Mike conned the boat in alongside the freighter and headed for where a group was gathered by the side. He hadn’t thought about it until the last moment, but he didn’t actually know which side the guys used to fuel from. That, right there, could have blown it.
“You didn’t radio!” the deck man yelled as Mike approached. “But we are ready.”
Mike just waved, then pulled closer.
“Get ready,” he said to Gregor.
The Keldara nodded and headed to the rear.
A hose was dropped over the side and Gregor grabbed it, then it slid over the side.
“Allah’s Beard,” he shouted in rather bad Arabic.
“Son of a goat!” the deck crew yelled, pulling the hose back up.
As the crew of the freighter were distracted dealing with the hose, Gregor and Valentin drew silenced pistols from under their loose shirts and fired upwards.
There were four targets. It was a rocking boat. They missed two shots but all four were down before any of them could cry out.
The assault team came pouring up from belowdecks, the lead holding a grapnel thrower. The grapnel punched upwards with a “thunk” sound from the thrower. When it caught on the gunnel, the rope was reeled in and a ladder went up. As soon as it connected to the grapnel, Oleg started clambering up. If the leg bothered him it wasn’t apparent.
Mike waited for the first yell. There should be one any second. Then it would get tricky.
A rope came over the side and Gregor secured the front of the Cigarette to the boat. It was going to knock hell out of it but Mike killed the power and let it coast into the side of the freighter. Then he headed for the ladder.
As he climbed, Gregor slid under the console and pulled out a power screwdriver. If the women could do it, so could he. The boat was rocking up and down and banging into the side of the ship but he managed to pull three of the screws. The fourth, though, was stripped out.
He let out a curse and grabbed the thing, pulling and twisting until it came loose with a nasty cracking sound.
Shit. Maybe nobody would notice. No, there were bits of the guts pulled out. Damn.
Maybe they should have let one of the women do it.
Mike joined the team and looked around as Shota slid his body armor on and handed him his silenced M4. By rights somebody should have seen them.
“Okay,” he whispered, pointing to the ladder to the bridge. “You know the drill.”
Oleg led, clambering up the ladder as silently as possible, then ducking down at the rear of the bridge to take up position by the door. The rest of the team spread to either side.
Shota was last up, right behind Mike. He had a breaching charge in his hand and his favorite blast armor on. If he was encumbered by the massive stuff, it wasn’t apparent.
“Wait,” Mike said as Shota attached the charge. “There might be a better way.”
“Are they done, yet?” Captain Faisal asked. He had his eyes fixed on the horizon.
“They haven’t called,” the first mate said. “They call when they are done with… whatever.”
“Fueling,” the captain said. “We both know it’s fueling boats. Like that one that was caught in Florida, yes?”
“I know nothing,” the mate said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Look and see if they are done, at least,” the captain said. “Container Sixteen is working loose. I can see it from here. We need to get the crew up.”
“We are not to look,” the mate said.
“Then I will,” the captain said as the back door to the bridge opened. He expected it to be one of the fedayeen that had been loaded onto his boat. Instead it was a man wearing a light white shirt under body armor. And he was pointing a gun.
“Hello,” Mike said. “Pleased to meet you. Anyone who wishes to be a martyr, raise one hand. Anyone who doesn’t, raise both.”
Mike stood by the ventilator intake and grinned. The bridge crew had been gathered forward, where the material wouldn’t reach them. The radar room and commo were already secure and the rest of the teams were on their way.
He picked up the bulky pack and secured the hose to the intake. The pack was lashed to a davit. Then he keyed the gas and backed away. He had a gas mask on, but why take chances?
Fast onset and thirty minutes until it wore off. Plenty of time.
“When can we get out of our quarters?” Djelel moaned.
“When the captain calls,” Khader said, stacking a domino and picking up the set. The purser was just as bored, but orders were orders. And he wasn’t going to anger the fedayeen that had taken over the boat.
“What did you say?” Djelel replied. “You are a goat fucker!” He suddenly lunged across the table, grabbing the purser and slamming him back into his seat.
Khader gasped as the other man started to choke him. His face had turned to one of the djinn, a nightmare face, and the deck was opening up into the fires of hell. He was in hell…
Pavel slid down the fast-rope and headed for the hatch nearest to the engine compartment. The two Keldara behind him carried cutting bars, high-temperature cutting devices. If the room was locked, they could get in.
He slid down the ladder, hands on either baluster as he had in the yacht many times, and turned right. There was one more deck to go down before he reached the door to the engine room.
The entire team was wearing gas masks. The Kildar had told them they must although there was none of the VX onboard. He said there would be something else to contend with.
The ship lurched and slowed to a stop as he ran. They must have already been alerted.
He hit the next stairway and paused as a crewman started to climb up it. The man was sobbing and screaming something in Arabic. His eyes had been clawed out and from the stain on his fingers it had been by his own hand.
Pavel looked at the man and triggered a suppressed burst into his back. It just seemed a mercy.
Then he continued the mission.
“Pavel has the engine room,” Oleg said. “He says there is steam being released in it. He did not do it.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. The crew had gone nuts. He hadn’t realized the stuff was going to be that potent. The Keldara had secured all of the crew members although there had been a few deaths. That was okay, nobody was leaving the boat alive.
Souhi watched, ashen, as the crew was laid out on the deck. Many of them were dead and others were screaming in madness, trussed up with duct tape.
“So,” the man who appeared to be the leader said, walking over to him. “I have a few questions.”
“Go fuck a goat,” Souhi said, spitting at him. “What are you going to do? Send me to Guantanamo? I sleep, I eat, I wait for your Amnesty International and ACLU to free me so I can kill you like the goat dick sucker you are.”
“No, I’m not going to send you to Guantanamo. Those poor boys and girls have enough dickheads to deal with including, yes, the ICRC, AI and ACLU. Are you the diver or the assistant driver?” he asked, turning to Kahf.
“You are a man who licks the cocks of camels,” Kahf said.
“Oh, wrong answer,” the man said, drawing his sidearm and putting a bullet through the diver’s brain. “Oleg, got your first customer.”
A winch was lowered down and Kahf’s feet secured to the winch. Then the diver was lifted up and lowered over the side.
As that was happening, the dead crew were being lifted up, their feet secured to ropes and being dropped over the side to rest in the water. A spotlight was turned on and two large men lifted Souhi up so he was forced to look at the water.