Captain Ivanov tried sitting up straighter, the pain in his chest barely subsiding. He adjusted his eyeglasses as he silently questioned who these strangers were. The Russian language being spoken by the two sounded perfect, especially by the one who seemed to be in charge. But he couldn’t be certain they were Russians.
In the radio room James cut the microphone wire. The radio was equipped with a Morse key, so he unplugged it and stashed it in his utility pouch. Communication would still come in, but nothing could go out. He left the room, and gave Grant a thumb’s up.
Grant pointed to Slade, James and Diaz, saying to Slade in Russian, “Ready it for pickup.”
The three carried the crate from the bridge, heading for the starboard ladder. Setting it down, Slade lashed the roped around the crate while James and Diaz positioned themselves on a step below, ready to put their backs against it. Wrapping one end of the rope around his waist, Slade started lowering.
Four ladders, four levels later, they were on the deck. They carried the crate toward the helipad, putting it near the steps. They’d wait till the chopper touched down before lifting it to the pad.
Slade turned aft and pointed toward lights. “There’s Matt.” He pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Four-One. Ready to signal.” He wasn’t expecting a reply. The three men moved in front of the crate, getting down on a knee in defensive positions.
On the bridge, Adler kept scanning his surroundings, when something caught his eye. He scrambled around the tied men, looking behind the radar indicator. An AK-47 propped up, leaning against the bulkhead. He snatched the weapon, holding it for Grant to see.
Grant’s jaw tightened as he walked closer to Krupinski, who had a hand pressed against his chin, trying to stop the bleeding. Grant squatted in front of him, and asked in Russian, “Are there any more weapons?” No response. He grabbed Krupinski’s forearm, squeezing until the Russian winced in pain. Grant jammed the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. “I asked you. !”
“Yes! In engineering. There is one that I know of!”
Fuck! Grant thought. He motioned for Novak to follow him off the bridge. Adler automatically took a position a few paces from the prisoners, looking out of the corner of his eye, knowing Grant was more than just pissed.
Grant rested the barrel of his weapon against his shoulder, looking down at the deck, expecting Novak to explain without him even asking.
Novak leaned closer, talking softly. “Three men secured. We searched but didn’t find weapon. Don’t know where it could’ve been, boss.”
“Any chance there’s somebody roaming the ‘bowels’ with it?” Grant asked, with his stomach beginning to tighten.
“Fuck, boss! You know we didn’t have time to search the whole fuckin’ ship! Mullins gave us a count of souls on board and … ”
Grant held up his hand. “No more excuses, Mike. Go tell Frank to get that fuel line ready.” Novak took off, swearing to himself.
Grant looked toward the bow. Winds were stronger than when they boarded, but that was the least of his worries. He shook his head, thinking it’d been twice somebody from the Team fucked up during this op. They couldn’t afford fuck ups. He was pissed.
He pressed the PTT. “Four-One. Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead Zero-Niner,” Slade responded, looking toward the bridge.
“Signal Matt. Copy?”
“Copy that.” Within seconds, Slade fired the flare.
Garrett was ready. With the lights of the ship in his sights, he nudged the cyclic lever forward. The nose dipped until the chopper reached just over fifteen knots, then it transitioned from hover to forward flight.
Before returning to the bridge, Grant had to advise Adler. He pressed the PTT, and spoke softly. “Joe, possible crew member with weapon; possibly more. I’m coming in. Want you to lash helmsman to wheel to allow steering.”
As soon as Grant walked onto the bridge, Adler began his task. Checking the helmsman was secure, he backed up, saw Grant give a slight tilt of his head, and knew that was his cue to get the hell off the bridge.
Giving the Russians one last glance, Grant finally left the bridge. He slid his .45 into the holster, then lifted the MP5’s strap over his head. He started walking along the deck, with his weapon ready, focusing on the bow and along the cargo holds. The sound of the chopper got his attention. Peering through the bridge windows, he saw it descending.
He took off, running along the deck, stopping every now and then to scan the main deck. He surmised that if there was anyone Novak and Diaz had missed, and probably with a weapon, everyone in engineering, crew’s quarters and bridge would be turned loose before any counter-assault was attempted.
It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. But then he thought he heard something, possibly someone running. Slinging the weapon’s strap over his head, he ran to the ladder. With an arm resting on each railing, he stretched his legs out in front of him, and slid down the ladder, just like he did when he was aboard ship. He used the same process three more times. Sliding off the last ladder, he hit the deck running, racing toward the helipad.
Four of the men were on the deck below the helipad. Garrett remained in the cockpit. With his hand on the “stick” and the rotors spinning, he was ready for liftoff. From the side window he could see Diaz, who was trying his damnedest to finish refueling.
Suddenly, everyone focused on Grant running toward them, pointing rapidly, motioning them into the chopper. They scrambled into the cargo bay, again taking defensive positions.
Diaz immediately shut off the valve, disconnected the nozzle, then closed the tank with its pressure cap. Not wasting any more time, he dropped the heavy nozzle, ignoring the sound it made when it clanged against the deck. He ran to the cargo bay. Just as the rotors started picking up speed, a shot rang out.
“Fuck!” Diaz shouted in pain, as he grabbed the outside of his thigh. Adler and James reached for him and dragged him aboard.
Grant dove into the chopper. “Get us outta here, Matt! Mike! Find that sonofabitch!”
Instantly, Novak had his rifle in his hands, then he crabbed his way on his belly, getting close to the open doorway. He moved the rifle quickly but smoothly, looking through the scope.
Garrett adjusted the collective pitch control lever, and the helo began its vertical climb.
“Got him!” Novak shouted. He refocused the scope, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.
Brain matter and blood exploded from the back of the man’s head, spraying across the bulkhead where he was standing below the bridge. His lifeless body caromed off the wall, struck the rail, then catapulted over the top. The body collided with the deck.
“Matt!” Grant shouted. “Head for Doc! At our six!”
As the chopper started its turn, more shots rang out from automatic weapons.
“What the fuck?!” Grant roared.
“Starboard side, second level! Eyes on deuce!” Adler called out, as he returned fire with his MP5. Slade joined in the shootout.
Novak started to take aim, but the chopper had finished making a one eighty and he no longer had a shot. “Goddammit!” he blurted out, smacking a fist against the deck. He missed a chance for another shot, but his guilt crept in. If he and Diaz had only searched more thoroughly.
Grant grabbed Stalley’s medical bag, unzipped it, then took out a battle dressing. “Joe, hold his leg up while I slide the crate close!” He chucked a roll of gauze to Adler, then ripped open the outer waterproof cover, then the inner package holding the battle dressing. He knelt next to Diaz. “Hold this against your leg, Frank. Doc’ll be here soon.”