The towboat surged past the lookout at the South Pass pilot station, the last outpost of the muddy Mississippi, and swept into the open sea.
Captain Pujon said, “Thirty miles to deep water.”
Lee Tong nodded as his eyes studied the circling weather plane. Then he picked up his binoculars and scanned the sea. The only ship in sight was his counterfeit research vessel approaching from the east about eight miles off the port bow.
“We’ve beaten them,” he said confidently.
“They can still blow us out of the water from the air.”
“And risk sinking the barge? I don’t think so. They want the Vice President alive.”
“How can they know he’s on board?”
“They don’t, at least not for certain. One more reason they won’t attack what might be an innocent tow-boat unloading a trash barge at sea.”
A crewman scrambled up the steps to the pilothouse and stepped through the door. “Sir,” he said, pointing, “an aircraft coming up astern.”
Lee Tong swung the binoculars in the direction of the crewman’s outstretched arm. A U.S. Navy helicopter was beating its way toward the towboat only fifteen feet above the waves.
He frowned and said, “Alert the men.”
The crewman threw a salute and hurried off.
“A gunship?” Pujon asked uneasily. “It could hover and blast us to bits without scratching the barge.”
“Fortunately no. She’s an assault transport. Probably carrying a team of Navy SEALS. They mean to assault the towboat.”
Lieutenant Homer Dodds stuck his head out the side jump door of the chopper and peered down. The two vessels looked peaceful enough, he thought as a crewman stepped from the pilothouse and waved a greeting. Nothing unusual or suspicious. The armament he had been warned about was not visible.
He spoke into a microphone. “Have you established radio contact?”
“We’ve hailed on every marine frequency in the book and they don’t answer,” replied the pilot from the cockpit.
“Okay, drop us over the barge.”
“Roger.”
Dodds picked up a bullhorn and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Ahoy, the towboat. This is the U.S. Navy. Reduce speed and slow to a stop. We are coming aboard.”
Below, the crewman cupped hands to his ears and shook his head, signaling he couldn’t hear above the exhaust whine of the helicopter’s turbines. Dodds repeated the message and the crewman made an inviting wave of his arm. By now Dodds was close enough to see he was an Oriental.
The speed of the towboat and barge dropped off, and they began to roll in the swells. The pilot of the helicopter played the wind and hovered over the flat deck of the barge in preparation for Dodds’s assault team to jump the final three or four feet.
Dodds turned and took a final look at his men. They were lean and hard, and probably the toughest, raunchiest, meanest bunch of multipurpose killers in the Navy. They were the only group of men Dodds ever commanded who genuinely liked combat. They were eager, their weapons at the ready and prepared for anything. Except, perhaps, for total surprise.
The copter was only ten feet above the barge when trapdoors were sprung on the towboat, hatch covers thrown back and twenty crewmen opened up with Steyr-Mannlicher AUG assault carbines.
The.223-caliber shells flew into the SEALS from all directions; smoke and the grunts of men being hit erupted simultaneously. Dodds and his men reacted savagely, cutting down any towboat crewman who exposed himself, but bullets sprayed into their cramped compartment as if concentrated out of a firehose and turned it into a slaughter den. There was no escape. They were as helpless as if their backs were against the wall of a dead-end alley.
The noise of the concentrated firepower drowned out the sound of the helicopter’s exhaust. The pilot was hit in the first burst, which exploded the canopy, hurling bits of metal and Plexiglas throughout the cockpit. The chopper shuddered and veered sharply around on its axis. The co-pilot wrestled with the controls but they had lost all response.
The Air Force fighters arrived and instantly appraised the situation. Their squadron leader gave hurried instructions and dived, skimming low over the stern of the towboat in an attempt to draw fire away from the battered and smoking helicopter. But the ploy didn’t work. They were ignored by Lee Tong’s gunners. With growing frustration at the orders not to attack, their passes became ever lower until one pilot clipped off the towboat’s radar antenna.
Too badly mauled to remain in the air any longer, the crippled chopper and its pitiful cargo of dead and wounded finally gave up the struggle to remain airborne and fell into the sea beside the barge.
Sandecker and Metcalf sat in shock as the video camera on board the weather plane recorded the drama. The war room became deadly quiet and nobody spoke as they watched and waited for the camera to reveal signs of survivors. Six heads were all they could count in the blue of the sea.
“The end of the game,” Metcalf said with chilly finality.
Sandecker didn’t answer. He turned away from the screen and sat heavily in a chair beside the long conference table, the pepper-and-vinegar spirit gone out of him.
Metcalf listened without reaction to the voices of the pilots over the speakers. Their anger at not being able to pound the towboat turned vehement. Not told of the people held captive inside the barge, they voiced their anger at the high command, unaware their heated words were heard and recorded at the Pentagon a thousand miles away.
A shadow of a smile touched Sandecker’s face. He could not help but sympathize with them.
Then a friendly voice cut in. “Lieutenant Grant calling. Is it okay to call you direct, General?”
“It’s all right, son,” said Metcalf quietly. “Go ahead.”
“I have two ships approaching the area, sir. Stand by for a picture of the first one.”
With a new shred of hope, their eyes locked on the screen. At first the image was small and indistinct. Then the weather plane’s cameraman zoomed in on a red-hulled vessel.
“From up here I’d judge her to be a survey ship,” reported Grant.
A gust of wind caught the flag on the ensign staff and stretched out its blue colors.
“British,” announced Metcalf dejectedly. “We don’t dare ask foreign nationals to die for our sake.”
“You’re right, of course. I’ve never known an oceanographic scientist to carry an automatic rifle.”
Metcalf turned and said, “Grant?”
“Sir?”
“Contact the British research vessel and request they pick up survivors from the helicopter.”
Before Grant could acknowledge, the video image distorted and the screen went black.
“We’ve lost your picture, Grant.”
“One moment, General. My crewman manning the camera informs me the battery pack on the recorder went dead. He’ll have it replaced in a minute.”
“What’s the situation with the towboat?”
“She and the barge are under way again, only more slowly than before.”
Metcalf turned to Sandecker. “Luck just isn’t on our side, is it, Jim?”
“No, Clayton. We’ve had none at all.” He hesitated. “Unless, of course, the second ship is an armed Coast Guard cutter.”
“Grant?” Metcalf boomed.
“Won’t be long, sir.”
“Never mind that. What type vessel is the second ship you reported? Coast Guard or Navy?”
“Neither. Strictly civilian.”
Metcalf dissolved in defeat, but a spark stirred within Sandecker. He leaned over the microphone.
“Grant, this is Admiral James Sandecker. Can you describe her?”
