Not a single security camera covered this infrequently visited portion of the ship that many longtime crew members didn’t even know existed.
Tuffs problem now was to get there without being discovered. From where he was, the storage space with the radio was six decks straight up.
Tuff looked to the ceiling, where another ventilation grill beckoned invitingly. This opening led into the ship’s airduct system. These shafts extended to almost every portion of the ship, and since they were fully accessible to the maintenance staff, Tuff supposed that the ducts were wide enough to fit his beefy torso.
Tuff could barely reach the square metal grill by standing on his toes.
He used a penknife to pry it loose, and as quietly as possible, he yanked the grill free and set it aside. He then reached up, grabbed the edge of the opening, and with a grunt, lifted his body upward.
From the security room he heard the wheels on the chair squeak. Had he been heard? With his feet still dangling down into the storage space he would be readily spotted. Tuff braced himself there, scarcely breathing.
After a moment, he didn’t hear the chair move again or the hijacker get up to investigate, so he pulled himself the rest of the way up.
The sheet-metal shaft inside which he now found himself proved to be just wide enough to fit his shoulders. It was pitch black, and while a cool gust of air-conditioned air hit him in the face, Tuff stabilized himself on the stirrup-shaped, iron handholds that lined the shaft’s square interior. With a bit of difficulty, he worked his hand down to his waistband and pulled out his Maglite. Because he needed both hands free for climbing, he had to put the pencil-thin, compact flashlight in his mouth, and in this manner illuminated the shaft’s dark recesses.
He climbed upward for a good five minutes before reaching a portion of the duct system that was intersected by a parallel shaft. This duct appeared to extend into both the forward or aft sections of the ship, and Tuff decided to see if he’d be able to reach the Eelevator shaft by moving forward.
Travel now was by crawling on his hands and knees. The bare metallic surface of the duct was icy cold, and Tuff wished that he had brought along a warm pair of gloves. He supposed that he was somewhere in One Deck’s ceiling, verifying this when he crawled over an open ventilation grill and spotted the darkened, vacant interior of the hairdressing salon. Encouraged by this sight, he tried his best to ignore the bitter chill and a rising sensation of claustrophobia.
The rest of his journey in the tight confines of the duct was thankfully short. The beam of his flashlight found a circular, porthole-shaped access way cut into the shaft before him. Tuff squeezed his body through this opening, and allowed himself a relieved sigh only upon viewing the cable-lined interior of the elevator shaft he had been seeking.
A proper iron-rung ladder was mounted into the aft wall of the shaft, and it extended all the way up to the Signal Deck. The steep climb went quickly. When Tuff finally crawled out of the blackened shaft, he found himself in a portion of passageway just aft of the Kennels. The nearest security camera was in the Kennel itself. Tuff headed in the opposite direction, to a closed iron door that had a crew access only warning sign on it.
Lady Fortune was again with him upon finding it unlocked. He swung the door open, and a gust of cool, fresh ocean air enveloped him.
The steady, pounding drone of the engines was clearly audible, and a thick cloud of dark smoke could be seen pouring from the funnel. The compartment he wished to reach was situated only a few steps away. He crossed the open deck and anxiously reached for the door latch.
The sound of the lock activating was music to his ears. He ducked inside, flicked on the overhead light, and hastily surveyed the room.
Not much bigger than a small cabin, the stowage space was cluttered with painting equipment and all sorts of spare deck gear. He located the object of his search against the far wall. Solidly anchored between two wooden cases of paint was Doc Benedict’s blessed ham radio set.
Never again would Tuff complain when the ship’s physician cornered him to brag about his latest radio contact. As an avid ham enthusiast, the Doc took advantage of their time at sea to establish a worldwide network of fellow radio enthusiasts. During one crossing, he had even talked with the Space Shuttle. The event was memorialized on Doc’s office wall, where a framed photo of the shuttle was hung, complete with a signature from the very astronaut he had spoken to.
As Tuff pulled out the padded leather chair that Doc used during his long radio sessions, he realized that this room would also make an excellent base of operations. It even had its own coffee maker, and a decent supply of tea bags and cocoa. The only real problem he’d have to cope with was the room’s lack of direct heat. The North Atlantic could get awfully chilly, even during summer. Yet Tuff hadn’t earned his nickname by being a pampered softy. As one who had survived his fair share of exposed bivouacs on Dartmoor and Goose Green, he’d manage to persevere.
Well versed in the operation of several types of military radios, Tuff reached out and flipped on the ham’s power switch. A green light activated, and the ex-commando adjusted the frequency dial in anticipation of informing the world of the Queen’s dilemma.
24
“Damn it!” cursed Vince, in a tone expressing more frustration than anger. “And to think I was probably down in the Gym when they were making the final preparations for the takeover.”
Still seated at his table in the Queens Grill, Vince’s vacant stare surveyed the four, black-clad terrorists patrolling the dining room’s balcony, submachine guns at the ready. Both Samuel Morrison and Robert Hartwell were seated beside him. Their pistols had long since been confiscated and removed from the room, and they could only remain there until otherwise ordered.
“I still think you’re taking this whole frigging thing much too personally,” whispered Morrison to his subordinate. “Believe me, we all share equal responsibility for this nightmare.”
On the far side of the room, Dr. Patton and Ricky did their best to attend to the four Chinese agents who had survived the shooting. The lifeless bodies of their two associates had already been removed, and because the terrorists wouldn’t let them transfer the badly wounded survivors to the Hospital, it looked like they’d bleed to death unless proper care could be administered.
“At least our honored guests appear to be taking this hijacking all in stride,” observed Hartwell, in reference to the nine heads of state, who were still gathered at their table in the center of the room.
“I bet the bastards hid their weapons inside that gym equipment,” continued Vince, unable to shift the self-incriminating focus of his thoughts. “I should have ordered New York Customs to unwrap the gear and break it down for closer examination.”
“We still don’t know that’s the way they smuggled in their armaments,” remarked Morrison.
“From the looks of things, I’d say that they’ve been using the ship’s laundry to bring their contraband on board,” said Hartwell, who waited until one of the sentries strolled by before adding, “Ammunition could have easily been concealed inside the sacks of detergent and other dry-cleaning chemicals that were recently delivered to Chinatown.”
“It looks like your old friend Ping really did a number on us,” said Vince.
“I’d say that we don’t have to look any further to determine the source of that food-poisoning outbreak,” Morrison added.
“I still can’t get over the way I allowed myself to be snowed by those two actors,” said Vince. “I was nothing but a star-struck fool!”