A few minutes later the phone rang. Cal was on his feet, answering it well before it rang a second time. "Captain."
"Seaman Roberts, Captain."
"Yes, OOD, what is it?"
"There was a young man from Austin," Seaman Roberts said. 1 see.
"Who bought himself a new Austin."
"Yes, I can see where that might be a problem."
"There was room for his ass, and a gallon of gas."
"Certainly."
"But the rest hung out and he lost 'em."
Sternly repressing a grin, Cal said, "Tell MPA I'll be right down."
"Yes, sir." Seaman Roberts hung up.
Cal put the phone down. "I'm sorry," he said gravely. "A little problem in Main Control. No, no, nothing serious, but my presence is required."
Halfway out of his chair, Taffy said, "Is it something I can handle, Captain?"
"No, no," Cal said. "Please, sit, enjoy yourselves as long as you like. I believe dessert this evening is apple pie a la mode, and you haven't eaten apple pie until you've eaten FS2 Steele's apple pie. I'll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime"-he grinned cheerfully at Taffy-"XO has the con."
He snagged his cap and headed for the door.
On his way out, Admiral Barkley caught his eye and winked at him.
21
TEN MILES EAST OF MELBOURNE, FLORIDA,
ON BOARD FREIGHTER MOKAME
Akil watched the tiny screen on the handheld GPS until the last digit on the coordinates changed. "All right, it's time," he said. "Everyone ready?"
It was a rhetorical question. They'd been ready for an hour and a half, since he'd brought the GPS out and left it out.
There had been very little discussion of their plan or its objective. "It really is quite simple," one of the engineers had said, sounding almost disappointed.
"Occam's razor," another said. "The simplest explanation is usually the correct one." He dared a shy smile. "Nine-eleven was a simple plan, too."
Akil smiled back. "Yes. It was. Inshallah."
"Inshallah."
At present several of them were on their knees praying toward Mecca. When they were done, they checked their weapons.
These were the smallest of small arms, the Ruger Mark II.22 semiautomatic pistol, with nine-round magazines. Each man had two pistols and a dozen magazines, all bought online through a variety of different Internet stores in different states with different identification papers and forwarded through several mail drops and a discreet, expensive customs clearinghouse to another mail drop in Port-au-Prince, where Yussuf had collected them upon arrival.
Akil's reasoning was that they were going to have to move fast and he didn't want the men to be burdened with a lot of heavy weaponry. Further, heavy weaponry would not be necessary if all went according to plan. He had ensured that his men would be trained on small arms. The Rugers were well made and reliable, and there was plenty of ammunition to accomplish the task at hand. Indeed, it was very probable they could take the ship without firing a shot. From Bayzani, he knew that at the time the ship in question was to be boarded, the crew would be unarmed, would be taken by surprise, and should be sufficiently cowed into obedience by a weapon of any size.
Lastly, and this was the most significant reason, in spite of the intensive training they had all received over some part of the past six months, these men were amateurs. They'd never seen combat. They'd never been under fire, if you didn't count the riot in Dusseldorf, and Akil didn't. Akil's plan depended on secrecy and stealth. The last thing they needed was for an inexperienced soldier of God to let loose with an AK-47 in the act of piracy on the high seas. Especially when Akil was absolutely certain none of them could hit what they were aiming at with a rifle of that size.
"Ready?" he said.
They nodded. They were wearing dark clothes and dark-colored, rubber-soled shoes. Their pistols were in doubled shoulder rigs, with the extra magazines in belt holsters. With jackets on, they looked a little bulky but that was all.
"Very well," Akil said. "Wait for my signal."
He slipped out of the door and down the passage, remembering the way from his earlier sortie even in the dark and even with all the bodies crammed into it. He tripped over some, he kicked others, but no one made a fuss. They were either too seasick to protest or too afraid of drawing attention to themselves to speak up, for fear they'd be put over the side before they reached the promised land. The first lesson had been ably demonstrated, and well learned.
When he got to the pilothouse, the captain was still there, perched on the high wooden chair in front of the wheel as if he hadn't left it in the five days they'd been at sea. "Ah," the captain said, "Mr. Mallah."
Akil had had so many different pseudonyms over the past year that for a surreal moment he wanted to look around to see who the captain was speaking to. Instead, he locked the door to the pilothouse behind him and pulled his pistol. "Captain, I'm afraid I'm taking command of your boat."
"Are you, now," the captain said, unsurprised. He took a leisurely puff on his cigar, and held it out to blow smoke on the lit end. Instead, he flicked the cigar straight at Akil, and rocketed out of his chair after it.
Akil instinctively dodged the cigar and twisted to one side to avoid being tackled. He hit the captain on the head with his pistol butt as he passed by, a glancing blow, not hard enough to knock him out but enough to get his attention. The captain hit the bulkhead hard and tumbled into a clumsy pile. He groaned.
"Shut up," Akil said, and hauled the captain to his feet and heaved him back into his chair. "Alter course to 240, due west."
Either still recovering from the blow to his head or faking it, the captain didn't immediately move. Akil took his left hand-the captain had been smoking with his right, and Akil needed him functional, at least up to a point-and flattened it against the bulkhead. He tossed his pistol up and caught it by the barrel and brought the butt down as hard as he could on the captain's little finger.
The captain screamed, a hoarse, shocked sound muffled by the engines. In Akil's experience, hands were very sensitive appendages for even the strongest of men. He'd met many a man who could barely tolerate a paper cut. "Don't hesitate when I give you an order. Alter course to due west."
"There is land due west," the captain said, cradling his wounded hand in his lap and rocking back and forth.
"I know that," Akil said. "Alter course, due west. If I have to ask you again I'll cut off your hand."
The captain believed him.
CAPE CANAVERAL, ON BOARD SHUTTLE ENDEAVOUR
She had to pee.
She was lying on her back in her seat on the flight deck below the cockpit. The Arabian Knight was on her left. He looked pasty and scared, every drop of arrogance leeched out of him. It must finally have sunk in, what four million pounds of propellant could do if there was a problem during launch. He'd seen the fire trucks, and the ambulances, on their drive to the pad that evening.
It was T minus ninety, ninety minutes to launch, barring problems.
Her diaper rustled every time she moved. She could pee if she had to, but she didn't trust the diaper. What if it leaked? She thought she'd squeezed out every last drop of liquid in her body in the pad toilet, and at this point she was more furious at this betrayal of her body than she was terrified of blowing up.
Because she was terrified, of that there was no doubt. However stoic an appearance she presented to the world, the look on the Arabian Knight's face only mirrored what she felt inside.