[ II ].

THE TRUTH IS, I didn't think Jimmy Zim would pa.s.s along my "request" that the USS Greenville stop the ship, much less believe that he would actually win official permission to do so. But I did think the sub would respond to a distress call if the ship was floundering.

The merchant ship was doing just under twenty knots, much faster than a cargo vessel typically travels, especially in these fuel conscious days, but not so fast that we couldn't catch up in the cabin cruiser. As we approached, Trace locked her GPS unit on transmit and left it on the cruiser's bench so we'd be able to find it later. Then she grabbed her gear and walked out onto the bow. The closer we got, the more she leaned forward, until at last I thought she was going to fall in the drink. The line she'd spotted dangled off the side, slapping against the water, barely visible in the shadows as we pulled up.

Matching course and speed to another craft can be difficult at night, especially if you're trying to do it by mental telepathy. Despite the fact that I'd tied the wheel with my belt, the cabin cruiser veered starboard as soon as I reached for the rope to follow Trace upward. I bent back over the windscreen and corrected the rudder. Then I juiced the throttle for a moment before killing it completely.

The line stayed just out of reach. The cabin cruiser once more started to veer away from the ship. I started leaning back to get the wheel, then saw the rope shoot toward me.

It nearly knocked me over with a teasing love tap. I grabbed it backhanded as I fell, then hung on as the cabin cruiser veered off again. The screws driving the ship were making a sound like KER-chunk, ker-gonnagetya-chunk, gonnachunkya, gonnachunkya. They were meat grinders with suction, waiting to welcome me if I lost my grip. The sound chased away my fatigue and I pulled myself tight to the ship, sc.r.a.ping against the barnacles at the waterline.

By the time I neared the deck, I was more than a little wet. I was also p.i.s.sed off enough that I didn't care. I grabbed one of the rail stanchions and hoisted myself up, reaching for my gun's waterproof coc.o.o.n at the same time.

"Trace?" I whispered.

No answer. I adjusted my radio-the clip-on microphone on my shirt had slipped down-then asked for her again without getting an answer.

The bridge superstructure sat over the stern; the rest of the ship was given over to cargo bays and a pair of booms for cranes. The ship may have been a few years younger than I was-but not many. It looked as if it hadn't been painted for at least a decade. A mossy smell mixed with the stench of oil and exhaust whenever the breeze died.

I got my bearings, sorting the shadows from the lines and machinery. Hearing voices, I moved in their direction, toward the bow. A pair of seamen were sharing a cigarette and a bottle near the anchor chain, complaining about something in Russian.

I'm guessing they were complaining because they were sailors, and because of the tones of their voices; I didn't understand most of the words. Under other circ.u.mstances, I might have been inclined to live and let live: not because I'm filled with the Christian spirit, but because eliminating two watchmen might indirectly raise an alarm when someone came looking for them. But I'd just taken a G.o.d-awful beating on the way up the side of the ship, and I was feeling even more ornery than normal. I stowed the submachine gun and took out my Strider.

The radio on the belt of one of the sailors chirped. He acknowledged it, then started aft. I waited until he was just pa.s.sing me, then leaped up from behind the boom's winch machinery and gave him a boost off the side. He yelled all the way down.

His shout was enough to get the attention of the man who'd just shared his cigarette. The Russian came back cautiously, one hand on his radio. I came up behind him, and slipped one hand hard into his diaphragm while pulling the knife sharply across his neck. He made a gulping sound and dropped to the deck.

He followed his smoking buddy into the drink, after I grabbed the radio and keys from his pockets. I also relieved him of a Glock. There's no such thing as having too many weapons when you're crashing a party.

The radio crackled at me as I made my way back. Between the squelch and the noise of the ship, I'm not sure I would have understood what they were saying if they were speaking English. What I did understand was the movement of a pair of shadows over at the superstructure. I squeezed low to the deck, then slipped sideways to what looked like a metal gangplank secured nearby. One of the shadows disappeared back into the superstructure; the other went toward the stern. I started to rise, then saw something out of the corner of my eye-a figure jumped from halfway up the crane boom and trotted in my direction. Some sixth sense kept me from firing my gun.

"Trace," I hissed.

"d.i.c.k. Where the h.e.l.l have you been?"

"Lowering the head count. Why didn't you answer the radio when I called you?"

"I didn't hear you," she said. "I was inside the ship."

The downside of burst transmission radios-they don't burst transmit too well through solid objects.

Trace had snuck inside and moved along a corridor to a metal stairway (or ladder, since we're on a ship) before hearing voices and taking cover in a cabin used as a storeroom. When the crewmen pa.s.sed, she'd gone up the ladder far enough to see a guard standing in front of a doorway about halfway down the corridor. Before she could do anything else, she heard a sailor coming up from behind her; she ducked below, crouching in the shadows. Had the sailor been very attentive, he'd have seen her, but most of us don't look for things we don't think are there, and so he pa.s.sed by without noticing her.

"Yong Shin Jong has to be in that cabin," she said.

"Maybe."

"Who else would they be guarding?"

"Maybe Polorski."

"I couldn't be that lucky."

Before checking it out, I decided to secure our escape route. Swimming back to the cabin cruiser was one option, but not an attractive one if we had to tow Yong Shin Jong, too. A better solution was to steal one of the lifeboats. Or rather the lifeboat-the merchant ship was equipped with only one, mounted on the starboard side near the stern.23 To get there, we'd have to go all the way around the fantail.

We moved aft cautiously to reconnoiter. Lights were on in the cabins that lined the stern portion of the deck; it took us two or three minutes to crawl beneath the portals and get to the other side without being seen. Just as I turned the corner, I heard a watchman cursing. I froze, then slid out far enough to see a boot sticking over the edge of the deck above. His radio was squawking-very possibly they were looking for the crewmen I'd sent overboard.

Pressing myself against the bulkhead, I inched my way forward until I was parallel with the lifeboat. Light flooded out onto the deck from the cabins above. I could reach the davits easily enough-two quick steps across the deck-but there was the question of swinging the boat out without being seen, either from the cabins or the man who was still cursing above.

According to the GPS unit, the cabin cruiser was still relatively close. If we weren't seen aboard, it would make more sense to simply drop off into the water and swim for it.

I made my way back to the other side of the ship, where Trace was watching a pair of sailors barking orders at each other.

"They're looking for the guys you sent overboard," she said. "They were saying something about drinking. One's going below."

"Since when do you speak Russian?"

"I understand the words 'vodka' and 's.h.i.t-faced.' "

The men split up. We waited until the first sailor went inside the ship, then snuck toward the second as he walked forward along the deck. Trace ducked behind the hatchway to the cargo hold. I positioned myself near the crane boom, leaned against it as if for support, and whistled.

The man turned, probably blinked, then came at me like a bull, aiming to give me a reaming I'd never forget. There was just enough light on the deck to see his eyes jump from their sockets in surprise and then shock-not so much at my ugly mug, but at the hard slap of Trace's blackjack against the base of his skull. Her first shot sent him crumbling to the deck; her second and third were icing on the cake. She grabbed his sweater and cap-neither would have fit me-then we sent him overboard where he'd have a better chance of finding his companions.

The man who'd gone below emerged from a hatchway on the cargo deck just as we were disposing of his companion. Trace saw his head pop up about ten feet away from us. Before he could react, she double-tapped her MP5N, putting a large hole in the top of his skull.

The H&K MP5N noise suppressor sounds a bit like an overanxious pellet gun, easy to miss over the constant hum of a ship's engines, especially if you're inside the ship. So I might have taken our chances had the Russian not been on the radio when he saw us.

"Let's get Yong," I yelled to Trace, sprinting toward the door. "Come on."24 I flew through the pa.s.sageway and up the ladder. The guard Trace had seen earlier heard me coming and started to unholster his pistol, but before he could bring it to bear, it was bouncing on the deck. He'd dropped it as he ricocheted back against the bulkhead, propelled by the force of my bullets as they slammed against his bullet-resistant vest at close quarters.

That was the first pair of bullets, aimed at the center of his chest. My third bullet added a pretty red mark to his forehead.

I scrambled to the cabin, yelled, "Stand back," and blasted the lock. Then I did a one-two dance step, snapping the door back hard enough to knock it off one of its hinges.

Yong Shin Jong blinked at me from a chair at the far end of the room.

"Can you swim?" I asked.

"W-what?"

"Can you swim?" I grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Yes."

There was a life jacket on the wall nearby. I grabbed it and pushed it into his hands.

"d.i.c.k!" Trace yelled in the hall.

I pulled Yong Shin Jong with me as the pa.s.sageway outside began echoing with gunfire. There was a loud bang-Trace had tossed a grenade-then silence.

"Go!" yelled Trace.

I pulled Yong Shin Jong from the cabin and half dragged him down the ladder with me. Trace took up the rear.

"What's going on?" he asked as we ran.

"We're rescuing you. But you're going to have to swim for a bit."

I pushed him up against the side of the pa.s.sageway as more gunfire sounded above us. I fired a burst behind Trace as she scrambled down, dropped my empty mag, and reloaded. She ran toward the door we'd used to get in.

"I got point," she said.

"Go!"

Yong Shin Jong had pulled the life jacket over his head, but was still moving in slow motion. I grabbed him and pushed him to follow Trace. Just as she reached the open door, there was a flash of light outside. Someone tried coming through the pa.s.sageway and she cut them down. But bullets began swarming around us. I shoved Yong Shin Jong down, throwing myself on top of him as the gunfire continued. We were maybe ten yards from the railing, but the amount of lead pouring through the pa.s.sageway made it clear that we weren't going that way without the help of a tank, and maybe not even then.

"Back up topside," I yelled to Trace. "Give us some smoke."

She waved the grenade at me. I grabbed one of my flash-bang grenades and tossed it toward the door. By the time it exploded, Yong Shin Jong and I were halfway up the ladder. Four sailors lay in the pa.s.sageway between us and the cabin Yong Shin Jong had been in.

"Try not to trip over the dead bodies," I told the Korean, forging ahead.

The air inside the ship, not particularly fresh to begin with, turned sharply acrid as the smoke began furling from Trace's grenade. Another ladder started to the starboard at the end of the corridor. We ran up it, spotting a pa.s.sageway that looked as if it would run to the other side of the ship. As soon as I stuck my head around the corner a fresh round of gunfire beat me back. I waited for Trace to reach us, then rolled out onto the deck, hosing the corridor. But whoever had fired had vanished; there was no answering fire. I led the way down the pa.s.sageway, then out the door onto a catwalk that ran around the exterior of the ship's superstructure. The lifeboat I'd spotted earlier sat about ten yards to my right, and down two decks.

"Wait until I give the signal," I yelled to Trace and Yong Shin Jong inside. Then I ran down the narrow cat-walk toward the stern, figuring that the man who'd been firing at me earlier had retreated outside and taken cover around the corner. I threw myself down as I reached the turn, landing on my shoulder in a skid. I meant to stop, but the deck was slipperier than I'd thought, and I slid out past the edge of the cabin area, just barely stopping myself by hooking my foot around one of the wire guardrails. I had my submachine gun ready, but there was no one there.

By the time I got back to my feet and retreated, Trace and Yong Shin Jong were out on the catwalk. Yong Shin Jong started over the rail, intending to climb down a ladder that ran down to the deck. I looked over at the lifeboat and realized that it was no longer tied down to the deck as it had been earlier-the davits had been pushed out so that it now hung over the water.

"Wait," I yelled, grabbing Yong.

A flare shot up from the area of the bridge.

"You're screwed, Marcinko," said a voice over the loudspeakers. "Time to give your a.s.s up."

"You're a son of a b.i.t.c.h, Ike," yelled Trace. "When I catch you I'm going to cut your b.a.l.l.s off and feed them to you."

Good thing she wasn't letting her emotions do the talking.

[ III ].

THE SITUATION WAS this: Polorski's men had pushed the lifeboat out, either thinking that we would head for it or intending to use it to follow us if we got away. They had then taken positions near the stern and the forward base of the superstructure behind the machinery and gear boxes, covering the routes to the boat. They were also inside the cabins behind us. We couldn't get to the deck, let alone the lifeboat, without getting shot. And unless we grew wings, there was no way to go over the side from where we were. Trace and I might have been able to jump it-emphasis on the word might-but pudgy Yong Shin Jong would go plop on the deck.

What we had was an old-fashioned stalemate-one which favored Polorski.

Temporarily. Because sooner or later, Doc and the SEALs would be heading in our direction, looking for us.

"Give me Yong Shin Jong, and I'll let you go," said Polorski. "I have nothing against you, d.i.c.k."

"I have something against you, Ike," yelled Trace.

Polorski clearly heard her.

"We had a great time, Trace. Too bad it couldn't last. Another time, maybe."

"f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole."

"We can try that."

Trace answered with a string of expletives notable in their creativity. As she and Tall, Dark, and Polack traded insults, I examined our position. We were a deck below bridge level; another catwalk ran back from the bridge above our heads.

The best defense is a good offense, and being naturally offensive, I decided our best bet was to take the initiative. Pointing at Yong Shin Jong to stay put, I hopped up on the railing and leaped for one of the stanchions above. I caught it and threw my legs to the right, hauling myself upward. My acrobatics did not go unnoticed-someone below shouted, and as I rolled onto the narrow gangway a burst of gunfire punctuated the metal just above me. This was followed by more shouts to cease fire, and the bullets soon stopped.

Polorski obviously didn't want Yong Shin Jong hit, which explained why he was wasting time haranguing us instead of pressing his advantage. I guessed that he was also undermanned-if he'd had more people, he would have posted some above us.

I moved toward the bridge. There was a curve in the outer pa.s.sageway around the superstructure, an extension out toward the water that provided a clear view of the ship's forward machinery. As I rounded it, the door to the bridge flew open, and two Russians came charging out. They paused momentarily to look over the side in a vain attempt to see Trace and Yong Shin Jong, then started aft.

One of the things cranky NCOs emphasize when leading a group through small unit combat training is the importance of separation. A lot of times this is emphasized in the context of a mortar strike-one good shot can take out the guy next to you and the guy next to him if you're too close. But it has a general application, as frick and frack here found out. Tailgate your point man, and when he trips, so do you.

Point man had a little help tripping-a burst of bullets through the kneecap as he came around the bend set him right down. The tailgater flew over him so quickly I barely had time to adjust my aim.

With these two baboons out of the way, I thought the bridge would be undefended. But I thought wrong. I no sooner took a step forward than people started pouring out. I ran through the clip on my submachine gun, my finger glued to the trigger until I saw the flare of a tracer sparking against the darkened silhouettes, warning me I was about to empty the box. I retreated, dumping the magazine and reloading as I went.

Or rather, reaching for a fresh magazine to reload, and not finding it in the waterproof tac vest I was wearing. My various adventures had used up more ammunition than I'd thought. I wasn't out of ammo entirely. There were still four mags in the ruck, but this wasn't a convenient time to grab them. I reached to my belt and grabbed the Glock I'd taken off the sailor earlier. A pair of shots convinced the people following me to rethink their strategy.

Going up had worked once; I decided I'd try it again. I jumped up and grabbed the life raft, hoping to climb over it to the top of the superstructure. But the raft must have been held on by Velcro or something similarly lightweight-it pulled away as soon as I put my weight on it, and both it and I tumbled to the catwalk. Cursing, I threw the d.a.m.n thing in the direction of the water and jumped on top of the rail, looking for something else to grab. A hail of bullets from above convinced me that wasn't going to work; I half jumped, half slipped, trying to swing down to the level where I'd started.

More slipped than jumped. More plummeted than fell.

The bullets didn't hit me, but as they tore through the railing, the metal, weakened by years of neglect, gave way. I fell almost straight downward, bouncing off one of the catwalk stanchions below and knocking the last rocks in my head loose as I hit the deck.

I got to my feet, battered and dazed. Trace and Yong Shin Jong were a few yards away to my left.

"What's our next move?" Trace asked.

We had two choices-try to continue our war of attrition, or get down in the water and swim for it. I didn't mind being outnumbered, but we were running low on ammunition; to keep up the battle we'd have to start using their weapons. And more importantly, they'd win if Yong Shin Jong got killed. He was a vulnerable target, whom I didn't quite trust with a gun.

"We'll go over the side," I told Trace. "Swim for the life raft."