Automatic fire erupted behind him. Green and Verdugo were shooting into the superstructure behind the bridge. Apparently some hostiles were trying to repel boarders.
Pope led his stern team around the aft end of the superstructure, treating the ship’s exterior corners as they would a building. Visually slicing the geometric pie, they moved with the fluid precision of experienced operators, surveying each segment of deck and bulkhead as it became visible. Their timing was good: within seconds, three armed men appeared on deck, obviously hoping to take the boarders from behind. A quick exchange of gunfire produced no casualties but forced the defenders back inside.
Pope leaned down toward Breezy. “Keep them bottled up here. We’ll have MG support from the ship on the other side, so don’t go forward over here.”
Breezy nodded in acknowledgment, gloved hands supporting his MP-5 while kneeling at the corner. Bosco stood behind him, providing double coverage. He felt almost giddy. “Shiver me timbers, matey, we made it!”
Gerritt Maas realized that the relative motion of the two ships was changing. It took a few seconds to recognize what was occurring, but he quickly compensated.
“All stop. Back two-thirds.” He did not wait for the situation to stabilize. Knowing that Pope’s team needed the fire support of the M-60s, he kept the helm into the hostile vessel, feeling the hulls contact intermittently.
He picked up the mike on the tactical radio and hailed Pope. “Flipper from Dutchman, over.”
Seconds passed with no reply. Maas pressed the button again. “Flipper, this is Dutchman.”
“… man, Flipper here.”
“Victor, they’re backing down but I can probably match them. Over.”
“Ah, roger, Dutchman. Just keep abeam so our guns cover the deck. Over.”
Feeling unaccustomed excitement, Maas lapsed into his native accent. “Chur ting. Ah, you going to Point Alfa or Bravo?”
“Alfa. Watch for us. Out.”
Looking across the several meters separating them, Maas saw Pope lead the first assault team up the ladder toward the bridge.
Pope paused just below the top of the ladder, his weapon poised to engage any threat that peered over the lip of the platform. He waited what seemed a long minute — actually it was less than ten seconds — before he heard Maas’s exec on the tactical net. “Flipper, it looks clear from here.” The officer spoke unaccented English — rare for a seafarer from Maine.
Victor Pope believed in leading from the front. It was not always the best choice, because it put the commander at the point of contact, and when the action began, inevitably made him a shooter more than a leader. But it was his way and the others accepted it.
Pope made a lobbing gesture with his left hand. Behind and below him, two operators pulled the pins on concussion grenades and tossed them over their leader’s head. One short, one long.
The black and yellow cylinders rolled toward the bridge and exploded with stunning effect. Before the sound had abated, Pope was up the last steps and lateralled right, giving his team room to maneuver past him.
Automatic fire spurted from inside the bridge as somebody hosed a long, searching burst from an AK. An SSI man went down, cursing loudly with a round through his calf. Another Mark 3 sailed through the open access and its eight-ounce charge detonated, blowing out much of the remaining glass.
Pfizer and his partner were instantly through the access, their suppressed MP-5s clattering in short, precise bursts. Three and four rounds. Two more bursts, then silence.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Pope signaled the other operators to watch fore and aft while he entered the bridge. Two men were sprawled in positions that can only be assumed by people who are dead. Three others were flat on the deck, one bleeding from the nose and ears.
Everybody’s hands and feet were tied with flex cuffs, including the two corpses. Pope glanced at the dead men, noting that both had been killed by multiple head shots. Pfizer saw the look, knew its meaning, and said, “They got body armor, Boss.”
Pope stepped outside, standing on the starboard wing of the bridge. He waved and saw Maas return the gesture. Pope saw him turn and speak to two crewmen.
Back inside, Pope knelt beside the oldest man on the deck. “Where is Marcel Hurtubise?”
The man, obviously an Arab, shook his head, sucking in air.
Abu Yusuf Zikri shook his head again. “No. Captain gone.”
The Libyan closed his eyes, as if willing the apparition to vanish. Then he felt something sharply uncomfortable in his left nostril. When he looked, he realized that the American had a three-inch knife pressed inside the nasal cavity, and the blade was slowly rising. Soft flesh parted and blood began to flow.
“Below! He is below!”
“Where’s the captain?” More upward pressure.
“Me! I am captain!”
“Name?”
Tikri began to cry. He sucked in more oxygen, inhaling some blood at the same time. Choking and panting, he managed to get the syllables out. “Tikri. Abu Yusuf Tikri.”
The knife disappeared and the pain abated.
One of the operators was behind Pope. “Boss, the bridge crew is here.”
Pope turned to see the men whom Maas had recruited to conn the ship. He stood up. “All right, let’s drag these people out of here and let these gentlemen get to work.”
Maas heard, “Dutchman, Flipper. Point Alfa secure. Proceeding to Bravo.”
The captain knew that the SSI men were about to enter the belly of the beast, descending toward the engine room. He acknowledged Pope’s call, then signaled the new bridge watch on
Satisfied that things were temporarily under control, Maas turned to his other colleagues. “Gentlemen, you may stand by until we hear from Pope. I do not think you should go aboard until the ship is fully in our control.”
Alex Cohen nodded, indicating neither dissension nor enthusiasm. Bernard Langevin said, “There’s no hurry, Captain. The yellow cake isn’t going anywhere.”
Pope quickly briefed his team on deck amidships. His assets were being diluted, having to leave guards on the bridge and the stern. He ran the numbers: one casualty plus four security men topside and two manning M-60s on
“All right,” he began. “Two and three-man stacks, everybody going down and aft to avoid confusion. We’ll leave two men to guard the passageways forward in case some tangos are up forward. Remember, they have body armor and hearing protection, so don’t take chances. Clear any suspicious compartments with flash-bangs, and if you have to shoot, double tap above the eyebrows.
“Second: look for booby traps. If you find an undogged hatch, push it open before you enter. Better that way than step into an IED. If it’s dogged, Malten and Pfizer will blow the hinges.
“Third: Jeff’s team will start here. My team will enter from the other side. Wait for my call so we all go in together.
“Everybody clear?”
There were no questions, nor did Pope expect any. “Okay. Pfizer, Pascoe, Collier, and Jacobs. On me.”
Pope led his team aft, around the stern where Bosco and Breezy still guarded the deck portside. Approaching
