Authors: Steven Gould
The cooking gas was kept in a large cylindrical tank behind the galley in a separately ventilated room. I jumped back to the galley and found a door leading forward. The first door on the right, a gasketed sea door with steel dogs, was labeled PROPANE GAS STORAGE—NO SMOKING.
Two massive lengths of chain secured the door, running to large security padlocks that still had the price stickers affixed. There was no inset window or bull's-eye and no way I could get past the door.
For one long desperate minute I considered going after one of the NSA guns, the real ones, not the tranquilizers, and just shooting Matar, grabbing the detonator, and jumping away.
Stupid, the idea is to avoid killing anybody, especially hostages.
Even Matar?
I looked at the plans again. There was no other way to get into the room. The ventilators were lengths of pipe, twisting, not even providing a view within.
Time to get rid of the detonator, then.
I jumped back to the closed and shrouded bar and peeked past the curtains again. One of the terrorists was taking passengers to the bathroom in relays of four. Rashid was pacing back and forth, occasionally lifting his holstered radio to speak. The detonator swung back and forth on his neck lanyard.
I jumped back to the central hall on the Apollo Deck and went back through the central passageway to the pool. There was another bar, poolside. Shielded from the terrorists on the bridge roof by the bar awning, I looked over the side. From this deck there was a drop of about thirty feet to the water below. It wasn't my pit, but it would do. I studied the railing carefully, then jumped back to the bar.
The next group of passengers went up the hallway with their guard. This left two men standing at the corners of the lounge, machine guns covering the group, and Matar pacing up and down between them.
I took a deep breath and hoped, very strongly, that Matar had the only detonator for the bomb by the propane tank.
Matar didn't have time to scream, didn't have time to even reach for the detonator. He was dropping from fifty feet up into the pit in Texas and I was back in the lounge, grabbing the terrorist next to the hallway and dropping him off the port side of Apollo Deck.
He pulled the trigger on his machine gun all the way down, until he hit the water. I was back, hidden behind the curtain in the bar, then, and I heard the distant stutter stop.
The remaining terrorist in the lounge was screaming at the passengers to get down. He was looking around wildly, trying to see in all directions at once; then, like a snake, he darted forward and dragged the captain from his chair and backed against the wall. He let his machine gun swing on its shoulder strap and pulled the pistol from his holster and placed it against the back of the captain's head, the other arm around the captain's throat.
Oh, God, don't....
I was afraid he might kill him out of hand, but he didn't. He just stood there, back protected by the wall, pistol ready to splatter the captain's brains all over the lounge.
I jumped to the passageway on the bridge deck. The man on radio watch was charging away from me, forward, toward the bridge, his machine gun at the ready. I jumped forward, to the bridge, and tripped him as he came through the door. His gun went off as he fell, exploding the glass windshield outward. He fell toward the wheel and I kicked him in the stomach as he tried to catch himself. His head slammed into the post. I bent to pick him up, to drop him off the rear of the ship, and bullets tore the air over my head.
I jumped back to the rear of the ship without the wounded terrorist. That destination was already in my head. I heard shouting from the bridge deck and peeked around the awning. One of the terrorists was still on top of the bridge, but another stood on the deck below, just outside the bridge. He must have been the one who shot at me.
I jumped and an instant later he splashed into the water off the rear of the ship, followed in seconds by the terrorist on the bridge roof.
Back in the main lounge, the terrorist with the bathroom party had returned, driving them in front of him with kicks and occasional shots of his gun into the ceiling. I shivered. The situation looked very unstable. I wondered if they'd start killing passengers or settle down if I left them alone for a moment or two.
I jumped back to the bridge. The terrorist I'd tripped was getting slowly to his feet, one hand to his forehead where a scalp wound dripped red. I dropped him into the sea. He was still groggy so I opened a labeled locker and threw half a dozen life jackets over the side, then jumped back to the bar to see how things were going in the main lounge.
All the hostages were on the floor, some facedown, covering their heads, some trying to hide behind tables and chairs. Both terrorists had a hostage apiece in front of them, sitting on chairs. The captain was one of them, and an elderly woman looking incredibly out of place in a mink stole sat in the other chair. Each of them had a pistol pressed against the back of their neck, bowing their head forward as if they were praying.
Perhaps they were.
If only one of them had a gun pressed to their head, I might be able to do something.
I jumped to the dining room on the deck below and started up the stairs, walking deliberately, slowly. In my hand was my iron rod, gripped so it ran up the inside of my arm, out of sight. There was a very strong desire to take all my fear and rage out on Matar, back in Texas, leaving the remaining hostages to survive or die.
Get a grip.
I walked into the lounge, stepping over cowering passengers as if they were branches strewn across the ground. When the terrorists saw me, they must have thought I was one of the passengers.
"Get down!" the one on my right screamed. I kept walking forward, toward the middle of the ship, halfway between them.
"Get down I said!"
I could see the sweat on his face and the sweat on the captain's high forehead, captive and captor, linked in fear. I watched both terrorists carefully, my moves preprogrammed, awaiting only the right movement.
The other terrorist broke first, jerked his gun from the woman's head and pointed it at me. I jumped and the rod came down and across the barrel of the
other
terrorist's gun, smashing it away from the captain. It went off by the captain's ear and I swung the rod up, backhanded into the terrorist's face, then jumped again, to smash the gun of the other terrorist as it moved back to the woman's neck. He yelled and leaped for me. I let him grapple, then jumped to the rear of the ship, thirty feet above the waves, to let him wrestle with the water.
Back in the cabin, the captain had a gun in his hand and the terrorist flat on the floor. He was removing the grenades from the terrorist's harness. He looked up at me and smiled warily. Then someone screamed.
On the port side of the lounge, a woman in a maid's uniform lay on the floor, one hand outstretched. The carpet was red under her. I jumped to her side.
Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
She'd been hit in the chest by the bullet intended for the captain. I couldn't feel a pulse.
No!
People pressed forward. "Get back!" I screamed. I hardly recognized my voice. I stooped and picked her up as gently as I could, then jumped to the Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore.
They worked on her for two hours, but she didn't make it.
"Next time, let me pack a bag so I can stay longer."
Perston-Smythe sounded only mildly peeved, almost philosophical about it. Out of curiosity I asked, "How did you get out of Turkey?"
"They flew me out in a U.S. Air Force jet—no passport control." His voice became a little grimmer. "What did you do with Cox?"
I turned around and scanned the approaches to the phone booth. "Cox is fine. Return Millie Harrison."
"What makes you think the NSA has her?"
"I don't have time for this bullshit! Cox
admitted
he had her. Tell Cox's boss that if he doesn't let her go, I'll start giving little trips to every NSA employee I can get my hands on. Expensive. If that doesn't work, I'll start on presidential staff."
"But—"
I hung up the phone and jumped to the cliff overlooking the pit in Texas.
Seated on the beach of the little island, Matar and Cox faced each other, several feet apart. Matar sat in his underwear, his pants and shirt spread on mesquite bushes, drying. Cox, still naked, sat on the corner of the sleeping bag, the rest of it wrapped around him. He had Matar's pistol and two of Matar's grenades. Matar had a split lip and a black eye.
I appeared directly behind Cox and pressed the cold, hard end of my steel rod into his neck. The position was like that of the two terrorists from the
Argos
with their hostages seated before them. Cox stiffened and I said, "Hand me the gun."
He reversed it and passed it over his left shoulder. I put it in my coat pocket. "Now the grenades." When both of them were in the other coat pocket I jumped away, to the cliff dwelling, and added the gun and grenades to the growing arsenal on the table.
For a moment I stared at them, the plastic gun of the Basque terrorist, Cox's tranquilizer pistol, and the almost ubiquitous nine-millimeter automatics of the others.
I picked up one of the nine-millimeters in my right hand and one of the grenades in my left. Little bang and big bang. The maid on the
Argos
died of a nine-millimeter bullet passing through her aorta and semilunar heart valves. The grenade reminded me of Mom's death, but, for some reason, it reminded me even more of the human bomb. I guess the two days cleaning up his body left their mark.
Why do people make these things?
I shuddered and put the weapons back on the table.
"It is our policy not to negotiate with terrorists."
I stared at the phone, my eyes wide. I was speechless and very, very angry.
"Are you still there?" The voice belonged to an unnamed official in the NSA. Perston-Smythe introduced him as one of Cox's supervisors.
"What the fuck do you mean by that?"
"It is the policy of this government not to negotiate with terrorists."
"Do you mean to tell me that you consider me a terrorist?"
He sounded almost prim. "Certainly. You've taken a hostage."
"Terrorists," I said, gritting my teeth, "attack the innocent to achieve their goals. If you're about to tell me that you consider Cox an innocent bystander, then this conversation is over."
"Terrorists are—"
"Oh, fuck it! You want a terrorist action so you can consider me a terrorist? There's no way you can keep me out of your nuclear arsenals. Where do you want the first one to go off? The Pentagon? The White House? The Capitol building? How about Moscow or Kiev? Wouldn't
that
be interesting? Do you think they'd launch?"
His voice was a lot less prim. "You wouldn't do that."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I wouldn't.
BECAUSE I'M NOT A TERRORIST!"
I slammed the phone down on the hook and jumped.
Matar had a fist-sized rock in his hand when I jumped back. He was crouching on a grassy piece of shore, watching Cox carefully. Cox sat on his sleeping bag several yards away, apparently ignoring Matar, but his back wasn't turned.
"Food."
At my appearance, Matar shrunk back. Cox yawned pointedly but looked interested when he saw the bucket of chicken. I set it down and walked away, up the island away from them. Cox reached the chicken, piled several pieces on the lid of the tub,—and withdrew to his sleeping bag. Then Matar came up, examined the bucket, and took it back to his grassy spot.
He turned his head toward me and said, "The Colonel's original recipe is better."
I was surprised. His English was colloquial, American-accented. It disturbed me because it made him more human and violated the image I'd been carrying in my head. The monster that killed my mother shouldn't talk like a human. I remembered Perston-Smythe's lecture about preconceptions and prejudice.
Christ, Davy, are only Americans human?
Cox finished his second piece of chicken. "How long are you going to keep me here?"
His question reminded me of his boss's comments and I regained some of my anger. "As long as necessary. If you'd like to tell me where they're holding Ms. Harrison, I might be able to speed things up."
He shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I've no idea. Some safe house. I don't even know the phone number—my secretary connected me when I needed to talk to them."
I stared at him, my face blank. I wondered if he was telling the truth. "How's your head?"
He winced. "It's okay. I could use some coffee, though."
I looked back at Matar. He sat cross-legged on the grass. His narrow face made his dark eyes seem bigger than they were. I looked back at Cox. "Does he know why he's here?"
Cox shook his head. "He doesn't want to talk to me. When he came ashore we had a little argument about his weapons."
Matar looked at Cox, then spat on the ground.
"Do you want coffee?" I asked him.
After a moment Matar nodded slowly. "With sugar and cream."
I raised my eyebrows at Cox and he said, "Black, please." I think the "please" was automatic. I turned back to Matar and said, "My mother was Mary Niles."
Matar frowned, like the name was familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"You murdered her in Cyprus. You blew her to pieces on the runway with a remotely detonated bomb."
And you don't even remember her name.
I jumped to a New York deli and bought two large coffees in Styrofoam cups. There were no other customers and I paid with shaking hands, walked outside, and jumped back to the pit in less than two minutes.
Once again, Matar flinched when I appeared. His expression had changed—his eyes were a little wider and his mouth slightly open.
I jumped and appeared immediately in front of him. He fell back and started scrambling away from me. I set his coffee on the ground, then jumped close to Cox, handing him his coffee.