The giant looked deep into Ahmed’s eyes and scowled disapprovingly, like a god who had judged a sinner and who now was deciding upon the appropriate eternal punishment.
The time was wrong. He had neither prayer rug nor the true bearing to Mecca. Yet, as he clutched at the edge of the chart table for support and felt the hot urine trickling down his leg, Captain Moustapha Ahmed prayed with a fervor he did not know he possessed.
Belowdecks, other Algerians learned to pray as well. In the seamen’s quarters, the majority of the Bajara’s civilian crew had been lounging in their sour-sheeted bunks, idly complaining about the lack of shore leave, women, and justice in general.
Suddenly the passageway hatch crashed open. The Arabic seamen looked up and found themselves staring at two men with green faces.
One of the two stood directly in the hatchway, a hand grenade clenched in his fist, the safety lever held down but with the pin already drawn. His cold blue eyes swept the room, and he lifted the grenade a little higher so that all in the compartment could see it. With great deliberation he shook his head, silently advising the Algerians not to try anything stupid. Beside him, the second Marine stood poised and ready to slam the watertight door in the face of any rush to escape the explosive results of an error in judgment.
Wisdom lived in the crew’s quarters of the Bajara that night. No one moved. No one even breathed.
Amidships on the tanker’s weather deck, two Union sentries stood watch at the head of the gangway. Maintaining an easy parade rest, they shifted their weight from leg to leg as their tour on post inched past. Beyond the peak of their efficiency curve as sentinels, their attention had started to drift, random trains of thought distracting them.
Curses at the rain. More curses at the line platoon that had the pier watch. Those bastards had the undeserved shelter of the dockside sheds. Concern over the continuing thunder of the Monrovia bombardment. More concerns over the way the war and the world were going. Thoughts of women. Thoughts of home.
Their daydreaming killed them.
Sergeant Tallman came up swiftly and noiselessly behind his man. The burly Marine NCO’s left arm whipped up and around the taller Union soldier’s throat, the bone of the forearm smashing the carotid artery, jugular vein, and windpipe. Tallman’s right arm came around in a lower arc, driving his K-Bar knife upward into the Union man’s belly and through the diaphragm, then savagely across from left to right in the killing slash.
Hot blood gushed across Tallman’s wrist and the Union soldier’s back arched in agony. Tallman tightened the lock across his throat, bottling up the death scream. The African’s rifle fell from his nerveless hands, and another camo-clad arm darted out of the shadows, catching it up before it could clatter to the deck.
The second sentry had simultaneously been taken out in the same quiet and savagely effective manner, and the bodies of both Union men collapsed back onto the deck. Hastily, Tallman and another Marine yanked off their K-Pot helmets and donned the uniform caps of the two dead soldiers. Catching up the Union-issue FALN rifles as well, the two Marines resumed the sentry stations at the head of the gang way, the distinctive silhouette of the headgear and the long barreled rifles adequate to indicate “friend” in the misty darkness of the night. The remainder of the Marine squad fanned out on either side of the gangway, keeping low along the railing.
The guard had been relieved.
“Gangway secure.”
“Forecastle secure.”
“Crew’s quarters secure.”
“Engine room all secure.”
One by one the reports came whispering in over the tactical circuit, the little PRC communicators having been frequency set to work even through the steel of the tanker’s hull.
And not a single loud round’s been fired yet, Quillain mentally rejoiced. Hallelujah and holy shit! Come on, Lord, keep it comin’!
The paralytic tanker captain had been carried down to the main cabin to join the rest of his officers under guard, and the bodies of the dead Union troopers had been dumped out onto the bridge wing. Alone in the wheelhouse, Quillain was the master of all he surveyed. At least for the moment.
“Belowdeck teams,” he called. Any sign of those kids yet?”
“No sign.”
“Negatory, Skipper.”
“Negative.”
“Roger that, all teams. Maintain search.” Wouldn’t it be fine if they’d all just been sent home to Momma? Better not expect it, though. God’s been obliging so far, but even he’s got to have his limits.
Quillain switched radios and went over to the command circuit. “Strongbow to Palace. Primary objective is secured. Situation nominal. Ready to receive Moonshade. I repeat, ready to receive Moonshade.”
“Acknowledged, Strongbow. Moonshade has secured secondary. Operation proceeding.”
“Palace to Moonshade. Strongbow reports primary secured. Strongbow standing by.”
“Roger, Palace. Moonshade moving out. I say again, Moonshade moving out.”
Amanda lifted her hand from the radio controller and glanced down at the engine-room interphone. What if those fuel gauges weren’t broken? Either way, there wasn’t anything that could be done about it now. She picked up the interphone and buzzed the engine room.
“Smith. Start engines and make ready to answer bells.”
Gripping the cord-wrapped wheel, she waited.
After a few moments, the hiss of a diesel air starter came from belowdecks, followed by the clanking rumble of a cold plant turning over, and finally, after a heart-stopping pause, the burbling bark of an ignition. A burst of sparks issued from one of the narrow twin stacks aft of the wheelhouse and the big medium-speed marine diesel bellowed to life, firing on all ten of its cylinders. A few moments later, its partner cranked over and joined in the hammering iron chorus.
The wheelhouse interphone rasped. “Those orangutans turned out to be pretty fair engineers, Captain. You got power and the bridge engine controls are engaged. You’d better let her warm up a second, though.”
“Understood, Smith.”
Amanda socked the phone back into its cradle. She’d hung her night-vision visor around her neck, switched on and ready, and now she lifted it over her eyes. The dark world outside the wheelhouse snapped into green-tinted light. The Marines of the fire team became visible, crouching down along the tug’s deck railing. So did the unconscious tarp-covered forms of the tug’s crew on the float and the next set of Union sentries down at the midpoint of the pier. Amanda could see them well enough to note they were looking in the tug’s direction.
They couldn’t afford to wait for any more of a warm-up. “On deck,” she spoke into the tactical radio. “Cast off all lines.”
The Marines sprang to the unaccustomed task. With a final look fore and aft, Amanda popped the tug’s propeller controls into reverse and cracked the throttles wider. The tug shivered as her propellers cut water. Slowly she started to drift astern, the pier pilings edging past. There was a squeal and a thump as the tug cleared the float dolphins, and then they were clear and backing into the open harbor.
Gauging the clearance, Amanda spun the wheel hard over, kicking the stern around. She might be battered and maltreated, but the tug still answered her helm crisply and the engines seemed to be pulling strongly. Dear Lord, let there just be a few gallons in the tanks. That’s all I need.