Devil's Due (2 page)

    “They sank her,” Garet said. “Opened fire with their chase guns without warning. Sank her before she could get away.”

Chapter 2

Mediterranean Sea
Early Morning,
Tuesday, 19 June

Sam, a crewer on a fire hose, turned away from incoming metal, spraying a fountain of water over the forward deck. Scott brushed aside the water like a bothersome bug. “Chase guns didn’t sink the
Bardot
. She’s too big.”

    “Been too busy to think about it.” Garet shrugged. “Must’ve been anti-ship missiles then. Heard they didn’t give the crew time to abandon to life rafts.”

    “Terrorists?” Scott asked. In the Mediterranean, terrorists were about the only wildcards with the capability and a more likely aggressor than Libya.

    Four bells rang out—a warning. The
Sea Shepherd
stopped her protective circling. Scott turned to look back and up to the wheelhouse. Captain Pendleton, at the helm, was fixed on something on the starboard side. A moment later, Scott heard, but didn’t see, what approached. The 470-horsepower twin Caterpillar Diesel motors were unmistakable. Out here that noise meant Naval Special Warfare Rigid Inflatable Boats (NSW RIBs) and the Navy’s Sea, Air and Land Forces (SEALs).

    Two NSW RIBs meant they were getting special attention. Each RIB had a crew of 3 and an 8-man SEAL squad aboard. The standard complement.

    Scott grinned ear to ear. The SEALs were right on time, if a little showy. Normally, the fishermen would try to flee the RIBs, and two of the five boats were fleeing. The others looked to be staying in place, however. Two with nets in the water.

    Scott felt a presence behind him before Edie spoke. “Here,” she said. Scott reached out, took the Kalashnikov without turning away from the fast approaching RIBs. AK-47s weren’t his weapons of choice, but they were plentiful enough in the region to buy in quantity. In a pinch, he preferred the .45 Beretta Px4 he had holstered. The Storm Special Duty gave maximum firepower with nine rounds in the standard magazine and ten in the extendeds, though it weighed nearly 28 ounces unloaded.

    Edie kneeled down, pressed her body into Scott’s purposefully. Her constant desire for closeness made him want to climb over the rail. Not because he’d bumped uglies with her and felt guilty, but because he hadn’t and wanted to as much as she did.

    “Get a cabin—later,” Garet shouted. “For now, do your crisis management voodoo because it looks like some of our Tunisian friends are staying.”

    Scott offered no immediate reply, but agreed with Garet’s assessment. He’d make his move when it was time, and after he’d assessed all that needed assessing.

    Being separated from Cynthia these past 14 months was a fresh hell every day, more so with Edie on the prowl. To say that Edie was an everyman’s wet dream was an injustice because she was so much more than that. Blue-eyed and red-haired—sapphires and flames—she spoke plainly and with a quiet intelligence. She was long-limbed, trim. Tall, but not overly so. Nicely bosomed, though not much more than a fair handful.

    Her roundhouse kick could knock his head from his shoulders—and almost had several times during sparring rounds. She could field-strip an AK-47 in 14 seconds and reassemble it in 30 seconds—blindfolded—drink like a fish all night, and still function at 150 percent the next day.

    The khaki survival vest that she wore over her skimpies was the clincher, though. The vest coupled with her fierceness was for him as catnip was to cats. There was nothing sexier than an unabashed warrior woman. In short, she made him wish he were a younger man, which he wasn’t. Twelve years older than her 28, he was much too old for her and he’d told her as much a few times already. Her single word response was deadly: Cynthia. She said it because Cynthia was 25, and his ex-wife.

    Scott clasped a hand to Lian’s shoulder. “Get Kathy and Angel out of the water now.” Lian grinned his approval and moved off. To Garet, Scott said, “Midship post. Take the riot shield.”

    Scott and Edie stood. “Admit it,” Edie whispered in Scott’s ear seductively as she awaited orders.

    Scott knew what she wanted him to say but held his tongue. He’d told her once that she must have Cossack blood, and she’d replied she was of the blood of czars and gypsies both. For him, the reply explained how she could switch from stoic to impassioned in the span of heartbeats—how she could flirt with him even in the midst of fire hoses, wailing alarms, and flying chains.

    “Boat ahoy!” sounded a voice over a megaphone. “Prepare to be boarded.”

    Scott noted a RIB coming alongside the
Shepherd’s
starboard
just as Lian at the stern was slipping away in a zodiac, moving to port. The zodiac was his answer to the RIBs. Its twin 150 horsepower engines weren’t as powerful or fast as those of the 11-meter RIBs, but they were fast enough for what he needed doing right now. He grabbed Sam’s fire hose, switched it off as he shouted, “Stand down, stand down.”

    A feeling that something wasn’t right caught at the back of Scott’s thoughts. The fishing boats should have turned tail and ran. The fishermen didn’t want trouble any more than the
Shepherd’s
crew did. Three boats staying was unusual. “I don’t like the feel of this,” Scott told Sam and Edie quietly. “Edie, wheelhouse. Get us ready to move fast. Sam, clear this deck. Stand ready below.”

    Edie and Sam did as told without question. Scott shouldered his AK-47, caught the tie rope from one of the Navy SEALs and held it without tying down. The SEAL’s lieutenant he knew on sight. “Bob.”

    “Scott.”

    Military code of conduct meant addressing others with last names, first names though, as good-natured insults, were their standard greeting. The U.S. Sixth Fleet, based in Naples, had the Mediterranean Sea as its sole area of responsibility. The aircraft carrier, USS Harry S. Truman, back from the Red Sea, along with other warships in the strike group, like the guided-missile destroyers USS Gettysburg and USS Bulkeley, had been deployed in the eastern Mediterranean for several weeks.

    Scott asked, “Any real reason you need to board us?”

    “You know it’s standard procedure.”

    “You know my reply.” Scott’s smug smile broadened. “Hand over your ARXs and you’re welcome aboard any time.”

    “How many in the water?” The lieutenant asked.

    Scott tossed back the tie rope, watching the fishing boats out of the corner of his eye. “You know better than to ask. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Right?”

    The lieutenant glared, signaled for the rope to be tossed back. “We’re not going anywhere this time. Orders.”

    Lieutenant Ansely’s floating bucket was the amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge. Sending out two RIBs instead of the typical one must mean an alert status, perhaps the
Bardot
really had been sunk by terrorists. Scott said, “Well, Bob, we’re not going anywhere either. Stalemate?”

    The lieutenant made a big show of getting his fire team into position. That meant, not only getting the SEALs at the fore and aft .50 cals to ready themselves to open fire, but also getting the rest of the 8-man squad to drop to a knee-steady position and take aim with their ARX 160s.

    “Better rethink the enemy,” Scott shot back. “We’ve got a very different situation here than you realize.” While he talked he pivoted, so he faced the wheelhouse. Close-chested, he balled his right hand into a fist, then displayed his open hand palm out before inverting his hand and wiggling his fingers.

    Three quick movements, three hand signals. Freeze, meaning stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. Alert, meaning we have a situation. Obstacles, meaning trouble coming.

    Scott was raising his index finger into the air and turning it in a circle when it happened. Edie, following Scott’s signs, signaled a full-throttle reverse of the engines. The
Shepherd
lurched backward just as a resonant whoosh sounded. Scott leapt aside as the shoulder-launched RPG swept across the
Shepherd’s
deck, clipping a corner of the upper deck below the wheelhouse and exploding in a massive fireball.

    “Told you,” Scott shouted as he rolled to a ready position with his AK-47.

Chapter 3

Mediterranean Sea
Morning,
Tuesday, 19 June

The shooter was on the one fishing boat of the remaining three that didn’t have its net in the water. The boat had been drifting away from the others and closer to the
Sea Shepherd
. Scott thought this was because its net wasn’t in the water. Now he knew better.

    Scott opened fire on the shooter even before the RIBs’ forward .50 cal swung around and started ripping open the drifting fishing boat. Though a killing machine, the AK-47 wasn’t built for range or accuracy. Scott emptied one 48-round magazine, slapped in another and emptied it before he paused to assess.

    A long-standing question he had about the armament the SEALs carried was answered by the resonant thumps of MK19 grenade launchers and the resulting fiery explosions. What was left of the shredded fishing boat, started sinking into the sea at that point, allowing Scott to turn his thoughts to the
Shepherd’s
crew and his men.

    Garet was down. The riot shield on top of him made it difficult to determine his status. The starboard side of the upper deck below the wheelhouse was ripped open. Smoke billowed from the hole, making it impossible to get a clear view of the wheelhouse.

    Scott made his way quickly to midships, lifting the riot shield off Garet and turning over the scruffy bear of a man. Garet didn’t have any outward wounds, other than being somewhat singed. “You dead yet?” Scott asked, pulling Garet to a sitting position.

    “It’d take more than that,” Garet muttered.

    Scott gripped the chief’s shoulder, before moving through the central hatch into the smoky interior. Sam, among the confused, incensed crew in the hall, was visibly shaking, though his embrace was meant to calm blue-eyed Tara. Tara was shrieking, something about her 8-year-old daughter and ex back in the states.

    “Sam, Tara,” Scott shouted, pulling the two apart. “Sam, damage control. Get two others; get on it. Tara, take Willow. Ventilate this passageway; assess the damage. Report.”

    He pushed his way through to the narrow, nearly vertical stairs that led to the wheelhouse. As he climbed, he heard Edie’s voice in his ears correcting him. “Real ships don’t have stairs. They have ladders.” Her way of reminding him of how long it’d been since he’d last lived on a ship and one of the reasons he’d picked her for the job.

    Edie wasn’t one for big shows of emotion, but her eyes showed relief when Scott entered the wheelhouse. A few quick steps took him to her side, and only then did she unball her fists to let color return to her knuckles.

    “Damned mess,” Captain Pendleton quipped. “What good’s security if you can’t protect this ship?”

    Edie took a step back, cocked her head. Scott had no doubt this particular you’re-dead-to-me stare had flatly crushed many men. The captain didn’t even seem to notice.

    “Damage control under way. Sam’s leading the detail,” Scott reported. “Willow and Tara to assess.” Since they were ventilating below more smoke was making its way into the enclosed space. Scott moved to open the port door, pulling Edie away from the captain.

    “Not here, not now,” Scott started to say. He cut short, his eyes widening. He shouted, “Incoming, take cover!” His instincts took over. He pulled Edie with him, out the port door and over the side. The long fall into the tepid waters of the Mediterranean seemed an eternity, and the incoming projectile roaring at him was all he could see the whole time.

    He pulled Edie down, down into the dark waters, a vise-like grip on her as he tried to avoid the expanding shockwave of the blast. His mind worked as they dove for their lives. One of the two boats that had slunk off must have come back around. It’s the only thing that explained the second shooter. If so,
what the hell was going on?

    He and Edie paused their frenzied dive, righted themselves. Ditching boots and unneeded gear, they treaded lightly so they could look up toward the surface. Edie reached out, squeezed him in a fierce embrace as something large sank to the depths close by, and he squeezed back with the same intensity. In that moment, he had no thoughts of Cynthia or little James—only thoughts of Edie and how if he’d walked to the port door a few seconds later there wouldn’t have been much left of him and her for the Navy SEALs to zip into plastic body bags.

    She was trembling, he realized. Whether from cold or anger, he didn’t know, but he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t from fear. They floated there, submerged, looking to the glow above that pointed the way while the oxygen in their lungs worked its dwindling magic. On his signal, they worked their way to the surface, and to a fresher hell than he imagined possible.

    Smoke and flames were everywhere. Scott turned a tight circle, signaled for Edie to do the same. Immediate threats were first priority. Someone out there wanted them dead. It didn’t matter who right now—only that they were determined and dedicated enough to martyr themselves because this was a mission you didn’t come back from and whoever planned it knew that.

    They’d waited for the Navy SEALs, though they’d plenty of opportunity beforehand. They’d attacked after the SEALs had attempted to board the
Sea Shepherd
and turned their guns. No accident, deliberate. They’d been watching, studying. There was no other explanation, but it still didn’t account for the carnage he was seeing.

    Four fishing boats shredded, in flames, sinking or all the above. The
Shepherd
trailed plumes of smoke. He saw flames too, but he was too low to the water to assess the ship’s status. One of the NSW RIBs must’ve attempted a ramming. Its .50 cals were silent though and there was no movement aboard, only bodies.
Who or what took out a SEAL team
, he wondered.