Off Course (17 page)

The Captain clicked on a small but powerful flashlight and shined it through the darkness until he counted all six men on deck—three of his crew members; three hijackers.

When Sewell flashed the light at the longhaired man, he reacted by holding his Uzi in the ready posture. Since he used nothing more than his foot wrapped around a railing post to hold himself in place, he was not properly braced. The Captain’s attention was diverted for a moment as he pointed to the man’s foot and started to caution him. That’s when a giant wave hit the boat sidelong. A torrent of water rushed over the deck. The hijacker was knocked sideways from his post on the port side, three feet to Captain Sewell’s left. He caromed into the Captain’s knees. The Captain was cut down and toppled forcefully to his left. Holding the wheel grips firmly as he tumbled sideways, the wheel rotated in the same direction, turning the
Admiral
sharply into the next steep, cresting wave as she scaled toward its peak on a diagonal across the curling wall of water.

Industrial Complex, 30 miles southeast of San Diego, California

June 15, 6:09 p.m. Pacific Time

Again, the young spiked one had stepped away when the older one called to him, pointing at the phone, and the two men conferred, leaving Emily in agonizing anticipation for what felt like an eternity. They loitered around the van for quite some time, allowing Emily’s hopes to rise briefly.

When they returned, the young one made a big show for the camera, waving the knife blade and talking in a low, sultry voice. He approached Emily from the side facing the camera and began to kiss her neck and ear, moving his body closer. One arm on each side of her head, his chest leaning into hers, his hands teasing her hair. Then he stood and let his eyes dance their way down her figure as he walked toward the end of the table again. He glanced seductively at her while he removed her shoes.

Her expression of disgust, though involuntary, did not please him. His face hardened. He grabbed the pant leg again and tugged it upward, the hem dug into her skin.

The long, sharp blade glided easily through the soft synthetic material of Emily’s pant leg. She felt the cool, smooth steel of the knife’s spine against her skin as it moved upward, which sent foreboding tremors throughout her body. When he reached her thigh, it stopped and a boisterous laugh echoed through the building. The spiked tormentor was again playing it up for the camera. Emily could tell that he was going to make sport of her misery by the way he watched her face and smiled whenever she winced or let out a sob. This torture and agony was going to drag on and on. He seemed to be very amused by her distress. After a crude display with his tongue, the spiked one turned the blade perpendicular, cutting the pants off to become shorts, baring her shapely legs. Taking his time, he repeated the process on the other leg, allowing his hands to linger and make contact with her skin as he sliced. This made her cringe even more, if that was possible.

After cutting off the second pant leg to her mid-thigh, the young captor with the spiked eyebrow turned toward the camera on the platform, which was to Emily’s left. He displayed the material and the knife for the lens as he talked in a sadistic tone. As he spoke, Emily heard two simultaneous sounds. One came as the back door of the warehouse blew open with a muted
phhhtt
sound. The other from a side door to her left, twenty yards behind the camera. These noises were followed by a sudden booming echo that filled the whole building with raucous clatter. Within seconds, twelve military operators in desert fatigues and full battle gear rushed in through each door in protective formation. Two soft
thwaps
followed a split second later. The spiked one’s arms flew outward as his body was launched backward out of Emily’s view and into one of the light stands, knocking it over with a thunderous crash. At the same time, the upper body of the one with the tattoos on his neck slammed into the table near Emily’s left elbow, then fell to the ground with a dull thud. She felt something warm and wet land on her bare stomach and legs, on her blouse and arms, causing her to jerk against the ropes and scream through the duct tape. Sarah, seated to Emily’s right, was also screaming. Checking to see what landed on her, Emily realized it was blood, bone, and brain matter. It was splattered on Sarah as well.

Within seconds, Emily saw the powerful lights atop the helmets and affixed to the rifles of the commandos as they spread beams of light in all directions. The ten men and two women swept through the dark, open space, systematically assessing any and all threats between them and the two bedraggled women—Sarah bound to a chair and Emily tied to a table—in the middle of the cavernous warehouse. Finding no additional threats, Emily heard men call “clear” from the area of the van and other men making the same call from the office to her left before four others moved quickly to the two women.

The relief this time was real. These people were true saviors. Emily, who was not given to the gushing of emotions, could not contain the flood. As soon as the ropes were cut from her wrists and ankles and she was helped to a sitting position, Emily collapsed into the arms of a woman who wore the red cross of a medic on her uniform. The other members of the team quickly and efficiently unpacked and unfolded equipment and supplies. After a comforting embrace and encouraging words from the medic, Emily turned to Sarah, who was being helped onto a short-legged, portable cot.

As she was helped off the table by her female medic, Emily was amazed at the efficiency of this group. These people were equipped and experienced. As she prepared to speak, she noticed the enormous pack that gaped open beside the medic who attended to Sarah and determined that was the origin of the cot. She also noticed three other massive camouflage packs in an array nearby. Each medic was assisted by another member of the team. Looking beyond their immediate area, she observed two sets of lights moving toward the front, where the roller door was, and another pair moving in the back, near the door they had burst through. A third pair stayed near the side entrance and the fourth pair inspected the van inside and out.

Before she could speak, Sarah’s medic answered the question Emily’s face must have asked. “They’re securing the entrances,” he said. “We have an assault team on the roof of this building and another on the roof of the building across the way.” He pointed with two fingers, jabbing the air toward the front door. “No chance anyone else will hurt you again. At least, not today.” The young Hispanic man with the dark, clean crew cut was warm and professional. The name embroidered on a patch above his breast pocket said Garcia.

“Thank you,” muttered Emily, her gravelly voice low and strained. “How did you find us?”

“Apparently from your cell phone signal,” he said. Garcia never stopped working. His hands glided in and out of the open pack, pulling out items, ripping open packets, and setting things in place.

“But they threw my phone out the window,” said Emily, puzzlement twisting her expression. “I saw him do it. The guy with the pierced eyebrow. He threw it out the window on the freeway.” Her words came in short bursts and her countenance carried that far away, frightened look.

“That’s all I can tell you, Dr. Burns.” He hung the IV bag on the shorter than usual IV pole he had connected to the corner of Sarah’s cot.

“How do you know my name?”

“It came with the mission intel we were given,” he said matter-of-factly as he attached the blood pressure cuff to Sarah’s arm and started pumping.

The female medic who had embraced Emily, a Corporal Hanes, put her hands on Emily’s shoulders and steered her toward a cot similar to Sarah’s that was set up and ready for her. Emily resisted. “We have to get her to the hospital. Right away. The Scripps Cancer Research Clinic. In La Jolla. She’s a cancer patient there. Dr. Javier Navarro. He needs to see her. She must get proper care.” Emily was agitated, spacey. Shock was settling in.

“We are aware of her condition,” said the female medic as she moved Emily into position on the cot. Smiling, she added, “You’re safe now. You can relax.”

“She’s stage three. This stress, it can’t be good . . .”

“We know, Dr. Burns,” the woman said, smiling. “We will transport her there as soon as we get the ‘all clear.’ Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of the both of you.” Corporal Hanes handed Emily a water bottle. “First, we need to get you both cleaned up and hydrated. It’s hot as hell in here.”

After hours of bravely battling to protect Sarah from the rats and steeling herself for the two goons’ torture, Emily slumped into a regressive, almost catatonic state, letting the military rescuers assume full responsibility for the situation.

*              *              *              *

Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island

June 15, 8:10 p.m. Caribbean Time

The force of the sudden erratic turn against the power of the breaking wave sent the
Admiral Risty
toppling over on its side. Captain Sewell reached for something to hold. His fingers grazed the edge of the bulkhead near the pilot’s chair. The boat pitched at such a severe angle that his whole body went airborne as he and the long-haired terrorist tumbled toward the edge of the boat. He collided into the gunwale, first with his shoulder and second with the side of his head, as he catapulted into the dark, churning water.

The three crew members, cosseted with protective life jackets and recognizing the danger, launched themselves into the sea as the boat tumbled. Miguel, closest to the water when the boat tipped over, tried to get as far from the toppling vessel as possible, knowing the masts and sails presented deadly traps. Jaime, who was near the bow, launched himself forward of the boat. Rojas, the man nearest the stern, jumped off the back away from the hull. Jaime and Rojas, positioned on the uphill side, fell a long way before finally hitting the water.

The other two terrorists held on to the railing with everything they had, not sure what else to do.

The
Admiral
was rolled and tossed by the monster wave, like a pair of pants in a front-load washing machine. Its masts protruded deep into the water as it tumbled and sifted through the surf like a rake, slowing the rate of spin.

Below the surface, seven bodies either thrashed or floated under the surface of the turbulent sea, arms and legs in all directions. Some kicked wildly. Some moved quickly and with purpose. Others remained deathly still while the ocean carried them in suspended animation.

*              *              *              *

Collin faintly heard the Captain’s voice. Something was wrong, he could tell. There was panic in that normally calm baritone. Suddenly, he and Stinky were shot through the air from the steps near the hatch toward the bunks on the port side. Collin curled into a ball the best he could. His side slammed into a hard surface with a jarring thud. Again, the wind was knocked out of him and searing pain burst through his ribs, hip, and shoulder. He was pinballed between hard and soft objects repeatedly before falling a few feet and landing with his back against the ceiling of the salon, above the dining table. Everything in his world was rotating.

Struggling to gain a sense of what was happening while pain enveloped him, he noticed a flowered shirt bouncing near him. With a shake of his head, he realized the boat was capsizing and tried to anticipate the boat’s next movement. Disoriented and bruised, Collin couldn’t get into position before the next violent revolution of the boat. He bashed into things and rolled uncontrollably. Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed the flowered shirt mirroring his movements.

Another wave hit the side of the overturned boat, causing more tumbling. The lights went out and Collin was plunged into total darkness, then cool wetness.

*              *              *              *

Miguel, the crew member positioned closest to Captain Sewell before the
Admiral
turned over, opened his eyes underwater and began to search for the surface. With the churning action of the waves, it was nearly impossible to tell which way was up. In the semidarkness, he could only make out shapes and masses. The long pole-like structures protruding through the water, he knew, were the masts. What little ambient light there was in the water glinted in wavy, silvery lines off the aluminum tubes. They moved in an agitated, unpredictable fashion. He needed to steer clear of them, so he began to kick and pull his way through the water in the opposite direction as his life jacket began tugging him upward. There were dark objects ahead of him, floating and tumbling through the water. Unsure what they were, he propelled himself away from them.

Miguel was so preoccupied with avoiding the dangers he had identified, that were now behind him and to his right, he didn’t notice what was in his path. He bumped into something that spooked him. At first, the something brushed his cheek, then it made more solid contact with his shoulder. The fright caused Miguel to blow out some of his precious breath. He turned to look at the strange object, and pushed it away, when he realized it was the motionless body of Captain Sewell. The flashlight was still on, dangling from his wrist. It spun a beam of light through the dark water.

With the buoyancy of his life vest dragging him toward the surface, Miguel was fortunate to grasp a handful of shirt and hook a foot under an arm. As he rose, Miguel clamored to get a better hold, but he was moving too fast and the sea was too turbulent. He managed to drag the Captain with him for several seconds, but lost his grip before he breached the surface.

*              *              *              *             

In the darkness, Collin’s senses heightened. The sounds around him were terrifying. Water gurgling in, air whooshing out. Pots and pans and boxes and books striking hard surfaces, then splashing. Lots of splashing. Collin glimpsed Stinky flailing across the cabin, a scene of desperation and panic. Stinky’s terror-stricken screams rent the chaos-filled space.

The feel of the water, salty and cool, soaking his clothes as he lay on the ceiling, sent him scrambling. Collin struggled to a kneeling position as the boat gyrated. The water quickly reached his ribs. The coolness felt good on his tied and swollen wrists bound behind his back, but the sense of sinking was terrorizing.