Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (14 page)

But the explosion of the boats confused things, and Anderson crouched against the side of the house, unsure. He flinched at gunfire above. God damn it, they were killin’ ‘em. He rushed up the stairs just as an explosion sounded from the far side of the ship.

***

Sheibani rushed to the port wing. Richards glanced at the unmoving men, then backed after him. “What’s going on?” he demanded over his shoulder.

He reached the port door just as Anderson charged in from starboard, firing. Outside, Sheibani dived aft for cover. Richards began to return fire just as a poorly aimed bullet from Anderson caromed off a window frame into his armor with stinging force. He backed outside through the door and ducked down beside Sheibani.

***

All for nothing, Anderson thought as he took cover. The bastards killed everyone.

“Christ,” Holt growled. “You couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a fucking bass fiddle.”

Relief washed over Anderson. “You OK, Dan?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Of course I’m not OK, you dumb ass,” Holt snarled. “The son of a bitch shot me.” He went on with a catch in his voice. “And they killed the others.”

Anderson fired at movement, striking the doorway near where he’d aimed, just as Santos burst through the starboard door and dropped down beside Bonifacio.

“Boney is alive,” Santos said. “Not too much blood. I think he will live.”

The third mate groaned as Santos dragged him to cover.

“Thank God,” Holt said from behind the steering stand, crawling to retrieve Yousif’s gun and then forward to help Anderson.

“Ben,” Anderson said, “encourage them to leave with one of those grenades.”

***

“Fuck this,” Richards said. “Like you said, let’s leave them and get out of here.”

“That was the engineers. The bridge crew heard things. And may live, thanks to you.”

They bickered. Sheibani was considering shooting Richards himself when a grenade clanged down beside them on a crazy bouncing path, past them and over the edge of the deck to explode below on top of the lifeboat.

“Beard of the Prophet,” Sheibani said, “how I wish we’d kept some grenades.”

“Uh… I have one,” Richards said, groping in a side pocket.

Allah deliver me, Sheibani thought.

“Then throw it, you idiot. And make sure to pull the pin.”

Sheibani raised his head at a sound as the chopper loomed toward them.

“Our toothless friends are coming to watch, Richards. Please don’t disappoint.”

***

The chopper was running in fast from starboard when the pilot pulled up at muzzle flashes inside the wheelhouse. Something exploded on the far side of the ship, and a large armed man in bloody coveralls bolted up the starboard stairs and into the wheelhouse. More shooting.

“Folks aren’t playing nicely,” the pilot said.

“Good guys and bad guys, but who’s who?” Broussard asked as a small man dashed up the stairs and into the wheelhouse.

“Company coveralls,” Vega said. “Must be crew. Bad guys must be to port.”

The pilot circled far to the port, in time to see a grenade explode on top of the lifeboat. Broussard trained binoculars on black-clad figures crouched just aft of the open bridge door. One looked up.

“Sheibani!” Broussard screamed. “That murdering bastard! Get us closer!” He loaded a full clip as Vega did the same.

The pilot slowed and studied the weapons in the hands of the terrorists.

“Lieutenant,” Vega said, “that scumbag killed three of my men. Skinned one of ‘em alive. We can’t hover with our thumb up our ass and do nothing… sir!”

“Roger that, Chief,” the pilot said as he slipped the chopper sideways at the ship.

“OK, junior,” Vega said, sitting on the deck with feet toward the door, “let’s improve our odds.” He rolled on his side and raised his knees, the Beretta between them in a two-handed grip, pointing out the door. “Squeeze your knees together for support,” he said, and Broussard copied. “We’ll be stable and smaller targets. Course, if they drill us, we’ll be singing soprano.”

“Lieutenant,” Vega continued, “keep us a little high so we don’t take friendly fire from inside and vice versa, and angled down a bit so we can see the targets.”

“Roger that, Chief. Good hunting.”

Broussard was trying not to think about a bullet in the balls.

“Target left,” Vega said, indicating he would take Richards.

“Sheibani is mine,” Broussard confirmed.

“Let’s do it, junior,” Vega said.

***

A bullet ricocheted beside Sheibani and whined away. He aimed at the black square of the chopper door but saw nothing except an indistinct mass near the bottom of the square.

“Hurry, fool,” he said. “We must kill them and get inside.”

Richards rose to his knees, the door to his left. To minimize exposure, he would throw left-handed. He flinched as a bullet whined off a bulkhead, pulled the pin, and twisted to his left.

***

Vega knew the range was absurd. They were shooting downward, so they didn’t have to worry too much about the bullets dropping over the ridiculous distance, but all they could really do was put rounds in the general vicinity and hope. He shot economically nonetheless, adjusting as the pilot closed the range. He was thankful his target was not returning fire until he saw the man draw back to throw. In a heartbeat, Vega evaluated the situation and emptied the clip as fast as he could pull the trigger.

None of Vega’s fusillade struck his target directly, but a ricochet clipped the man’s ankle midway through his throw. He jerked and released the grenade prematurely. It sailed forward over the wind dodger, tumbled to the main deck far below, and bounced over the side to explode harmlessly. Broussard, hearing Vega’s fire and deluged by ejected casings, also changed to rapid fire.

***

“I’m outta here,” Richards said as bullets struck around them. He rose to a crouch and limped aft. Sheibani moved in concurrence, passing him to rush ahead down the stairs and into the shelter of the deckhouse.

***

Anderson’s joy at the retreat was brief.

“The Chartroom door,” he shouted and rushed through the curtains with Santos.

Santos held the door open and stood aside, giving Anderson a clear shot at anyone topping the stairs. They tensed as a door opened below, followed by hurried footfalls descending the stairs, away from them.

“They’re running,” Anderson whispered. “It’s over, Ben.”

“Not yet, boss,” Santos said, plunging through the door.

***

The stairs were solid plate, and Santos knew a blast at one level would be contained. At D Deck he tossed a grenade, banking it like a billiard ball off the bulkhead of the next landing down, so it bounced down the stairs after the fleeing hijackers.

“For Paco and Juni,” he said his cousins’ names as he ducked back and covered his ears.

***

Sheibani heard the clatter and leapt the last steps to the B Deck landing, grabbing the handrail to slingshot around the landing and continue his plunge, feet hitting every third step. He was well out of the kill zone when the grenade detonated at limping Richards’s back.

His ears rang as he resumed his downward rush, thankful he’d delayed killing Richards. He’d planned to leave the American’s body on the bridge, his gambit of preparing two sets of escape equipment a ruse. But Allah had preserved the American as a shield. He pushed Richards from his mind. He had to get out of the stairwell. One more deck to go.

***

Santos hit the landing fast, slipping in Richards’s slimy remains and crashing to his knees. He tossed the grenade from his knees, banking it once again off the lower-landing bulkhead. “For Victor,” he invoked his brother-in-law’s name before ducking back. He covered his ears just as he heard the main-deck fire door open. Missed him, he thought, as he awaited the blast.

***

The main-deck fire door slammed behind Sheibani as he ran down the passageway and clamped hands over his ears just before the blast. After the blast, he straightened, training his gun on the fire door. “Come out, come out, my foolish friend,” he whispered.

The engineer threw open the fire door, then ducked back to the safety of the stairwell as bullets bit through the metal cladding of the door as it swung closed. Sheibani cursed himself for falling for the ruse and reflected. If the monkey had grenades left he would have tossed one, and if armed, he couldn’t fire without exposing himself. Sheibani watched the door and stripped off his armor one-handed, dumping it on the deck while backing toward the starboard door. Outside, he closed the heavy steel watertight door behind him, twisting the handle of a closing dog with a solid clunk as the door seated, then jamming all six dogs to delay pursuit. He grinned as he donned the scuba gear. The chopper still hovered to port, and the monkey trembled in the stairwell, no doubt pleased at slaying the idiot Richards. They would still be searching the ship when he was halfway ashore.

***

Santos slipped back up the stairs to retrieve the dead hijacker’s gun. When he returned to main-deck level, he heard a door slam and the dogs of a watertight door being engaged. He threw the fire door open for a look, darting his head out near the deck, where it wouldn’t be expected. Seeing no threat, he moved into the passageway, not to starboard after Sheibani but to port, to exit the house on the opposite side and circle astern, aft of the machinery casing. He moved deliberately, in no hurry now.

***

Sheibani laughed aloud as he hefted the sea scooter by its handles, its weight pressed against his thighs as he lugged it to the ship’s side. Five feet from the rail, his world went black.

***

The booby traps were Santos’s idea. Anderson had lifted each sea scooter as Santos used duct tape from the bosun’s shop to tape a grenade in the recess just in front of the propeller cowling. He left the grenade handle pointing downward, held against the deck by the weight of the unit, and then taped the grenade handle to the deck so it wouldn’t fly off and alert the terrorists when they lifted the units. Finally, he had pulled the pins.

Santos waited out of sight. He feared the booby traps would be seen and had pressed the hijackers hard down the stairwell to keep them distracted. If the remaining man did disarm the trap, Santos intended to charge forward as he splashed into the water and rain the remaining grenades down on him.

Santos flinched at the explosion and then raced past the blackened remains of the sea scooter to where Sheibani lay unmoving. His upper body was intact, shielded by the heavy body of the scooter, but both legs were severed above the knees. Bright arterial blood pumped from the stumps and puddled on the deck. Sheibani groaned.

Santos squatted, bringing his face close.

“Can you hear, you fatherless son of a whore?” Santos asked.

Sheibani nodded.

“Then know this is for the men you murdered today.” Santos spit in Sheibani’s face.

The Iranian looked up with a mocking grin as spittle ran down his cheek.

“And this,” Santos whispered, rising and unzipping, “is from their families. Do you think Allah will gather you into Paradise reeking of piss?”

Sheibani’s smile vanished as urine stung his eyes.

***

Santos sat in bloody coveralls, staring at the body, hugging his knees, and crying. Tears of mourning for his family, friends, and shipmates. Tears of release from terror. But mainly tears of relief that when the mothers and fathers and women and children of his shipmates mourned their men, they would know their men had been avenged, and that Benjamin Honesto Santos had not hidden like a frightened rabbit, waiting to testify.

***

The chopper hovered, its occupants staring down at the sobbing man. They had arrived in time to watch in shocked silence as the scene played out below them.

“Who the hell is that guy?” the pilot asked.

“I don’t know his name yet,” Broussard said, “but he’s my new best friend.”

“Amen to that,” Vega said.

Chapter Nineteen

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Local Time 4 July

Ward pulled into his parking spot. Traffic before daylight on a holiday had been almost nonexistent, but he knew that would change. If he didn’t get home ahead of the jam sure to follow the Fourth of July parade, his ass would be in a crack. He smiled as he got out and headed into the building; after twenty years of long hours and blown holidays, the “I’m busy saving the world” excuse no longer cut much ice with Dee Dee.

Brice had few details when he’d called earlier. He’d promised Ward an e-mail update as soon as he learned more. True to his word, Ward found an e-mail waiting. Christ. Twenty-four dead seamen. Four survivors. Two wounded. Ten dead bad guys, but no one to interrogate. None of it made sense. Ward picked up the phone.

“Jim Brice.”

“Jim. Jesse Ward.”

“I’ve been expecting your call,” Brice said. “It’s confusing as hell, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say. It looks like it was over before we got there,” Ward said.

“Essentially it was,” Brice said. “The bad guys murdered most of the crew, and the four survivors took out the bad guys with an able assist from our surveillance chopper.”

“Political fallout?”

“I think we dodged a bullet,” Brice said. “Captain Leary was masterful. He planted the seed with his Indonesian counterpart on the exercise that Jakarta was unlikely to throw bouquets to anyone who got them involved. Simultaneously, he got the Singaporeans to convince the Malaysians it would be a coup if they saved the day. When the Indonesian waffled about
China Star
’s position, the Malaysian promptly agreed she was in Malaysian waters and accepted Leary’s offer of choppers for a boarding party of Malaysian marines. Leary then arranged a tow to the anchorage off Jurong, where the Singaporeans will fend off the press and sequester survivors.”

Ward smiled. “Good for him. I guess he’s still in the running for an admiral’s star then. But tell me, how is it two explosive-laden boats blow up against a loaded tanker and only leave a dent and scratch the paint?”

“Only way we can figure,” Brice said, “is that the boats held shape charges directed back on the boats themselves, away from the ship. We’ll know more when forensics gets through with the pieces of the boats we salvaged.”

“Strange.”

“That’s not the half of it, Jesse. What I didn’t put in the report, because I just found out, was the composition of the assault team.”

“Go on.”

“Three Burmese rent-a-thugs,” Brice said, “and four Indonesian villagers longing for Paradise. It’s the remaining three that are interesting. One was the ex–chief mate off
Alicia
and the guy that masterminded the hijacking of the boats. Broussard and Vega ID’d him, but we have no idea who he really is. Then there’s a rogue American named Richards: ex–US Army, ex–private-security contractor, in our files as a known bad actor. We used him on some low-level stuff a time or two, but he was way too volatile and unstable. He was cut off the company Christmas-card list some time ago.” Brice hesitated.

“You’re one short,” Ward prompted.

“Yeah, the last guy could be a problem. Yousif Nassir Hamad AKA Joe Hamad, Ensign USNR. The cream of the latest crop of NROTC graduates, allegedly on compassionate leave in Dearborn, Michigan.”

“Oh shit,” Ward said.

“Shit is right. This kid’s the poster child for Arab-American assimilation. The navy was ready to put his picture on recruiting posters.” Brice paused. “Like I said. A problem.”

“You got a solution?” Ward asked.

“We’re working on it.”

“Need any help?” Ward asked.

“We’re good. But we’d like the body to stay ‘unidentified’ a while. Do what you can to make sure no one at Langley gets hot to trot to run down the identities of every single assailant. I need a little breathing room here.”

“Done,” Ward said and wished Brice luck.

***

Three hours later, Ward was still at his desk, trying to piece together the strange parts of the puzzle. Should he call Gardner? He didn’t look forward to that conversation. Ward smiled. Screw it. He’d been right about
China Star
, so Gardner couldn’t come down too hard. And since his boss was going to be pissed anyway, he might as well combine the chewing out for disobeying orders along with one for failing to keep Gardner informed. Two transgressions for the price of one.

Ward glanced at the time and shut down his computer. He might have time to get home and spend the afternoon hosting his holiday cookout before he got an irate call from Gardner. That would get Dee Dee off his back, at least.

Ward was locking his door when Gardner appeared.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” Ward said.

“Not before we talk. I’ll call you in when I’m ready.” Gardner stomped off without waiting for a reply.

Ward glared at Gardner’s back.

***

As it turned out, Gardner did get a call—from the deputy director of the CIA. The Old Man received a morning briefing report 365 days a year. In a slight nod toward relaxation, on holidays he delayed perusing the report until after a late breakfast and most of a pot of coffee, but when something attracted the Old Man’s interest, he inquired.
China Star
qualified.

Blindsided, Gardner had panicked at mention of
China Star
, weighing his options. Just before he threw Ward under the bus, the Old Man offered a gruff “well done.”

“Just doing our job, sir,” Gardner had replied before a polite good-bye.

He was enraged at Ward’s disobedience, all the more so since the man had apparently been right. His first instinct was to pick up the phone, but he quickly had second thoughts. If he could get into the office and ahead of Ward on the information curve, maybe he could paint Ward as out of touch and not doing his job. He might not be able to openly punish the man for disobeying orders, but there was more than one way to skin a cat.

Gardner’s plan had fallen apart when he found Ward in the office. His only outlet for petty retribution was to keep Ward waiting as he skimmed the intel from Singapore and simmered. After a cursory review, he decided to kill a bit more time by checking his e-mail, and his eyes were drawn to a flashing “high priority” icon. As he read the message, his frown morphed into a smile. He printed the e-mail and punched his speed dial.

“Ward. Get in here.”

***

Ward controlled his anger as Gardner waved him to a chair.

“So, you were right,” Gardner said. “I guess even a blind pig finds the odd acorn.”

You’re welcome, asshole, Ward thought.

“But don’t go getting too smug”—Gardner shoved a paper across the desk—”because your instincts about Dugan are a bit further off the mark.”

Ward studied the printout detailing transfer of a million dollars through several accounts with terrorist associations into and out of a new Cayman Island account, held by a series of dummy corporations and trusts that led back to Thomas Dugan.

“Dugan’s under financial surveillance?”

“You’re god damned right,” Gardner said.

“Larry, we’ve had his financials forever. Dugan’s not for sale, and if he was, it’d take a lot more than this. This is chump change.”

Gardner scoffed. “So someone wasted a million bucks to set up your buddy?”

“Not really. The money’s gone. What’s that tell you?”

“That Dugan’s smart. He made it disappear.”

“Yet dumb enough to leave a trail in the first place? I don’t think so, Larry.”

“Whatever. Dugan and Kairouz are still our prime suspects. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Ward said.

“Good. Get out.” Gardner shut down his computer as Ward rose.

“Wait a minute,” Gardner said. “Where’s your pal now? I don’t want him to disappear.”

Ward stifled his anger and looked at his watch. “He’s on his way to Panama. He’s not going to disappear.”

“Whatever. At least the asshole is out of the way for a while.” Gardner also checked the time. “I’ll be at the parade,” Gardner said. “Senator Gunther invited me to sit with him on the reviewing stand. Call me if there are any developments.”

Ward nodded and walked down the hall, dreaming of putting a bullet into Gardner’s head.