But the Oregon was giving as good as she got. All the Sidra’s bridge windows had been shot out, and enough tungsten rounds poured through the openings to mangle all the navigation and steering equipment. Rounds sparked off her armored hide. Her lifeboat shook like a rat in the jaws of a terrier when the Gatling hosed it. When it moved on, the craft was riddled with holes and hung drunkenly from one set of pulleys.
None of their smaller-caliber weapons could penetrate the armor protecting the turrets, so the weapons officer loosened the bow-mounted 120mm cannon. Because it used the same stability control system as an M1A2 main battle tank, this main gun had unbelievable accuracy. Its first round hit where the turret met the Sidra’s deck, and the entire mass jumped five feet into the air before smashing back again, greasy smoke billowing from the guns’ barrels.
The two ships continued to pound on each other, each capable of absorbing tremendous punishment, as the gap grew narrower still. At point-blank range, there was no need to aim. Rounds impacted almost the instant they left the guns.
Nothing like this had been seen in the annals of naval warfare for a century, and despite the danger Max Hanley wouldn’t have wanted to be anyplace else in the world.
Not so for the Chairman and the men on deck. They were hunkered behind a section of rail that had been triple reinforced, but when a 30mm autocannon raked the bulwark they all felt naked and exposed.
Juan couldn’t imagine fighting this way as a normal course of events. Technology had sanitized warfare, made it cold and distant. The press of a button was all that was needed to vanquish your enemy. This was something else entirely. He could feel their hatred. It was as if each shot they took was an expression of personal loathing.
They wanted him dead. And not just dead but blown out of existence, as if he had never been born at all.
Another shell slammed into the armor plate, and for a moment it felt to Juan like his insides had liquefied. For a terrifying moment, he thought he had made a huge mistake.
Then he thought no, these people would not stop until someone stood up to them. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, they would have to face the consequences of their own barbarity.
There came a brutal shudder. The Oregon was alongside the Sidra. Max had known to ballast their ship so the two railings were even. Juan snatched up his compact machine pistol and threw himself over the side.
The shimmering trail of an RPG launched from a concealed redoubt astern of the Sidra’s rear turret passed inches over his head and hit the armored plate just as the rest of his twelve-man team was following. The hit couldn’t have been luckier or worse. Ten of the men were blown back by the blast, bloodied and suffering concussions, and two were tossed forward just as a wave separated the ships slightly. They plummeted down into the tight space and hit the water simultaneously.
Max had seen the disaster on the closed-circuit television system and immediately hauled the Oregon away from the Sidra so the hulls wouldn’t slam together and smear the men into paste. He didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but he ordered the rescue team standing by in the boat garage to immediately launch a Zodiac.
A tech moved a joystick to swivel the camera and scan the Sidra’s deck.
“There,” Max shouted.
Cabrillo stood alone on the Libyan ship, his Heckler & Koch machine pistol smoking after taking out the gunman who was reloading his rocket launcher. It was almost as if he knew the camera was on him. He looked directly at it with the most savage expression Max had ever seen and then vanished alone through the frigate’s hatchway.
THIRTY-SIX
Ambassador Charles Moon was failing one of his principal tasks for the evening. He’d been expressly directed by the President to make sure the VP didn’t drink too much during the reception at Minister Ghami’s home.
The VP had an alcoholic’s lack of self-control but not the tolerance, and he’d downed four crystal flutes of champagne during the half hour they’d been here. It might have been understandable, had he known the house was the likely target of a terrorist attack, but the administration felt that the Vice President couldn’t be trusted with that information if their plan was going to work.
Moon set his own untouched champagne on a marble-topped table to wipe his sweaty palms on the legs of his tuxedo. Next to him, Vice President Donner got to the punch line of an off-color joke. The group of ten guests who were within earshot waited a beat before giving him a smattering of polite laughter. His press secretary, who was filling the role as his date for the evening, pulled him slightly aside before he could launch into another.
Moon took the opportunity to look around the elegant reception hall. Minister Ghami’s isolated home was stunning. Built of stone and stucco, it had the feel of a Moorish castle, massive and secure. The main entrance off the porte cochere opened all the way to the roof three stories up. Elegant wrought-iron balusters ringed the upper stories, and the staircase that spilled onto the ground floor was easily twenty feet wide. An orchestra was set up on the midpoint landing, where the steps divided left and right. They played classical music with an Arabic flair.
As impressive as the house was, it paled in comparison to the importance of the guests. Moon counted no fewer than ten heads of state among the elegantly dressed throng. In one corner, under a dramatically backlit potted palm, the Israeli Prime Minister was sharing some private words with Lebanon’s President, and on the other side of the room Iraq’s PM was conversing with Iran’s Foreign Minister.
Moon expected these people to speak cordially at a reception such as this—these were politicians and diplomats, after all—but he had a feeling this went a little deeper. There was true optimism in the room that the Tripoli Accords would be a success.
Then the voice of gloom in his head overshadowed his brief moment of confidence. First, they needed to survive the night.
By far the biggest group of people stood around Ali Ghami as he held court near a bubbling mosaic-tiled fountain. The two men’s eyes met for a moment. Ghami raised his glass slightly, a solemn gesture that told Moon he acknowledged the most important guest to him was the one who wasn’t here.
Fiona Katamora was the topic of most conversations this night. Moon had been told that Qaddafi, wearing a civilian suit rather than a uniform, would make a speech about her loss.
Moon’s bodyguard for the night, wearing a borrowed ill-fitting tux, tapped him on the arm and nodded in the direction of the open entrance to the adjoining living room. Tucked away unobtrusively near the ceiling was a video camera.
“I’ve counted five so far,” the man said.
“For security?”
“Or posterity. You can best believe those are switched on right now and ready to record tonight’s attack. I also noticed that the plasma television in the living room is a temporary setup. The wires are taped down to the floor rather than run under the Persian rug. This way, everyone here will be able to witness the beheading. It’ll also bunch the crowd together nicely for the attack. I think this is going to be a two-way performance because I saw a small webcam sitting next to the TV.”
“It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?”
“That’s their plan, but don’t worry. We know what we’re doing.”
“Have you been able to tell which are the legitimate security guards and which are the terrorists?” Moon asked.
“The tangos are still outside. The planners of this attack know they wouldn’t be able to hold their cover for long if they were in here now.” The bodyguard felt confident, but he carefully watched the few Libyan agents mingling with the guests.
Muammar Qaddafi climbed a couple steps to get above the crowd, a wireless microphone in his hand. The orchestra fell silent, and the men and women turned expectantly for his tribute to Fiona Katamora.
The Libyan leader was known to be almost as long-winded as Castro. After five rambling minutes, Moon tuned him out.
He’d wiped his hands twice during that brief period of time and knew that if he took off his j
acket the stains under his arms would reach his belt line.
Amazingly, the guard at his side looked totally relaxed.
In the cavern’s darkness, Eric changed out his ammo magazine by feel. Only two clips remained in the pouch strapped to his harness. His shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, and he hadn’t had a chance to tend to it. Blood ran hot and sticky all the way to his fingertips.
Another grenade thrown blindly hit just below the Saqr’s gunwale and dropped to the dirt. The explosion was muffled by the hull, but it rocked the ship toward the pier, and they remained at a ten-degree list. This time, the desiccated wood caught fire immediately, and with the flames spreading outside the ship there was nothing they could do to stop it.
“As soon as it gets light enough, we’re toast,” Mark said grimly.
Already, Linda Ross could see his dim outline growing from the gloom. She knew he was right. The darkness had saved them until now, but when the fire reached a certain size and its light filled the cavern the advantage would shift to the terrorists. The question for her was whether they should wait it out and hope to somehow beat back the attack or retreat and find another way out of this trap.
She made her decision the moment she acknowledged her limited options. “Okay, we’ll lay down a short burst of cover fire. Mark, Eric, take Alana, jump for the pier, and head away from the entrance. Try to find some defensible position. I’ll give you a thirty-second head start. Hose ’em again, and I will be right behind you.”
They quickly lined the Saqr’s rail. The fire burning aft of them wasn’t yet big enough to illuminate the entire cave, but they could see ten or fifteen feet out. The body of a terrorist lay sprawled on the ground at the limit of their vision, a black stain pooled under his chest slowly soaking into the dirt.
“Fire,” Linda ordered, and they loosened a blistering fusillade, raking the rubble that had been blasted to seal the cave from the river.
As soon as their guns emptied, Eric and Mark lifted Alana from the deck by her forearms. Linda was still shooting behind them, sniping into the darkness to keep the gunmen down. The three stepped up onto the Saqr’s rail and jumped the gap to the pier. Alana almost fell, and had Eric not grabbed her quickly she would have caught herself on her badly blistered hands.
Keeping as low as he could, Mark led them forward, his arms out in front of him. When he touched the cave’s back wall, he turned right and groped his way along the uneven surface. Alana couldn’t keep a hand on the rock, but behind her Eric laid one hand on her shoulder to keep her oriented.
They walked blindly for seventy-five feet, the staggering wall of sound from the renewed gun battle behind them never seeming to grow distant because of the confined acoustics.
Mark chanced flicking on his light. They were at the end of the pier. There was nautical gear piled just ahead of them, coils of rope mostly, but there was also some chain nestled in reed baskets as well as lengths of wood for spars. But what most caught his attention was the mouth of a side cave off the main cavern. A metal bar had been attached to the rock above it, and from it hung the tatters of what had once been a pair of tapestries that when closed would have afforded privacy inside.
“We might be okay,” he said, and they all stepped into the new chamber.
Eric quickly drew the shades closed and changed out his magazine to stand guard while Mark played the flashlight around the room, keeping his fingers over the lens to defuse the harsh halogen light.
“This is incredible,” Alana whispered reverently. For the moment, she forgot the pain radiating from her hands and the noise of the firefight raging outside.
The cave floor was covered with several layers of intricate oriental carpets to prevent cold from seeping through the rock. More tapestries covered much of the walls and gave the chamber the cheery feel of a tent. There were two rope beds on one side of the room, one of them neatly made, the other rumpled. Other furniture included several chests and a large writing table, complete with ink pots and feather quills, which had grown limp over the centuries and wilted over the sides of their solid gold stand. The desktop was inlaid with complex geometric patterns done in mother-of-pearl. Books were stacked on the floor around it and filled an adjacent set of shelves. An ornate Koran had the place of honor next to a tattered, dog-eared Bible.
There was an alcove next to the shelves. It was stacked floor to ceiling with chests. The lid for one of them was sprung, and when Mark shone the light in the crack the unmistakable flash of gold dazzled back at him.
He tried to see if there was an opening behind the chests, but with them so tightly packed it was impossible to tell without moving them. He shoved at the topmost trunk to dislodge it. The trunk wouldn’t budge. If it was full of gold like the lower one, it would easily weigh a thousand pounds.
He gave the light to Alana, who tucked it under her arm because she couldn’t trust her hands to hold it properly.
“There’s no way out,” Mark said, returning to Eric’s side. Stoney had reloaded Murph’s rifle and handed it across. “On the bright side, we’re going to die rich. Must be a hundred million in gold shoved in a closet back there.”
The firing outside remained relentless, although Linda had to be on the move because they couldn’t hear her weapon over the sharp whip-cracks of the terrorists’ AKs. The stern of the Saqr was a pyre now, with flames almost reaching the cave’s ceiling and quickly filling the cave with smoke.
Eric kept whispering “Marco” into the gloom and was rewarded with a return call of “Polo.”
Linda reached the entrance and ducked through long before the gunmen were aware she had moved. “Tell me the good news.”
“We’re rich,” Mark offered. “But trapped.”
The two ships were so close to each other that it was impossible to get off a shot, so they had fallen on a deadly stalemate, although the Oregon was using her superior size and power to start herding the Libyan frigate closer to shore. Whenever the hulls came together, the smaller naval vessel was forced to cut starboard to avoid being crushed under the freighter. Occasionally, a brave, or suicidal, terrorist would pop on deck and try to launch another RPG at the freighter, but the antiboarding .30 calibers were deployed and aimed before he could take an accurate shot. The two RPGs they managed to fire at the Oregon flew right over the ship, and the gunmen were cut down for their efforts.
The corridors inside the frigate were a scene of bedlam, with damage-control teams running in every direction. The air was smoky from a fire in the forward part of the ship, although the antiquated scrubbers were working to clear it. Alarms wailed, and men shouted orders over the strident cry.
It was all music to Fiona Katamora’s ears, as she lay shackled to a bed frame in an officer’s cabin. She had no idea what was happening around her other than that the men who’d kidnapped her were in trouble.
She knew she had been taken aboard a ship after the helicopter flight from the jihadists’ training camp. She could tell from the salty air that wafted through the bag they had placed over her head and from the engine’s thrum and the action of waves against the hull. She hadn’t known which type of vessel until the cannons started firing.
It came as no surprise that Suleiman Al-Jama had been able to co-opt a Libyan warship. More likely, the entire crew were members of his organization.
Explosions wracked the frigate, and with each blast her sense of well-being grew. They would still kill her before it was over, she wasn’t fooling herself about that, but the United States Navy would ensure they wouldn’t have the chance to enjoy their victory.
A particularly loud explosion hit the ship, which seemed to stagger under the blow. When Fiona no longer heard the forward cannon firing, she knew the American warship had blown off one of the Libyan’s main gun turrets.
The door to the cabin was hastily thrown open. Her jailors wore headscarves to mask their features and had AK-47s slung over their backs. Fiona’s moment of well-being vanished as her cuffs were rearranged
so her hands were bound behind her. Wordlessly, they yanked her from the room.
Uniformed sailors barely threw them a glance. They were too preoccupied with saving their ship to gloat over their prize. Fiona fell against a bulkhead when another fury of rounds slammed into the ship’s side. The ferocity of the battle so distracted her for the walk down to another, larger room that she forgot to pray.
But when she saw the black cloth hanging across the back wall, the video camera, and the man holding a massive scimitar, the words fell from her lips. There were others in the room, terrorists, not Libyan sailors. One was standing behind the camera, another near him fiddled with the satellite-uplink controls. The rest of the masked men were here as witnesses. She recognized their khaki utilities from the desert base. The man with the sword wore all-black.
The alarm loudspeaker in the mess hall had been disabled, though it was still audible from other parts of the vessel.
“Far from saving you,” the executioner said in Arabic, “that ship out there has pushed up our timeline by a few minutes.” He stared hard at the Secretary, and she returned his defiance. “Are you ready to die?”
“For the sake of peace,” Fiona replied, her voice as steady as she could keep it, “I was ready to die from the moment I understood the concept.”
They secured her to a chair set before the drape. Plastic sheeting had been placed on the deck at her feet. A gag was tied across her mouth to deny her any parting words.
The executioner nodded to the cameraman and he began to film. The lens stayed focused on Fiona for a moment, to make sure the target audience knew exactly who was about to die. Then the swordsman stepped in front of her, holding the ornate scimitar so it was plainly visible.
“We, the servants of Suleiman Al-Jama, come before you today to rid the world of another infidel.” He was reading from a typewritten script. “This is our answer to the Crusaders’ efforts to thrust their decadence upon us. From this unholy woman has come the worst of their lies, and for that she must die.”