interior noise of the helicopter. The pilot slumped forward, then
sideways, banging against the controls. The man standing behind him
reached over, unfastened the harness, and yanked the body out. Blood
streamed from the head wound, splashing on the commandos as they dragged
him away from the controls.
Rogov turned to the copilot. No words were necessary.
The copilot fought for control of the helicopter, trying to correct,
then over-correcting, the motion induced by the pilot’s last clutch at the
instruments. Twenty seconds later, with the helicopter once again in level
flight, he’d arrived at his decision. “Okay,” he said quietly, his words
inaudible but his meaning somehow reaching Rogov. “I’ll take you in.”
The helicopter heeled around and headed for the carrier. The radio
squawked as the operations specialist anxiously queried the helo. The air
boss had noted its erratic motion in the skies and demanded an explanation.
“Tell them it’s nothing; the pilot had a moment of vertigo,” Rogov
suggested. He made it an order by motioning with the pistol. The copilot
complied, trying to compensate for the PIO–pilot-induced
oscillation–resulting from his trembling hands. He felt sweat bead up on
his forehead, then trickle down his face.
Two minutes later, the helo hovered neatly over spot three. At the
signal from the LSO, it settled gently to the deck.
The moment it touched down, Spetsnaz poured out of the open hatchway,
catching the flight deck crew and medical team by surprise. They brushed
past their rescuers, heading for the nearest hatch into the island. By the
time the air boss could scream an angry question, and the flight deck crew
could react, the first commando had already descended two ladders. The
others were fast on his heels.
The terrorists descended two ladders and took a sharp right, a left,
and another right. The lead commando paused, getting his bearings. Yes,
this was the Flag Passageway, the dark blue tile gleaming as he remembered
it from his tours. “That way,” he snapped in his native tongue, pointing
to the right. Twenty paces down the corridor was the door to the Flag
Mess, which opened into a rabbit warren of compartments including the
admiral’s cabin, the admiral’s conference room, and the TFCC beyond. If
this ship was anything like the ones he’d visited before, none of the
connecting doors would be locked.
The commandos pounded down the corridor, cut through the Wardroom,
startling two lieutenant commanders who’d stopped in for a cup of coffee.
A replay of a Padres baseball game was playing on the VCR, and one officer
dozed quietly in a corner.
After a quick look at their collars, the commando determined that none
of them was the quarry he sought. He burst into the admiral’s cabin,
checked the private bedroom, then immediately headed for TFCC. By this
time, alarms were beginning to sound, putting the ship on general quarters.
Intruder alert, intruder alert, the 1-MC blared.
The first alarm caught Tombstone by surprise. His head snapped up,
and he whirled toward the entrance of TFCC. Two operations specialists
were already moving toward it; one recently abandoning his post at the JOTS
terminal to secure the area.
They were fast, but not fast enough. Just as they were shoving the
heavy, five-inch-thick steel door shut, the first commando hit it hard with
his shoulder. Simultaneously, he wedged his gun into the space between the
door and the doorjamb, preventing it from closing. The two enlisted men,
unprepared for the full weight of four highly trained terrorists against
the door, fell back. Rogov, followed by six commandos, burst into TFCC.
“Excellent,” he said, staring at Tombstone. “You have just made my
job much easier, Admiral, by being where you are supposed to be.”
Tombstone stood slowly, imposing iron will over his face. “Who are
you, and what are you doing on my ship?” he demanded.
The Spetsnaz commando took a deep breath, as though regrouping. “Who
we are is not important, Admiral. What is important is that we have
you–and your watch-standers.” He motioned at the aide people scattered
around the room. While he was talking, six other commandos streamed into
the base. “The emergency exit–back behind the screen,” the commando said,