“That’s pretty good shooting, pal,” said a deep American voice from inside the first barred cell on the left. “I’ll say one thing, you guys sure know how to make a fucking noise.”
Rick Hunter could have died with relief. This was the first real hard evidence he and his team had that the American crew were here at all.
“Cover that end of the corridor, Dan, Bobby,” he said. “Anything moves, blow its head off.”
Then he turned toward the cell, and saw a brawny arm sticking through the bars.
It was dark inside, and the face was hard to see, but the voice was firm and the grip strong.
“Am I glad to see you. I’m Captain Judd Crocker, USS
“Hello, sir. Lieutenant Commander Hunter. SEALs.”
Judd looked at his blackened face, battle dress, bandana, hot machine gun. “I didn’t think you were from public relations,” he said, chuckling.
All the SEALs within earshot laughed at the still-droll submarine commander. “I suppose we haven’t got any keys, have we?” said Rick.
“If we had, we probably wouldn’t be here…and I don’t think the guards carry any. When they open the cell doors, which ain’t that often, a special little lieutenant comes in and does it himself.”
“Okay, sir…I thought we might have that problem. We’ve got plenty of small charges, and the little lieutenant is probably dead somewhere. Rattlesnake!”
The other SEAL from the bayous came forward and stuck a handful of white plastic C4 on the lock. “Stand back, sir…geddown over there against the wall…rest of you get back while I fire this…”
He fixed the firing cap and the C4 blew the lock clean off the door.
Judd came out and shook hands with his rescuer, telling him, “There’s just two single cells here, the rest are communal, I think eight of my guys in each one — some of ’em not in great shape, but I think we’re mostly alive.”
Rattlesnake blew the next door lock, and then shouted back, “Hey, sir…there’s no one in here.”
“DAMN!” snapped the captain. “That’s Linus. I thought I heard them move him about an hour ago. You guys didn’t destroy the big building to the right of the gates going out, did you?”
“No, sir. We hit one room only, left of the front door.”
“Good. That’s where the interrogators sit. I think we might find a couple of our guys in that building, down at the other end — my XO and the combat systems officer, Cy Rothstein.”
“Okay, sir…lemme just hand this locksmith crap over to Lieutenant Conway, then we’ll put Lieutenant Commander Davidson to work on the other two smaller cell blocks…meanwhile, let’s just sweep this place for guards, then we’ll go and find the two officers in the interrogation block.…Quick, Buster, Paul, Bobby, come with me…Rattlesnake, try not to blow us up as we come by.”
The four SEALs moved to the end of the corridor. From inside the end cell, a voice said quietly, “Careful, sir… there’s one of them still around that corner…the lieutenant…little bastard.”
“Any of our guys in that area around the back?”
“Nossir. We’re all in the area along this corridor. Ten big cells, eight of us in each. I’m Lieutenant Warren, sir. Officer of the Deck.”
“Okay, old buddy. We’ll have you all out of here in a minute.”
“Are you guys SEALs?”
“’Fraid so.”
Rick Hunter turned to Lieutenant Merloni and said, “No reason to take chances…gimme one of those hand grenades, willya?”
He gripped it in his hand, which was like putting a marble in the joint of a leg of lamb. Then he pulled the pin and hurled it around the corner. The impact inside the building was an ear-shuddering thud, and the guard lieutenant died with his boots on.
“That’s all of ’em, sir,” yelled Andy Warren. “I count the little pricks in every night, and I count the little pricks out again in the morning.” Arnold Morgan would have been proud of his phraseology.
By now Rattlesnake Davies had found a rhythm, and he was blowing locks at a fast rate. Lieutenant Conway was going inside each cell, occasionally calling for Olaf’s team to bring in a stretcher. The men from the first cells, nearest the obliterated door, were beginning to file out into the yard, and Chief McCarthy was suggesting they line up in some sort of order in case there were people missing.
“Right here we got a crew list,” he said. “I’ve given one to the captain, but we really don’t want to leave anyone behind, so can I ask you to get into lines…anyone want a crew list, I have ’em right here…anyone knows of a missing person, lemme know, okay?”
“They shot Skip Laxton dead on the first day,” someone called.
“And we haven’t seen Brad Stockton or Cy Rothstein for a coupla days.”
Chief McCarthy noticed that the men looked terrible, hollow-cheeked, haggard, many with bruises on their faces, some with blood. The second stretcher was coming out with a crewman strapped in, his leg fractured by a rifle butt. The first one had contained another crewman who kept drifting in and out of consciousness after a very bad beating. He had worked for Lieutenant Commander Rothstein.
Captain Crocker himself looked pretty battered. Both his eyes were blackened, and his right cheek was swollen. There was blood caked around the corners of his mouth. But he seemed to be able to move around without pain, and now he emerged from the cell block with Rick Hunter.
Before him was a scene of chaos. A thick pall of smoke hung over the jail, and there was still fire, which could be seen above the walls, from the exploded helicopters and fuel dump. There were scattered bodies all over the place, none of them SEALs.
Judd and Rick walked past the men, heading for the interrogation block in company with SEALs Buster Townsend, Paul Merloni and Bobby Allensworth.
At the door, Lieutenant Commander Hunter said, “Sir, you’d better not come in here…we might get resistance.”
“If I don’t come in, you might get killed. I’m an expert on the layout of this place and I’m the only one you’ve got.”
“Okay, sir,” said Rick, drawing his service revolver. “You know how to use this thing.”
“Expert,” he said. “I’m the fucking Wyatt Earp of the deep. Okay, follow me into the hallway, which you seem to have already demolished. Then I’ll follow you guys down the passage.”
Judd Crocker stepped over the rubble, followed by Rick and Bobby. But before they reached the end, Lieutenant Allensworth put his hand on the captain’s shoulder and said, “Wait, sir. Let me just stick a gun barrel in that doorway, see if anyone’s left alive. It’s better I shoot him than he shoots you.”
“No argument from me,” said Judd.
Bobby shoved his MP-5 around the corner and opened fire immediately. But there was no need. Whoever had been in there was no more, buried beneath the rubble.
Judd led the way down the corridor to the three rooms. Two were open, with lights on, the doors just ajar. The third room was closed. Buster came forward and booted wide the door of the first room. He entered and hammered four rounds into the panel of the door just in case someone was hiding behind it. Then he did the same to the second room, and there was no one there either. Which left the room where the door was shut.
“LIEUTENANT COMMANDER LUCAS!” yelled Judd.
“In here, sir,” came a muffled reply.
“Steady, sir. Don’t touch the door…leave it to us…Paul…”
Lieutenant Merloni, unrecognizable in the dust and smoke, stepped up beside the mission leader.
“Ready?”
“Sir.”
Rick Hunter, with an outrageous display of strength, booted the door off its hinges with two massive kicks, one high, one low. And as he did so he jutted his machine gun, but not his body, around the corner, and they all heard the Chinese guard open fire, straight at the barrel of Rick’s MP-5.
Unhappily for his family, the guard did not see Paul Merloni slide around the doorway on the floor and open up, shooting from low down at point-blank range with a wall of fire that killed the guard instantly. And now they could see Linus Clarke tied to a chair, a soaking-wet bath towel on his lap.
