Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  “You say the sweetest things, Blades.” He joined her on the floor, carrying an Army green canvas bag over his shoulder. He surveyed the wrecked hydrofoils. “Too bad my resurrection’s gonna be short-lived.” He put a hand on Flipper’s wrecked, light gray underbelly. He patted it. “Cause when Brice sees this, he’s gonna kill me.”

  Tara wavered her hand in a circle, indicating the space around them.

  “Let’s make sure we all survive this first.”

  McMurphy opened the flap of the shoulder bag and palmed two more hand grenades. He tossed them to Tara. “Courtesy of Captain Tolliver.”

  She caught them and dropped them into pockets in the utility vest she wore over her black neoprene wetsuit. McMurphy did the same with the two he still had.

  “Any idea how we find Brice?”

  McMurphy grinned. “No, but I have a way to contact someone who can help.” He tossed Tara a wireless microphone system, complete with earbud. They started assembling them. “Remember that Secret Service agent named Gregg?”

  “Franklin, sure.”

  McMurphy arched a bushy red eyebrow, repeating, “Franklin?”

  “Stop acting like a child.”

  He grinned. “Never. Anyway, I ran into him on the Putnam. He gave me these, said they’re programmed to the same frequency Secret Service team down here is using.”

  Tara screwed the earpiece into her ear. “Meaning we can contact Holloway or her men.”

  McMurphy nodded. “Assuming they’ve got their ears on.”

  He played with the volume and squelch. “Agent Holloway, you out there? This is Skyjack McMurphy. I’m with the Coast Guard. Agent, can you hear me?”

  A minute passed. Tara and McMurphy exchanged glances. She shrugged.

  About to try again, McMurphy winced against a blast of static in his ear.

  “Skyjack!” Bannon’s voice, distorted but distinctive boomed in their ears. “That you, you, old walrus? Is that really you!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  McMurphy’s voice came over the earpiece in Bannon’s ear. “Brice?”

  Bannon grabbed Larson by the arm, halting her forward progression through the machine room. His heart swelled at hearing his old friend’s voice, at realizing McMurphy was alive. His words; We’ll see, in his head. Not in a triumphant I told you so way, but as a reaffirmation of his undying faith in McMurphy. In his team.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Moon Pool Alpha.”

  “Here?” Bannon blurted. “You’re here? In Tiamat Bluff?” He couldn’t believe it, but he broke into a wide smile all the same. “Stay put. We’re coming to you.”

  “Negative,” McMurphy said. “We made some noise and broke a few things getting here. Not sure we want to hang around for the squatters’ cleanup crew to get here.”

  “We?” Bannon asked.

  Tara said, “Later. Where do we go?”

  Bannon looked to Larson, relaying what his team had told him.

  “There’s a small observation alcove and bar on level three. It’s called Njord’s Den.”

  Bannon repeated her instructions.

  “While I like the notion of a bar,” McMurphy said. “No one’s given us the nickel tour yet. No clue where that is.”

  “Three levels up from where they are now,” Larson said. “In the northwest section. They’ll find directories at every stairwell and elevator.”

  Bannon relayed her instructions on how to get there. “Stay close to the corridor walls to avoid cameras. See you in five.”

  Five minutes later, Bannon and Larson burst through a teak door with frosted glass and etched porpoises leaping from crashing waves. The alcove and bar had dozens of S-shaped booths around dark, wood-stained tables, strategically positioned to take maximum advantage of the panoramic views of the red-hued ocean outside. A highly-polished teak bar ran along the east wall.

  McMurphy stood with his back to them, his hands and face plastered up against the window, looking out, like a little kid visiting an aquarium for the first time. Tara was behind the bar. Hearing them come in, she looked up, grabbing the machine pistol that lay on the bar.

  They were both in wetsuits and wearing battle fatigue utility vests.

  Bannon raised his hands. “Easy.”

  She took her hand off the weapon and grinned. “Brice.”

  To all outward appearance, one would think they’d just seen each other five minutes ago. But in her eyes, he saw the relief she felt, similar to his own.

  McMurphy was slower to respond. When he did, it was clear he was reluctant to tear himself away from the view Tiamat Bluff offered. Turning from the view as a giant squid glided past, he said, “This place is incredible.”

  “I should’ve known you’d finagle a way down here,” Bannon said with a wide grin.

  McMurphy crossed the room. “An invitation would’ve been a lot less trouble.”

  He bypassed Bannon to grasp Dr. Larson’s hand with his massive paws. “Doc, I’m in awe.”

  Larson smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Skyjack, by the way.” He continued to hold her hand. To Bannon, he said, “Smart and beautiful, too.”

  Bannon shifted his attention to Tara. “Blades, Holloway’s family. How are they?”

  “Safe and sound. They’re with the police. Brandon Reynolds is overseeing their protection.”

  Bannon nodded. “Brandon’s a good man.”

  He exchanged a glance with Larson. Not a smug, I told you so, expression the woman probably expected. It was one of relief and of pride. He had confidence in his people and it had paid off. This time, he thought inwardly, reminding himself that might not always be the case.

  “Tell us what we’re up against?” McMurphy said.

  Bannon and Larson filled them in, taking turns with the narrative. They finished up by saying, “The hostages are being held in a restaurant on level two. Neptune’s Glen. Near as we know, POTUS and Grayson are there, too, and relatively unharmed. So far. Holloway has gone radio silent, so her status is a mystery at the moment.”

  He exchanged a worried glance with Larson. “I believe she’s still an asset, but until we reestablish communication with her, we can’t rely on any inside help from her.”

  “How do we proceed?” Tara asked.

  “My original plan,” Bannon said. “If you could call it that, was to storm Neptune’s Glen, secure POTUS and Grayson, and with the help of a submersible pilot named Garcia, get them to the one rescue mini-sub that’s left.”

  “Get them to safety, then deal with the rest,” McMurphy said, approvingly.

  “Simple. Direct,” Tara said. “I like it.”

  The one hesitation Bannon had had all along, was what would Lang do if they did successfully spirit POTUS and Grayson away? How would he react? In retaliation, a man like that might start to kill off hostages. That bothered Bannon greatly. His military training, the strategist in him, said it was an acceptable risk. That was the mission. POTUS’s life outweighed the value of the other hostages, was more important in the scheme of things than the innocent men and woman left behind to face the wrath of a madman.

  It would be the right thing to do, any military expert would say.

  Yet that stuck in Bannon’s caw. In his mind, no one’s life should be valued above someone else’s, not even the President of the United States.

  “You said original plan,” Larson said, noting his hesitation.

  Leave it to the scientist to notice the details, Bannon thought. “That was when it was just the two of us.”

  He turned to McMurphy and Tara, happy beyond words to have them by his side once more. “Skyjack, you and Dr. Larson to head up to Ops. Do what you can to regain control of the facility. But remember, Lang’s got some of Tiamat Bluff’s people up there with them, forcing them to work. Dr. Larson can get you there and help with the technical stuff along the way, but not everyone you encounter is necessarily a hostile.”

  “What are we looking at in te
rms of enemy combatants,” Tara asked.

  “I don’t have a firm count. The best we could estimate was Lang came onboard with sixteen to eighteen personnel.”

  “Several of them are dead.” Bannon mentally ticked of the casualties they knew about, included Sucre. “Probably about a dozen left.”

  “Minus the two we took out in the moon pool,” Tara said.

  McMurphy smiled. “Against the three—sorry, Doc—four of us. I like those odds.”

  “Heavily armed and well-trained,” Bannon warned. “They’re disciplined. Good. And,” he emphasized, “the goal is to keep the hostages alive. All of them.”

  McMurphy pulled a Beretta and two more two grenades from his satchel, He tossed them to Bannon. “These might help. Courtesy of Captain Tolliver.”

  Bannon smiled, clutching the weapons. “Guess that means I owe Bob a few rounds the next time he’s in the Keel Haul.”

  “What’ll you two be doing while the Doc and I storm the castle?” McMurphy asked, meaning Tara and Bannon.

  “We’ll head to Neptune’s Glen. Secure POTUS and Grayson and get as many hostages out of harm’s way as we can. After that—”

  “It’s all mop up,” Tara said.

  Bannon was about to tell them to move out when their earbuds filled with static. The three of them heard it, like someone keying a walkie-talkie on and off. It was coming over the Secret Service frequency. Bannon, McMurphy, and Tara exchanged concerned glances.

  The only one without an earbud, Larson said, “What?”

  Bannon shook his head to quiet her. Lang’s voice crackled over the wireless frequency.

  “Hope that got your attention, Commander. I know you can hear me so listen up. You have succeeded in trying my patience. That’s quite the feat for someone as skilled and disciplined as I am.”

  Without it going out over the air, McMurphy said, “Cocky son of a dirtbag, ain’t he?”

  “As you might have guessed since I’ve taken over this line,” Lang said. “Agent Holloway is no longer a factor in this little game. She’s a pawn that’s been removed from the board. With a bullet.”

  Tara gave out a soft gasp.

  Bannon tightened his fist. He felt a muscle pulse along his jawline. Still, he remained silent.

  “Her death is on your head, Bannon. As is poor Karen I-never-got-her-last-name in Ops earlier. And who else? Oh, yes, all of them. The point is, I’m going to give you one more chance to get it right. You see, I’ve been in contact with the surface, and it seems things aren’t going as well for us as General Sucre—oh yeah, another death that I understand was by your hand—might have hoped. So, I’m here with Kingsley and the Colonel—”

  Bannon couldn’t remain silent any longer, he stepped forward and keyed the radio in his pocket.

  “If you harm either one of them…”

  “When I do, it’ll be on your head, too. Two more lives you’ll have to answer for.”

  Again offline, McMurphy said, “Don’t let this guy bait you, Brice.”

  Bannon, his teeth gritted. “What. Do. You. Want?”

  “You. I want you standing in front of me in the next fifteen minutes. At which point I will gun you down, in cold blood. Then I’ll kill you precious President Kingsley all while the Colonel stands helplessly by and watches. Then I’ll kill her, too. Clock’s ticking. Fifteen minutes.”

  Bannon responded. His voice low. Cold. Intense.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, Lang. I’m coming. But this isn’t going to end the way you think. I’m coming and I’m going to kill you. You will pay for all the death and destruction you’ve caused here today. You will pay for killing Kate Holloway by laying in a puddle of your own blood and slowly bleeding out while I stand over you and watch the life seep out of your worthless, wasted body. And then—”

  Bannon cut himself off. He gave McMurphy and Tara a determined nod. They nodded back, ready and equally determined.

  Left hanging, Lang said, “And then what, Bannon? What?”

  Bannon said as much to his people, his friends, as to Lang. “We end this. I end you. And Lang, don’t have any misgivings. Afterward, I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Grayson stood beside Kingsley, listening to Lang taunt Bannon.

  No longer even pretending anyone was ever going to get away from Tiamat Bluff alive, his arrogance had made him wire the call to his phone, putting it on speaker for all to hear. But his hubris had backfired. Now Lang shook with rage as the conversation turned against him. She recognized the signs as control slipped from his grasp. Back when she knew him, she’d warned him his cockiness would be his downfall one day.

  Kingsley reached up and grasped her hand. He squeezed it.

  POTUS had never been a soldier. An academic, a businessman, and a caring philanthropist, he was holding up—facing his own death—with tremendous fortitude. She’s always liked and respected David Kingsley, but never was she prouder to serve him, and possibly die for him than she was at that moment.

  She squeezed his hand back. “We’ll get out of this, David. I promise.”

  “For a former CIA spook,” he said, not buying it. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Lang leaned forward over the phone. His brow creased. His eyes narrowed. “And then what, Bannon? What?”

  “We end this,” Bannon’s voice said. Cold and controlled. “I end you. And Lang, don’t have any misgivings. Afterward, I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  Lang’s tanned craggy face turned three shades dark with rage. He threw the phone across the room.

  Grayson couldn’t resist. “You look worried, Chase.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You should be. There’s a collection of lifeless corpses around the world of men who’ve gone up against Brice Bannon. They’re all dead and he’s still here.”

  Lang, enraged, rushed at her.

  Kingsley and Garcia stepped forward, blocking his way.

  “I’ve left bodies behind, too. More than you can imagine. More than I can remember.” He pounded his chest. “And I’m still here, too!”

  Quietly, calmly, Kingsley said, “For the moment.”

  Lang aimed his pistol at Kingsley’s face. “But maybe you won’t be.”

  Grayson stepped around the two men protecting her, stood between the gun and Kingsley.

  Kingsley grabbed her shoulder. “Liz, don’t.”

  She shook him off even as Garcia pulled him back, attempting to shield POTUS behind his own body again. A move that would make any Secret Service agent proud.

  “It’s over, Chase. You’ve never been one to fight on after the war was lost. Let this go.”

  “Maybe my employer's battle is lost.” His gun hand never wavered. The gun pointed at her forehead. “But my agenda’s unfolding right on schedule.”

  The muscles in his forearm tightened. His fingers squeezed around the grip and trigger.

  This was it, Grayson thought. It’s over.

  Kingsley cried out. “Don’t!”

  It wasn’t much of a distraction but Grayson took full advantage of it.

  She grabbed Lang’s gun wrist, lifted his arm into the air. She stepped under it and spun. Her back to Lang now, she tossed him over her hip. The gun went off as Lang landed squarely on his back with a thud and a grunt.

  Her aggressive action spurned the others in the room to action. With Lang having announced their inevitable demise, the hostages realized they had nothing to lose. They jumped from their seats at the tables and rushed at the guards positioned at the restaurant door. Two there. A smaller group charged the one posted by the spiral staircase going up to Ops. They cried out like an attacking war party.

  Machine pistols were lifted.

  Grayson called out, “No!”

  But it was too late to stop what had begun.

  The groups ran seemingly unafraid at the armed men. The first in line, their bodies jerked as they were raked with rapidly fired bullets. But that didn’t stop the others. As the
first line fell, the rest continued to swarm the men. Like locusts devastating a crop, they overwhelmed them with the sheer force of their numbers. They smothered them until the machine pistols went silent, then dragged them to the floor, ripping the weapons from their grasps.

  Grayson, still holding Lang’s wrist, twisted his arm as she stomped down on his throat.

  He gagged and lost his grip on his handgun. It tumbled out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

  Disarmed, Lang grabbed Grayson’s ankle with his free hand and pulled her foot from his neck. He rolled into her supporting leg, knocking her off balance. She fell to the floor, chipping her elbow painfully on the base of a potted plant.

  She made a grab for the gun, but Lang, gasping, savagely kicked her in the thigh. Knocked away from the gun, she cried out.

  Lang clamored to his elbows and knees, clutching his damaged throat. His voice raw, horse. “You bitch!”

  Grayson lunged for the gun again. Lang caught her by the ankle and pulled her back. The gun spun out of her reach.

  She twisted and kicked Lang in the forehead. That dislodged his hold on her ankle. She kicked at him again. Her heel smashed into his nose, breaking it. He howled. Free of his hold, Grayson crawled like a mad woman toward the gun. She grabbed it and rolled onto her back, firing at where Lang had been, but he was gone.

  Overwhelmed by the hostages, the guards had been subdued and then beaten to death. The crowds were moving away from them, leaving the battered bodies to bleed into the carpet while they hugged and consoled those still alive. Others began the grim task of tending to the wounded and the dead.

  Grayson sat up, angry, sore, and breathless. “Where’d he go? Where is Lang?”

  Garcia stood protectively over a prone Kingsley face-down in the carpet. He pointed toward the kitchen area. “That way. There must be a way out the back.”

  Grayson kicked off her heels and stood up, her body quivering from exertion and adrenaline, but already achy. She ran for the kitchen in her stocking feet.

  Behind her, Kingsley called out, “Liz. Don’t!”

  She glanced back to see him up on his knees, being helped to his feet by Garcia.