Three black men in green uniforms worked slowly toward him from the bow. He waited until they were within fifteen feet, then reached out and fired once. He looked out and saw two men down and the third retreating. Brachman's second blast of double-aught buck channeled in the passageway's steel walls, blasted into the running figure, and smashed him to the deck.
Brachman pulled back the shotgun, wondering if he should push in two more rounds. Before he decided, a submachine gun muzzle poked in the door and fired.
As soon as he saw the blue-steel barrel, he knew he'd never finish that E-mail to Jody. Brachman jolted sideways and tried to find the Glock.
Before he touched the small weapon, a six-round burst of 9-mm lead slashed into his left leg, bringing a scream of anger and pain. A second later, four rounds of the next six-round burst caught Brachman in the side of his head and ripped off large chunks of his skull and brain.
Back on deck, Colonel Maleceia took reports from his remaining lieutenant. His best officer had been killed. He'd lost twelve men so far, and the fight wasn't over. He owned the bridge, the quarterdeck, Main Control, the Combat Information Center, the engine room, the Communications Center, and one of the two enlisted crew's berthing quarters. A dozen men had barricaded themselves in the last berthing compartment. He figured they were heavily armed.
"You told me that the crew's weapons would all be locked in the armory," Colonel Maleceia shouted at his last officer, Lieutenant Nigoru. The man took a step back. He knew the colonel's physical power, and his political muscle as well.
"That was our best intelligence, sir. We have the situation almost resolved. Another ten minutes."
"Fool. In another ten minutes we could all be dead." The colonel took a swing at the younger man, who dodged back. "I'll go personally and dig out those last men, Colonel."
"Do it, Nigoru, or don't bother coming back," Colonel Maleceia said in his native Swahili. The younger man lifted an Uzi and ran down the passageway.
"Where the fuck did the attackers come from?" Torpedoman's Mate Third Class Lew Klement whispered from where he lay beneath the bottom bunk in his mid-level coops. He winced when he moved his right arm, which had taken a shotgun's wildly ricocheting double-aught slug.
"I heard some big three-hundred-pound son of a bitch of a Kenyan officer killed Mathews on watch at the brow and the OD and they swarmed on board." It was Quartermaster's Mate Second Class Clifford "Jonesy" Jones. He always knew everything going on on board.
"How good is that bitch of a door?" Hospital Corpsman Second Class Jugs Wilson asked. He'd just wrapped up Klement's wounded arm.
"As strong as a Japanese mama-san's whorehouse door," Jonesy said. "Last about two minutes. You'll have lots of work to do in here shortly, Doc."
Klement watched the door. All the lights were out except one far back. The door wasn't a watertight-compartment type. One stick of dynamite would blow it right off its hinges.
As he thought that, Klement heard voices outside. One shouted in what sounded like an ultimatum, but Klement couldn't tell if it was in English or Swahili. He'd been doing some reading about Kenya ever since he'd heard that they would stop here. This was supposed to be a damn goodwill call, for God's sake.
The blast at the door came as a surprise. Klement thought he could see the metal door bulge. Then the hinges came off, slashing through the air like shrapnel.
The front three men in the quarters had the only weapons. Klement had a shotgun and a full five-round magazine.
Doc Wilson carried a .45-caliber automatic. The only weapon Jonesy could find was a flare gun with three rounds. At close range one of the flares could burn halfway through a body.
The three sailors were on the floor under the triple-deck bunks, which was below the dynamite blast that tore through the metal door and pitched it aside like a used tissue. Six Kenyan rangers stormed inside all firing automatic weapons.
Jonesy targeted the first man deliberately and hit him with the flare gun's magnesium round in the stomach. The round didn't penetrate, but it glued to the man's shirt and burned at two thousand degrees, putting the man down shrieking for help. Before Jonesy could target another Kenyan, two AK-47 rounds plowed into his chest, spinning him around under the bunk into death.
Klement fired his shotgun the moment the rangers ran through the door. He shot three times as fast as he could work the pump. The double-aught buck cut down three attackers before a round from one of the enemy guns drilled cleanly through Klement's forehead, dumping him to the side, dead in an instant.
Doc Wilson pumped out six rounds from the .45, firing as fast as he could, before one of the heavy slugs caught him in the leg, another in the chest, and he slumped dead before he knew it.
The wave of attackers swarmed over the three on the floor. One man kicked the flare gun away and it was over. They took the rest of the men prisoners and had them all lie facedown on the floor. Quickly the Kenyan rangers put plastic hand restraints on the U.S. sailors. They were all bound by the time Lieutenant Nigoru arrived. He wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and marched the prisoners of war to the main deck.
Colonel Maleceia stood grim-faced as he watched the prisoners lined up on the bow. They had been brought in from all over the ship. The colonel turned to Lieutenant Nigoru.
"I want to know at once how many enemy are dead, how many alive, and how many wounded. Do it now."
As he spoke, five large buses rolled up to Pier 12 just below the brow. The drivers stopped the rigs and turned off their lights.
A few moments later, after conferring with two sergeants, Lieutenant Nigoru hurried up to the large Kenyan. "Colonel, sir. My report shows that We have found twenty-eight Americans dead and a hundred and sixty captives lined up here who are not seriously wounded."
Colonel Maleceia nodded. "How many alive but with bad wounds?"
"We're not sure yet, Colonel. We've found twelve so far."
"That's only two hundred, Lieutenant. They had a full complement of two hundred and six officers and men. Where are the other six?"
"We'll find them, sir."
"Don't bother, we don't have time. Kill the wounded."
The black lieutenant hesitated. "Colonel, sir. Did I understand You correctly? We are to kill the badly wounded?"
Colonel Maleceia's face worked, and his eyes blazed with such fury that the young officer shrank back.
"Shoot them in the head at once, Lieutenant, unless you wish to join them." The junior officer saluted smartly, and took two steps away. "Lieutenant, after you shoot the wounded, throw all the dead overboard."
2
Seaman Greg Goldman stood in the bow lineup beside Radioman First Class Chuck Inman. Goldman scowled as he looked around. Lots of the men lived through the attack, but where were the wounded? He whispered the query to Inman, who shook his head.
"No wounded. I heard shots when we came past some compartments. Now it's just us and the KIAs."
"Bastards!" Goldman whispered. "They'll get theirs."
"Silence," a Kenyan sergeant bellowed. He walked along the line, but evidently couldn't figure out who had been talking.
Colonel Maleceia paced in front of the American sailors. He said something to an officer and left the ship.
The English-speaking sergeant screeched for attention. "Time to move to your new quarters. No talking, no lagging, or you'll end up in the bay. Move out now a line at a time to the buses on the dock."