Assault on the Empress (17 page)

Hans Liedecker, the German recreation officer, held one of the 12-gauge autoloaders in each hand, Cross glancing back at Liedecker and Jenny Hall, whom he had delegated to bring up the rear. Comstock was beside him, Comstock with the Browning thrust into his belt and another of the shotguns in both hands. Cross would have taken one himself for close range, despite the load, the shotgun not such a bad proposition. Would have taken one had he been able to find a hacksaw with which to get rid of a foot or so of needless barrel. They were at or below the waterline now, the corridor along which they moved opening onto the third from lowest level of the main cargo hold according to Liedecker.

For the past five minutes they had moved slowly and in total silence, the sounds of movement ahead of them, coming from the cargo hold.

Cross edged forward, the AKM at high port in both fists, Comstock falling in behind him, the shotgun held the same way. There was no pretty wallpaper here, no attractive carpeting, no occasional tables set with vases of attractively arranged flowers. There was a smell of diesel oil, the spotless decking beneath them grey painted steel, like the bulkheads and the overhead, and oddly Cross felt more at home with the decor, more like the navy he had come to know—how many years ago?

He kept moving, the sounds louder, men speaking English, joking, an occasional command in a louder, more authoritative voice, the commands the only things intelligible at the distance. There was something going on about an installation and setting it right. Cross thought they were probably talking about a bomb.

Large double doors, not watertight but equipped with panic bars, lay open at the very end of the corridor, from Liedecker's briefing as they had entered this level, Cross knowing the doors would open onto a catwalk, the base of the cargo hold just below.

He continued moving forward….

Some of the male passengers from among the British had passed out, others still on their knees as they were told. He had refused to allow toilet privileges and so there was a strong smell of urine, mixed with the stronger smells of fear and sweat. He would not allow the female passengers to attend the male passengers who had succumbed, but made them sit with their hands tied behind them, on the floor under the tables. The children, untied, his men had herded together and put in the bathrooms. Windowless, the bathrooms were black as pitch, the electricity still turned off at his order. Soon it would be necessary to either restore the electricity or light candles and utilize flashlights for moving about. The day would soon be ended. But darkness was another way of demoralizing his hostages. In the casino, where the non-British passengers were being held, he had ordered that conditions be slightly better. Families were still broken up and the adults segregated by sex, the children kept apart, but he allowed the men to sit too and, in small groups, the hostage passengers were allowed toilet facilities.

His fingers moved over the keyboard, the headache rising within him. Young Martin and two other men, ones O'Fallon had planted among the crew, were entering the lounge, the taller of the two other men with a body over his shoulder. There should have been no bodies yet.

“Let's see the body, Martin.”

Young Martin cleared his throat.

O'Fallon sat at the piano, picking out “The Rose of Tralee.” He'd taken up with a woman who played the piano and lived with her for more than a year and—so she had told him—he had a natural ear for music, even though he couldn't read a note.

“One of our lads?”

Young Martin said nothing, nor did either of the two men with him.

“Speak up, boyo.”

“Tim McCarthy's dead, Seamus. Throat slit, ear to ear it was.” Young Martin looked a little green about his face and his eyes shifted nervously.

“Let's have a look at him, then,” O'Fallon said slowly, standing up. The man with the body over his shoulder unslung it, young Martin and the other with him helping to get the body down on the little stage. O'Fallon looked down at him. It was Tim McCarthy, all right, his face already livid and chalky grey, the blood dried where the gash at his throat was, brown and crusty, another wound visible in his chest.

. “We found him in the stairwell leading to the deck where the armory was, Seamus. And the armory's been cleaned out of all the shotguns. And Tim's rifle and his pistol—they was gone, too, Seamus. ”

“The O'Fallon made him a grievous error, Martin. And Tim, here, he paid dearly for it,” O'Fallon said slowly, dropping into a crouch beside the body and touching his right hand to the cold right cheek.

O'Fallon stood up. He looked down from the stage toward where the male British passengers knelt in discomfort. The women, tied and huddled under the tables, peered at him from beneath the tablecloths which covered the tables. O'Fallon felt the headache washing over him and he raised to his full height and sucked in his breath and hammered both fists down on the keyboard, screaming at the top of his lungs, “What will O'Fallon tell this poor boy's widowed mother! What now!” He took up his submachine gun and sprayed it into the piano, the glass shattering, shards of it flying everywhere, the women screaming, his own men stepping back. He wheeled toward the British hostages again. “Bled like a kosher slaughtered steer, he was! And, damn it all, some bloody bastard's gonna pay dear! Dear!” And he jumped from the stage, nearly losing his balance, one of his men reaching out to him, O'Fallon brushing him off.

O'Fallon stopped his headlong rush, swaying on the balls of his feet, his breathing coming faster as the pain filled him. A Brit with red hair and frightened brown eyes. O'Fallon grabbed him up, tearing the adhesive tape from his mouth, plastering it against his forehead then ramming the muzzle of his submachine gun into the man's abdomen. “Fuck you!” O'Fallon triggered a burst, the body twitching, blood vomitting out of the mouth as he shoved the body away and there were more screams. He waved the submachine gun at them, shouting, “Martin! Get me the bloody intercom switched on if it means electrical power for the whole bloody boat! Do it, now!”

He advanced a pace, looked down at his kill and spat on him.

There was a loud hum and lights went on everywhere in the corridor, Cross flattening himself against the bulkhead, Comstock hissing, “Good God …”

“Hang loose,” Cross answered.

The speaker on the opposite bulkhead crackled and a voice—it sounded like the voice of the devil—came over the air. “The rotten bloody bastards who slaughtered Tim McCarthy, the only support of his widowed mother. Listen close now! O'Fallon knows you by name. A Mr. Cross, a Miss Hall, a Mr. Comstock.” There was a pause. “Crewman Alvin Leeds.”

“Passenger list,” Comstock murmured. “But at least they don't have Leeds.”

“Listen,” came the voice again. There was a woman's scream, and the speaker crackled with terrible static, a noise so loud Cross tried to shield his ears, a sound like something ripping and tearing. Then the voice, the speaker still crackling static. “That was me killin' a bloody British whore. I have me little British brats, too. I start killin' a woman and a child every five minutes until the three of you appear before me in the Seabreeze Lounge. Four minutes, fifty-five seconds!” There was a loud click, and then an even louder one as the lights went out again and the panic lights tried to glow again.

Cross looked back toward where Jenny Hall and Liedecker were, Jenny standing square in the middle of the corridor, mouth open, tears streaming down her cheeks. She took out her pistol and for a moment, Cross thought she was going to shoot herself with it, but she threw it down, Cross dodging back in case it discharged. And then she was running, back along the way they'd come. Cross snapped, “Comstock!” and he pushed the AKM into the Britisher's hands. “Cover the hold!” Cross was running after her, not daring to shout, Jenny disappearing around a bend in the corridor, the stairwell not far beyond. Cross reached the bend, skidding, half tripping, launching himself into a dead run, arms out at his sides, mouth wide and gulping air.

She was at the entrance to the stairwell now, Cross right behind her.

She disappeared inside. Cross hit the entrance as the door started to slam, punched it back, the door swinging wide, banging against the bulkhead, Jenny taking the stairs two at a time running. Cross threw his body toward her, his left hand catching at her right ankle, closing over it, pulling her down as he hurtled up and forward, his right arm closing around her waist, bulldogging her, both of their bodies, intertwined, rolling back down the stairs, Cross taking the impact as they crashed against the deck at the stairs' base.

“Let me—” Cross's hand went over her mouth. She tried biting him, her hands free, scratching at his exposed flesh, clawing at him. His legs scissored around her, trying to pin her, the nails just missing his eye and gouging along his cheek. His right hand flicked outward, slapping her, her head snapping back. She started to scream again and he did the only thing he could. His left hooked upward, catching her at the tip of the chin and decking her. His hands caught at her before she fell back. And Cross held her face in his hands, still straddling her, looking down at her. “I can't let you go.” He drew her to him and just held her for a long second. The lights came on again. The speaker in the stairwell over their heads clicked on again. Abe Cross knew what he would hear.

And he knew he'd kill this man O'Fallon for it, not a man at all but a devil incarnate….

Vols advanced on knees and elbows toward the open doors, deciding that with the speaker blaring now was the best time, despite the light. He crawled between the open doors and onto the catwalk, peering down, the shotgun and the AKM left behind with the West German, Liedecker.

A half dozen men, laying out ropes of plastic explosives, the ropes uncoiling from open packing crates.

These madmen had planned this well.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, trying to ignore the horrible voice of this homicidal maniac. It was one thing to kill for your country, to kill men who would just as easily kill you if they had to, but no more willingly. This man—this O'Fallon. Vols opened his eyes. Six men. Each armed with an assault rifle or submachine gun. Could they be taken? Where else were there explosives?

And then he heard the plaintive voice of a young child, saying, crying, “I'm scared! Mommie! Mommie! Mo—” There was the burst of static which Vols knew was gunfire. There were screams, then the shriek of a woman's terror and another burst of static.

And then the voice of O'Fallon. “Five minutes or two more. I got enough to keep this goin' longer than you can keep listenin', I do!”

Vols only realized he'd been biting his lower lip when he tasted the blood.

“Ready, Lewis?”

“Ready, Mr. Hughes.”

“Whenever you wish then.” Hughes gave a final tug at the shooting muffs and raised the Beretta 92F, inserting the magazine up the butt and working the slide release. The slide followed forward and the hammer followed down, the safety on, just as it should be. His right thumb moved the safety up and he snapped the pistol into a two-hand hold and fired, pulling the first shot through double action, emptying all fifteen rounds as fast as he could. Like the other magazines before it, this one functioned flawlessly, the slide locking open over it when the last shot was fired. Hughes bent over to peer through the spotting scope as he moved the DeSantis night-simulation glasses up to his forehead, squinting his eyes against the sudden brightness. He had shot out the chest of the silhouette at twenty-five yards except for one hole which was in the thorax. He theorized this was the first round, the one fired with the stiffer double-action pull.

He looked to his left toward the next position. Lewis Babcock was removing his glasses and inspecting the performance of his pistol as well. It was taking some time, but there would be time enough to reach the objective. The aircraft which would carry them would not be ready for another—Hughes checked the Rolex on his left wrist—thirty-five minutes. That meant another fifteen minutes he could allow for range time.

Time forbade making a test jump, or trying to run through even the most basic aspects of the mission; but, there would be no possibility of success if they could not rely on their weapons.

Babcock was taking up one of the H&K submachine guns, getting ready to try his first magazine. Hughes began the same, stripping away his shooting muffs because they would not be needed.

The Azores were almost due east and the aircraft which would carry them would only dogleg to avoid the islands themselves and any watchful British eyes. Latest information from Argus indicated the SAS were mounting a full-scale attack force that would soon be ready to go, thanks to the cooperation of Portugal. Word also was that O'Fallon and his band of gangsters had begun killing hostages.

As soon as one magazine was emptied, Hughes would load the next, the purpose of the exercise not to test marksmanship. However that might be lacking, now was not the time to correct it. Rather, they were function-testing each weapon they would use and each magazine, only with the first and last magazine from each taking the extra time to test the weapon's accuracy.

Hughes kept firing.

Cross was not the sort of man to sit idly by while O'Fallon executed hostages, which meant one of two things: Cross was either in action somehow, or dead.

Hughes kept firing.

As his hands worked, his mind worked, but to the same end, the success of the mission. Sound and light grenades, ear and eye protection in the event one of the grenades had to be detonated in an area where they would have to remain. Gas cannisters to be utilized if possible, the kind that would knock out everyone who breathed it quickly. But only the innocent would wake up again, because it was predetermined that none of the terrorists would leave the
Empress
except in body bags. Gas masks in sufficient quantity to make available to Cross, this Leeds fellow, the female CIA-er and themselves. And also one more. Just in case it was worthwhile to keep this KGB man Vols conscious.

He kept shooting.

The aircraft to make the pickup, the impact-proof, bullet-resistant flotation pouch for the ampule once it was recovered and the Rube Goldberg device for suspending the pouch so the pickup aircraft could hook it up and snatch it away.

Hughes rammed the last magazine up the H&K's magazine well and worked the bolt, letting it slam forward. It was the last of the weapons testing. He opened fire on what remained of the silhouette target twenty-five yards downrange, firing from the shoulder in three-round bursts, using the Aimpoint sighting system for target aquisition. The H&K was all but soundless in any real sense. The submachine gun empty in his hands, he looked to Babcock beside him. Babcock was just raising his weapon after clearing the magazine. Babcock made a thumbs-up signal. Each of the MP5 SD A3s had functioned flawlessly. They could be serviced aboard the specially modified E-4 Boeing 747, the aircraft stripped and fitted with engine modifications about which Argus had been terribly vague. Hughes had conjectured that the engine modifications had to be quite interesting indeed since in the next breath he had said that they would be over the target in approximately four and one half hours.

“If half the men I've trained or worked with could shoot as well as you two …” Argus said from behind them. But he didn't finish it.

“Anyone with reasonably normal vision and gross and fine motor skills can shoot well if they practice at it. Trouble is, there's usually something better to do.” He turned around and looked at Argus. “These are good. Can we get these packed in those shock-proof padded cases?”

“I've arranged for it to be done. All the maintenance gear you'll need is ready to go aboard. Parachutes, bouyancy vests, all the chemical weapons you've asked for. Twice as much ammunition as you requested. Got your knives. Everything.”

“How do we get away after this thing is over, assuming we're able?” Babcock asked suddenly. “Once we hit, the SAS is going to know about it pretty fast and may get in before we can get out.”

“As soon as you two get aboard,” Argus told them, taking a small black-surfaced box from his left outside uniform jacket pocket, “one of you will activate one of these. It emits a one-time only radio signal. Trash it afterwards. And please do because this is classified and we can't have you getting caught with it if anything goes wrong.”

“Perish the thought,” Hughes smiled.

“Yes.” Argus nodded. “One of our satellites will pick this up, matter-of-factly log the coordinates even though we know them. It's programmed for it. The signal will be transmitted to a submarine we already have moving into the area. It'll stay out of the hot area until this signal comes, then move in at flank speed. If the British detect it by then they'll have so little time to do anything, it won't matter. By the time the operation is concluded, the submarine should be within visual range of the
Empress
. Get yourselves into the water on her portside and fire a flare. We'll come right in to get you.”

“Unless the SAS see us first,” Babcock remarked.

“Unless the SAS see you first. We don't want that to happen, but they are friendly forces so don't try shooting your way out of anything with them.”

“How about Russian submarines?” Hughes asked.

“Satellites tell us there are two in the immediate vicinity. But I doubt they'll risk surfacing.”

“What if they do?” Babcock inquired.

“I have no instructions to cover it,” Argus told them, looking at each of them in turn.

“What sort of instructions will the captain of the U.S. submarine have?” Babcock asked very deliberately.

“I had no control over that. He was told to withdraw and leave you in the water. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, well, that makes it all right, then,” Babcock said, hammering his fist into one of the partitions which separated the range positions, the spotting scope mounted to it vibrating.

“Things don't really change at all, do they, General.” Hughes said it as a statement, not a question, then looked at his watch; it was time to go….

Another woman and child were murdered as they listened, helpless, and soon there would be another. Jenny Hall's action had left Cross no other choice. He could not trust her alone, nor could he drag her along kicking and screaming once she woke up. He had checked; she was regaining consciousness. And he had taken the strap from her purse and tied her hands with it, leaving Liedecker to stay with her while he and Comstock took care of other matters.

They crouched at the top of the catwalk now. Comstock whispered, “She will hate you for this. And hate me for helping you.”

“I couldn't have made her understand.”

“I have a feeling you and I may have a falling out, Cross.”

Cross looked at Comstock, puzzled for a moment. “Why?”

“You'll want to kill this man O'Fallon. And so do I. But until then, allies, hmm?”

“Until then. Ready?”

“Ready. Yes.”

Cross stood up, the AKM in both fists, Comstock beside him, the Browning High Power in his belt, one 12-gauge in his hands and a second one leaned against the catwalk.

“Now!” Cross shouted, and they both opened fire into the six men below them, the roar of the Soviet assault rifle and the belching of the shotgun blending into a deafening cacaphony, the sound reverberating again and again off the steel walls of the cargo hold all around them and above and below, return fire starting to come up at them, bullets ricocheting off steel plate, Cross feeling something tear at his left thigh, Comstock staggering back, throwing down his shotgun, picking up a second and firing one-handed, the Browning High Power in his left fist.

Cross emptied the AKM and rammed the fresh magazine into place, continued firing until the last of the six were down. Had the men been near the plastic explosives with detonators set, there could have been—but there had been no other choice. And they had waited until the men had been about to leave the hold to do their bloody work.

Cross looked at Comstock. The Englishman's white shirtsleeve was stained red with blood. “Just plenty of blood, but nothing serious I think. Have a look at it, will you, when you get the chance?” And Comstock staggered, almost fell, Cross letting the AKM drop on its sling to his right side, bending down with the man. Cross's left thigh burned.

He inspected the wound to Comstock's arm. “You were right. It doesn't look serious. Betchya it hurts like hell.”

“You're right there, old man.” And Comstock's eyes flickered to the right for an instant. “Not unscathed either, are we?”

“Just a scratch. Probably a ricochet. Fragment in it feels like. Yours went clean through. I'm making a pressure bandage here,” and Cross began cutting away Comstock's right sleeve.

“Don't suppose you'd rather mutilate your shirt. Heaven forbid.” Comstock grinned.

Cross placed the bandage. “Just keep your elbow crooked until the bleeding slows up. Try to keep it elevated.”

“Your thigh, old man.”

“One of us has to get down there and hold that position. All the racket we made, they'll be on us quick. Take your time on the stairs. Come down on your butt if you feel light-headed, all right?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Cross was up, the half-spent AKM in his right fist, Jenny's stainless Colt Officers ACP in his left. He started down the stairwell off the catwalk. Get the weapons gathered up from the dead, then get to defusing the plastique if it could be done. And the unpleasant but necessary part. If any of the six weren't dead, see that they became that way.

He kept moving….

“Liedecker! Bring her.” Vols ordered.

“Yes, Herr Comstock,” the recreation officer shouted back.

Vols turned his back and, using one of the shotguns like a cane to support himself, he started back along the corridor toward the catwalk. The lights came on and the speaker crackled and Vols sagged against the bulkhead, a wave of nausea gripping him. “Five minutes have passed. Faith and doesn't it bother ya that innocent women and babies are dyin' now?”

There was a child's voice, crying. Then the first blast of gunfire came. Vols pushed himself upright and quickened his pace….

Babcock followed Hughes's lead, as soon as the craft was urborne getting into a cross-legged sitting position on the fuse-age floor. “All right, lad. Submachine guns first. Complete field ;trip, light lubrication only, then reassembly. Save loading magazines until the last. There'll be time.” Hughes started dismounting one of the three Heckler & Kochs.

Babcock looked at his Rolex. As General Argus had put them aboard, he'd told them, “The Air Force people tell me that come specialized equipment on one of their planes has been picking up traffic between the British vessel off the Empress's portside and the Azores. It was voice; some sort of code; didn't nake any sense. Except for one thing. They kept repeating the word ‘lighthouse.” We think it's an attack order.” And Babcock wondered if, by the time they got there, there would be anyone eft to save….

Only one of the six hadn't been dead already. With the knife he'd borrowed from Jenny earlier, he corrected that, as quickly is he could and as mercifully, the man unconscious anyway. Three UZI submachine guns, fine weapons but the cyclic rate too fast for some applications; two more AKMs and two spare magazines for each of them; two revolvers and three semiautomatic pistols; an assortment of cheap knives. He looked up the stairwell, Jenny Hall being taken down toward them by Liedecker, her hands still evidently bound behind her to keep her from getting away to turn herself in. Coming along just ahead of them, looking a little wobbly, Comstock.

Cross gave the Englishman credit. SIS men were tough if this man were in any way typical. Only two of the pistols were decent, one of them a Browning High Power like Comstock already had, the other a SIG-Sauer P-226 9mm. The revolver was an old, blue worn Model 10 M&P Heavy Barrel Smith. Cross unloaded the cylinder and checked the timing. Satisfactory, the action wear-smoothed feeling. He reloaded it. “Liedecker! Get down here and check the bodies for spare magazines or ammo, pocketknives, anything we might be able to use for anything.”