DuPont witnessed only one hopeful sign in the takeover. One of the uniformed sailors, grinning, had begun touching Ginger, stroking her hair and arm, then pulling her from the circle, groping at her bikini top while saying something obviously salacious to the sailor next to him. Ginger screamed, trying to pull away, and then the turbaned man was there, screaming at the sailor in a language that sounded Arabic. DuPont didn't know what was being said, but from the tone of voice and the man's expression, he was willing to bet that the sailor was being figuratively burnt to a crisp.
After that, they left both girls alone.
Oddly, the incident left DuPont feeling even more scared and helpless. Their futures, their safety, their lives all now were entirely in the hands of this turbaned maniac. DuPont, used to giving orders and having his orders obeyed instantly, had never even imagined such a terror-drenched helplessness as this.
The submarine, meanwhile, had maneuvered slowly closer to the Sea Breeze, until its conning tower loomed high above the yacht's deck. Once Sea Breeze was secured to the submarine's port side, sailors began cutting their bonds and manhandling the captives across one at a time, hauling them up the curved hull onto the submarine's aft deck, then forcing them down the hatch just aft of the sail. For DuPont, that descent through a narrow hatch, down a spindly vertical ladder into darkness, had been a kind of descent into the underworld. The submarine's belly was dark and hot and noisy, a tiny, closed-off Hell defined by pipes, wires, gauges, and dark-eyed men who watched him in hostile silence. Harsh, incandescent bulbs in wire cages cast pockets of illumination surrounded by impenetrable shadow. The humidity was so high that the bulkheads and pipes were sweating… and so was DuPont after only a few minutes below deck. The temperature, he guessed, was in the eighties, and was only slightly relieved by the breeze fitfully wafting from fist-sized ventilator shafts.
And the air stank. Unwashed bodies, sweat, urine, and the unfamiliar bite of the cooking spices used in Southwestern Asia mingled together to assault nose, throat, and eyes all at once.
He was led through what he guessed was the control room, where half a dozen uniformed men stood or sat at their stations. DuPont tried to observe and memorize everything. Was that a Chinese naval officer he'd seen? He thought so, though the light was uncertain and he'd been forced through into the next passageway with a sharp shove from behind.
Four of Sea Breeze's crew were already there, waiting in the tiny compartment when he was prodded in at gunpoint — Davis the radio man, Zubrin the engineer, a Filipino hand named Castro, and the Global ex-SEAL security guard and boatswain, Carle. The compartment, with its two sets of double bunks on the bulkhead opposite the door and a small desk between, was pretty close quarters for the five of them. With growing horror, DuPont watched as, one at a time, Schiffer, Kingsfield, Marshall, Katie, and Ginger were also pushed through the steel door.
The two Vietnamese passengers never appeared. DuPont wondered what had happened to them.
The prisoners sat on the bunks or on the deck; there was no room to move around. After about half an hour, the door opened again, and members of the submarine's crew began handing mattresses in from the passageway outside. They were thin — only a couple of inches thick, more like thick quilts than actual mat-tresses — and they stank to high heaven, but they offered something softer than the steel deck to sit on. Their appearance told DuPont that this tiny room was going to be their prison, possibly for some time to come.
Never had he felt this helpless, this terrified. Somehow, he'd managed to assume the professional demeanor he presented in board meetings and interviews with subordinates, but inside his stomach was knotting, his heart was pounding, and he felt like he was going to be sick.
After a long time, he became aware of a low-voiced muttering, a murmur, really, inside the compartment. It took him a few minutes of careful listening to decide what it was.
"George," he said, "shut up. Keep it to yourself."
"S-sorry, Mr. DuPont. Didn't know I was… uh, speaking out loud."
"I don't mind you praying, but do it to yourself."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"All of you, listen to me. Global will know what's happened by now. You got through to them, didn't you, Davis?"
"I sent the message, and kept sending it, sir. Didn't get a response, but I'm sure they taped it."
"Okay. They'll figure it out, and they'll tell who needs to be told. Global is used to dealing with… these kinds of people." He'd almost said "terrorists," but he'd stopped himself. There was no need to dwell on the fact that their captors were al Qaeda. "The fact that we're still alive means these people will negotiate. And Global will do everything possible to get us back."
"What… what about the U.S. government?" Zubrin asked. "I mean… will the SEALs or Delta Force or somebody try a hostage rescue?"
"I don't know. Probably not, actually. Our best hope right now is that Corporate will pay a ransom, and then these people will let us go."
It was true. DuPont had read the studies and the reports. When hostages in this kind of situation were killed, it was almost always during an attempted rescue, often by so-called friendly fire.
But, then again… how often had hostages been in this kind of situation, held on board a submarine somehow co-opted by international terrorists? His guess was that it had never happened. They were flying blind, right now… and that included their captors.
But he didn't want to talk about the negative side of things. They needed to keep their spirits up.
"Will they let us go?" Ginger asked.
"Like the boss said," Kingsfield told her, "they've kept us alive for a reason. That's a very good sign."
"Right," DuPont added. "So… all of you, do what you're told. Don't give them a reason to regret keeping us alive."
Ginger was sitting on one of the bunks, looking terribly small and vulnerable in her bright blue bikini. "Mr. DuPont! I'm scared."
"Trust me, Ginger. It'll be okay. I promise."
He desperately hoped he would be able to make good on that promise.
"So, Seaman Wallace, how's it feel to be an experienced sailor, a real bluenose, now?"
Wallace was still so exhausted he could scarcely think straight. It had been a long, a very long, night.
He was sitting next to Virginia's senior sonar technician, ST1 Ken Queensly, facing the waterfall — a monitor screen with narrow, glowing green vertical strips representing the sounds of the ocean around the boat.
Today was his first sonar watch, the beginning of his familiarization with the arcane rituals of that shipboard department, another step in his quest to sign off on every department on board.
But after enduring the Neptune party until 0300 hours… then hitting the deck at 0630 to shave, shower, and grab some breakfast in order to be on watch by 0800… well, he didn't feel all there yet. He hoped the missing part of himself was still in his rack, getting some much-needed sleep.