Joint Task Force #2: America (28 page)

Senior Chief Leary reached over and took the weapon from Lieutenant Kelly. “Sir, you know how to fire one of these?”

Kelly shook his head. “No, do you?”

“Of course,” Leary said. “I’m a Senior Chief, ain’t I?” He turned the AK-47 automatic rifle around and around, running his hand over it. After several seconds of this, he looked up and asked, “Anyone know where the safety is on this thing?”

Kelly reached over and pushed the safety forward. “There, Senior Chief.”

“Did that turn it on or off?”

Kelly shrugged. “Not sure. If you try to shoot it and nothing happens, then push it the other way.”

Leary moved to the door and stuck his head into the
passageway. “Okay, coast is clear.” He motioned them to follow.

Outside, the bright lights of the passageway caused the three to squint as their eyes adjusted to the glare after seven days of captivity.

“They’ve got to be near us,” she whispered.

“You take that side and I’ll take this one,” Leary said.

“No, Senior Chief,” Early corrected. “You have the weapon. You watch, and Lieutenant Kelly and I will search the compartments.”

Each hatch had a small porthole like the hatch leading to the compartment where they had been held captive. Three compartments later, Early looked through the small porthole and saw several pairs of flight boots in the slight light.

“Here!” she whispered urgently. “I’ve found them.” She tried the lever locking the door and was pleased to discover that while it had been secured, their captors had been so confident that no one would escape that they had neglected to do more than wedge the lever down. She wiggled the triangular piece of wood, attempting to dislodge it. Kelly reached around her, grabbed the lever, and joined in the effort. A few seconds later, the wood came free, bouncing off the deck. The two of them swung the lever up and over, hearing the rubber gaskets around the edge of the watertight door break suction. Then, the door opened.

“Hurry up,” Senior Chief said. “I’ll stay out here.”

The two of them stepped into the room. No one said anything.

“Hey!” Early said. When no one replied, she grappled along the bulkhead until her fingers hit the light switch. Light flooded the room.

Along the bulkheads, the other crewmembers of the P-3C sat with dull glazed eyes staring forever forward, their hands still tied behind their backs. Blood soaked the fronts of their flight suits from deep cuts across their throats.

“They’re dead,” Kelly said, his voice trembling.

Early hurried toward the nearest crewmember and put
two fingers against the neck. “Check each one of them,” she said, her voice trembling. What creature could do this? And why hadn’t they done it to them?

Ten minutes they spent going from one crewmember to the other. Tears trailed down Early’s cheeks. The shadow of the Senior Chief blocking the hatchway flew over her a couple of times while she and Kelly moved from one to the next, hoping to find one of them alive. These were her crewmembers. Sailors—friends who were her responsibility and they lay dead, and there was nothing she could have done. She imagined the scene of their deaths. Dozens of terrorists scrambling into the compartment, cutting the throats of the crewmembers as some begged and others cursed.

Early and Kelly stepped back into the passageway. Kelly leaned his head against the far bulkhead and threw up. Senior Chief Leary glanced at him before returning his attention to watching the ends of the passageway.

Early took several deep breaths. “We’re it.”
What do we do now?
she asked herself. They were free, but where in the hell were they? Do they try to find a life raft or something, ease overboard, and hope no one spots their escape? The ship took a quick roll to starboard, throwing Kelly off the bulkhead and into the Senior Chief, who had spread his legs to keep his balance. The big man grabbed the Lieutenant by the arm and leaned him against the bulkhead.

“Thanks, Senior Chief,” Kelly said, his voice weak.

The ship rolled back to port.

“What now?” Kelly asked Early.

“I think—”

“I think you’re right, ma’am. We take the ship away from these assholes. We make our way to the bridge, call for help, and kill anybody we meet on the way. Then—” The Senior Chief stopped abruptly as the sound of gunfire caused the three of them to throw themselves against the bulkhead. Senior Chief swung the AK-47 one way and then the other. When no one appeared and no further gunfire occurred, they moved away from the bulkhead.

“What was that?”

“I think it was one of these,” Senior Chief said, patting the AK-47. “I just hope they’re using it against each other.”

“Okay, Senior Chief. Sounds like a plan,” Early said, slapping the huge man on the back. “Let’s take the bridge.”

“You know—” Senior Chief Leary started.

“I know—we know,” Early interrupted. The three of them looked at each other. They were outnumbered and outgunned. Their fellow crewmembers were dead and most likely, today, in the next few minutes, the three of them were going to die. They reached forward, placing their hands over each others’. Early took a deep breath. “Let’s take as many of them with us as we can.”

Leary reached over and threw the handle on the watertight hatch, sealing the compartment where their dead comrades lay.

The ship continued to roll with the storm outside. They probably could have slipped over the side, but then they would have died at the hands of the sea, and those carrying destruction to America would continue on their way, unopposed. When you know you’re going to die, taking your enemy with you is a patriotic duty.

Senior Chief Leary led the way, cradling the AK-47 in his hands. Early was surprised, but glad, to see how nimbly the large man moved. She had always associated Leary somehow as slow, plodding, but sure of himself. She was seeing him in a different light. How far could they go before they ran into the terrorists?

They needed more weapons than the single AK-47. Kelly had a little martial arts training—or so he liked to boast—but even he outweighed her by another seventy or eighty pounds. A hundred-forty-pound female pilot drawing back and punching someone the size of the Senior Chief would be more a nuisance than a danger. Yeap, of the three, she really did need a gun—preferably a big one.

This was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation.
They needed more weapons, but to get more weapons they had to run into more terrorists, and the more terrorists they ran into the more chances they had of getting themselves killed. She mentally crossed her fingers as they moved down the passageway, ignoring closed hatches, stopping at every intersection only long enough for the Senior Chief to peer around the corner. They maintained their forward movement. It seemed a long trip to the bridge; a bridge they had no idea where to locate. Frame numbers painted in black on a yellow rectangular block told everyone on a Navy warship exactly where they were inside the ship. It identified the frame number and within the numeric code lay information for the sailor to determine which deck he or she was on as well as on which side of the ship they stood. From what little she recalled of their capture, she was sure they had been interned somewhere on the port side, aft section of the freighter. The bridges of most ships are located amidships or slightly forward, where the Captain can watch the ship as it cuts through the waters. On some of the larger tankers, she recalled the bridge was all the way aft, but so many decks above the main deck that the Captain could still see the bow. The bridge on this freighter would be high in the amidships forecastle, probably the topmost deck.

So the three followed the motion of the vessel, working their way forward. Eventually they arrived at what looked to be the final intersection. Directly across was a brown metal door. Likely it marked a logical rather than a physical separation of the passageway. Once through it, it should either continue forward or reveal a ladder leading up or down.

Senior Chief Leary leaned around the corner, exposing his face only enough so he could see. He motioned to Early and Kelly indicating the passageways to the sides were clear.

The brown door opened, startling them. The man coming through the door was as shocked as they were, tripping over the transom and falling onto the deck. Senior Chief Leary kicked at the man, his flight boot glancing
off the thigh of the fallen terrorist. A second man stopped halfway out of the door. Leary brought the butt of his gun around and hit the man in the chin. Teeth flew from the mouth as the man collapsed in a heap.

The one on the deck scrambled down the passageway a couple of body lengths and turned, struggling to free his AK-47 from around his neck where the effort had pulled it tight. The Senior Chief ran down the passageway and slammed the heel of his right boot into the man’s groin, drawing a long moan from the terrorist’s lips. The man’s hands reached down to his crotch, forgetting about the weapon.

“Get the gun, Kelly,” Early urged, keeping her voice low. She pushed her copilot, who was blocking the passageway in front of her, toward the man lying halfway through the door. “Get it, quick!”

Kelly moved. Early squeezed past him and hurried toward the Senior Chief, seeing him raise the weapon above his head and bring it down on the man’s head several times.

“Senior Chief—” she said.

He reached down and jerked the gun from the terrorist’s neck, forcibly freeing the strap. He handed it to Early. “Here, Lieutenant,” he said, looking back over her shoulder where Kelly stood with his own weapon.

“We should hide the bodies,” the Senior Chief said.

Early shook her head. “We don’t have time, Senior Chief. If they don’t know we’re free yet, they will soon. We need to get to the bridge and to the radio.”

Kelly walked up. “Two down and probably only a couple hundred to go.” “Then that leaves only a hundred ninety-six, if your estimates are right, Lieutenant,” Leary added as he reached forward and flipped the safety off on Early’s AK-47. “Seems a little lopsided if that’s all they have.”

“Let’s roll,” Early said.

“Right quote for the right time,” Kelly added as Early pushed the door open and led as they continued on the way she hoped would lead to the bridge.

THE DOOR TO THE MEDICAL CLINIC OPENED AND CAPTAIN
Alrajool stepped into the room, holding the door open with his right hand. He looked at the dead Dr. Ibrahim, around the room at the six or seven people moaning, a couple laying in their own urine, and then at Tamursheki. The leader of this band of terrorists met the ship Captain’s eyes with a hard, angry stare as he handed Qasim’s weapon back to him.

“Why’d you kill him?” Alrajool asked, looking at Tamursheki.

“Because he has killed us.”

Alrajool shrugged and nodded his head once to the left. “Doesn’t matter, Amir,” he said, acknowledging Tamursheki with an honorary title familiar to the Bedouin tribes. “We’re entering the channel to Hampton Roads.”

The ship rolled steeply to starboard before righting itself. Everyone standing reached out and grabbed hold of something to keep from falling. That is, everyone but the Captain, who bent his knees and adjusted to the roll of the ship—a common skill learned by mariners after years at sea. Alrajool smiled slightly at the wide eyes of the landlubbers who were falling all over the place. He wondered briefly how long they would last in a real hurricane.

After they righted, Captain Alrajool continued. “This is going to get worse before it gets better. We have to travel along the eastern shore for several miles in the channel, where there is nothing to our starboard side to deflect the winds or seas. That means the shallower the water—”

“That is your job. I don’t need to be impressed with your knowledge of the water. It is information that will be useless to me after I get ashore.”

“Did Doctor Ibrahim per chance leave the name of the person we are supposed to contact to help remove the cargo?” Alrajool asked. He pushed the door away, only to have it swing back against him. He didn’t want to come all the way into the clinic. The open door at least gave
him an immediate exit if the mercurial Tamursheki decided that he didn’t need him either.

Alrajool glanced down at his feet, saw the shattered vials, and took a deep breath. He held his breath as he stepped back into the passageway. “I’m going to the bridge. I would recommend you start preparing for your departure. As much as this weather is making our trip rough and complicated, on the positive note, it keeps the American Navy and Coast Guard ashore. We are nearly to the entrance of the channel leading into the port of Hampton Roads. With luck, they will think we are a normal merchant ship running from the storm, trying to make harbor before it fully hits. You can’t be on board when we dock. You have to gather those men, even if they are sick, and leave the ship.” He pulled his cellular telephone from his pocket and hit the telephone listing buttons until the right number appeared. “I am calling our contact, and we will off-load the cargo as soon as conditions permit. We can’t have you on board when we reach the pier. American customs is too strict these days.” The telephone refused to connect. Alrajool knew it wouldn’t, but he kept the phone wedged against his ear. “We can convince the Americans of our cargo, but we can’t convince them that a ship this size needs eighteen young men such as yourselves to handle the cargo.”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I know that only you and three others are to remain in Norfolk. The rest of your team is to split up and disappear across America until they are contacted again.” He closed the telephone and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I will try from the bridge.”

“And how are they going to disappear across America?” Tamursheki shouted. “Look at them. Whatever the dead doctor did has rendered them useless.”

Alrajool handed the paper to Tamursheki and shrugged. “I can’t help what he did. They have to go with you or you must tie weights to them and toss them overboard. If they are found on this ship, then Abu Alhaul will have lost not only a ship that he depends upon, but
also the mission, with which you have been entrusted, will be a failure. Your failure will live with your family’s name. It will be kaput. Either you will die in a blaze of gunfire without ever leaving this ship or you will join the hundreds that America still holds in Cuba. You will talk. They all do. The Americans are not fools. They know what makes a hostage side with their captors as we do, and eventually—maybe not today, tomorrow, or even in the next week, month, or year, but eventually—you’ll talk.”