Basic seamen in a crew of officers, scientists, and engineers, the two deckhands performed manual duties and stood watches with the armed guards. At thirty-minute intervals, one of the men would walk around the outside of the ship while the other sailor patrolled the interior spaces and cargo areas.
After twenty-five minutes, the two would gather at the same spot on the main deck and have another cigarette break. Like a broken record, they continued their ongoing complaints about their bosses, their meager salaries, and their working conditions. It was their way of life, no different at sea than in port.
Three minutes before his jump, Scott made his way to the back of the Greyhound and sat down near the loading ramp. The pilots turned off the interior and exterior lights, and then concentrated on following the GPS readouts as precisely as they could. Between the spacecraft and the recon planes, the exact location of Chen Ziyang was known within six to nine feet of her actual position.
After Scott and the flight crew went on oxygen, the pilots depressurized the cabin and lowered the cargo ramp. With one minute to go, Scott carefully walked to the open ramp. He pulled his clear goggles down and rechecked all of his parachute fittings. A crewman tapped him on the shoulder, signaling that they had reached the jump coordinates.
Scott bent forward and took two long strides, plummeting from twenty-eight thousand feet into the dark night sky. He could barely discern where the sky met the coal-black water. Once he was stabilized in a facedown, spread-eagle position, he began searching for the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. Knowing the basic design of the ship, Scott wanted to land near the open fantail of the bulk cargo carrier. Landing on the bow of the vessel would expose him to the crewmen manning the bridge.
From the information Hartwell Prost had given him, he knew the bridge was slightly aft of midship and that the vessel had two aft holds and two forward holds intended for general cargo. Twin risers resembling king posts served as stacks. The ship had a variety of standard booms and two high-capacity booms, one forward and the other aft.
On board the Chen Ziyang, the sailor walking around the exterior of the ship never heard the C-2A Greyhound. He walked slowly, listening to the sounds of the ocean and stopped to look at the luminescent bow wave. Although he and his shipmates constantly complained about their lives at sea, he loved being on the ocean and smelling the fresh breeze.
Passing twelve thousand feet, Scott still hadn't located the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. It was an uncomfortable, anxious feeling. He was beginning to think the information the pilots had received was wrong. He took off his oxygen mask and tossed it and the portable bottle into the black night.
Where is it? Scott thought as he fell through nine thousand feet. The altimeter was unwinding at an alarming rate and he had to make a decision. If he couldn't locate the ship by five thousand feet, he needed to pop his chute to give himself more time to search for the vessel. Concentrate. Don't screw this up.
Eight thousand feet.
Where is it?
Seven thousand feet.
"Son of a bitch."
Six thousand feet.
Scott gripped the rip cord and started to yank at the same instant he saw a ship. He hesitated, thinking it was a cruise liner. No, a cruise ship wouldn't be three hundred miles north of Hawaii.
Five thousand feet.
Scott waited, but there wasn't much time.
Four thousand feet.
It has to be the cargo ship. He spotted a wake and then running lights. Ah, twin risers — got it.
Three thousand.
Slightly ahead and to the left of Chen Ziyang, Scott waited a moment and then pulled the rip cord. The chute opened with a soft report and he began his approach to the fantail. Dalton could clearly see the name of the ship. He let out a sigh of relief. I'm almost there.
The sailor standing on the starboard side of the bow was startled by the soft, muffled sound. He looked around and didn't see anything suspicious. More curious than alarmed, he began walking toward the stern of the ship. The man wondered if he'd really heard something or whether his imagination was getting the best of him. He grinned, thinking about his shipmates. They constantly kidded him about being hard of hearing whenever there was work to be done.
Playing it cautiously, Scott approached the ship with plenty of altitude. The last thing he wanted to do was come up short and land in the water aft of the cargo vessel. At four hundred feet he could see the details of the deck reasonably well. He approached from amidships and made a very tight 180-degree turn high and close to the fantail. If he overshot, he could bleed off altitude quickly and hit the deck from an almost vertical position.
Scott completed his turn at a hundred fifty feet and focused on the spot where he intended to land. He had a nice approach going, controlling his descent with judicious use of his parachute risers. At seventy feet, Scott was about to begin his flare when he saw a sailor walking onto the fantail. Stunned, he made a split-second decision.
Keeping up his speed, he brought his knees up and steered straight at the unsuspecting crewman. As silent as a whisper, Scott extended his legs in front of him and slammed into the sailor with the force of four men. The blow knocked the wind out of the crewman and literally lifted him off his feet. He staggered backward and fell over the side of the ship, landing in the churning wake.
Feeling the effects of the collision, Scott quickly got to his feet and slipped out of his parachute. He threw it and the reserve chute overboard along with his helmet and goggles.
He did a quick check to make sure the cameras and the radios were okay. Scott then began looking for a passageway leading to the cargo holds. On his third try, he found a ladder leading to the aft cargo holds. To his surprise he could see, although the light was dim, that the holds contained nothing more than general cargo and some containers of oil.
Scott retraced his path and went up to the main deck. Quietly and cautiously, he worked his way toward the bow and found another ladder, leading to the forward cargo holds. As soon as he saw the giant laser and associated equipment, Scott knew he had hit pay dirt.
He took a moment to study the sophisticated equipment. The two brightly lighted cargo holds had been revamped to allow the laser-based weapon and the attached holographic image-projection apparatus to be hydraulically raised to the main deck.
The complex mechanism, along with the enclosed control console, was well built and mounted to a thick steel plate with six hydraulic arms. It reminded him of the platforms used for flight simulators.
Scott quickly removed one of his waterproof cameras from the pouch and began snapping pictures. He moved rapidly, photographing everything in the combined holds, including the laser with a warning sign in the background. The sign was in Chinese, as were the warning plaques on the control console and on the door.
Dalton was in the process of using the second camera when a sailor walked out of a passageway and almost stumbled into him. The Chinese crewman was thunderstruck. Panic flashed across his face.
Chapter 19
Dave Finchly flew the Seahawk while Jackie continuously updated their position in relation to the cargo ship. By her calculations, Scott should be aboard the Chen Ziyang and about ready to leap overboard. Finchly was slowing Black Shadow Six to maintain a position fifteen nautical miles from the Chinese ship. When Scott came up on the radio, they would quickly move in to hoist him aboard the Seahawk.
The intermediate transmission-oil-temperature light illuminated.
"Uh-oh, trouble," Finchly said. "Ah, we have a major problem."
"Oh, yeah. We need to find a deck ASAP."