Chapter 30
Jerry, Tim Waller, and Emma Pena silently moved through the ship, taking precautions and letting Anderson guide them while watching out for anyone out of place. They did not encounter anyone.
The chapel door did not open automatically. He tapped on the door and waited. Marshal Stalling called from the other side of the door. “White dress!”
Jerry said, “Bowtie!”
Jerry asked, “Everything okay?”
Marshal Stalling nodded. “Lost Black. Nothing anyone could do. We’ve been keeping up with everything on comms. Mrs. Pena connected us.”
Cynthia Norton came toward him with a first aid kit in her hand. “Let me see your face.”
Secret Service Agent Guthrie stepped forward, a note of warning in his tone. “Ma’am?”
“Thank you, Doc.” He smiled and shook his head. “Later. Still on the clock.”
“I can see bone,” she protested, while gifting Guthrie a withering stare.
“Later,” he explained.
Cynthia turned her scornful look upon Jerry. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”
He half-grinned a tight-lipped grin. “Then I’m in very good company, ma’am.”
He looked at Captain Ege, intending to ask him about the first mate.
The man did not look well. His skin had a grayish tint, and deep circles had formed under his eyes.
Jerry looked over at Waller and made a gesture with his head.
Tim immediately walked over to the Captain and knelt in front of him. “Hi, sir, can I take your pulse?”
“Dr. Norton? I’m gonna need Bourbon with me. Right away. Can you do anything for the Captain?”
Secret Service Agent Guthrie interrupted. “Ma’am, we can’t allow that right now.”
Jerry took a deep breath to keep himself from audibly expressing his personal opinion concerning DHS.
“Look Guthrie. I need my guy. I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain the situation to you. So here’s the juice.
He’s stepping back, and the Captain is now your problem. Okay? Good talk.”
While walking toward Captain Ege, Cynthia directed her words toward her protection detail. “I’m treating him. Figure it out.”
Jerry tapped Waller on the shoulder. “Need your eyes, Bourbon.”
Jerry thoughtfully unslung “QB” and leaned the long rifle against the chapel bulkhead, then slipped carefully out of the backpack rig he had improvised, squatting to let the carbine make gentle contact with the deck.
He handed Stalling the carbine and the ammunition for it, then said, “We have support inbound. Just about to take back that island. This will all be over soon.”
Jerry handed Waller the pilfered set of optics, followed by the backpack containing his sniper rounds, and they moved to the windows.
At the windows, Jerry raised his rifle and used “QB’s” optics to survey the entire visible island while Waller used the dismounted scope like an ancient telescope.
In his suit, he looked comically akin to a sixteenth-century sea captain while doing so.
The cruise ship had dropped anchor about a quarter of a kilometer from the small private island, making the morning taxi runs for the tenders a breeze.
QB had an accurate range of up to 1,800 meters or nearly two full kilometers.
Through the powerful scope, Jerry could see each person, make out their facial expressions, and even read the nametags on some of their uniforms.
“Fish in a barrel,” Waller murmured.
Jerry found his suit jacket slung over a chair where he had left it and picked it up. He caught Waller’s eye and said, “Let’s go. Burning daylight.”
Waller threw him a thumbs-up, and together they left the chapel and walked around the area near the stairs. Jerry once again slung QB and found a foothold that allowed him to climb onto the chapel’s roof. Here, he had the highest vantage point of the ship.
Waller passed up the backpack, followed by his dismounted scope and carbine. Then Jerry gave him a hand up to the roof.
“You good?”
“I’m good,” Waller answered.
Jerry laid his jacket on the burning hot deck.
Waller tossed the backpack in front of it like a sandbag, and Jerry settled on his stomach, then set up the long gun for accuracy and harmonics.
Once he had everything in place, he took his time looking through the scope, keeping his finger alongside the trigger but not on it.
He spied the obvious baddies. Now he just needed to figure out who else had joined the gang.
“Bravo Four set,” he reported.
Anderson came back. “Roger, Bravo Four. Talon Strike now 2 mikes out.”
A long twenty seconds or so went by, and Anderson broadcast, “I have comms. Talon Strike, this is Neptune’s Dagger. Welcome to the party. Over.”
A new voice came over their comms, linked in by Anderson. “Roger, Neptune’s Dagger. We brought some party favors. Save us some snacks. Talon Strike inbound in…ONE MINUTE!”
“Tighten up,” Jerry whispered. “One minute.”
Without hesitation, Waller began feeding Jerry much-needed intel on the objectives in a low voice.
“I confirm eleven bandits. I spot six on our declination. From your right. Bandit one is three six zero meters. Male, tactical vest, comms, AK slung, pacing near the east dock. Bearing zero-nine-zero from your position. Wind from nine o’clock, four knots full value.
Dial elevation minus one point five MOA.
Hold center mass, favor left edge for wind. On target?”
Jerry felt himself relaxing and completely focusing on the task. Waller knew the work. “Confirmed. Set next.”
Waller called wind, distance, declination, and bearing on four more targets before Talon Strike hit the beach on the far side of the Island.
In their ears, they heard, “Go, go, go!”
Through his scope, Jerry watched the facial expression of one of the baddies keeping watch.
He could tell the moment he realized something unstoppable was coming for them.
Jerry zeroed in and fired before he could sound the alarm.
Then, he moved quickly and found the next obvious target, then the next.
“Turkey!”
Waller said, “Friendlies on the field. Check left.”
Through his scope, Jerry identified a Fourteenth Special Forces Group team member emerging from behind a building on the island.
At the very same time, three heavily armed F-16’s flew low and fast over the island, hitting afterburners and causing multiple sonic booms from perhaps 30 feet off the ground.
This caused a panic among the thousands of passengers, but also badly demoralized the enemy.
Jerry didn’t realize the heaviness in his chest until the sight of support made everything feel lighter. He whispered a prayer of thanksgiving and continued to support the Team from his position—though he never had to fire another shot—until Pena called him down.
Olive wheeled Daniel out of the operating room and into the main triage room. She had no doubt Phil could have done it alone, missing leg or not.
Phil broke open the pharmaceuticals cabinet and said, “Monitor vitals every ten minutes. Keep fluids running, saline, 100 cc per hour, no overhydration. He’s got a liter of blood loss, maybe more, but I won’t be able to do anything about that until the team gets to a stopping point.”
He fished through the medicine cabinet, checking labels and doses.
“Push 500 mg ceftriaxone IV now if you can find it. That should hold the infection off. Give him morphine, 4 mg IV push. In four hours, we’ll do it again if we have to, though my prayer is he’ll be outbound to a genuine no-kidding hospital by then. Watch for fever or tachycardia.”
Olive made notes on an index card she’d found in a drawer, nodding as he spoke. He hadn’t said anything she didn’t already expect.
From outside the ship, they heard tremendous explosions and the ship vibrated. Phil nodded. “Fast movers. Prolly 18s or 16s.”
After she finished writing, Phil held out his hand. She hesitated, then handed him the pencil and card. He set them on the counter and slipped on a fresh pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that jaw.”
She shook her head. “It’s not so bad.” Her voice sounded even more slurred, as if she had just had a teeth cleaning and the Novocain hadn’t yet worn off.
Phil raised an eyebrow. “Nurse Duncan, sit down and let me examine your jaw. Now.”
Chagrined, she settled onto the triage chair and folded her hands in her lap. Phil prodded the left side of her face, from the temple down to her jawline. When he pressed a specific way, she gasped and winced back.
He centered himself in front of her and said, “Open your mouth just a little.” When she complied, he put his thumbs in her mouth and gripped her jawbone with his hands. He made eye contact and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Before he finished the word, “hurt,” he pulled and adjusted her jaw.
Pain exploded behind her eyes and her field of vision became a field of solid red.
She nearly missed hearing the popping sound.
As the pain subsided, so did the residual pain she’d suffered since regaining consciousness in the brig.
“Wow,” she whispered, gingerly touching her jaw. “Wow. So much better.”
His frown darkened his face. “He hit you hard enough to knock your jaw out of socket.”
She shook her head. “She.”
With a raised eyebrow, Phil said, “She?”
“Yeah. A woman punched me in the jaw. A man punched me in the head.” She carefully felt around her temple. “Knocked me out.” She prodded her jaw again. “I had this happen once before. A boyfriend…” At the dark cloud that crossed Phil’s face, she stopped talking. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”
Phil pulled out his cellphone and turned on the flashlight feature. “Look right at me,” he said, then moved the light toward her eyes, then away. He nodded. “Slight concussion. You might do well to go to the hospital with Pie when we’re done here.”
She screwed her nose up at him. “I’d rather not.”
He patted her shoulder. “My hospital would be best. I’ll make arrangements as soon as I have comms.”