After possibly a century, the face withdrew and the hatch closed again.
Stone let his breath trickle out from between his clinched teeth. Enemy found and fixed. Now to finish them.
Lifting a hand, he waved the two cover men over to his side of the door. Touching one of the flashbangs attached to his harness, he held up two fingers in a V Both men unclipped concussion grenades from their harnesses.
To the Marines across the hatch from his position, he made a hand gesture like the closing of a book and received responding nods.
In most military or quasimilitary organizations, the carrying of a pistol frequently denoted a position of authority or advanced rank. Stone theorized that the pistol carrier on the other side of the hatch was probably the leader of the pirate boarding party and the owner of the clip board stowed inside his vest. If so, he was the prizemaster so intensely desired by Amanda Garrett. Stone staked the man out for his personal attention.
Quillain lifted his fist and pumped it once as an action notification. Then, shifting his SABR to his left hand, he reached down and tapped the butt sharply on the deck, just once.
Slowly, the hatch creaked open again.
For the Indonesian, it must have been a startling experience to have a hand lance out of the darkness to engulf his shirtfront. With an explosive heave, Stone yanked the pirate out of the hatchway. Hurling him sprawling to the deck, Quillain bellowed, “Do it!”
Coordinated by training and instinct, the grenadiers hurled their flashbangs into the confines of the small storage compartment. Then the second rifle team slammed the hatch shut, bracing the watertight door closed with their shoulders. Two deep, reverberating booms, like cherry bombs set off in an oil drum, echoed through the vehicle decks, and white light leaked from around the hatch edges as the door tried to kick open.
Another crash and flare followed as the prizemaster fired his pistol blindly at the blackness surrounding him. Then a size-twelve Danner combat boot smashed into his face. Stars burst behind the pirate’s eyes and the darkness grew even deeper.
Following the flashbang detonations, Charlie team had rushed the interior of the storeroom, meeting no resistance. “Three more down in here, Skipper,” the team leader reported. “Bleeding from the ears but livin’.”
“This old boy too. He didn’t really need that nose all that much any way.” Stone kicked the Beretta away from the pirate’s flaccid hand. Rolling the man over with the toe of his boot, Stone knelt and applied a pair of disposacuffs. With that accomplished, he keyed his throat mike. “Bravo Lead. We got the last of ’em secured. You can turn the lights back on. The show’s over.”
With a riding-on-rails meticulousness, Cobra Richardson eased the Super Huey in over the Piskov’s amidships deck. Setting a single landing skid atop a ventilator housing, he held a stable hover.
Giving a farewell wave to the helo crew, Amanda hopped down to the top of the housing, then made the longer leap to the wet decks of the Russian freighter. The RO/RO’s bos’n already had a work party sluicing the riot gas residue from the decks with a saltwater hose.
Amanda was pleased to see that. The Piskov was rapidly becoming a functional ship again.
Cobra’s helicopter lifted and thundered away toward the cluster of deck lights standing off the freighter’s bow. The Cunningham had arrived on scene a few minutes before. The big cruiser now loitered warily, ready to intercept and warn off any other inquisitive vessel that might approach. Beyond the Russian work details, Amanda’s own people were busy beneath the deck lights as well. Armed Marines encircled the band of captured pirates. The Bugis, drug groggy and sullen, squatted on the deck, their wrists bound behind them. Pharmacist’s mates treated the wounded while intelligence section personnel searched for documents and personal papers. Another intelligence team worked stacking captured weapons and ammunition, identifying armament types and manufacturers, and recording serial numbers.
A third raven team worked from the Cunningham’s Rigid Inflatable Boats, examining the semisubmerged wrecks of the pirate launches moored alongside the freighter.
Amanda armed off her flight helmet and shook out her hair. So far, so good. With a little luck, they could be out of here before first light. Looking around, she noted a familiar figure striding toward her across the deck.
“Well done, Stone. Exceptionally well done.”
The Marine shrugged. “Oh, pretty fair for make-it-up-as-you-go along. We got you your prisoners, including the guy I guess is the prizemaster. He hasn’t admitted the point yet, though. He hasn’t said much of anything except to cuss us out in Sanskrit or whatever.”
“We’ll worry about that later. Are you ready to transfer them to the Duke?”
“Soon as the corpsmen are done. We’ll sling lift the stretcher cases over by helo first, then move the unwounded.”
“Okay. Sling lift all of them by helicopter, even if it takes a little extra time.” Amanda started aft toward the deckhouse, Stone keeping at her side. “These Bugis are born seamen. If you even let them near a small boat, they may try something. On the other hand, helicopters are a bit outside of their experience. Dangling them underneath one on a cable should keep them spooked and amenable.”
“Will do, Skipper. Anything else?”
“Yes, status of the freighter and its crew.”
“Pretty much good. The Russkies have a few bangs and bruises, but they seem to be a pretty rough-and-ready bunch. They already have their bridge and engine room watches reset. The ship’s in good shape too. No apparent engineering or navigational casualties and no water coming in. Most of the damage seems to be of the chipped-paint and busted glass kind.”
“Very good indeed. Where’s her captain?”
“In his cabin, Skipper. He’s looking forward to talking with you.”
“That’s good. I need to talk with him.”
Captain Teodore Petreskovitch looked the way a Russian freighter captain should, stocky and bearlike with grizzled, gray-frosted hair and beard. Clad in blue uniform trousers and a sweat-stained white shirt, he reached across his battered desk to pour three fingers of a clear liquid into the water glass set before Amanda.
“Israeli vodka,” he said sadly, taking care with his English. “Muck from my last voyage, but I have no better. I thank you, Captain, for the saving of my ship and cargo.”
Amanda nodded and diplomatically lifted the glass to her lips, suppressing the wince as the liquid fire burned down her throat. “Speaking on behalf of the United States Navy, we’re pleased we could help. I’m glad none of your crew were seriously injured in this event.”
“As am I.” Captain Petreskovitch casually tossed off his own drink. “In the merchant ships, we hear more and more of the pirates returning. You come through these waters, you know sooner or later you will have no luck. These damn monkeys will come for you.”
“How did it happen?” Amanda was careful to keep her glass cradled in her hands to evade a refill.
The Russian shrugged. “One minute, nothing. The next, the damn little boats are all around us, shooting across the bow with machine guns and the rockets for killing tanks. We can do nothing except stop the engines. The owners will not let us carry guns. We have nothing to fight with except the deck hoses. We can only call for help by radio and watch them crawl over the rails.
“But then our luck returns and a most attractive American devushka, a lady, comes racing to our assistance.” Israeli vodka or not, Petreskovitch poured himself another hefty hit from the bottle. “If there could be any way we might pay you back for your rescue, only ask.”