The wait that followed was a brief one.
“You down there!” It was impossible to tell if the speaker using the unfamiliar English words was asking a question or making an accusation.
“You down there!” The Marines made no move. No sound. Instinct whispered that lives were at stake.
Suddenly a submachine gun raved from overhead, a stream of 9mm slugs and a rain of shell casings pouring down into the passageway. Bullets whined and screamed off steel, ricochets and metal fragmentation filling the air.
The Marines held. Stone smothered a grunt as a reflected projectile caught him under the ribs, the multiple layers of Kevlar in his interceptor vest reducing the death blow to a savage punch in the guts. Down the passage, the Marine radioman staggered, then caught himself, silently forcing his weight back onto his damaged limb, blood soaking the leg of his utilities.
The rattle of the autoweapon ceased as the magazine emptied.
Not a sound in the passageway, not the shift of a boot or the hiss of a breath. The platoon sergeant slowly lifted a hand and touched a flashbang, looking at Stone questioningly. Quillain shook his head. For the next few seconds, half measures wouldn’t be adequate. Stone indicated the steel sphere of a fragmentation grenade. The noncom nodded and unhooked one of the deadly little hand bombs.
The ladderway creaked. A pair of seaboots and blue serge trousers appeared, descending the steps, their wearer moving awkwardly with his hands raised, a Caucasian, a ship’s officer, four tarnished gold bars on the shoulder straps of his uniform shirt.
As the Russian captain’s eyes came below the level of overhead, he saw the two Marines facing the ladder, and he hesitated. The sight must have been an unnerving one. Two big men, helmeted, camouflaged, bulked out in body armor, battlefield electronics, and load-bearing harness, both with exotic weapons leveled.
Urgently, Donovan gestured for the Russian to stand on. Comprehending, the ship’s officer continued his descent to the passageway deck.
Again Donovan gestured. Get forward! Get behind us!
The Russian obeyed. As he passed beyond the field of view from the deck above, he tapped his chest, pointed upward, and held up three emphatic fingers. Three more friendlies!
The first, second, and third mates of the Piskov followed their captain down the ladder, the last being a stocky young blonde woman. However, the next set of legs to descend was thin, barefoot, and clad in ragged dungarees, the darkness of the skin marking the non-Slavic origin.
There was the softest of clicks as the sergeant pulled the pin from his grenade.
Stone caught the gleam of an Uzi barrel tracking the last officer down. Angling the SABR upward, Quillain slid the barrels between two of the ladder steps. Aiming at the back of the pirate’s knee, he squeezed the 20mm trigger, conducting a very swift and violent amputation.
The roar of the grenade launcher and the scream of the falling pirate merged. As the Bugis plummeted the rest of the way to the deck, Stone snatched for the rags of Russian he knew.
“Spetsnaz!” he bellowed. “Amerikanski spetsnaz!” Whipping around the ladder, he aimed upward, hosing buckshot into the faces of the other startled hostage-takers. The safety lever of the platoon sergeant’s grenade clattered on the deck, and Stone heard the noncom yell out his timing count. “One… two… three!”
At “three,” the noncom hurled the frag up to the next level. Both he and Stone ducked back from the shrapnel that sprayed down the ladderway.
No further sound or action came from topside. Now the Marine R/T could swear savagely and sink down to the deck, clutching at his wounded calf. The pirate lay still in a pool of scarlet at the base of the ladder. With no chance to yank him clear of the grenade pattern, the fragmentation had finished what Stone’s buckshot load had started.
Donovan and his sergeant rushed the ladder, climbing swiftly to secure the upper deck, their boots leaving blood marks on the treads.
As Stone socked a fresh magazine into the grenade launcher, he found himself surrounded by the Russian ship’s officers, all of who had mistaken his one warning yell for a working knowledge of the Russian tongue.
“Yeah, whatever. Dos vedanya, y’all. Donovan, what’s going on up there?”
“Two hostiles down. Officers’ country and wardroom clear,” the yell came back.
Waving the Russians back, Quillain keyed his comma pad. “Ship’s officers secured. All elements, report status. Charley Team, c’mon back?”
“Charley Team here. Engine room secured. No contacts. But we got open hatches into the vehicle decks”
“Roger that. Hold position and keep ’em covered. Able Team, go.”
“Bridge and radio room secured. Two hostiles. One up, one down. We also have the helo carrying the intel team orbiting and requesting instructions.”
“Tell ’em to hold. We still got a party going on down here. Bravo, go.”
“Crew’s and engineer’s quarters secured. According to the chief engineer, all hands are present and accounted for. Some of them are a little roughed up, but nothing major.”
“Good ’nough. We’re in the starboard deckhouse passageway, for ward, on the main deck. We got the captain and the mates with us. Come and collect ’em, then move the crew to the fantail and hold ’em there. Also, signal the lift ship that we need a dustoff. Private Lingerman caught one…”
Stone glanced over at the wounded Marine. The Piskov’s female third mate, who was actually kind of cute, now that Stone had a second to study on it, was helping Lingerman apply a first-aid pack to his leg. The R/T’s eyes showed the grin he wore behind his gas mask, and he gave Stone a thumbs-up.
“… not bad, though. No rush.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Doin’ it.”
Stone switched back to his Leprechaun transceiver. Dialing through the alternate command channels, he found one that would induct through the steel bulkheads surrounding him. “Dragon Six to TACBOSS. You copy?”
“TACBOSS here, Stone. Go.”
“Crew secured alive and well. Prisoners taken. One man lightly wounded. Superstructure, weatherdecks, and engine room secured. I think we still got hostiles on the vehicle decks. Starting to sweep now.”
“Well done, Marine. Stand on. The prizemaster will likely be with the cargo. Get him alive for me, Stone.”
“I’ll discuss the matter with the gentleman, ma’am, and see what he has to say about it.”
The Piskov was, in effect, a giant seagoing parking lot. She had been specially designed to carry her cargo preloaded onto semitrailer vans and flatbeds to expedite a rapid port turnaround. The open vehicle decks within her main hull were interconnected by ramps that permitted the cargo trailers to simply be driven aboard and spotted. Hence, the ship’s nomenclature of RO/RO (roll on/roll off).
Peering forward from the open personnel hatch, Stone judged that this final phase of the ship clearing was going to be hell incarnate. The vehicle deck was a long, dimly lit steel cavern, the tightly packed ranks of semi-vans providing for a multitude of hiding places and point-blank ambush points for any hostiles that might be present.
And there were hostiles present. The listening watch posted at the access hatches had reported hearing sounds of movement forward in the trailer bays. The pirate prizemaster and his team had been trapped belowdecks by the Marine onslaught. They were in there somewhere, waiting.
Stone held out a hand, and one of the members of Bravo team passed him a loud hailer. Unsnapping his gas mask, Quillain aimed the mega phone through the hatch and held down the trigger switch. “Attention! Attention! This is Captain Stone Quillain of the United States Marine Corps. We have retaken this vessel. Your boats have been destroyed and the rest of your party has been taken prisoner. All deck hatches are locked and guarded. You cannot escape. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. You will not be harmed. I say again: Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. You will not be harmed.”