“I guess so,” Suzanne said pensively, glancing at the pirate standing in the door with his AK-47 pointed negligently in the diners’ direction.
“I don’t see why not,” Irene declared. “They ship money in heaps to every dictator on the planet. Might as well send some to Somalia and spring us. Boy, am I going to be mad if they don’t!”
The waiters brought plates heaping with good things, so they all became too busy to talk.
With her mouth full, the Little Rock lady asked the key question. “Do you think the cruise ship company will give us a refund? After all, pirates?”
“Pirates are going to make their marketing more difficult,” Irene said, forking chicken. “Even a partial refund would be good PR.”
“Walmart always worried about good PR,” Harold remarked. “Even a discount on another cruise would be welcome. We always wanted to go to South America. No pirates there.”
“Except in Venezuela. That screwball dictator, what’s-his-name.”
“Chavez. Like the ravine.”
“We’ll skip Venezuela,” Harold said flatly. “Carnival in Rio would be nice.”
“Nice,” Suzanne agreed and finished her third Cosmo.
CHAPTER SIX
INDIAN OCEAN, NOVEMBER 10
When Angel Cordova glimpsed the lights of the Sultan of the Seas, the SEALs had been in their boats for an hour. It was 3:00 A.M. They were only twenty-five miles off the coast of Africa, sixty miles north of Eyl.
The idling engine on Cordova’s boat didn’t interfere with his ability to hear the handheld radio on the earpiece he wore under his black, waterproof head covering.
“Sultan in sight,” he reported.
“She’s steering one-nine-three and steady at ten knots.”
“Roger. Everyone copy?”
“Two, aye.”
“Three, aye.”
“Four, aye.”
Cordova had his boats spread out about two miles apart, so they covered six miles of ocean. At Cordova’s order, the coxswains revved the engines and they began the run-in to intercept the oncoming cruise ship.
Sultan looked as if she would pass between Boats One and Two. Cordova had less than a mile to go westward; Boat Two a mile eastward. Three and Four were farther inshore, and they would have to hurry or the ship would be past them before they could intercept.
The boat rocked and skipped over the swells, with Cordova and his five men hunkered down to keep the center of gravity as low as possible.
Two miles ahead of the Sultan, Cordova’s coxswain, who knew his business, turned to parallel the cruise ship. He throttled back to let the big ship overtake him. He placed the boat so it would be on Sultan’s port side. As the speed bled off, the boat began to rock more violently in the swells. The men held on to ropes, just in case.
Using his night-vision goggles, Cordova could see Boat Two maneuvering closer.
Angel Cordova was scared, and he tried not to think about it. His stomach felt as if it were doing flip-flops. All that training, years of it, the running, swimming, brutal cross-country, obstacle and confidence-building courses, survival and weapons training, cold, mud, hunger, exhaustion … all of it came down to this, a real combat mission. He was worried he would blow it, would screw up the mission and lose his men, who trusted him implicitly.
When he had briefed the mission he had watched their faces. Trust. Confidence. He remembered those looks now, and his stomach revolted and he heaved his dinner over the edge of the boat. The other men pretended they didn’t see that. When the mission was over, back aboard ship, then they would rib him. Not now. He was the officer in charge, and their lives were in his hands.
Would they even be able to intercept? Get aboard?
The ship was bigger, overtaking at about five knots. Angel Cordova could see every light.
Jesus, it was a big ship! Hell, every ship was big when viewed from this angle, on the surface of the sea as it came steaming along.
Slowly … then the bow was there, passing. Cordova could see lights in the lounges and dining rooms, the staterooms, all lit up like a big city hotel.
He could hear the wash of the bow wave, feel it as the boat approached its edge with the engine roaring and the coxswain taking the waves at an angle to keep from overturning.
Here came the ship’s side. Wet and dark and slimy. It was so close he could almost reach it. He scanned the well-lit rails above him, looking for people. Not a head did he see.
“Grappling hooks,” he shouted into his radio mike, which was against his lips.
“Hooks … now!”
Three hooks shot upward. Two of them seemed to catch. Angel Cordova grabbed one, tugged hard and felt the resistance.
He paused for just a second to check the weapons and backpack full of explosives and ammo, then timed the rise and fall of the boat. As the boat came up, he grabbed a handful of rope—it was wet, but there were knots—and began climbing hand over hand with his feet braced against the side of the ship.
Another man was also on a rope. More ropes went up, and two more men came scrambling.
Cordova reached the deck edge and looked around. No one there. This was a lifeboat sponson; the large boats hung from davits over his head. Lights on the bulkheads.
He hooked a heel over a rail, then crawled over. He unslung his weapon, a silenced submachine gun, and lay there for just a second looking around. He was on his feet against the bulkhead, behind a boat davit, when his men came over the rail. One, two, three and four. Got ’em.
“Alpha Team is aboard port side.”
“Bravo is aboard starboard side.”
Silence.
“Charlie is maybe five minutes out.”
“Delta is ten out, but I don’t know if I can intercept.”
“Roger.”
One U.S. Navy sailor quickly unhooked the grappling hooks and dropped them over the side while his mates went forward and aft, checking the doors. They were open, as they always were in good weather. The black-clad men went through the doors with their weapons in their hands.
Aboard Chosin Reservoir, Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington was watching marines in assault gear man three V-22 Ospreys on the flight deck. Each of the giant twin-rotor transports could carry eight combat-ready marines. Toad was still transferring them to the destroyer. Several were snipers who could shoot pirates if they began executing passengers on deck.
Tarkington was worried. The pirates still held the aces, the hostages. Toad had given Lieutenant Cordova permission to shoot anyone he had to, but good sense had to be exercised. Toad didn’t intend to give the pirates the chance to slaughter hostages. Everything depended on keeping the pirates confused and off balance. Speed. It had to happen fast.
If the Sultan’s engines were disabled, the pirates might think their position was tactically hopeless. Or they might not.
God damn Washington!
Toad left the flag bridge and hustled down the ladders to the tactical flag spaces.
Angel Cordova made his way upward toward the Sultan’s bridge. He heard two pirates in the stairwell above him talking, so he checked his silenced submachine gun and eased upward. He saw their legs before he saw their upper bodies. Took careful aim at the legs. Fired a six-shot burst and both men fell, screaming. As they hit the deck he fired a squirt into each head. Blood and brains flew everywhere.
Cordova continued to climb. He had reached the pool deck when he saw another man with a weapon lounging against a wall. Leaning on it.
A black-clad ghost, Cordova pulled his knife, glided a step forward, then another. Grabbed a handful of hair, pulled the head back and cut the man’s throat with one swipe. Blood spurted forward and the body collapsed. The weapon fell on the deck.