Danny moved to the side door where the fast-rope apparatus waited.
The team had practiced exiting from the aircraft so many times it was almost like a rote exercise. Muscle memory took over. As he moved to the door, Danny glanced at the machine gunner covering the ship and noted that he wasn’t firing; the tugboat at least had surrendered.
He grabbed on and swung down, sliding quickly but under control. The deck pitched as he hit, but he adjusted and landed squarely. He let go of the rope, regained his balance and trotted forward.
Bullets flying or not, it was still a precarious moment. Taking over a ship was never an easy task. Even in an exercise, things could go wrong. Just a few months ago a promising young Whiplash trooper had broken both legs when he slipped during a fast-rope exercise, and that had been on land.
The teams fanned out quickly, securing the bridge and the forward deck. Making his way up the ladder, Danny heard Achmoody giving terse instructions over the radio. They had prisoners — the men at the stern were being instructed to keep their hands high in the air.
The tugboat captain was standing near the ship’s wheel, hands at his side. He was Asian — Japanese, Danny guessed. His spotless white shirt was freshly stained with perspiration under both arms. The lone mate with him — a woman in her forties, Hispanic — stood near the wheel, hands in the air. Guzman was looking over the equipment while Bulgaria and Dalton covered them.
“I am in international waters,” said the tugboat captain. “You are committing an act of piracy.”
“You’re under arrest for the theft of U.S. property,” said Danny. “And for assisting the shipping of contraband to a UN member nation. I’m asserting my right to search your ship.”
“You are breaking the law,” repeated the man.
“Hey, dude, you shot at us,” said Guzman. “You’re fucked.”
“There were no shots from our ship,” said the captain, addressing Danny. “You had no resistance.”
“We’re going to search your boat,” Danny told him.
“You have no authority.”
Not in the mood to argue, Danny told Dalton to search the captain and his mate for weapons, then cuff them. Guzman, meanwhile, had figured out the controls. He stopped the tug in the water, applying just enough of the screw to keep her position steady.
“How many people do you have aboard?” Danny asked the captain.
“I have eight hands, not counting myself. You will find my papers already laid out there, with the log.”
“Small crew for this big a vessel,” said Danny.
The captain shrugged. The bridge was fully automated, and it was certainly possible that the ship could be run with only a handful of people. But Danny didn’t quite believe him.
“Dalton, you’re with me,” he said as soon as the captain and the mate had been handcuffed. “Guzman, secure those papers and get us closer to the cargo vessel.”
“You got it, Colonel.”
Turk made a slow circuit above the two ships as the Ospreys rose. The boardings had gone off without a hitch, with no resistance on either ship. He was surprised — given the initial reaction from the cargo container vessel, he had expected a serious gunfight. But apparently the bombs from the F-35s had dampened the crew’s appetite for a fight.
They had also killed and injured at least a dozen people, and started several small fires. Black smoke drifted upward in bunches, angry fists pounding the air.
Turk stretched his shoulders and then his legs. It was far too early to relax — the mission had several hours to run, at least — but it appeared the heavy lifting was over, at least for him. A destroyer that had been with the Marine expeditionary force on the eastern side of the island had just checked in. Tasked overnight to sail west, it headed toward them at flank speed and was roughly three hours away.
Turk checked in with Basher flight. The Marines were flying their own patrol orbit at 5,000 feet, making a large figure eight over the two ships.
“Whiplash Shark, we’re all getting close to bingo,” said Greenstreet. “If you’ve got things under control, we’re going back to the base to refuel.”
“Roger that, Basher One,” Turk told him. “Clear skies ahead. Looks like things are settling down.”
“Affirmative. Nice flying,” Greenstreet added.
“Thanks.”
“He’s slipping,” said Cowboy. “Took him all of five minutes to get them all.”
“It wasn’t more than three, I think,” said Greenstreet.
“You should have let me have one of those bogies,” added Cowboy.
“I was feeling greedy,” quipped Turk. “See you guys later.”
With the tug secured, Danny left Achmoody in charge of the search and called the Osprey to take him over to the container vessel. While the Marines had secured the ship with surprising speed and ease, the search of the massive vessel was proceeding slowly. Not only did the containers have to be opened and inspected one at a time, but a bomb had knocked out power through most of the ship. Worse, fire had spread to a compartment below the container deck.
The Marines had captured a dozen crewmen. Four more were killed in the air attack and another six wounded. The wounded were being triaged on the forward deck, a few yards from the prisoners, who sat with their hands on their heads, nervously whispering to one another as Danny’s Osprey lowered itself to a clear space nearby.
“Most of the crew are Filipinos,” said Captain Thomas, leading Danny to the superstructure a few moments later. “They don’t seem to know much.”
“Somebody had to be operating the aircraft,” said Danny. “They can’t launch on their own.”
“Maybe, but we haven’t found them yet. Ship’s intact,” added the Marine captain. “But I’m not sure we’re going to be able to put the fire out.”
“I’m going to send one of the Ospreys over to the McCain to pick up a skeleton crew,” said Danny. The McCain was the destroyer detailed to sail west and help them. “They’ll help.”
“Good. This way,” added Thomas, pointing to a set of metal steps that went up the side of the superstructure. “The captain is a Frenchman, or at least he has a French accent. Won’t give his name. Ship’s papers say it’s Fortine.”
“Fourteen?”
“Spelled F-o-r-t-i-n-e.”
“Hold on.”
Danny stopped and tapped the radio button at the back of his glasses to transmit back to Whiplash headquarters. He gave the name to the desk tech, who told him that Rubeo wanted to have a word.
“Colonel, there were radio transmissions detected from the vicinity of the two ships as the aircraft launched,” said the scientist.
“Yeah, roger that. We’re looking now.”
“The signals do not appear to have come from the cargo container vessel,” continued Rubeo. “Looking at the mast antenna of the tug, we believe that it is configured to allow it to control the aircraft.”
“The tug? Really?”
“I would suggest you search both,” said Rubeo.
No shit, thought Danny.
“You gave Betrand the name of Fortine,” added Rubeo. “Be careful with him. He was a French naval captain.”
“Right.”
Rubeo turned him over to another analyst, Jeremy Von Schmidt.
“We’ve updated the schematic of the cargo carrier,” said Von Schmidt, one of a dozen naval officers helping interpret the intel at the Cube. “We can lead your teams around the fire.”
“Punch that right through to Thomas,” said Danny.
Achmoody checked with an update from the tug: The team had discovered that several of the compartments below the main deck were locked and booby-trapped. They were assessing whether they could be disarmed or blown in place without endangering the ship.