Santos stared into the room. After a moment, he crossed himself and closed the door before sliding down the bulkhead to sit opposite Anderson.
“No one alive there, boss,” he said quietly.
“They mean to kill us all, Ben. I have to try to help whoever’s left, but we only have one gun. Hide, Ben. Survive to testify against these bastards.”
Santos shook his head. “In that room,” he said, “are two cousins and my sister’s husband, and others from my town. What will I say to their families? That I hid only so I could live to testify? Who will believe it? I would not be alive, boss. Only waiting to die. We go together.”
Chief Petty Officer Ricky Vega passed the backpacks to Broussard and scrambled aboard the SH-60 Sea Hawk as the younger man stowed them.
“Welcome to Malacca Air,” said the pilot into his helmet mike. “I do believe this is the earliest I’ve ever seen boat people vertical and ambulatory.” He grinned over his shoulder.
Vega grinned back. “Fuck you… sir.”
“I see rising in time to actually put in a day’s work has made you cranky, Chief Vega.”
Vega just grinned. He waited until they were well clear of Hermitage before speaking.
“So what’s up, sir? They told me to get Broussard here ASAP. I decided to tag along.”
“Milk run,” the pilot said. “Gotta eyeball some gunboats shadowing a tanker.”
Broussard and Vega exchanged looks.
“How are you armed?” Vega asked.
The pilot laughed. “In the middle of a multinational exercise? Not a chance. It’s not great PR to kill your allies while you’re training ‘em.”
Vega moved his backpack so his Beretta M9 was in reach. Broussard did the same. Neither had gone unarmed since the Alicia incident. Another “milk run.”
“Got it on the scope yet?” the pilot asked.
“Christ, yes,” said the copilot. “She’s huge. Be over her in twenty.”
The boats were visible now and Rupat Island a dark slash ahead. Sheibani looked into the wheelhouse at the captives, wondering which would foul themselves when the boats exploded. It would be amusing when they found themselves unharmed. Like killing them twice. And Yousif. He would be denied even the illusion of martyrdom and understand before he died just how he had been used.
“Chopper.” Richards pointed.
“Sooner than expected,” Sheibani said, unconcerned. “Very well. Let us end it.”
He smiled on his way to the VHF. “We’ll soon be in Paradise, Yousif. Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar!” Yousif parroted with a nervous grin.
Sheibani keyed the mike, and the roar of engines split the air as the boats rocketed away. Five hundred yards out and they turned, and the crews shouted encouragement to each other before speeding at China Star, rooster tails behind them.
“Boats moving away,” the pilot said, swinging the chopper to frame the boats in the open side door. As Vega and Broussard watched, the boats turned, their crews shouting and gesturing before the sea behind the boats boiled and the boats shot forward.
“Those are our boats!” Broussard screamed into his mike. “They’re gonna ram the tanker! Suicide bombers!”
“Get closer,” Vega said. “Put us right on their asses and keep them in the door.”
“Roger that,” the pilot said as he descended and closed on the boats sideways. Vega and Broussard left their seats and gripped grab rails as they opened fire.
Firing pistols from an unstable platform at a bobbing target was a long shot. They hoped to get lucky. They didn’t. The boats separated, making it impossible to target both, and the second man in each boat manned a .50-caliber machine gun. The pilot turned to present a minimal target and fled.
Broussard and Vega watched fireballs erupt at the ship’s side, followed by booming thunderclaps as water and debris rained down. They awaited secondary blasts that never came.
Sheibani and Richards emerged from behind the drawn curtains of the chart room, where they’d sheltered against the possibility of flying glass. Sheibani walked toward a confused Yousif as Richards stepped out on the wing.
“Just burn marks on the hull and debris in the water,” Richards said as he returned. “The chopper’s hovering a mile off, probably reporting. Let’s go.”
“In good time,” Sheibani said and smiled at Yousif.
“I… I don’t understand,” Yousif said. “Why didn’t we explode?”
Sheibani shrugged. “Our brothers’ sacrifice was a regrettable but necessary subterfuge.”
“You had men martyr themselves for… some sort of… of trick?”
“Just so,” Sheibani said. “Now, as far as you are concerned—”
“For Christ’s sake,” Richards said. “If you wanna give speeches, run for Congress.” He shot Yousif in the face.
“I told you no head shots!” Sheibani yelled, looking down at Yousif’s ruined face.
“So they ID him with DNA and fingerprints,” Richards said. “He’s wearing armor, genius. Should I have shot him in the foot and waited for gangrene? Let’s finish and go.”
“Very well,” Sheibani said. “Since you’re so eager, you do the honors.”
Without hesitation, Richards shot Urbano in the head, but as he turned the gun on Bonifacio, Holt shoved the third mate, and Richards’s burst went wide, shredding the man’s ear and shoulder. As Bonifacio fell, Holt charged, aiming a left-handed haymaker at Richards while deflecting the gun with his right hand. Richards slipped the punch and it glanced off his head. Unable to raise his gun, he fired a burst across Holt’s thighs and twisted like a matador as the captain’s momentum carried him wounded to the deck.
Richards scrambled backward and felt his ear, cursing as his hand came away bloody.
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot him?” he demanded over his shoulder.
“I assumed you could kill unarmed men. Now if you’re done mucking about, we can—”
Sheibani jerked at an explosion to port.
The chopper hovered, with orders from Hermitage to “continue at discretion,” which the pilot figured meant he was screwed no matter what.
“Whadda ya think, Chief?” he asked. “Not much damage.”
“I concur, sir,” Vega said.
“Get closer,” Broussard urged. “We need to know what we’re facing.”
“Listen, Rambo,” said the pilot, “our entire arsenal is your unauthorized peashooters.”
“C’mon, Lieutenant,” Broussard said. “The .50s are gone, and they’re not likely to take us down with small arms. We can get closer.”
“We aren’t flying this bird, sailor. That would be me.”
“The orders are to continue surveillance, sir,” Vega said. “Can’t see much from here.”
“Shit. All right, we’ll circle fast, then dart out of range.”
He tilted the chopper toward China Star.
Anderson waited to dash up the exterior stairway to the starboard bridge wing. The sea was littered with debris, and he stood parsing this latest development. They had one gun, limited ammunition, and grenades taken from the lounge. A search of the workshops had yielded no weapons but led to the discovery that inspired their plan. They’d found scuba gear and two underwater scooters on the starboard side of main deck.