Captain Jack Leary, USN, sat in his ready room with the sat phone at his ear.
“Captain Leary, this is Jim Brice from the embassy in Singapore. I’m conferencing in Jesse Ward from Langley. We need your help. Go ahead, Jesse.”
Leary listened. When Ward finished, Jim Brice spoke.
“Port Klang has nothing unaccounted for near China Star, and they didn’t send out any escorts,” he said.
“Are they following up?” Ward asked.
Brice sighed. “I suspect they’ll drag their feet until she’s out of their waters.”
“That’s not gonna hack it,” Leary said. “Any threat needs to be handled before the passage narrows at Phillip’s Strait. But what can we do about it?”
“Can you check it out?” Ward asked.
“I’m running a multinational effort planned for months. I can’t just head north.”
Ward persisted, “Maybe one vessel—”
“Look, Ward,” Leary said, “I can’t go into territorial waters without consulting my counterparts. And they’ll request instructions, and we’ll get no decision until the tanker is in flames or safe and halfway to Japan. See my problem here?”
Ward sighed. “Yes, I do, Captain, but what can we do?”
After a long silence, Leary replied. “I guess we take a risk. I can get a chopper over her without being too obvious. If there’s a problem, we close, and if that ends well, we call it a multinational effort and all take a bow. If not… well, I never wanted to be an admiral anyway.”
“Thanks, Captain,” he said. “By the way, is that sailor from the hijacking with you?”
“Broussard? Yeah, he’s one of our referees.”
“Might be a good idea if he was on that chopper.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Richards demanded.
“Preparing our escape,” Sheibani said. “Allah smiles on the prepared.”
“Good,” nodded Richards, mollified. “How much longer?”
“We turn into the western channel now and ground off Rupat Island in an hour, maybe a bit longer. I will reduce speed. I don’t want to ground hard enough to breach both the outer and inner hulls.” He smiled. “It is difficult to swim in crude oil.”
Richards returned the smile, heartened by mention of escape. Sheibani moved to where Ortega stood near the helmsman.
“Make your course one seven oh,” Sheibani said.
Holt stepped in from the wing just as the second mate protested. “The western channel is too shallow. We cannot!”
Sheibani shot Ortega in the head, and Holt recoiled as wet bits of brain hit his face and slid from his chin to fall beside Ortega’s twitching corpse.
“One seven oh,” Sheibani repeated, and the terrified helmsman spun the wheel.
“Half ahead,” Sheibani said.
Bonifacio stood on the far side of the bridge, waiting, but the captain stood frozen, staring down at Ortega’s body, barely visible in the predawn light. Bonifacio raced to the console.
“Half ahead, aye, sir,” he shouted.
Such a pity, Sheibani thought. Just when I get these monkeys trained I have to kill them.
Anderson stole a glance at the clock, willing Santos to hurry.
The head man said something, and his underling started for the door. Anderson’s mind raced, desperate to buy Santos time, when unexpected motion caused him to grab the console storm rail as the ship turned.
The head man reached the console just as the engine control changed to half ahead.
“What you do?”
Clueless, thought Anderson, looking past the head man to the second man, halfway to the door, unsure what to do given the new development.
“I do nothing,” Anderson said. “We don’t control here. Bridge do.” He pointed to the phone. “You talk friends. They tell you.”
The hijacker picked up the phone, and when he hung up, Anderson launched into a stream of technobabble.
“OK, OK. You shut up now.” The hijacker stuck the gun in Anderson’s face, Santos forgotten for the moment. Anderson sneaked a look at the time. Damn it, Ben, what’s taking so long?
Santos stood in the CO2 room, racked with indecision. Was he really meant to trigger the CO2? He had a gun now. Should he try to rescue Anderson? He felt the ship turn and slow and decided to trust his instincts. He crossed himself, pulled the release, and raced aft.
“What you do?” the senior terrorist demanded, gun to Anderson’s chest.
“Not me. Bridge do,” Anderson screamed over the alarm. “Big mistake. Someone started gas to put out engine-room fire. Gas comes in twenty seconds!” He pointed to the raucous alarm and the large red sign beneath it.
DANGER — CO2 RELEASE — WHEN ALARM SOUNDS VACATE IMMEDIATELY.
The head man reached for the phone.
“No time! We stay, we die!” Anderson moved toward the engine-room door.
The head man dropped the phone and leveled his gun. “Stop,” he ordered, as the other hijacker struggled with the most obvious exit, the door leading to the deckhouse.
“No,” Anderson lied, pointing to the blocked door, “that door locks automatically to keep people out of engine room. Don’t worry about your friend. He’ll escape with Santos. We must go this way.” Anderson pointed through the control-room window to a large sign stenciled on the engine room bulkhead, reading EMERGENCY ESCAPE ROUTE, with an arrow pointed down.
The underling rushed to Anderson’s side, and an argument broke out between the hijackers. Anderson grabbed three masks from the rack, keeping one and setting the others on the deck to allay the men’s suspicions. The men didn’t notice that the two he’d set out for them came from a shelf of discharged masks, awaiting recharge.
Anderson slung the mask around his neck and fled into the engine room, with the men on his heels, juggling masks and guns. He raced down the steep stairs sideways in a controlled fall, right hand gripping the rail behind as he steadied himself with his left on the opposite handrail in front, feet hitting every third step. It was an acquired skill, and he was soon well ahead, increasing his lead on each flight of stairs as he spiraled downward. The hijackers could do nothing to stop him, for they dared not kill their guide out of the maze.
He planned to lead them to the emergency escape trunk, sure that when they saw the vertical ladder out, they’d push past him in their panic. When they were on the ladder, he planned to fade back into the engine room and escape by a different route with his mask. The hijackers wouldn’t know Santos had locked the hatch until they were at a dead end, on top of the ladder, with no escape.
The warning horns continued their plaintive wail as Anderson reached the lower engine room and rushed aft beside the giant turning shaft. He hadn’t figured on such a lead. They would be suspicious if he stopped now. He decided to lie on the deck at the foot of the ladder, feigning a pulled muscle. He stepped into the escape trunk and looked up.
To a square of black sky and stars. Shit. Ben hadn’t closed the hatch.
OK, change of plans. He’d try to make it out and lock the hatch down behind himself. He started up the long ladder at breakneck speed as the alarm horns began to fade. Halfway up, the CO2 began to roar through distribution nozzles, and he looked down. The expanding gas sucked heat from the humid space, condensing moisture in the air. His terrified pursuers emerged from the thick white fog, climbing toward him for all they were worth.