Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (65 page)

YOU PEEKED

WHEN THE TEAM of terrorists boarded the helicopter, Spurs and North had gone undercover— really undercover.

The impostors stomped on board and four went to the front, stepping over the discarded packs and flak jackets as the first two reached into the cockpit and pulled the two dead American pilots out. They dragged them off the back and fired several rounds into their bodies as two new pilots climbed into the vacant seats.

The engines on the other two helicopters cranked to life.

Chardoff came forward carrying a silver case, the size of a medium suitcase. He set it between the pilots.

“Don’t screw up!” he said then returned to the back of the craft.

Spurs was thankful that he didn’t notice any difference when he stepped on her hand. She wiggled her fingers carefully, also thankful that the heavy son
-of-a-bitch hadn’t broken her fingers.

The packs smelled of canvas, camouflage grease paint, and gun oil. Not a pleasant odor but easily accepted.

When that last man climbed over her, the pack covering her face slipped down a couple of inches from the one on her head. Now, she could see out into the troop hold easily but hoped the shadows from the packs would conceal her. It would be much too risky to move the lower pack back into place.

The engines started as the last man to board trotted up to the pile of discarded gear and threw himself on top. He lay between North and Spurs and she hoped that North’s cover hadn’t shifted any more than hers.

Noticing the packs move exaggeratingly with every breath she took, she resigned to take short, quick breaths. She could see the side of the dark-complexioned terrorist’s face. He had a broad, bushy mustache similar to the one the sentry at the trucks had, but along with it was a deep scar that ran from his left temple to his chin. She wasn’t sure, but he looked a little like one of the Arabs that she and Saber had fought with back in Tunisia—maybe the one that held her from behind that they called Fahmi. She couldn’t move without being noticed. If he turned just right, and in the right light, he would surely see her blue eyes staring back at him, mere inches away.

Glancing around the inside of the helo, she saw at least twenty men and figured that there was probably as many on the other two helicopters. There seemed no chance of stopping the terrorists. How could either North or she prevent them from carrying out their plot? But they would try.

The events over the past couple of days had caused an unquenchable resolve to boil over from the depths of her soul. Now, she was prepared to die for her country. She would die for Nader, for Franken, for Jabrowski. And there were the many others that had been killed along the way from Jesus, the crew chief who’d helped to rescue them from the sea, to poor little Saber. She would willingly die to avenge Saber.

She considered pushing out of the gear and leaning into the cockpit and shooting both pilots. There should be at least two rounds left in her pistol. She might make it before they got her. If she missed, it would do little good. North had probably already thought of it and dismissed the idea. He surely had a plan. She should follow his more experienced lead.

Anxious minutes dragged on. The helo banked and lights from the ship showed through the small windows on the sides of the aircraft like search beacons and panned along the inside. They were coming in to land.

The Arab on top of the gear reached for the rifle he’d laid at his side. His hand went under the pack it was next to and found Spurs’ hand. He felt her fingers curiously without looking.

She watched his face as he frowned.

The helo hovered, dropping cautiously to the flight deck as the man turned to her slowly. He looked into her eyes, his eyebrows raising. He stared
much too long.

What could she do? She was caught. As soon as the Arab opened his mouth, they would have her, and North, too.

He still looked to her, frowning, his lips seeming unsure of the words they were to speak.

NAUGLE’S LAST STAND

0500
-
USS Atchison

INSIDE COMMANDER NAUGLE’S stateroom, the wild boar head was silent and still. The globe did not speak, nor did the trophy. Young Kelly’s picture did not beg for help or vengeance.

Naugle’s head did not ache. He’d been sitting in the dark, as he had many nights, not wishing company of any kind. He preferred sitting where he was, dozing occasionally, dreaming of the past, wishing the clock could be turned back to the happier days, when Kelly was at Annapolis.

“My, God,” Naugle said. “What have I done?”

He looked around the room that had been animated before, speaking to him, giving him the terrible advice. It remained silent.

Outside the dimly lit passageways of the
Atchison
no one was prepared for what was about to take place.

What
had
he done?

There’d been no one to hear Commander Naugle’s voice. Nor had there been anyone to hear his desk drawer open. No one would hear the gunshot.

Within the next few minutes, all hell would break loose. By then the gun barrel would quit smoking and the blood that would soon leak from Naugle’s temple would coagulate into a large, dark red puddle on his desk.

UNDER SIEGE

0515
- Helicopter landing on the Atchison

THE ARAB TERRORIST on top of the packs gasped lightly. His eyes bulged as he squeezed Spurs hand hard, but only briefly. It was almost as if he’d had a heart attack or a narcoleptic episode. In the next second, his eyes and his body relaxed and were still.

The helicopter jostled as it touched down and the ramp dropped. The entire group deplaned quickly, except for the pilots and the dead man holding Spurs’ hand.

North shoved the man forward as he pushed out of the pile. The terrorist had a bayonet stuck in his back. North must have taken one off of one of the packs.

Gunfire popped outside, erupting all over the ship.

North raised his rifle as the gear tumbled away from Spurs and the pilots turned to him. He fired one shot in each of their faces as Spurs struggled out of the gear.

Looking out, they could see Arab terrorists swarming over the ship. Several unarmed sailors gaped like deer in headlights and were cut down.

“What can we do?” Spurs asked. “What’s our plan?”

North reached into the cockpit and picked up the hand radio mike. He worked it several times, then leaned in again and turned knobs.

“Don’t have one yet. A bullet got the radio. If we blow it here—get killed trying to help—we won’t be able to save the
Enterprise.
”

They watched the melee helplessly.

Chardoff came out of the bridge hatchway dragging something heavy. He pulled it, stepping backwards as if towing two hundred pounds of sandbags. Next to the bulwarks, he hefted his load over his head with a tremendous yank. It was Commander Naugle—a dark red line on his temple. Chardoff heaved the skipper over, Naugle’s body falling like a limp doll onto the deck thirty feet below.

“Damn!” North whispered.

“Son-of-a-bitch, son-of-a-bitch!” Spurs added, hitting one of the packs as she gritted her teeth. Saber, Jabrowski, and now Captain Naugle. There was a big score to settle.

Two of the bad guys came out of the aft hatch onto the weather deck, leading nearly a dozen sailors with their hands on their heads. More sailors came out in small groups, their arms above their heads and followed by a couple of the armed men in black. They were herded to the port side lifeline. All but four of the terrorists went back inside for more, and a number of shots were fired, but the shooting came less frequently as the seconds passed.

A group of seventy or eighty sailors were packed against the side and more came out, some holding bloody wounds. One injured seaman stumbled through the hatch and was immediately shot twice in the head.

Now the goateed terrorist who seemed to have authority stepped up to the closest man and held a semiautomatic pistol to his head.

“Swim or die!” he yelled and without giving the frightened sailor time to consider the choice, the armed man pulled the trigger.

The sailor collapsed and the executioner stepped to the next man. It was the young seaman that had given Spurs directions as he vacuumed the officer’s country carpet when she first came on board. Big Track was next in line behind him.

“Swim or die!” the terrorist yelled again. It seemed that the next second took minutes as the young man stood, apparently frozen in fear. He paused too long. The trigger was being pulled.

Big Track leaped from behind, grabbing the kid as the shot fired narrowly missing the young sailor’s head. The two tumbled over the lifeline and into the water.

It signaled the rest of the crew, now building to over a hundred on the deck. None of them were willing to wait for the gunman’s offer. They dove over the side like lemmings. As more of the crew streamed from the hatch and some from around the superstructure, they followed the lead of their peers and sprinted over the side. At least they had a chance in the water. The numbers of the fleeing crewmembers slowed to a trickle and a few of the tardy ones were shot before completing their goal.

Half a dozen of the terrorists leaned over the side and began firing into the water.

“I’ve seen enough,” North said and ran for the ramp. Spurs slung the Arab’s M-16 over her shoulder and followed him.

Once off of the helicopter, North fired several three to five round, automatic bursts into the group of gunmen, laying five down, two of which went over the side, riddled with bullets. One remaining terrorist ran for cover and returned fire.

THE
BIG E

LIEUTENANT JG VICTOR Bowser watched as the helicopters came into view from the island superstructure outside the bridge. Doug was still out in his F-18 and Vic couldn’t sleep whenever Doug flew. He was always there to see him take off and land.

He looked at the surface fog they were heading into, then into the bridge.

“Damn this shit,” Admiral Pierce said standing by the port side windows inside. “Never fails when
I
go through
the Strait
, there’s always fog. I haven’t seen the Rock of Gibraltar once in the last seventeen years. Who else you got out, Richie?” he asked the ship’s captain, viewing through binoculars.

“Besides the two incoming heloes, just two F-18s, Smith and Stedman,” Captain Richard Fulk said. “They’re not due back for about an hour. We’ll be through this soup by then.” He turned to the Admiral. “Probably better launch a flight of 14s for close support. We’ve got four warming up on the flight deck, ready to launch.”

“Don’t bother,” the Admiral said. “Save their energy for this Mauritania thing. They need to be fresh. They’ll be doing flyovers this afternoon. Keep the 18s within fifty miles.”

“Yes sir,” the captain said, seeming irritated that the Admiral was running his ship.

“Let’s hurry and get those heloes down,” the Admiral said. “This crap’s thick.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral,” the captain said

Vic looked back to the approaching heloes. Their ramps were already down even though they were a hundred yards out. Three aqua colored objects fell off of the leading helo and landed in the water. The large aqua balls bobbed in the sea.

“What the hell did they lose?” the Admiral asked, picking up his binoculars. “Some kind of buoys?”

Captain Fulk pulled down a microphone from an overhead console. “What’s going on with those heloes, Bud?” he asked the air boss. “Those SEALs playing some kind of games?”

The reply crackled back over the microphone. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“Well, tell them they lost something out the back.”

All on the bridge watched curiously as the first helicopter landed.

It touched down on the circled area just forward of the Island and the men deplaned quickly. They fanned out, some dropping to the deck as though they were setting up a defensive perimeter. The second chopper buzzed the command center and landed near the stern, its men deplaning and fanning out as the first had.

“The hell if they
aren’t
playing games,” the Admiral said. “You’d better get those assholes off your flight deck. They know better than to do that kind of shit!”

Two of the men from the helicopters carried large containers. Both moved toward opposite ends of the big flattop. They threw their loads out simultaneously and the deck lit up in two flaming explosions.

Gunfire came from below. Several bullets ricocheted past the bridge. The ship’s security gunner, manning an M-60 machine gun, was only able to get off a half dozen shots from his emplacement on the island just below them before he was taken out by a terrorist sniper.

Three of the four two-man F-14 Tomcat crews on the flight deck, realizing they would not be able to launch, deplaned quickly and ran for cover. They were cut down along with a handful of the deck hands. The remaining pilot and weapons officer in the last F-14 lowered their bulletproof canopy, but the explosion from a satchel charge tossed under their fuselage lifted the bird straight up fifty feet as if it were a VTOL Harrier. It fell back to the deck like a huge, snapping rattrap and broke into sections, scattering flaming pieces across the flattop.

Vic ran for the ladder down to the flight deck as the Admiral and the Captain took cover.