The plan was to get between the hijackers and the hostages and leave the escape path clear. They had crept to D Deck, one level below the bridge, and Anderson waited on the starboard exterior stairs for Santos to creep through the deckhouse and toss a grenade overboard to port as a diversion. With the hijackers focused on the port side, Anderson hoped to rush onto the bridge from starboard and get between the hostages and hijackers, keeping them at bay until Santos joined him. He hoped that, faced with resistance, the hijackers would run.
But the explosion of the boats confused things, and Anderson crouched against the side of the house, unsure. He flinched at gunfire above. God damn it, they were killin’ ‘em. He rushed up the stairs just as an explosion sounded from the far side of the ship.
Sheibani rushed to the port wing. Richards glanced at the unmoving men, then backed after him. “What’s going on?” he demanded over his shoulder.
He reached the port door just as Anderson charged in from starboard, firing. Outside, Sheibani dived aft for cover. Richards began to return fire just as a poorly aimed bullet from Anderson caromed off a window frame into his armor with stinging force. He backed outside through the door and ducked down beside Sheibani.
All for nothing, Anderson thought as he took cover. The bastards killed everyone.
“Christ,” Holt growled. “You couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a fucking bass fiddle.”
Relief washed over Anderson. “You OK, Dan?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Of course I’m not OK, you dumb ass,” Holt snarled. “The son of a bitch shot me.” He went on with a catch in his voice. “And they killed the others.”
Anderson fired at movement, striking the doorway near where he’d aimed, just as Santos burst through the starboard door and dropped down beside Bonifacio.
“Boney is alive,” Santos said. “Not too much blood. I think he will live.”
The third mate groaned as Santos dragged him to cover.
“Thank God,” Holt said from behind the steering stand, crawling to retrieve Yousif’s gun and then forward to help Anderson.
“Ben,” Anderson said, “encourage them to leave with one of those grenades.”
“Fuck this,” Richards said. “Like you said, let’s leave them and get out of here.”
“That was the engineers. The bridge crew heard things. And may live, thanks to you.”
They bickered. Sheibani was considering shooting Richards himself when a grenade clanged down beside them on a crazy bouncing path, past them and over the edge of the deck to explode below on top of the lifeboat.
“Beard of the Prophet,” Sheibani said, “how I wish we’d kept some grenades.”
“Uh… I have one,” Richards said, groping in a side pocket.
Allah deliver me, Sheibani thought.
“Then throw it, you idiot. And make sure to pull the pin.”
Sheibani raised his head at a sound as the chopper loomed toward them.
“Our toothless friends are coming to watch, Richards. Please don’t disappoint.”
The chopper was running in fast from starboard when the pilot pulled up at muzzle flashes inside the wheelhouse. Something exploded on the far side of the ship, and a large armed man in bloody coveralls bolted up the starboard stairs and into the wheelhouse. More shooting.
“Folks aren’t playing nicely,” the pilot said.
“Good guys and bad guys, but who’s who?” Broussard asked as a small man dashed up the stairs and into the wheelhouse.
“Company coveralls,” Vega said. “Must be crew. Bad guys must be to port.”
The pilot circled far to the port, in time to see a grenade explode on top of the lifeboat. Broussard trained binoculars on black-clad figures crouched just aft of the open bridge door. One looked up.
“Sheibani!” Broussard screamed. “That murdering bastard! Get us closer!” He loaded a full clip as Vega did the same.
The pilot slowed and studied the weapons in the hands of the terrorists.
“Lieutenant,” Vega said, “that scumbag killed three of my men. Skinned one of ‘em alive. We can’t hover with our thumb up our ass and do nothing… sir!”
“Roger that, Chief,” the pilot said as he slipped the chopper sideways at the ship.
“OK, junior,” Vega said, sitting on the deck with feet toward the door, “let’s improve our odds.” He rolled on his side and raised his knees, the Beretta between them in a two-handed grip, pointing out the door. “Squeeze your knees together for support,” he said, and Broussard copied. “We’ll be stable and smaller targets. Course, if they drill us, we’ll be singing soprano.”
“Lieutenant,” Vega continued, “keep us a little high so we don’t take friendly fire from inside and vice versa, and angled down a bit so we can see the targets.”
“Roger that, Chief. Good hunting.”
Broussard was trying not to think about a bullet in the balls.
“Target left,” Vega said, indicating he would take Richards.
“Sheibani is mine,” Broussard confirmed.
“Let’s do it, junior,” Vega said.
A bullet ricocheted beside Sheibani and whined away. He aimed at the black square of the chopper door but saw nothing except an indistinct mass near the bottom of the square.
“Hurry, fool,” he said. “We must kill them and get inside.”
Richards rose to his knees, the door to his left. To minimize exposure, he would throw left-handed. He flinched as a bullet whined off a bulkhead, pulled the pin, and twisted to his left.
Vega knew the range was absurd. They were shooting downward, so they didn’t have to worry too much about the bullets dropping over the ridiculous distance, but all they could really do was put rounds in the general vicinity and hope. He shot economically nonetheless, adjusting as the pilot closed the range. He was thankful his target was not returning fire until he saw the man draw back to throw. In a heartbeat, Vega evaluated the situation and emptied the clip as fast as he could pull the trigger.
None of Vega’s fusillade struck his target directly, but a ricochet clipped the man’s ankle midway through his throw. He jerked and released the grenade prematurely. It sailed forward over the wind dodger, tumbled to the main deck far below, and bounced over the side to explode harmlessly. Broussard, hearing Vega’s fire and deluged by ejected casings, also changed to rapid fire.
“I’m outta here,” Richards said as bullets struck around them. He rose to a crouch and limped aft. Sheibani moved in concurrence, passing him to rush ahead down the stairs and into the shelter of the deckhouse.
Anderson’s joy at the retreat was brief.
“The Chartroom door,” he shouted and rushed through the curtains with Santos.
Santos held the door open and stood aside, giving Anderson a clear shot at anyone topping the stairs. They tensed as a door opened below, followed by hurried footfalls descending the stairs, away from them.
“They’re running,” Anderson whispered. “It’s over, Ben.”
“Not yet, boss,” Santos said, plunging through the door.
The stairs were solid plate, and Santos knew a blast at one level would be contained. At D Deck he tossed a grenade, banking it like a billiard ball off the bulkhead of the next landing down, so it bounced down the stairs after the fleeing hijackers.
“For Paco and Juni,” he said his cousins’ names as he ducked back and covered his ears.