In the conning tower, the commander observed the cowardly scene unfold with barely concealed contempt and thinned his lips. How in the name of God had he had the misfortune to command such a pathetic bunch of traitors? He couldn't wait for the missile to blow them to kingdom come; it was the least they deserved. No one wanted a deserter aboard their ship and he counted four! Damn them to hell!
A fifth sailor from a high vantage point in the rigging made a desperate lunge towards the escaping Blackhawk, but missed and hurtled head-first two stories down onto the deck, splitting his skull and spilling his brains in the process. A nearby deck-hand puked at the sight as the body jerked and convulsed, before jack-knifing in its final breath.
Gunner Graham spun around the sea-sparrow missile and locked on to the departing helicopter. The chopper rose passing the commander in the conning tower as an ultimate insult and cleared the ship. The gunner’s finger itched on the trigger, desperate to dispatch the loathsome traitor sullying the name of the ship, but he waited for the Blackhawk to get some distance not wanting any of the wreckage to fall back onto the ship, potentially damaging the vessel. He locked-on and let the computers take over, no-way would the chopper escape and all he had to do was pull the trigger.
Sweat trickled down his back, as he waited… and waited… then fired….
CHAPTER 40
20:40 PM
Second lieutenant Clinton put the chopper into a deep dive and the missile missed. He expected that they would fire upon him; it was standard procedure. He deduced that he would have time to clear the ship before they fired and with perfect timing, he saw the plume of smoke from the eight-inch barrel, and aimed the chopper into a dive, banking tightly back towards the vessel, knowing that the gunner could not fire low or close to the ship. The pilot was surprised to discover that he had to fight with the flight-controls, and to his horror plummeted towards the ocean. His eyes popped open when he saw seaman Styles fall into the ocean in front of him.
“What the fuck?” He must’ve been clinging on underneath, suddenly the flight-control loosened and as he was about to crash into the waves, he pulled back on the cyclic stick and soared upwards, he was going to make it after all. He grinned in satisfaction, he planned to circle the ship skimming the waves, but instead of heading for the mainland, as they would expect he would head out to the Bahamas a little over fifty miles from the Florida coast.
Gunner Graham pressed buttons frantically, the computer aided controls could not lock-on to a target so close to the ship, he took manual control, but could not do any better, he realized with a sinking dread that he would be on a charge for failing to hit such an easy sitting target. His shoulders heaved and he sobbed in despair.
He did not intend to miss a second time. He got a grip of himself and decided he did not care where the wreckage fell. There was no way, no sir, he was going to let the coward escape, and as they chopper rose, dumping the stowaways into the ocean, it presented itself right in front of the barrel of his gun, a gift that not even a child could miss and his finger hovered over the button.
Out on deck the sailors fired impotently as the chopper flew below them, the bullets ricocheted harmlessly from the armored plating. Clinton fought for the controls, as the chopper did not behave as it should and he realized that there must be other stowaways underneath the craft. He took evasive action and climbed sharply. He felt rather than saw, as at least two more people dropped from the under carriage of the Blackhawk. He had regained control of the chopper at last, when to his utter horror he saw the starboard gunner fire.
The Blackhawk helicopter exploded midair in a raging fireball and dropped like a stone, as over five tons of burning metal fell onto the main deck where the impact caused a second explosion killing the ground crew instantly and shattering the glass in the nearby portholes.
“What’s going on?” the captain asked with annoyance in his voice from between the jail bars of the brig, “Who are we firing at?” he asked the guard.
“I do not know, sir,” the guard replied.
“I need to be on the bridge, you understand that, sailor, don’t you? The Commander does not have experience of battle — I do. C’mon, let me out of here. This is serious. Why aren’t the aircraft being scrambled if we’re under attack?” The captain shook on the metal bars in frustration.
Moments later a second missile launched and the ship shook again. “We’re under attack and I’m the only man that can save us. Let me out now, you know it’s the right thing to do.”
The young guard wrestled with his conscience for a long moment, realizing the magnitude of his action, then smiled and unlocked the cell, releasing the captain and the men that had remained loyal to him. The guard’s motives were not unselfish; he remembered the captain’s earlier promise of taking him with them when they left the ship.
“I’ll need your weapon, sailor,” the captain said and the guard handed over his sidearm without question. The captain and his men scrambled noisily up the metal ladder to the next deck, knowing there was no time to lose.
“What about me, sir?” asked the guard.
The captain stopped dead in his tracks, turned his head slowly, and glared evilly at his former jailor. “What about you?” he asked nastily.
“You promised to take me with you when you left the ship, sir,” he reminded the captain timidly.
“Leave the ship? Leave the ship!? What sort of captain would I be to leave my own ship? You’re talking mutiny,” the captain’s voice rose in pitch as he got angrier, going red in the face.
It slowly dawned on the young guard that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake. His hand slowly crept towards the alarm button. The captain noticed, pointed with his newly acquired sidearm, for the guard to move his hand away, but he was reluctant to move his hand from the only bargaining chip he had.
The captain glared at him and asked. “Do you know the penalty for mutiny?” He squeezed the trigger and shot the guard in the chest. “It’s death.”
The guard staggered in surprise more than pain, thumped back into the wall, his out-stretched arm whacked the alarm button, and he fell as if in slow motion to the floor.
On the bridge, nine stories up the conning tower the commander watched bleakly as the clean-up crew tried in vain to extinguish the flames of the burning helicopter wreck.
At least twenty crewmen battled the flames, as thick, black clouds of voluminous smoke obscured his vision, when the Claxton horn blared. “Now what?” he said aloud, the last thing he needed, more trouble. The crewmen were dropping like flies from the contagion, he had some of the last able-bodied men attending to the fire to stop it spreading to the conning tower while the remaining walking wounded were making preparations to scuttle the ship.
Below decks, a sailor in the armament depot heard a gunshot. He turned startled to the hazmat-suited captain, who raised a pistol and shot him dead. The captain swiftly dished out the weapons and ammunition to his supporters. Now armed and with vengeance in their blood, they briskly made their way up the decks shooting anyone impeding their progress.
The awful wailing of the Claxton horn and the billowing clouds of blinding, black smoke disturbed the commander greatly. An internal phone rang incessantly, eventually it was answered by an ensign. “Commander?” he said quietly.