Amazingly, the butterflies in Cordova’s gut were gone. He reached, snaked the AK back into the shadows, then tossed it over the rail. It spun once and fell into the blackness.
“Bravo is trying to get into the engine room.”
He merely clicked his mike twice in reply.
From where he sat he could see the machine gun mounted across the pool on the deck above. Saw at least twenty people huddled in deck chairs. They looked cold. Well, the temp was in the fifties and they weren’t wearing coats. Some of them had deck towels wrapped around them.
There should be two machine-gun nests above him. Cordova faded back through the door and started up the staircase.
Mustafa al-Said left the bridge and walked aft. The bridge was on the pool deck. He stepped out of the swinging doors, glanced at the people huddled in the deck chairs and looked aft at the machine guns protruding from the corners of the deck above.
The ship’s lights were still on. He wondered about that. Should he turn them off? If the Americans came over, would darkness help or hurt them?
Mustafa decided to leave the lights on. They would help the machine-gun crews see helicopters, and give the Americans a good look at the hostages around the pool.
That decision made, he began a circuit of the pool, checking the men on the corners. Less than a minute later, he found the man with his throat cut, lying in an extraordinary pool of blood.
For a moment he thought perhaps a passenger had attacked the man, but when he saw the head had been almost severed from the body with one vicious swipe of a knife, saw the white of bone amid the red gore, he forgot about passengers. This was the work of a trained killer. Americans were aboard!
Mustafa fired a burst from his weapon over the rail. The sound was flat, but he saw his men on deck looking his way. He gestured and two men came running.
One look was enough.
A few tense words … then the command, “Find them. Quickly.”
Angel Cordova was behind the two-man machine-gun crew when he heard the burst. The crew moved forward, looked down, trying to see.
Cordova fired two quick silenced three-shot bursts. They weren’t exactly silent, just guttural coughs. One man slumped down where he was, and the other fell across the machine gun, which was on a tripod. The barrel of the gun moved upward at a crazy angle.
Almost instantly, a burst of slugs from somewhere smashed into the overhead. Someone on the pool deck below was shooting.
Cordova fell backward and crawled out of the area, headed across the foyer in front of the elevators for the second machine gun on the starboard side.
A man stepped out, saw him and swung his AK.
The SEAL was quicker. His burst hit the man in the stomach, and the man triggered his assault rifle. The long burst hammered at the floor, then the ceiling as he fell. The noise filled the stairwell.
Petty Officer First Class Buster Imboden was belowdecks, going for the hatch that led below for the engine rooms. His team of four men followed him, but not too close. They were spread out so a burst that felled one man wouldn’t get them all. The passageway was lined with doors, most of which were standing open. They led to four-man bunkrooms. These were crew quarters, and many of the off-duty crewmen and -women looked at the men wearing black wet suits and carrying weapons with open curiosity. Several stuck their heads through the door, but the SEALs motioned them back into their bunkrooms.
The hatch was open, with lights shining up the trunk. Buster took a look, signaled to the men behind him and took a deep breath. There was only one way down, and pirates would be waiting. He could hear them talking.
“Alpha has run into problems. Alpha Two, get behind that forward machine gun and take them out.” While the transmission button was keyed, Imboden could hear bursts of AK-47 fire.
Imboden glanced at his men, then slung his weapon around his neck so it would be easily accessible, stepped on the ladder and started down quickly. At the bottom, a door led onto the engine room catwalk. He opened the door and a hatful of bullets stitched him across the abdomen, missing his backbone but puncturing both kidneys, his liver and his intestines. He fell face forward on the catwalk.
Bravo Two, Petty Officer Second Class Neil Irons, didn’t hesitate. He pulled a grenade from his vest and pulled the pin. Went down the ladder to the door, released the lever, counted one potato, two potato and shoved the door open with his left hand while he tossed the grenade aft as far as he could.
Bullets spanged off the door, which had automatically started to close. Then the grenade exploded.
Irons led Bravo Team through the door, guns burping out bullets.
Imboden was sprawled on his stomach. He had his head up and was firing his weapon.
The SEALs coming through the doorway ran by him shooting at everything they saw. That turned out to be two pirates, one of whom was already wounded by the grenade blast. The other went down under a burst of submachine-gun fire.
Leaving a man to watch the hatches, Irons ran on as he keyed his mike. “Bravo One’s hit.”
The attackers were in a large engine room that was two decks high. Running aft, Irons saw the control panel. Two of the ship’s engineers were huddled on the deck in front of the panel while another pirate attempted to hide behind it.
The Somali shouted something. Now he threw out his weapon as the SEALs ran at him. As he stepped out from behind the panel with his hands up, Irons shot him.
The other team members jerked the engineers off the deck and herded them toward the catwalk ladder and the door to the upper decks while Irons surveyed the panel and the engines. Then they ran for the watertight hatch that led to the aft engine room.
The engines were what Irons expected, medium-speed four-stroke diesels. There were two of them in this engine room and two in the aft engine room. The diesels turned generators that supplied the power to the four propeller pods under the ship. Any engine could be shut down for maintenance while the others powered the pods.
The propeller pods under the ship were controlled from the bridge, Irons knew, but all the control wires went through this panel. He removed a preprepared plastique explosive charge from his backpack, armed it and wedged it behind the panel. Another satchel charge went on the front of the panel.
Irons set the timers for ten seconds, hit the arming switches and ran to get behind one of the diesels. Two small explosions, almost simultaneous but not quite.
After a last look around, Irons led his two men back to the place they had left their team leader, Imboden. The man seemed to be still alive. Alive or dead, he was going with Irons and the other men.
They picked him up and opened the door to the ladder leading upward. Someone was trying to get into this space from the aft engine room. A burst of submachine gun fire dissuaded him.
Carrying and shoving Imboden, the men started up the forward ladderwell toward the fourth deck. They heard the explosions of the satchel charges. The lights went out. Seconds later low-wattage emergency lights illuminated.
Imboden was badly hit. The men paused in the fourth-deck passageway to bandage him up as well as they could to stop the bleeding, gave him a shot of morphine, then headed up the stairs toward the fifth deck and the sponson where they had boarded.
One pirate came running down the passageway and was taken out by bursts from two submachine guns, which hammered him to the deck. His weapon skittered along the linoleum to a stop.
“Bravo got the control panel and is egressing with one casualty.”