“No. We’ll wait for our people to call us when they have the situation under control.
Control was a problem in the deckhouse. Murdock and his Alpha Squad had played it by the numbers. He and Jaybird went in the first door on the deck level, found a changing room with nobody in it or in the rest of the first deck’s three rooms. They worked silently up the stairs and discovered the officers’ quarters.
“Door’s locked,” Jaybird whispered to Murdock.
“Who do we have who picks locks?” Murdock asked. Jaybird passed the word for Ken Ching to come up front. He looked at the locks, took out a set of lockpicks he had learned to use when he went to locksmith school, and soon had the first lock opened.
“Locked, so they must be good guys,” Murdock whispered. He opened the door slowly and shined his light inside.
“What the hell?” an American voice asked.
“We’re Navy SEALs,” Murdock said from a crouch near the door.
“Chrissakes, you fuckers got here in a rush. I’m Tabler, the first mate. Bunch of raunchy Arabs grabbed us two nights ago. Or was it one night ago? Damn glad to see you. You have control?”
“No, just arrived. Can you show us the best way to get to the bridge without getting our asses shot off?”
“Local native guide,” Tabler said. “How many of you?”
“Eight on this end. Eight in the poop deck.”
“Good. Only four of them here. Some of them may be sleeping. Should be two on duty topside. Got a spare weapon?”
“No. If we need to shoot, we’ll shoot. How do we get to the two sleepers? Where would they be?”
“In the captain’s cabin. They threw him out early on. He’s pissed.”
“Show us where. Would the door be locked?”
“Shouldn’t. They control the place. Let me get my pants on, and I’m with you.”
A minute later, First Mate Tabler led the way down the short companionway on the second deck to the end door.
“Captain’s cabin,” Tabler whispered.
Murdock and Jaybird, both with their H & K MP-5 submachine guns, stood by the door. It opened outward. Jaybird turned the knob, then nodded at Murdock. Jaybird jerked the door open; Murdock went in with his flashlight on and held against the barrel of the subgun. He saw two men in the captain’s big bed. Jaybird slugged one in the head with the butt of his subgun. Murdock fell on top of the other one, who was sleeping on his stomach, and pulled the pillow hard against his face.
“Strap them,” Murdock said. Senior Chief Dobler had followed them in, as did Ron Holt. Each slipped the plastic riot cuffs on hands and feet and then put gags around their heads, covering their mouths.
“Yeah,” said Tabler, who had come in with the others. “I’d like to kick that one called Haddad in the balls about four times. He’s a bastard. Can I throw him overboard?”
Murdock grinned. “Maybe later. Right now, we need to get the last two of the guys on this end and hope that DeWitt has wrapped up the poop deck. Where do we go?”
Tabler led them to the end of the corridor and pointed up a set of steel steps. Murdock nodded at Joe Lampedusa and motioned for him to go up. Murdock went second, then had Jaybird right behind him. He whispered to Ken Ching to go get the other ship’s officers out of the still-locked rooms.
Lam went up the steps on his rubber-soled boots like a ghost. Murdock wondered if he even breathed. He had his Colt M-4 up and ready. It had the suppressor on.
Lam edged up the steps with Murdock right behind him. He expected to get some resistance. The top men would be in the bridge, making sure the computer sent the ship where they wanted it to go. Murdock had no way of knowing if they had changed the original route to take the fortune in oil to a new customer.
They came out of the steps on a small platform and then a door that led into a brightly lit room. The glass in the door showed the ship’s nerve center. The whole thing was computerized, with various display screens and high chairs to sit in to watch the screens and the way ahead through the expanse of large windows that slanted outward.
Only one man sat in a chair. He wore clothes too large for him, with shirtsleeves rolled up three times and pants that must be rolled up at the bottom. He was dark and had a full beard and short hair. An Arab.
Lampedusa turned the doorknob and gently pulled the panel toward him. He had it half open, with his weapon pointing inside, when the door squeaked. The Arab darted a look toward the door and at the same time brought up a pistol and fired twice.
Lam caught the slug in his chest and went down. Murdock’s line of fire was clear. He point-aimed the subgun and pounded off three rounds of the 9mm messengers of death. The terrorist took the rounds in his stomach, folded over, and sagged to the floor. He held both hands over his belly and screamed.
Murdock saw that the terrorist was out of action. He turned to Lampedusa, who had sagged against an instrument panel.
His shirt showed blood high up. Lam blinked and shook his head. “He hit me?”
“Just a scratch. Right under your clavicle, right side. What we used to call a million-dollar wound, a going home kind. Don’t push it, just slide down and sit on the floor. I’ll take a look.”
Murdock unbuttoned the top Lam’s cammie shirt. The slug had gone just above the clavicle bone, cut about an inch of flesh, and come out. Nothing fatal. Murdock told Holt to keep pressure on the wounds until Doc got there.
Then he looked at the terrorist. He knelt beside him. “Where’s the other man?” Murdock asked.
“Go to hell, American devil,” Kamel Jaber said in English. “You will surely rot in your own hell for all of eternity.” He coughed after he said it and spat up blood.
“You’re a dead man, terrorist. You know how bad hit you are. You’ll never see home gain. Tell us what we want to know. Your other man should be watching the radar screens.”
“Go fuck your mother twice,” Jaber said in English. Murdock punched him in the face and felt something break inside the man’s cheek. Good.
“Tie him up; let the bastard bleed to death. Tabler, where could that last one have gone?”
“Not many places to hide on this tanker.”
“No? This thing is a half mile long. There must be dozens of hiding places. What about down in the holds somewhere?”
“We have ninety-three holds, they all are filled with oil right now. No place there.”
“The engine room; must be places down there.”
“That’s in the stern. Yes, he might be down there.”
“What about the forecastle?” Murdock asked.
“Yes, a chance. Easy to clear that one.” Tabler rubbed his hand over his face, evidently trying to think. “Okay, I’d say the engine room and front holds for general cargo would be best. The forecastle, a maybe. Clear that first, then we can check the hold.”
“Not we. My men know how to check a ship. Can we talk to them in the poop deck?”
“Certainly. The phone’s right there. I’ll ring them.” Tabler picked up the phone and hit three buttons and handed the instrument to Murdock.
“Yes?”
“It’s all right, DeWitt. This is Murdock. We’ve got the bridge secured. We’re in control. You have that area clear?”
“Yes, one dead and two prisoners.”
“We have one terr missing. He might be back down there somewhere. Keep a look out. We’ll be down there shortly.”
He hung up. “Senior Chief, take two men and clear the forecastle, and use your Motorola when it’s done. Tabler, get your officers up here and run the ship. It’s yours now. Your captain would probably like to know what’s going on. The rest of you, let’s get aft.”
“What about the body?” Tabler asked. “He died while you were on the phone.”
Murdock pointed at Bradford and Ching and told them to take it down to the storage room on the first deck. Then they headed aft to the poop deck. One terrorist with an automatic weapon could cause a lot of problems on this tanker. They had to find him before he turned deadly and started shooting up people or equipment.