“Ouch,” he clearly heard someone say.
“Climb, goddammit, Mr. Rincon! Climb! Climb now!”
Reese’s urgency got through, and Hugh unclenched one hand for the next rung, and the next, fighting the heave of the sea and the roll of the freighter and the shove of the wind and the sting of the spray. About halfway up he lost all contact with his feet, and his hands were bloodied and painful from rubbing against the hull. It felt like an hour later when a hand grasped the back of his Mustang suit and began to pull. “It’s okay, Mr. Rincon, I’ve got you,” Ostlund’s voice said, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on the deck and dry-heaving between his legs. Nothing had ever felt as good to him as the solid deck of the Star of Bali beneath his ass.
When he recovered enough to look around, the coxswain was climbing over the gunnel. He staggered to his feet in time to see the inflatable fall off the hull of the freighter. The line fastening the small boat to the bottom of the rope ladder pulled taut, twisting the ladder into a helix.
This had been much discussed in the planning session. “Mr. Ryan said they had fifteen people on board the Agafia. We have to assume there are at least that many on board the Star of Bali,” Sara had said. “We can fit ten of you, plus Mr. Rincon, into the small boat without swamping her. We will need every gun we’ve got. Everyone boards. They can leave the small boat tied off to the ship.” An escape hatch, in case things went sour, was what she was thinking.
On board the freighter, Delgado closed the door behind the coxswain and slammed down the hatch handle. He donned his pack and shouldered his shotgun. “This way,” he said, and they followed him single file through bundled pallets of rebar and angle iron stacked as high as the hold.
They came to a hatch. Ostlund put his ear to it for a moment. “Can’t hear a goddamn thing,” he said cheerfully, and cranked it open. Delgado slithered through, gave an all-clear, and motioned the rest of them inside. Hugh was last in, and he closed the hatch behind him. Ostlund tied a strip of red cloth to the hatch handle. “Hansel and Gretel,” he told them, “only better than bread crumbs.”
They went through a series of corridors without seeing a soul. “Where the hell is everyone?” Lewis said in a hoarse whisper. “This is getting creepy.”
Hugh didn’t say what he was thinking. He was thinking the crew of this ship was dead, every last one of them, the same way the crew on the Agafia was dead. He touched the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson in the holster strapped to his side. It comforted him.
They went through an exterior hatch and began to climb the outside stairs to the bridge. The fresh air was welcome to them all, but especially to Hugh, in whom fear was beginning to be superseded by nausea. He was almost wishing he were back in the small boat. He thought of Sara. He’d seen her standing on the bridge wing, watching as they pulled away from the cutter. Don’t worry, babe, he thought, I’ll be back. Me and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Which was probably why he was the one to stumble into the first man they’d seen since they boarded. He came around a corner the rest of the team had just passed, with Hugh bringing up the rear. He had earphones on and walkman in one hand, the other hand snapping to the beat.
He was also armed. When he saw Hugh, he drew and fired in one smooth motion. The shot went wide and he was smothered by a pile of furious, frightened Coasties before he could get off a second. When they got up, he was out cold, possibly for good.
The shot had been heard. They heard cries from the deck below and footsteps from above and quickened their pace, the stairs clanging beneath their feet. A shot ricocheted off the bulkhead near Hugh’s head, followed by the sound of another shot from the deck. A third shot, this one from above, made them all duck. Delgado, who seemed to have the instincts of a cat, didn’t flinch but trotted directly to another hatch, which led to an inside stairwell. He pointed up. “Bridge.”
“Weapons,” Ostlund said briskly. He looked as if he might not so secretly be enjoying himself. Hugh, still nauseous, wanted to shoot either Ostlund or himself. “Okay, Delgado, take Segal and Chernikoff and locate the engine room.” Segal and Chernikoff were the EO’s choice for this insertion. “Segal, Chernikoff, disable any secondary controls. If you find the hydraulics controlling the rudder, cut it or break it. Once we’re in command we can always take her in tow. What we want is control.”
“Aye aye, Ensign.” Delgado and the two engineer’s mates disappeared through a hatch.
“Okay,” Ostlund said, “let’s go,” and then a surprised look crossed his face. He looked down at the blood welling from his thigh and said, “Oh, shit.”
The crack of single bullets alternated with the explosion of shotgun rounds. It didn’t sound at all like it did in the movies. Hugh reached for his sidearm and then was hit in the back with a large club and felt himself falling forward, ever so slowly, ever so gently, onto a big black bed, oh, so soft.
Sara, he thought.
“Delgado!” Ostlund yelled into the handheld, right into Hugh’s ear from where he had fallen next to Hugh.
“Sir!” Delgado responded over the radio. “Segal and Chernikoff are both down! I am pinned down!”
“Understood, Delgado, I am sending assistance!” Ostlund pressed his hands against his thigh and looked at the men still standing. “Reese! Take two men and go get them!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The next shot sounded like a cannon, like the last trump, like Armageddon. The ship, already trembling from the pounding it was taking from the seas and the violent change of command, shuddered.
Okay, not sounding at all good for our side, Hugh thought. As for himself, he was tired, and he thought he’d take a little nap.
A GREAT SPOUT OF water went up off their port bow.
“What the hell was that!”
Mark Edelen, looking through binoculars, said calmly, “A bunker buster.”
“A what?” Sara said.
He elaborated, sounding like a firearms manual. “A shoulder-launched assault weapon firing rounds with explosive loads.”
Another puff of smoke from the bridge of the Star of Bali, another trail of darker smoke, and this time the marksman didn’t miss. The shell impacted aft of the bridge. The deck shuddered and everyone turned to see that the starboard cannon was gone.
“Yes,” Sara said, speaking over the ringing in her ears, “I see. Let’s fall off a little, shall we, Chief?” She looked down at where Edelen was crouched against the console.
“Jesus,” the chief said. He straightened. “I mean, aye aye, XO. Helm, all ahead one quarter.”
“All ahead one quarter, aye,” Seaman Cornell responded with a sangfroid to match Sara’s own.
Sara looked at Ops. “What’s the word from Ostlund?”
“Ostlund’s down. Delgado got to the boat and is picking up the ones who went over the side.”
“Who didn’t?” Sara said sharply. “Who isn’t with them?”
“Lewis. Segal. Chernikoff.” He looked away. “Mr. Rincon.”
Sara’s face went gray. Ops seemed to recede into the distance. She brought him back into focus with great difficulty. He looked worried as he watched her. “Are they sure?” she said, the words coming from a great distance.
“Ostlund saw him go down, XO,” Ops said. “I’m-I’m sorry.”
There was a dreadful silence on the bridge that seemed to go on forever.
When Sara spoke again her voice was hoarse. “Did they find the missile?”
Ops swallowed. “No, XO. Delgado says the Star of Bali had too many men and they were too well armed. Our guys were driven back. Most of them went over the side. Like I said, Delgado is picking them up in the small boat.”