forward end of deck four Alex did the same thing, while Jerry remained on the starboard side of deck four, carefully scanning everything he could see below him.
Once Mike and Alex had reached deck three, they worked their way over to the starboard side and then, crouching, advanced slowly toward each other. When they reached each other, they repeated the process, working down to and along the boat deck, with Jerry watching from deck three. As they went, they could hear the three remaining boats beating themselves to death.
“Captain Chambers . . .”
“Is that you, MacNeal?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boatswain as he stood up behind a steel locker. “You think he’s moved on?”
“He’s not above us.”
“Can you cover us for another few minutes? We’ve got to cut those boats away.”
“Will do. Alex, take the forward end of deck thre
e. I’ll take the aft end and Jerry the middle. We’ll be in position in three minutes.”
While Mike filled Jerry in, MacNeal called Covington. “The navy’s arrived to cover us, Captain, so we’ll be ready in five minutes to cut away the starboard boats—or what’s left of them.”
“Very well. I’m stopping the shaft now.”
“Now, Captain,” said MacNeal a few minutes later. After a brief pause he stood up in a crouch, bolt cutters in hand, and scurried over to the aft davit of boat five. He raised and positioned the cutters and with a grunt rammed the handles together. The wire parted with a crack and went whipping through the sheaves and over the side.
“First one went like a dream, Captain. Should I try the next or . . .”
“Go ahead, try the next one.”
Snap. The second boat was gone.
“Get that last one, MacNeal, while you’re hot. I’ve still got a minute or so before I have to turn back on course.”
“Roger.”
Snap.
“That’s it, Captain. They all look clear from here.”
“Good work, Boatswain. Now secure any trailing lines and then get your men under cover unless Captain Chambers has work for them.”
“Roger,” said MacNeal, exhaling a massive sigh of relief as he did.
“Okay,” he said to his men, “police this area up quickly. Make sure there’s nothing that’s going to drag overboard.”
“MacNeal?”
“Yes, Vido, what is it?”
“I hear everybody’s looking for Cagayan. Do you think he’s the one doing all this?”
“There’s a lot people don’t tell me. Get over there and help secure those wires.”
“I’ve talked to him sometimes, and I think I noticed something that navy guy may want to know about.”