Corsair

Bullets whizzed all around her, but to her absolute relief she saw the muzzle flashes were coming from farther and farther away. The charge had broken. They had stopped them.

She slipped down below the bulwarks, her entire body vibrating as an aftereffect of her rifle’s recoil, and she was covered in oily sweat. “You guys okay?” she called to her people as the gunmen’s fire slowed.

“I took one to the shoulder,” Eric reported from the darkness.

“I’m still pissed at myself for not grabbing the night vision goggles from Linc,” Mark said bitterly. “We go spelunking, and I forget the most important piece of gear we would need.”

“Alana?”

“I’m here,” she called softly, her voice pinched with pain.

“Mark, give her something from your med kit.” The sound of gunfire that had risen and fallen erratically over the past ten minutes dribbled away to silence.

Everyone’s ears rang, but not badly enough to miss a man’s voice calling out from the cavern entrance. “I will give you this one chance to give yourselves up.”

“Holy crap,” Eric exclaimed. “I know that voice.”

“What? Who is it?”

“I listened in when he and the Chairman were talking aboard the Oregon. That’s the harbor pilot, Hassad or Assad or something.”

“That explains the ambush on the coast road,” Murph surmised.

“Doesn’t change anything for us, though.” Linda thought for a moment, then shouted back, “I think General Austin McAuliffe said it best when he was asked to surrender during the Battle of the Bulge. In a word: nuts.”

Murph grumbled sarcastically, “Oh, that’ll go well for us.”

Round three started in earnest.

THIRTY-FIVE

THE FIRST PIECE OF GOOD NEWS CABRILLO HAD HEARD IN a while was that he was familiar with the supertanker slowly overtaking the Libyan frigate. She was the Petromax Oil ULCC Aggie Johnston, and several months earlier the Oregon had saved her from being hit by a couple of Iranian torpedoes by firing one of their own at the sub that had launched them.

They were close enough now that he had to assume all communications could be monitored by the Gulf of Sidra. To get around that, he found the ship’s e-mail address on the Petromax website and sent its captain a note. It was far from convenient, and their exchanges went back and forth for nearly ten minutes before he could convince the captain that he was the commander of the freighter now shadowing them from a thousand yards away and not some lunatic kid e-mailing from his parents’ basement in Anytown, USA.

As Juan waited for each reply, he lamented that Mark and Eric weren’t aboard. Those two could have hacked the parent company’s mainframe to issue the orders directly, and he wouldn’t have to explain what he wanted from the floating behemoth and why.

A fresh e-mail appeared in his inbox.

Captain Cabrillo, It goes against my better instincts and my years of training, but I will agree to do what you’ve asked, provided we don’t come within a half mile of that frigate and you provide the same sort of protection you did in the Straits of Hormuz if they fire on us.

As much as I want to do more, I must place the well-being of my ship and crew above my desire to help you unreservedly. I’ve spent the better part of my career operating out of Middle Eastern ports and hate what these terrorists have done to the region, but I can’t allow anything to happen to my vessel. And as you can well imagine, if we were loaded with oil rather than running in ballast the answer would have been an unequivocal no.

All the best,

James McCullough.

PS: Give ’em one on the chin for me. Good hunting.

“Hot damn,” Juan cried, “he’ll do it.”

Max Hanley was standing across the pilothouse chart table, the stem of his pipe clamped between his tobacco-stained teeth. “I wouldn’t get that excited when you’re contemplating playing chicken with a fully armed frigate.”

“This will be perfect,” Juan countered. “We’ll be inside his defenses before they know what we’re up to. We worked the vectors as we narrowed the gap and kept the tanker between us and the Sidra the whole time. As far as they know, there’s only the one ship that’s going to pass them. They have no idea we’re here, and won’t until the Johnston breaks off.”

He typed a reply on a wireless-connected laptop as he spoke:

Captain McCullough, You are the key to saving the Secretary’s life, and I can’t thank you or your crew enough. I only wish that afterward you’d receive the accolades you so richly deserve, but this incident must remain secret. We will flash your bridge with our Aldis lamp when we want you to begin. That should be in about ten minutes.

Again, my sincerest thanks,

Juan Cabrillo.

Spread across the table was a detailed schematic of the Russian-built Koni-class frigate, showing all her interior passages. Also there were Mike Trono and Jerry Pulaski, who would be leading the assault teams. They