“I’m an American,” the man whispered. “We’re liberating the ship. Hide in there.” He pointed toward the shadow behind the Goofy fountain. “Don’t move or make a sound until we come back.”
It all happened in the blink of an eye. When the man turned and left, Scott saw the three terrorists’ legs bent and torsos twisted, bleeding out on the deck. He reached down and pulled a weapon out of one of the dead men’s hands. Holding it, he was about to fire it into the inert body when he remembered his rescuer’s words and stopped.
His whole frame shaking with relief and fury, he knelt behind the fountain, took a deep breath, and said to himself, I’m still alive.
The air hung thick and still in Lower Deck D, because the ventilation system wasn’t working. Condensation clung to the metal surfaces and walls. Wondering what had happened to the crew, Mancini carefully led the way into the ship’s dark bowels, past the massive electric turbines, when he saw a dim light from a metal catwalk above and to his left, and held up his fist: “Freeze!” The three SEALs responded, lifted their weapons to their shoulders, and knelt. Everything was in shades of green-walls, turbines, electric switches, catwalk, even the dim light. He signaled to Revis and Diego to climb up and determine what it was, while he and JD waited. The two SEALs hurried up the slick metal ladder as Mancini glanced at the laminated chart in his hands, trying to determine the direction to the HVAC (heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning) system, which appeared to be farther aft, past the sixth turbine and on a platform of its own.
He was squirming on his belly to massive Turbine No. 3 when he heard the echoes of suppressed fire-subtle, yet unmistakable. Two quick bursts, three, four, five, then silence. Then the loud sound of metal pounding metal that echoed through the cavernous space, then more silence. Then a loud explosion, then more suppressed fire and silence again.
“What the hell was that?” JD whispered.
Mancini shook his head and whispered into his head mic, “Delta 3, Delta 4, report.”
No answer.
“Delta 3, Delta 4, do you read me? Over.”
Nothing.
“Delta 3, Delta 4?”
Praying that the comms weren’t working, he made a quick calculation. Since the HVAC wasn’t functioning, the danger of released sarin quickly spreading throughout the ship had lessened considerably. He handed JD the laminated chart and indicated that he should continue searching for the HVAC while he went back to check on Revis and Diego. JD nodded.
Mancini grabbed hold of the wet metal rail and hoisted his big body up two rungs at a time like an ape. Reaching the catwalk, he hurried along it in a crouch, and stopped when he heard something splatter. A warm, wet liquid hit his neck.
Blood!
Above him he saw an arm and leg hanging over the partial deck, then heard a squeak behind him. Turning, he saw a terrorist aiming an AK at him and pulling the trigger. He hit the metal grid, felt bullets ricocheting around him. Two rounds hit the ceramic discs of the Dragon Skin that covered his back under his black nylon suit.
He flipped over, located the man through his NVGs, and squeezed off a round from his suppressed and specially modified M7A1, hitting him in the face and hands.
The terrorist tried to hang on to the ladder and pull himself up, but Mancini fired a quick round that caused him to twist, fall, and hit the lower deck.
Mancini wiped the terrorist’s blood off the goggle lenses with the sleeve of his suit, took two quick breaths to clear his nostrils, and squinted into the vast space behind him and to his right and left. Then, facing the way the young SEALs had gone, he saw the flash of an IR strobe, invisible to the naked eye but easy to make out through NVGs. He signaled back with his.
Revis emerged from the darkness like a black ghost and whispered, “We took out two enemies. You okay?”
“Yeah. Where’s Diego?”
“The terrorists were guarding a mechanical room. We took them out and found about a dozen crew members inside.”
“Diego’s with them now?”
“Affirmative.”
“Show me. Maybe one of the crew can lead us to the HVAC.”
“We spoke to the chief engineer. He knows where they set up the sarin but says that’s not the only problem.”
“What is?”
“They’ve set explosives throughout the ship.”
Davis and Team Beta encountered that problem as soon as they entered the interior of Deck 4 and had to climb past a pile of propane tanks. Connected to them were strips of plastic explosive wired to a detonator and a digital timer. The massive explosion and fire they would cause if detonated would block access to the Deck 4 lifeboats. All passengers and crew on Deck 4 and below would be trapped and likely die of smoke inhalation if the sarin didn’t get them first.
Fortunately, he had Nash with him, who was the breacher and explosives expert with ST-10. Davis held a red MagLite cell flashlight as Nash removed his NVGs and carefully disabled the detonators and timer. Then they moved down the hallway to the Security Office, pushed open the unlocked door, and dispatched the three terrorists dozing in the dark in front of a bank of blank surveillance monitors.
As one enemy fell to the floor, Davis noticed that the beard he was wearing was ripped partially from his face.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked out loud.
He knew that the plan called for his team to join Delta and clear the lower decks, but there were likely more propane tanks connected to other timing devices on the upper ones that Crocker and Team Alpha might have missed as they hurried to the bridge. So Davis decided to change the plan and clear Decks 5 through 11, first.
It proved to be a critical decision.
Crocker was the first man on Team Alpha to enter the hallway that led to the bridge. Approaching the secure door, he saw a dark trail on the carpeted floor and more dark smudges on the walls. He touched a smear with his operator gloves and held it up to his nose. It was blood.
He tried to push in the door with his shoulder, but it was either locked or bolted shut. A breaching charge would eliminate the element of surprise and give the terrorists time to hit the button that could release the sarin.
He checked his watch as he considered alternatives: 0538, ten minutes before sunrise.
He leaned close to Akil and whispered. “Attach some det cord to the frame and doorknob. Don’t set it off until you hear me and Storm come busting through the forward windows.”
“Copy.”
“Wait for us. You should hear us and their response.”
“Fuck, yeah.”
He directed Storm, a tall former Sooners tight end, to follow him up to the comms deck. There, with the wind whipping their faces and the sun starting to spread a dim ribbon of light across the horizon, he used his SOG knife to cut through the twelve-foot length of nylon rope he wore attached to his belt, handed half to Storm, and asked in a whisper, “You ever rappel down a building?”
“I’ve rappelled down a mountain, sir.”
“Good. Follow me.”
He saw that two panes of glass on the port side forward had already been blasted out. On the safety rail above them he secured both lines with the double figure-eight fisherman’s knot he’d learned while scaling Devil’s Rock in northern Ontario, then pointed to Storm and down to the bridge.
Storm nodded back.
Weapons resting on their right hips pointed forward, left hands grasping the line, they hopped the rail and started down with their boots against the metal face. Crocker pushed out, eased his grip on the rope so he could lower four more feet, and swung forward through the broken window boots first. As he did, a shard of glass in the frame ripped through his nylon suit and cut into his leg along the outside of his calf. He ignored the pain and flash of heat spreading through his body as in a split second he located targets and a place to land.