Joint Task Force #2: America (30 page)

Early slipped, but her flight boot found the raised edge of the walkway. She twisted her boot sideways and braced against the raised edge.

“Help!” Kelly shouted.

Early looked to the right, where a moment ago the copilot had stood. The curtain of water parted. Kelly was flat on his back. His feet swung into space through the bottom of the safety lines. Both hands gripped the bottom line as he struggled to keep himself from falling overboard. He pulled against the steel chains of the safety lines, trying to pull himself back onto the steel mesh walkway.

Early wanted to reach down to help him, but she would have to let go. If she did, she’d lose her grip and the motion of the ship would do the rest to toss her overboard. They needed the weapons they had if they had any
opportunity to survive. For a fraction of a second she debated dropping the AK-47 to help Kelly.

Senior Chief Leary squatted, placed his weapon on the deck, and put his foot on top of it. The ship began to roll right. Leary reached out past the safety lines, grabbed the waist of Kelly’s flight suit, and with one heave shoved the thin copilot back onto the walkway. With both hands working furiously, Kelly scrambled backward until his back hit the bulkhead only a couple of feet away.

“Are you okay?” Early asked, shouting over the noise of the storm.

Kelly looked up at her, his eyes wide, his breath coming in quick, short gasps. His face was white. Then his eyes looked past her. “Look out!” he shouted, one hand reaching toward her.

Early rolled forward, coming up against Kelly. The hatch from which they had emerged swung by, crossing the very space where she had been. It slammed against the hatchway. If he hadn’t shouted, she would have been crushed between the hatch and the hatchway. She crawled over, reached up, and pulled the lever down, locking the hatch in place, sealing them onto the walkway.

She looked at Kelly and mouthed, “Thanks.”

He nodded. “I lost my piece,” Kelly said, referring to the AK-47. Rain ran down his face, dripping into his open mouth.

She read his lips more than heard him. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.” She looked forward. Senior Chief Leary was at the far hatch that opened into the bridge. Using the starboard roll of the ship to keep his balance, the huge flight engineer leaned out past the safety lines of the walkway to look through the nearest window into the bridge. He jumped back, looked at her and Kelly, and then motioned them forward.

“I counted five with at least three of them with arms.” He said when they reached him. “Lieutenant, you lose your gun?”

“It fell overboard when the wave caught him, Senior Chief,” Early said. The rain seemed to be slackening. The
shoreline was visible again, and she could make out where beach turned to trees. Senior Chief Leary and Lieutenant Kelly must have been looking in the same direction.

“Looks like the old Cape Henry lighthouse,” Kelly said. “Been there. It’s on Fort Story.”

“If that’s Fort Story,” Early said, “then we’re off Virginia Beach like you said, which means whatever is on this ship is probably headed toward the Norfolk Navy base.”

The three looked at each other for a moment, the two men deferring to her for a decision. After all, she was the mission commander and the senior Navy officer both on board their aircraft and now on board this ship.

“We’re going to take the bridge,” she said, feeling her stomach tighten. She was a pilot on a four-engine propeller-driven maritime reconnaissance bird; she wasn’t even a fighter pilot, and here she was telling the two of them they were going to attack and take over from armed men the bridge of a terrorist vessel. Armed men probably trained to fight until they were killed. For a brief moment, the idea of jumping overboard and swimming for shore seemed acceptable, but in that same brief moment she realized they’d drown in these seas, sucked beneath by the notorious riptides augmented by the storm surges.

The ship tilted left. Salt water rolled off the top of the open deck above them like a cold shower, again drenching water-saturated flight suits. She wondered for a moment if she looked as bad as they did.

The ship righted itself.

Senior Chief Leary looked at the sky. Clouds passed overhead, heading east with the circular winds. “Looks as if the storm may be headed out to sea, Lieutenant. If it is, then we only have so long before these assholes try to take this ship into the harbor.”

Early nodded at the two men, pointed at the Senior Chief, and then nodded toward the door. They weren’t going to take the bridge sitting out here.

CAPTAIN ALRAJOOL BURST THROUGH THE DOOR ON THE
starboard side, glancing at the helmsman as he entered the bridge. Across from him, with binoculars dangling from his deck, was his Chief Mate, standing beside the leading seaman of the vessel. An able-bodied seaman entered the bridge with him. Tamursheki was evil—evil to the core—and when the man realized that his hollow cries for martyrdom were going to be answered, it wouldn’t surprise Alrajool for this fanatical youth to try to kill him, his crew, and blow the ship up inside the harbor. It was something he himself would do, if he was younger, as stupid, and if roles were reversed.

Abu Alhaul had lied and tricked Tamursheki, but Tamursheki was like other followers of this wanna-be Muhammad. The terrorist leader would never consider that this great charlatan, Abu Alhaul, had intentionally led them to their deaths. Alrajool leaned closer toward the forward windows of the bridge. The faint view of a shoreline blinked in and out through the windshield wipers. About twelve nautical miles away, he figured. Somewhere on that spot of land would be the man Abu Alhaul had vowed to kill—a vow this new leader of radical Islam had taken when he had learned the name of the military person who had led the American Special Forces team responsible for the deaths of his wives and children. The thing about vengeance is it clouds the big picture. What Abu Alhaul failed to understand, but Alrajool did—as did those such as he who retained doubts about their own omnipotence—is that vengeance is a fast tide to failure. He leaned away from the windows. Time to get on with business.

“Chief Mate, call the engine room and tell them to secure their doors. Unless they hear from me personally, they are to obey the orders of the bridge. Keyword is ‘Big Apple.’ ”

The tall, bearded merchant marine officer who was Chief Mate, picked up the handset and passed the instructions to the engineer, who had three sailors with him in the engine room. As he put the handset back in its cradle,
Alrajool envisioned the huge Greek hulk of sinew and muscle who had refused to come out of the engine room since they’d sailed; a Christian distrustful of the terrorists. Alrajool knew the man had had the doors secured before he had been ordered, and now with his instructions relayed, any change to revolutions or directions—forward, reverse—would have to be accompanied by the code word ‘Big Apple’ otherwise the stubborn Greek would ignore the command.

He pushed the able-bodied seaman standing beside him toward the far hatchway leading from the walkway that ran along the port side of the ship. He didn’t expect Tamursheki to come that way, but you never knew what those seeking death are prepared to do. The other able-bodied sailor he positioned near the hatch through which he had entered.

Without saying anything to the two other men manning the bridge, Alrajool turned back to stare across the bow of the freighter. Now came the series of critical moments that would determine whether this mission failed or succeeded. Rain and spray rattled the windows that banked the bridge. He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the telephone listing buttons a couple of times until the right number appeared. “I’m calling our contact and having them ready the pier, Affendi—my friend,” he said to the Chief Mate, who was standing beside him.

He jerked his thumb toward the bulkhead behind him. “Get the weapons out until Tamursheki and his band of assholes are off our ship.”

The merchant marine officer nodded. Like Alrajool, he only wanted to finish this dangerous mission and return to sea before the Americans discovered what was happening. Alrajool paced to the starboard side of the bridge while his number-two flipped the locks on the false bulkhead behind the helm. The helmsman stood and slid out of his seat so the officer could open the hidden storage space.

The sound of Alrajool talking mixed with the muffed
noise of the storm as the Chief Mate slid the false wall up and into the overhead. Bolted onto the hidden bulkhead were several pistols along with a couple of older Brazilian Uru 9mm submachine guns. Originally designed in 1974 for the Brazilian Army and police, over the decades these older but still efficient automatic weapons had made their way into hands such as his.

Alrajool closed the cellular telephone and clipped it onto his belt. Now that they were at their target, he needed access to it in the event that those watching and observing had to make last-minute changes. His second in command pulled the weapons away from the mountings and passed them to the bridge crew. A few more American dollars and Alrajool could have bought better and more efficient weapons, but he didn’t need a lot. He prided himself on doing his covert missions the way they are supposed to be done—covertly, with stealth. He did not intend to fight an American or a British boarding party. He sure as hell was not foolish enough to fight the French Foreign Legionnaires, who preferred to kill first and ask questions later. He took a deep breath and flipped on the television monitors. He thought of the hidden safe in his stateroom. He possessed enough intelligence to work a deal with the British or the Americans, though most likely it would require him to retire to a life of luxury. He smiled.

A wave washed over the starboard side of the ship, slamming against the windows and the bulkhead of the bridge. The helmsman nearly fell, but the Chief Mate grabbed the helm, holding it steady, while pulling the helmsman upright.

“Keep her steady, Helmsman,” Alrajool said, holding on to the overhead safety line that ran the width of the bridge. The makeshift line allowed bridge personnel to move around the confines of the small compartment in the worst of storms as they maneuvered the vessel. On the television monitor showing the second deck, Tamursheki and his men emerged from the medical compartment. For a moment, the terrorist leader looked toward the front of
the ship, toward the bridge, as if trying to decide what to do next. Alrajool took a deep breath.

Tamursheki turned away and started down the passageway toward the stern of the ship. Alrajool released his breath when he saw Tamursheki motion the others to follow. The terrorist leader was heading to the rafts. Alrajool shut his eyes for a moment as he said thanks to Allah for getting the fool and his lackeys off his ship. In this rough weather, he’d be surprised if any of them made it ashore, but he didn’t care. That wasn’t his responsibility. All he cared about right now was having them off his ship. Damn fools.

Alrajool picked up the handset to the radio. “Time to tell the Americans we’re coming in. They frown on surprises, so keep them informed and they’ll be happy,” he said to his Chief Mate.

“Let’s see, channel sixteen, harbor common,” he said, mumbling to himself as he checked the radio controls. Satisfied, he raised the microphone to his lips.

The hatch from the walkway slammed opened, startling him, causing sweat to break out instantly across his forehead as the thought of Tamursheki crossed his mind. Alrajool caught a glimpse of a huge black monster, screaming at the top of his voice as he rolled through the entrance. He nearly lost bladder control. The roar of the storm drowned out any understanding of the shouts inside the bridge. Water ran from the intruder’s face. The man’s body looked as if seaweed was stuck tightly against it.

The Chief Mate raised his Brazilian Uru. The automatic weapon in the monster’s hand rattled, sending bullets spraying across the bridge, ripping into the Chief Mate. The helmsman was caught in the same burst as he ran toward the far hatch where two others had already dove through and escaped.

The huge figure rose to one knee, cradling the gun and pointing it directly at Alrajool. Behind the attacker, two others entered the bridge.

The sailor near the door fired. The Chief Mate’s Uru fired a couple of bursts into the overhead as he fell.
Alrajool glanced at the black man and knew he was dead. The three figures opened fire on the able-bodied sailor who was trying to pull a weapon off the bulkhead, sending him reeling backward, jerking like a misused puppet.

The thought burst into his mind that these weren’t part of Tamursheki’s group. Alrajool dove for the deck, taking the microphone with him, gripping it tightly in his hand, unaware he had the transmit button pushed down.

These were the three prisoners they had had belowdecks. What in the hell was Tamursheki thinking, freeing these people? They were Americans. Did he expect them to slink off into some corner, curl into a fetal position and die?

Alrajool released the microphone. The transmit button jumped out, automatically stopping transmissions from the battle. In the storm, gray light cast dark shadows across the deck of the bridge, Alrajool crawled toward the dying sailor near the far door, searching for the pistol the man had dropped. The shooting stopped. He found the pistol, his hand touched it as a cold metal barrel jammed into the small of his neck.

“Try it, asshole,” a deep bass voice said. “Just try it.”

“Senior Chief!” Early shouted. Kelly lay prone on the deck near the hatchway. A pool of blood grew under the copilot.

Senior Chief Leary never looked up, but pressed the gun barrel deeper into the back of the neck of the man beneath him. “I think I have to kill this one,” he said through clinched teeth. “How about it, Lieutenant? We don’t need prisoners, do we?”

“Don’t kill me!” Alrajool begged, throwing his arms up as far as he could raise them off the deck while laying face down.
Oh, my God,
he thought. “I know stuff. I can be helpful,” he offered, his words running together. These were Americans. They would negotiate.

“Yeah, well, I know stuff, too. And, what I know right now is that you’re the Captain of this ship where we’ve been captives for . . . and your men killed good friends of mine.”