Sea of Terror (46 page)

He could see the other jumpers ahead of him in a ragged and uneven curve, the bright wink of their IR strobes showing their positions in the sky as they slowly began adjusting their positions relative to one another. Vic Walters and David P. Yancey had point and would be going in together; the rest were spacing themselves out so that they would come in one at a time, about five to ten seconds apart.

Dean would come in last.

His rate of descent was steady at fifteen feet per second, his speed twenty-five knots. The wind was light-- about five knots from the southwest. The sky had been clear earlier, when they'd left the Eisenhower, but was becoming overcast again swiftly.

With the Queen steaming away from him at twenty knots, it was going to take him some time to catch up with her.

Art Room NSA Headquarters Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 0502 hours EST

Rubens stood in the Art Room, looking up at the big screen. Deck plans provided by Royal Sky Line had been turned into computer-graphic schematics showing every deck on board the ship, Decks One through Twelve above, Decks A through D below. The sheer size and complexity of the target meant that Neptune was going to have to be carried out in sections. Cougar was only the first wave. Jaguar was in reserve, the Ohio was closing with the Pacific Sandpiper, and the, SAS had just reported that they were ready to go with Operation Harrow Lightning.

But the critical part was getting those first few men down safely onto the Atlantis Queen's deck.

He listened to the chatter from the string of parachutists. There wasn't much. The team had drilled endlessly and didn't need to say much as they lined themselves up for the approach to their target.

"Cougar Two," a voice said, identifying itself. "Slowing descent. Winds picking up a bit. Eight knots."

"Copy."

So far, everything was going perfectly by the book. Rubens was already composing his resignation letter in his head, however. By ordering Neptune to go in without authorization from the President or the Pentagon, he was committing a decidedly illegal act, dropping a dozen armed men onto the deck of a cruise ship belonging to another nation and running the risk that his actions would precipitate disaster. If Khalid decided to blow up either ship out there, radioactive fallout would easily stretch along the prevailing winds three hundred miles across southern Newfoundland, while seaborne contamination might wash across beaches from Newfoundland to Ireland and possibly the rest of western Europe as well. It would be an unprecedented ecological and radiological calamity. That he'd given the order while the U. S. government was supposedly carrying out negotiations with the hijackers, or trying to, would only cast his decision into a sharper, harsher light.

But the alternative was to let the Queen keep coming, with the New England coast now less than six hundred miles away.

It was an alternative that simply didn't bear consideration.

"How about it, Kathy?" he asked the woman seated at a computer console nearby. Kathy Caravaggio was one of his best handlers. "Ready to raise the stakes?"

"We have full admin control,", she told him. "They don't know it yet, but we have control of their security systems now."

"Do it," Rubens said.

Security Office, Atlantis Queen 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0510 hours EST

"What is wrong with it?" Khalid demanded.

"Amir... I don't know. The security system appears to be running normally, but all of the security cameras have just switched off!"

"That's impossible, unless you shut it down here!"

"I did not, Amir! I swear!"

"Let me see the deck displays."

Hamud Haqqani touched a switch, frowned, then hit it again. "Sir ... we don't have those screens, either."

Khalid felt a cold twist in his gut. The deck display screens should have been able to show him points of light for every person on board the ship--red for passengers with ID, blue for people sensed in various areas of the ship without ID, green for the hijackers and the members of the crew. If he couldn't see where the hostages were, he was losing control.

"There was a large group of hostages in the casino, yes?"

"Yes, Amir," Haqqani said. "Last time I looked, there were around fifty passengers and a few crew members there.. Tahir and Faruk are on the deck outside there, and El Hakim is inside the casino."

"Are there other large gatherings of passengers?"

"No, sir. A few in the Kleito Bar . . . four or five, perhaps. Most passengers are in their staterooms, except for the ones in the theater."

"We may be facing an attack," Khalid said. "Get those screens working!"

Assault Team Cougar 40deg 45' N, 70deg 06' W Friday, 0510 hours EST

They were picking up speed. The maximum forward velocity of a standard ram-air chute is about 25 miles per hour. The team's MC-4s had been modified, however, to improve their speed in horizontal flight. They could manage about 34 miles per hour, now, which meant they were closing on the Atlantis Queen at about 14 miles per hour ... or roughly twelve knots. Four and a half regular miles was a little under four nautical miles. Four nautical miles at twelve knots--twenty minutes.

Which meant they were getting damned close by now.

Guided by the GPS-controlled readouts on their wrists, the strike force steadily closed on their target, now less than half a mile ahead. The Queen was running with her lights on and so made a splendid visual target.

"Okay, Cougars One and Two," Dean said over the squad channel. The men were identified by their order in the stick. "You've got the call."

"Cougar One. I see the Atlas Deck. I see two, repeat, two tangos close in by the windows, as expected. AK-47s and cigarettes."

"Cougar Two, roger that. Two tangos in sight."

"Doesn't look like they're expecting us," Cougar One, Vic Walters, added.

One point of HAHO drops was that the parachutes opened so far from the target that the crack of unfolding fabric grabbing air couldn't be heard at the target. Another was the ability to literally fly to the target, within certain fairly broad parameters.

"Cougar One, Two, this is Twelve," Dean said. "Take them down at your discretion."

There was no going back now.

Neptune Theater, Atlantis Queen 44deg IT N, 59deg 13' W

Friday, 0511 hours EST

"Inside!" Rashid Abdul Aziz said, nudging one of the Westerners with the muzzle of his AK-47. "Sit down and no make trouble!"

The twelve captives meekly filed through the door and into the theater, escorted by Nejmuddin and Sadeeq, one of them, the black one, still clutching his forehead where Baqr's rifle butt had clipped him.

Stopping in the hallway outside the theater entrance, Aziz pulled out his radio and called the bridge.

"What is it?" Fakhet's voice replied.

"This is Aziz. We've caught them all," Aziz told him. "We're putting them inside the theater now."

"Any trouble?"

"None at all."

"Good. The Amir wants you to--" The voice broke off.

"Bridge? Are you there?"

There was a moment's silence, and then Fakhet's voice sounded from the radio again. "There is a ... problem," he said. "Listen. Take all of your men to Deck Nine, then aft to the casino. The Amir wants all of the people gathered there to be rounded up and moved to the theater as well!"

"Why?" Aziz asked. "There must be fifty or sixty--"

"Just do it, Aziz! All of our security cameras have just switched off! The Amir says there may be an attack coming at any moment!"

Cougar One

44deg IT N, 59deg 13' W

Friday, 0513 hours EST

Victor Jeffery Walters was an old hand. Forty-Height years old, now, he'd joined the Army Special Forces as soon as he'd made sergeant and eight years later had been selected for Delta Force. He'd seen action in both Afghanistan and Iraq, been promoted to staff sergeant, and finally retired after twenty-two years.

His retirement had been illusory, however... or, at best, in name only. An NSA recruiter had approached him last year, and he'd volunteered for paramilitary service with the Deep Black program and Desk Three. Since then, he'd been training with the Cougars, keeping up his weapons skills, keeping up his jump certification.

And now it all was paying off.

Not that this jump was an easy one. He'd done it time after time in training, and his heart still felt like it was trying to climb up out of his throat. He'd once heard a Navy aviator friend talk about the difficulties of landing at night on an aircraft carrier ... a huge vessel that during the approach appeared to be about the same size as a postage stamp, and it was moving.

His friend, he thought, had nothing on him. This was a lot worse.

Through the NVG monocular he could clearly see the Atlas Pool and the large deck around it, positioned at the rounded back end of the Atlantis Queen. Light spilling from the casino inside made the deck area as bright as day; he could see the two hijackers clearly. They appeared to be relaxed, weapons slung, the red star of a burning cigarette in the mouth of each.

Thirty feet from the Queen's taffrail, he hauled back on the brake toggles of his parachute, spilling air and speed. As he drifted forward at the uncertain
e.g.
of a stall, he pulled his H&K, which he'd released during the jump to hang by its straps from the right side of his body, up to his shoulder.

The touch of a gloved thumb switched on the infrared laser targeting system; through his monocular, he saw the ruby-bright point of light, invisible to the naked eye, dancing across the torso of the terrorist on the right.

"Cougar One," he whispered. "Target right."

"Two. Target left."

"Take 'em!"

It was tricky taking a shot while trying to control a parachute just thirty feet from touchdown, especially with some turbulence kicking up as he flew through the cruise ship's slipstream. He had to release the parachute control toggles while in a sustained near-stall, raise his weapon, aim, and fire, all before he stalled completely and lost control. The IR laser made aiming simpler; as the red dot slipped swiftly up the tango's body, from left hip to right shoulder, Walters began squeezing off shots, the H&K's integral sound suppressor muffling each shot to a loud, hissing snap.

The terrorist jerked backward, chin going up, hands clawing at his chest as he slammed into the glass at his back. Walters managed five shots before he dropped his weapon and grabbed the control toggles again, allowing himself to pick up airspeed once more and glide toward the open deck. To his left, Dave Yancey seemed to hover motionless in mid-air for a second or two as he continued pumping near-silent rounds into his target, then dropped his weapon as well and continued his glide in for a landing.

The deck came up to meet Walters' booted feet. He misjudged his speed, though, which was a little high. He touched down running, dragging down the toggles and collapsing the ram-air chute behind him, then slammed full body into the glass doors leading into the brightly lit casino.

Pyramid Club Casino, Atlantis Queen 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0513 hours EST

Jerry Esterhausen jumped at the slam of something heavy hitting the door leading out to the Atlas Pool. Howorth stood and turned, trying to see, but it was dark outside and the lighting, though low, had wrecked her night vision. She thought she saw movement out there, however, a shadow in the blackness.

And she saw the two outside guards as well, crumpled on the deck.

The hijacker guard who'd remained inside the casino had been sitting at a chair up against the aft-starboard bulkhead. He'd started at the thump as well, and was moving toward the door to investigate.

He was five feet from Rosie, Esterhausen's card-playing robot.

"Jerry!" Howorth hissed. "We need a distraction! Fast!"

"Huh?"

"Your robot! . . ."

Jerry typed a command into his computer, then dragged his fingertip across the touchpad. Rosie, who'd been sitting lifelessly in her kiosk, awoke suddenly, her metal arms snapping up and out, her torso spinning to face the hijacker.

Cougar One

Atlas Pool deck, Atlantis Queen Friday, 0518 hours EST

Behind Walters, David Yancey stepped onto the deck alongside the swimming pool at a gentle walk, his forward velocity perfectly matched to the speed of the ship.

"Army klutz," Yancey said. David Yancey was a former U. S. Navy SEAL.

"Fuck you, squid!"

Walters struggled to unhook the harnesses holding the parachute to his body As he looked up, however, he saw movement. .. and the flash of a weapon. Their last briefing had mentioned a tango inside the casino.

And suddenly a man screamed, and Walters heard the sharp clatter of a weapon firing full auto.

Chapter 25

Pyramid Club Casino, Atlantis Queen Thirty-three miles south of Nantucket 40deg 451 N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0518 hours EST

the terrorist had turned at the noise, looking up to see Jerry Esterhausen's robot leaning toward him, arms outstretched.

The man panicked. He screamed and the AK in his hand went off; he was holding the weapon one-handed, and the muzzle climbed sharply with the recoil, out of control. People in the club screamed, some diving for the floor as stray rounds slammed into bulkheads and the ceiling. Bullets cracked and whined, some shattering the plastic woman-shaped torso shell of the robot, some ricocheting from tooled steel. The monitor at the top of the unit exploded in flying glass.

But as Jerry Esterhausen had pointed out on another occasion, the robot's computer brain was located in the machine's base. From across the room the engineer pressed a key and swiped his finger across the touchpad once again, and the machine's arms snapped closed like a trap, moving with mind-numbing speed, gathering in the terrified hijacker and his weapon and smashing him close against its torso in a metal embrace.

An instant later, the glass door behind him slid open and a nightmare shape entered--all in black, the form turned monstrous by heavy clothing, combat vest, helmet, and mask. The man advanced with a submachine gun tucked up tight against his shoulder, moving as though weapon and man were one and the same.