50
A quick check of his watch showed that it was 12:30 a. m. If the SEALs had made good their midnight rendezvous, surely they’d be aboard the QE2 by now. Unable to forget about the numerous obstacles that could have popped up to delay them, Thomas slowly stepped onto the small landing, determined to put forth the best effort possible.
“Lieutenant Colonel Laycob!” screamed the SDV pilot, the smashing, twenty-foot waves and howling winds instantly swallowing his frantic cry.
Only seconds before, the Royal Marine veteran had been on the bottom rung of the caving ladder, on his way out of the SDV and up to the QE2’s pitching fantail. No sooner had he taken his first step upward, than a monstrous, thirty-foot swell smacked into them with such force that Laycob was torn from the ladder. He was last seen crashing into the sea below, with the pilot now having to make the decision whether or not to abandon their colleague.
The last of the five SEALs who had gone before Laycob was in the process of climbing over the rail of the ocean liner’s Three Deck anchor-windlass station. One who was already standing behind the rail, though, caught the pilot’s attention with a series of wild arm gestures.
Though the pilot was expecting a signal to abandon his abbreviated search and cast off, the SEAL was instead pointing at a portion of the roiling ocean at the SDV’s stern.
The pilot turned to scan this sector, and he immediately spotted the glow of Laycob’s chemlite necklace, only a few feet behind the SDV. The SBS commando had somehow managed to grab hold of one of the vessel’s retraining lines, and was in the process of slowly pulling his drenched body back into the submersible.
“Do you still want to join them on the Queen?” asked the pilot, having to scream to be heard over the gusting wind.
“You bet I do, lad,” replied Laycob, who was wet but none the worse for wear. “Just give me a bloody second to catch my breath, and I’ll be good to go.”
Thomas Kellogg had never faced an adversary who displayed such lightning-quick reflexes and subtle resolve. Always one step ahead of any punch or kick that Thomas might attempt, the terrorist had yet to be touched by any type of offensive blow. Thomas understood how a mouse might feel as a hungry cat toyed with it.
In a vain effort to penetrate his defenses, Thomas tried his best to attack with short, feinting jabs. This was intended to open up his opponent’s weak side to a lead hook. In almost every instance, the Chinese blocked his jab with his rear hand, before feinting a counterattack with his own lead fist. Instead of making solid contact on Thomas’s exposed jaw or body, these strikes were intentionally pulled back. This frustrating tactic infuriated Thomas, who felt like an inexperienced student once again.
Completely forgetting that he was supposed to be using up as much time as possible, Thomas moved in to take this man down. And the last thing he remembered before hitting the deck unconscious, was a solid foot headed right for his jaw, where a foot had no business being!
“Let’s do it, lad!” yelled Laycob to the SDV pilot, as he reached up for the caving ladder.
To help him grab the wildly swaying ladder, the pilot was attempting to snag it with a hooked extension pole. The swells were arriving with such irregularity that it was impossible for him to time his efforts, and he caught nothing but air.
“Let me try,” Laycob shouted, well aware that the SEALs aboard the QE2 would be going crazy with impatience by now.
Since he considered himself to be the key component in any successful takedown of the huge ocean liner, he wasn’t about to be denied. He dared to stand up on the wildly pitching side of the SDV, and on the very first try, Laycob snagged the ladder.
“All right!” he yelled in triumph.
Any further celebration on his part was cut short by a frothing expanse of agitated seawater pouring out from beneath the QE2’s stern.
His grip on the ladder unexpectedly tightened, and he suddenly realized that the ocean liner was moving!
Though he could have easily let go of the ladder, sheer stubborn determination kept him from doing so. Now finding himself dragged through the frigid sea, he struggled to hook his boot into the bottom rung. His first attempt failed. With the palms of his hands stinging from all the weight they were bearing, he lifted his sodden foot for one more attempt, and the sole of his combat boot at long last made solid contact. A Herculean effort followed, as the forty-nine-year-old commando began the extraordinarily dangerous task of climbing up the vessel’s stern— a job made all the more difficult as the QE2 picked up steam to cut its way through the storm-tossed waters.
A simple adjustment of the dual pitch levers was all that was needed to change the angle of the propellers and get the ship moving once more.
Curious as to why the two officers would go to all this trouble, Dennis Liu intended to awaken them. A vigorous interrogation would all too soon bear fruit, and after learning their motivation, he’d kill them.
A pained groan from the stocky Englishman showed that he was the first to regain consciousness. Yet before Liu could get on with his plan, his two-way radio activated with a burst of static.
“Dennis!” exploded Monica’s voice from the speaker. “We’ve made contact with Red Star. We need you up in the Radio Room at once to transmit the last of the codes.”
“It’s time, lads,” whispered Robert Hartwell to his two table mates “Take a look at their new watch leader. The guy looks exhausted, as do the rest of them.”
Hartwell was referring to Sunny, who had entered the Queens Grill shortly after the ship stopped moving. They were underway once more, making the jolting, rolling motion of the deck a bit more tolerable.
“How do you propose that we do it?” Samuel Morrison questioned. “Just because they’re tired doesn’t mean their bullets won’t prove just as deadly.”
“Check out the pantry access way behind us,” instructed the ship’s security director. “They’ve yet to replace the sentry who had been stationed there previously, and I know for certain that there’s no locking mechanism of any type on that door.”
“Where does it lead?” asked Vince who discreetly glanced over his shoulder to the doorway, located a bare twenty feet distant.
“Straight into the Kitchen,” Hartwell answered. “From there, it’s a chip shot to the Radio Room or Bridge.”
“You’ve got my blessings,” said Vince. “Sitting around like this is driving me stir-crazy.”
“I’m game,” added Morrison.
“Splendid,” Hartwell replied in a conspirational whisper. “A simple diversion that takes place beside the Grill’s aft entrance should give you the opportunity to slip out the pantry unnoticed. I did a bit of Shakespeare in my time, and should be able to pull off a sham fainting spell.”
“You’re much too important to be wasted on the diversion, Robert,” offered Morrison. “Your knowledge of the ship will be better put to use if you’re one of the escapees and I do the acting. Besides, the way I’m feeling, it won’t take much of a dramatic performance on my part to play sick.”
Robert Hartwell nodded. “Very well, lads. Let’s do it, and may the Lord be with us.”
“What in the hell hit me?” muttered Thomas after regaining consciousness and finding himself sprawled out on the Engine Room’s cold, latticed-steel deck.
Tuff kneeled close behind him, rubbing his throbbing jaw and thinking the very same thing. “We were properly whipped, pure and simple, Special Agent. By the Dennis Liu himself. Looks like those Hollywood choreographers taught him a thing or two about fighting.”