“Colonel,” Meachum said, “I wasn’t expecting you for nearly an hour.”
“Captain McDermitt wanted to inspect the armory, Walt.”
Meachum faced me. “Any time, Skipper. I have a couple of sweet long guns I know you’d be interested in.”
“With only five security people aboard,” I said, “including the Colonel, why would we need a SAW?”
He grinned. “It’s not for us. If the shit hits the fan, Axel Troutman and Bernie Knight would man the SAW up on the roof of the flybridge.”
“How long would it take to deploy it?”
He pointed up to a hatch in the overhead, a ladder leading up to it. “It can be deployed in less than three minutes. They do time tests once a month, and they don’t stop until they get it under that.”
The M-249 is a smaller caliber machine gun than the M-60, used by Marines during my time in the Corps. It had variable rates of fire—the highest nearly double that of the familiar chug-chug-chug of the 60, and it had a slightly higher muzzle velocity. Personally, I preferred the M-60. Nothing instilled fear in the enemy more than the sound of the larger and louder 7.62 mm rounds it fired. That is, unless you could deploy a Ma Deuce. The M-249 was kind of an M-16 rifle on steroids.
“What would your team deploy ahead of the shit hitting the fan?” I asked.
“Each man on the security team is armed with an M-9 at all times,” Walt replied, unholstering his own Beretta. He dropped the magazine out and racked the slide, catching the cartridge as it was extracted from the chamber. Then he placed the weapon on the table.
The Marine Corps was just changing over from the M-1911 .45 caliber sidearm when I’d retired. So, I was familiar with the 9mm Beretta. The venerable old Colt .45 had been in service for nearly a hundred years.
I picked up the weapon and had it disassembled in seconds. I looked into the chamber and through the barrel. It was as clean as a whistle. I quickly reassembled it, racked the slide, and test-fired it, hearing a satisfying click, then laid it back on the table.
“What else?”
“The M-16 would be the weapon of choice on the battlefield,” Walt replied, reloading and holstering his sidearm. “But in the confines of a ship, we opted for the Wilson SBR, chambered for the five-fifty-six NATO cartridge, same as the SAW. The short-barreled rifle isn’t as accurate at long range, but on a moving deck, accuracy beyond three hundred yards is nearly impossible.”
“Anything heavier than the SAW?” I asked.
“We can deploy two M-2 .50 caliber machine guns,” Walt said. “There are stanchions for each Ma Deuce fore and aft. We also carry a pair of FGM-148 Javelins, with heat-seeking missiles.”
“Impressive,” I said, picking up the SAW’s receiver assembly and inspecting it. As with Walt’s sidearm, there wasn’t a speck of dust or grime. “And the long guns?”
He grinned and jerked a thumb toward a cabinet next to the workbench. “Have a look.”
I opened the cabinet. It wasn’t locked.
“In the event of a pending attack by hostile forces,” Walt began, “the Colonel will order me and you to the armory from wherever we are. It will be our job to deter and discourage the attackers long before they get into range of the SBRs.”
The locker contained a pair of Barrett .50 caliber semi-automatic rifles, six ten-round magazines, and several large ammo boxes.
“What are they zeroed at?” I asked, taking one out.
“Zeroed to the maximum effective range,” he replied. “Almost two thousand yards.”
“One thousand, nine hundred, and sixty-nine,” I said, lifting the heavy rifle to my shoulder and peering through the scope at the bulkhead.
“That looks damned sweet welded to your cheekbone, Gunny,” Walt said.
“You used the Barrett in Afghanistan,” I said, lowering the rifle and putting it back into the cabinet. “Two confirmed kills from over a mile.”
Walt looked at Travis and then back at me. “I’m flattered you know that.”
“Don’t be,” I said coldly. “There’s nothing flattering or sweet about taking a human life, son.”
“No, sir,” he replied.
“We have guests coming aboard shortly,” I said. “Maybe after they leave, later in the week, you and I can go out on the aft work platform and put some tow targets out.”
Walt smiled broadly. “I’d be honored.”
“Will there be anything else?” Travis asked.
I looked at my old dive watch. It read 0555. “No, I have to relieve Matt on the bridge.”
Once we left the armory, I stopped at Travis’s office and turned to face him. “One of those Barretts is brand new,” I said.
“Nils couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn,” he offered. “Jack sent the new one before you came aboard.”
“I haven’t fired a rifle in several months.”
“I’ve seen you hit a target with a cold, unfamiliar barrel at five hundred yards, Jesse. With no more information than someone else’s word on what the weapon’s dope was.”
“Your armory is very impressive, Trav. Hopefully, it’ll never be needed.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Colonel Stockwell replied.
An hour and a half after sunrise, Ross reported an incoming radar contact approaching from the north at 145 knots.
“Roger that, Mr. Mosely,” I said. “Dead slow, helm. Turn us into the wind for helo recovery.”
“Dead slow, aye,” Axel repeated, pulling back the throttles to idle speed and turning the massive yacht into the wind. “Heading to windward, Captain.”
I checked the radar screen, then pushed the button for the intercom to my quarters. “Flo will be here in five minutes, Savvy.”
A moment later, her voice came back over the comm. “Can Alberto and I join you on the helipad?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Is Fernando with him?”
“No, he went to breakfast and is going to spend the day with Mayra, studying.”
“I’m headed that way now,” I said, then released the button and turned to Val. “You have the conn, Val. Have two crewmen meet us up there.”
“Aye, Captain,” she said. “I have the conn.”
Going aft, I opened the hatch and started down the long, inside passageway. Savannah and Alberto were just coming out of our quarters, so I waited by the exterior hatch. Together, we made our way up to the expansive flybridge.
The flybridge covered the entire command bridge, op center, and my quarters. The helipad took up the aft part of it, a big round circle with an H painted in the middle of it. The flybridge itself was relatively small, just two forward-facing seats at the helm and a small table and L-shaped seating behind them.
“Where are they?” Alberto asked. “I don’t hear it.”
I scanned the sky off to the north and behind the ship, until I spotted the sleek, executive helicopter. Then I knelt beside my son and pointed. “There she is. See that black dot turning behind the boat?”
“I see it!”
“Stay here with Savannah until the pilot shuts down the engine,” I warned him.
Then I stepped aft, removing the cable that separated the flight deck from the flybridge. Opening a small locker, I removed two yellow-and-red-striped paddles, then moved aft to the forward edge of the slightly elevated helipad.
I stood facing aft, the paddles alongside my knees, as the Bell 222 approached. It flared and began to slow down over our wake. I could see the pilot and copilot in the front seats, both wearing reflective aviator shades and ball caps.
At about a hundred yards out, I raised both arms until they were horizontal to the deck, paddles facing the incoming bird. It flared again, until its speed matched Ambrosia’s. Then I bent my elbows and moved the paddles up and down, signaling the pilot forward.
The nose dipped slightly, and the chopper moved toward me. It started to drift a little to port, but before I could signal that to the pilot, he
corrected and continued to approach.
The landing gear came down just fifty feet beyond the helipad. When it moved over the edge, I stopped my forward signal and again signaled it to hover.
The bird held position ten feet above the deck, matching the boat’s movement perfectly. I slowly lowered the paddles, and the pilot brought the chopper down closer to the deck. As soon as the wheels made contact, I brought the paddles together in front of my legs.
The pitch of the rotors changed, and the full weight of the helo compressed the shocks in the landing gear as it settled fully onto the deck.
Two crewmen came from behind me and ran in a crouch to the helicopter, attaching straps to four points in the bottom of its fuselage and to recessed rings in the deck. In seconds, they pulled the straps tight.
With the bird secure, I raised the paddle in my right hand and did a sawing motion in front of my neck, signaling the pilot to cut the engines. The high-pitched whine of the turbines ceased, and the rotors began to slow, the transmission now disengaged.
After stowing the paddles in the gear locker, I approached the chopper’s right side to congratulate the pilot on a perfect landing.
When I opened the door, Charity pulled her cap and sunglasses off, shaking out her blond hair and smiling at me. “You’re still a pretty good marshaller.”
“I didn’t know you’d be flying,” I said. “I was expecting you to be a passenger and the chopper to return to Grenada.”
“Dad!” Flo yelled, as she stepped out of the bird’s rear door.
I turned as 120 pounds of excited girl jumped and flung her arms around my neck, while David stepped down beside us.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said, hugging my daughter tightly.
She released her stranglehold and I shook David’s hand as Chyrel stepped down and helped Tank out. He wore one of those tube things that provide oxygen to the wearer’s nose. The end of it went to a small box strapped at his waist. Tank looked old and frail, a far cry from the man I’d last seen just four months earlier.
“How are you feeling, Tank?” I asked hesitantly.
He removed the tubes looped around his ears and stuck the nasal cannula in his pocket. “Not dead yet,” he said, as the man who’d been in the copilot’s seat came around the nose. “I want you to meet a friend, Gunny. This is Bud Ferguson. Bud flew choppers in Nam.”
“Any friend of Tank’s is a friend of mine,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.
Bud seemed a few years older than Tank, which made sense if he’d been a chopper pilot when Tank was a PFC. But Tank now looked to be a decade older than his seventy years. Bud was tall and stood erect, with silver hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Tank’s told me a lot about you,” he said.
Just then, Alberto came running up. He stopped short beside me, looking up at Tank and the others.
“Hey there, Alberto,” Tank said, dropping down to one knee. “How’ve you been?”
The boy smiled. “Right as rain, Master Guns.”
Tank laughed and scooped him into a big bear hug, belying the fact that he should have been on oxygen.
“What’s that tube for?” Alberto asked, when Tank released him.
“This?” he asked, pulling the cannula out. “Charity let Bud fly. That old Airedale can scare the pants off a nun.”
“Airedale?”
“That’s what you call a Devil Dog who flies,” Tank replied.
Alberto turned toward Flo. “Are you my sister?”
Flo’s eyes brimmed with tears as she knelt in front of him. “Yes, I am. My name’s Florence but you can call me Flo, okay?”
“Mom told me how your whole family is named after cities.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Mine’s a city in South Carolina and Mom’s is a city in Georgia.”
He glanced back at Savannah, who’d now joined us. Then he looked up at Flo again. “And her sister was named after a city in North Carolina—Charlotte. And her mom and dad were Madison and Jackson.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s all go down to the mess deck. You can get something to eat or drink, then Savannah and Alberto can show you to your quarters. I’ll have to go back to the bridge.”
I led the way to the steps down from the flybridge but paused at the helm and pushed the intercom button. “Captain to bridge.”
“Bridge,” came Val’s voice over the speaker.
“Helo recovered. Resume course and speed.”
“Aye, Captain,” she replied. “Resuming course and speed.”
“Follow me,” I said to the others, then started down the ladder. “The crewmen will get everyone’s luggage and take it to your quarters.”
A few minutes later, we were all seated at one large table, which I had no doubt Emma was responsible for arranging.
“Was that your first mate on the comm?” Bud asked. “A woman?”
“That was Val McLarin,” I replied. “She’s my yeoman and acting first mate at times. My mate’s a Cornishman named Matt Brand. He’s off duty right now, so I left Val in control of the ship for a while. You’ll be bunking with Matt during your stay. I hope that’s okay; we’re tight on accommodations. Matt works nights, so you’ll have the cabin all to yourself.”
“I’ll be staying in Val’s stateroom?” Charity asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “We’re back to a nearly full crew, so there aren’t any private accommodations available.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” she said. “Where did you hire crew from?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Savannah and Alberto can fill you in. But I need to get back to the bridge.”
“Would it be okay if we tagged along?” Tank asked. “Me and Bud?”
“Sure,” I replied, rising from my chair.
I kissed Savannah on the cheek and guided the two men forward to the spiral staircase leading up to the bridge.
“How big is your ship?” Bud asked, as we stepped out onto the bridge deck.
“Ambrosia is a foot shy of two hundred feet in length,” I replied. “She has a thirty-two-foot beam and displaces almost five hundred tons when fully loaded.”
The two men looked around at the modern equipment in front of the helmsman and sonar man. I’d told the bridge crew that I might be bringing guests up, so Axel and Ross had removed all the sensitive information from their displays.
“When we first spotted you on radar,” Bud said, “you were making fifteen knots. Is that her top speed?”
“That’s her cruising speed on the main diesel engines,” I replied. “She can reach twenty on those.”
“And on the auxiliaries?”
“Classified,” I replied. “But suffice it to say that the Saudi sheik who had her built was a speed junky. So, you were a chopper pilot in Vietnam?”
“Hueys,” he replied. “Tank was my crew chief for a while.”
“Bud was flying the day we picked up those Marines in the mine field who’d gotten pinned down,” Tank explained.
“Is that right?” I said, turning to face Bud. “Thank you for what you did that day.”
Bud jerked a thumb toward Tank. “He’s lucky I didn’t bust his ass. I ordered him not to leave the aircraft.”
“I’m a little tired,” Tank said. “I think I’ll go find my cabin and lie down for a bit.”
“Sure, Tank,” I said. “Matt usually relieves me at eleven hundred for lunch. I’ll catch up with you then, okay?”
“Mind if I hang out?” Bud asked, as Tank went back down the spiral staircase.
“Suit yourself,” I replied. “Most of the ship is open to you.”
Giselle entered the bridge, wearing the standard blue shorts and white button-down blouse of the crew, her dark black hair a sharp contrast to the crisp linen.
“Do you want to take control, Captain?” Val asked from behind us. “I was going to show Giselle more of the ship and introduce her to some of the
crew and what they do.”
I turned and nodded. “I have the conn.”
The two women disappeared into the op center, closing the folding panel behind them.
“What’s back there?” Bud asked.
I studied the man for a moment. I’d always been good at reading men. Not women so much—on that front, I was usually way off base. But I could size a man up rather quickly and Bud struck me as trustworthy.
“This isn’t a yacht,” I said. “Ambrosia is a research vessel.”
“I figured that out when I saw the submersible on that big, ugly work deck. How deep is it rated?”
“Eight thousand feet,” I replied, then moved aft, to get out of earshot of the bridge crew. “Back there are a half dozen technicians,” I whispered. Then I nodded toward Ross, bent over his sonar screen with his headphones on. “We’re currently conducting a sonar search of the entire northern coast of South America.”
“Looking for oil deposits?”
The way he said it made it obvious he didn’t think that was what we were doing.
“How long did you serve, Bud?”
“Thirty years in the Corps,” he replied. “I retired as a lieutenant colonel.”
That struck me a bit odd. Usually, a Marine officer would be a full-bird colonel by thirty years, maybe even a brigadier general.
“The first ten were active,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I spent the last twenty in the reserves, where I worked out of Langley, Virginia, at the behest of the president.”
“CIA?” I whispered.
“Although my address was Langley,” he said, then looked southward out the starboard hatch, “I spent most of those twenty years right down there.”
“Ambrosia isn’t just a research vessel,” I said quietly. “And Armstrong Research does more than look for oil deposits.”
He looked around the bridge. Axel and Ross had their backs to us. The two men were like bookends, both over six feet tall, broad- shouldered, and very fit. Not your typical helmsman and sonar man.
“I know who Jack Armstrong is,” he said. “You’re looking for drug smugglers or pirates.”
Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21) Page 10