Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (17 page)

 
          
“Just
Merlin,” Luger replied. “No rank or title. We are all Americans.”

 
          
“Keeping
that information secret is an insult for those of us who have just saved your
lives,” Farouk admonished him. “Now, I order you to tell me your real name and
rank, or I will throw you in my brig.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, sir, I will not,” David replied. “I will tell you that we are crew
members of the S.S.
Catherine the Great
,
a salvage vessel based in Klaipeda, Lithuania. I’m sorry, but our ownership
papers and letters of transit were lost in the attack.”

 
          
“I
understand,” Farouk said. There was no doubt in Farouk’s mind that these were
soldiers—they looked, acted, and even moved like fighting men. And they were
not sailors, either. “The bastardly Libyans think they own the Mediterranean. I
am told you do not carry passports, either.”

 
          
“Sorry,
sir. They went down with our ship as well.” That was true, but the passports
that went down with the ship were all fakes. “We are all American merchantmen.
As I told your first officer, if you allow me to call the American embassy in
Cairo, they can help verify our identities.”

 
          
“This
is a military matter now, and we have specific procedures to follow to verify
your identities,” Farouk said, obviously angry at Luger’s lack of cooperation.
“You will be placed in custody at our home base of Mersa Matruh and questioned.
You will be treated fairly, I assure you, but since you were obviously involved
in some military conflict with the Libyans, we can take no chances.” He
motioned to the three men surrounded by the commandos. All three put their
heads down while Egyptian intelligence officers snapped pictures of them and
the other commandos. “And then there is the question of those three gentlemen.
Unless they are spacemen from Mars and an oxygen atmosphere is poisonous to
them, they must remove their equipment immediately.”

 
          
“The
devices they are wearing are life-support equipment,” Luger lied. He turned
toward the three, and they all took off their helmets with a gentle hissing
sound. Photo strobes flashed despite their efforts to hide their faces. “They
are under some distress if they take their helmets off. May they please put
them back on, Captain?”

 
          
“My
ship’s doctor will examine the men with their outfits off,” the captain said.
“If they are in distress, they will be airlifted to the appropriate medical
facility in Egypt for treatment—all the way to Cairo if necessary. They will be
well treated, I assure you. But since that outfit is unknown to me, it will be
removed, examined, and placed in secure storage at Mersa Matruh until we can
ascertain that it is safe and no threat to us.”

 
          
Luger
nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell them that right now. It will take a few moments to
remove their outfits.” Luger bowed slightly to the captain, then went over to
McLanahan, Briggs, and Wohl. “Bad news, guys,” he said. “The captain wants you
to ditch the armor. He’s going to have his doc examine you; then he’s going to
place us all into custody at Mersa Matruh.”

 
          
“We
can’t wait until we dock before we do something, sir,” Chris Wohl said in a low
voice. Although they were all civilians now, retirees, Chris Wohl would never
even consider calling McLanahan, Luger, or Briggs anything else but “sir,”
although he might put a definite sneer in his voice if he disagreed with their
orders—as he did now. “Mersa Matruh is a combined-forces base—they have close
to fifty thousand troops stationed there from all three services.”

           
“We’re not supposed to be fighting
the Egyptians,” David Luger said. “Once we contact the American embassy, we’ll
be let go. But if we get into a shit storm with the Egyptians, they’re just as
likely to kill us.”

 
          
“Our
embassy has no idea why we’re here,” Patrick said. “No real passports, no
visas—and the President already tried once to have us all arrested. We can’t go
running to the embassy for help.”

 
          
“I’m
forced to agree with the master sergeant, Muck,” Hal Briggs said. “They’ll
treat us like captured terrorists. Our cover will be blown wide open.”

 
          
Patrick
thought for a moment longer; then: “Sarge, how many sailors on this ship?”

 
          
“About
two hundred total. The U.S. Navy doesn’t usually carry Marines on little
frigates, but the Egyptians do. Usually two marine platoons max, thirty or
forty men— those will be the best-trained counterforces. We’ve seen one platoon
in here already, but only a dozen of them armed.”

 
          
Luger
tensed up as he saw movement nearby—the captain was getting tired of waiting
and was getting his men together to start taking them into custody. The
commandos surrounding the three leaders were trying to look casual and relaxed,
but they could sense their tension. “Looks like the captain’s coming over here.
Time’s up.”

 
          
“How
do you want to play it, sir?” Wohl asked Patrick. Patrick got to his feet,
turned away from the oncoming Egyptian captain, and hefted his helmet. “Let’s
take this boat,” he said, and he quickly slipped his helmet into place.

           
“Hoo-rah,” Wohl said tonelessly as
he and Briggs got to their feet. “Good decision, sir.”

 
          
“An iznukum!”
Farouk shouted when he saw
Patrick put on the helmet.
“Minfadlukum!”
But when he saw Briggs and Wohl also put their helmets on, he knew things were
turning ugly.
“Waif!”'
He motioned to
his marine guards.
“Ihataris! Waif!”

 
          
The
three armored commandos moved out in a triangle formation, opposing the three
main bodies of guards. At the same instant, the commandos also fanned out,
moving with surprising speed since it seemed as if they were so relaxed and
tired mere moments ago. The electronic energy bolts fired, striking the armed
guards, and almost before the stunned guards hit the steel helicopter hangar
deck, the Night Stalker commandos had their weapons in their hands. In less
than fifteen seconds, every armed Egyptian sailor in the hangar was
unconscious, and the commandos were closing, dogging, and guarding the steel
hangar doors and hatches, weapons in hand.

 
          
“What are you doing? What are you doing
here?”
Farouk shouted as he saw his men drop to the nonskid deck, their
bodies quivering from the electric shocks they received. He pointed an angry
finger at Luger. “You told me you meant us no danger!” He saw Patrick approach
and turned his anger towards him. “Are you the one responsible? I will see to
it that you are put to death for this act of aggression! We saved you and your
men from the Libyans, and now you dare do
this
?”

 
          
“Captain,
I am Castor,” Patrick said. He paused as he listened to instructions Wohl
issued to his men. The Night Stalker commandos quickly began to remove the
Egyptian sailors’ uniforms and put them on. “My men and I won’t hurt you, and
we have no desire to take your ship, unless you do not cooperate with us.”

 
          
“Won’t
hurt us? Won’t take my ship? You are terrorists! Saboteurs! Spies!” Farouk screamed.
“Putting on the uniform of another country’s army is not permitted!”

 
          
“This
is not war, Captain, and we are not soldiers,” Patrick said. “Sir, I’m going to
ask one more time for your cooperation.”

 
          
“I
refuse. You may kill me if you wish.”

 
          
“I
don’t want to kill you, Captain,” Patrick said. “I want you to contact your
headquarters on Mersa Matruh. Tell them I have taken you hostage and warn them
not to approach this ship.”

 
          
“I
told you, I will not cooperate,” Farouk said. “I order you to put down those
weapons and surrender.”

 
          
“That’s
not likely to happen, Captain,” Patrick said. “But I’m sure you’ll reconsider
my offer to contact your headquarters once we reach the bridge.”

 
          
“The
bridge?” Farouk gulped. “You ... you think you will
take my bridge
? You will all be dead in ten minutes.”

           
“Maybe so,” Patrick said. “But in
five minutes, we’ll have control of your bridge.” He switched the view on his
electronic visor to an electronic briefing Chris Wohl was giving to the Night
Stalkers. Patrick saw that Wohl had called up an electronic blueprint of the
U.S.-made Perry-class frigate and was briefing his men on their assault. In
less than five minutes, they were ready. Wohl took the port-side rail, Briggs
the starboard rail, followed by fifteen Night Stalkers each; Patrick went atop
the hangar and made his way forward along the upper gun deck with twenty
commandos.

 
          
Because
of the tense situation in the Med following the Libyan raids, the deck was full
of lookouts, all armed with American-made machine guns. They were all doing
exactly what they were supposed to be doing—searching the sea, continually
scanning for threats using night-vision goggles and infrared sniperscopes—so it
was easy to simply step within a few feet of them unnoticed, quietly knock them
unconscious with a quick zap, disable or capture their weapons, and move on.
McLanahan’s, Briggs’s, and Wohl’s electronic visors showed each crewman on deck
in stark relief several yards away, and their amplified hearing equipment
allowed them to take cover before a crew member came through a hatch or
unexpectedly appeared around a comer.

 
          
On
the bridge, the officer of the deck, or OOD, was making a log entry when
suddenly the frigate’s propeller simply stopped. “Sir, sudden loss of
propulsion!” the helmsman reported.

 
          
The
OOD immediately picked up the 1MC phone direct to Engineering. “Engineering,
bridge, what’s happening down there?” No reply. “Engineering, bridge, respond!”
Still no reply. The OOD turned to the chief petty officer. “Sound general
quarters, all hands to battle stations, no drill.” He picked up another phone,
the one direct to the captain’s quarters. “Captain to the bridge. Emergency.”
The OOD had picked up another phone. “Combat, bridge . . . Combat, can you hear
me?” There was no reply. “What in hell is going on here?” He turned to the
chief petty officer and shouted, “And why haven’t you sounded general quarters,
dammit?”

 
          
“I
activated the alarm, but it did not sound, sir!” The chief petty officer turned
to one of the watchstanders and shouted, “Start a running message relay right
now, general quarters, battle stations, this is not a drill. Go!”

 
          
“Ma’lesh,”
they heard behind them. “It
doesn’t matter.” The OOD and chief petty officer turned and saw Commander
Farouk step onto the bridge. “Sir, we’ve lost propulsion,” the OOD reported,
“and I cannot raise Engineering or Combat and I cannot sound general quarters.
I.. .” But then he noticed the surprised expressions of the helmsman and the
other watchstanders as the captain stepped onto the bridge. “Sir .. . ?”

 
          
Farouk
was roughly pushed toward his captain’s chair in the center of the bridge, and
then the place seemed to explode in chaos. Men in Egyptian naval uniforms
pointed automatic weapons at the bridge crew, shouting in English. At the same
moment, the access door from the center of the bridge burst open, and more
English-speaking men rushed in; behind the OOD and chief, the port-side weather
door also whipped open, and more strange men entered. Once the bridge crew was
gathered up, they were placed down on the deck, hands behind their necks. Four
of the commandos stayed on the bridge, while others took up security positions
outside and in the inside passageway.

 
          
Patrick
entered commands into the frigate’s computerized helm station, and the ship
turned away from the Egyptian coast, increasing power to maximum. He then picked
up the captain’s telephone and held it out to Farouk. “I need you to tell your
crew that we will be delayed in returning to Mersa Matruh and to not interfere
with my men.”

 
          
“I
refuse.”

 
          
Patrick
seemingly did not react—but moments later, Farouk’s body began to do a strange
jerking quiver in his seat, and his eyes began to roll up into his head. The
spasm lasted for several moments, then Farouk’s body went limp. The Egyptian
captain appeared as if he had just been beaten up, his breath coming in deep
gasps, although no one had touched him. “It will be harder on you if you do not
comply,” Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice.