Numa Files: Ghost Ship Part 36

She hesitated. Her true desire was to remain there on the floor, to lie there until the fires came and consumed her. A fate she'd never been more certain she deserved.

"A wise man once told me, 'We are who we decide to be,' " he said. "You have a choice. You can be Calista Brevard or you can reclaim your humanity as Olivia Banister."

The names seemed to fire something in her, but it wasn't what he might have expected. Olivia was a frightened child, Calista was unafraid. Calista was a survivor, an instrument of power. And now, she thought, an instrument of retribution. She took Kurt's hand and stood.

"No," she said, "this is who I am. I'll help you find Sienna. But don't get between me and Sebastian. Because I'm going to kill him for what he and his family have done. If you try to stop me, I'll kill you too."

"Your choice," Kurt said. "Either way, let's move. We don't have much time."

With Calista leading the way, the two of them strode the halls. Though Kurt had professed trust in her, he wasn't about to give her a weapon. He just needed her to get him past the goons who would be guarding the control room. Or at least close enough so he could eliminate them.

"This way," she said, turning down the hallway on the right. At that moment an alarm began to scream.

Kurt held still, wondering if she'd triggered something. "It wasn't me," she said, apparently guessing his thoughts. The sound of automatic gunfire outside the building reverberated through the hall followed by the unmistakable sound of helicopters pa.s.sing overhead. The Marines had arrived and not unnoticed. The sound of a rocket screaming through the air was followed by an explosion and a flash of light through the windows at the far end of the hall.

"We need to hurry," Kurt said. He and Calista began to run. They were almost to the end when one of Sebastian's men came running the opposite way. "Calista," he shouted. "We're being attacked. No one is answering at the pen and . . ."

Just then he saw Kurt and quickly guessed that he was part of the a.s.sault. He swung a submachine gun around and fired.

Kurt saw it coming, pushed Calista out of the way, and dove to the polished floor. As sh.e.l.ls ripped into the plaster behind him, he aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger almost simultaneously. The railgun spat a swarm of lethal iron projectiles that ripped into the man, taking him off his feet and knocking him over. He landed on his back, but the muscles in his hand must have contracted in a spasm because the submachine gun continued to fire, spraying a line of bullets along the wall and up into the ceiling, shattering two of the mirrors and blasting apart a suit of armor.

"So much for the element of surprise," Kurt said. He got up, helped Calista to her feet once again, and took off down the hall.

At that very moment, Lt. Brooks and the members of the Force Recon platoon were thinking the exact same thing. They'd come in from the coast, flying along the deck, blackedout and watching for any sign they'd been detected or painted by the sweep of a radar beam.

All signs pointed to a clean entry. And then they'd crossed the wall of the sprawling compound and slowed to a hover so the strike teams could begin a fast rappel to the ground. But even as the ropes went out, they'd begun to take direct fire, not from any human targets on the ground but from remotely operated weapons.

From at least three spots in the garden, twin .50 caliber machine guns had risen from small maintenance sheds. They were tracking and turning and firing on the helicopters. One of the Black Hawks was already smoking and pulling away when Brooks gave the order to the rest of them.

"Pull back," he shouted. "Take evasive action." The pilot turned the craft away from the fire and began to move out, but the horrible rattling sound of sh.e.l.ls ripping through the fuselage told Brooks it was too late. Shrapnel and bits of the cabin were blasted about like confetti. Blood splattered on the wall of the fuselage as at least one man took a hit.

At the same time, the helicopter lurched to the side, and Brooks saw that the pilot had also been wounded. They were spinning and going down.

The copilot took control and tried to right the craft, but they hit the ground with a crunch. The Black Hawk rolled over on its side, forcing the enormous rotor blades into the ground and shattering them into a thousand pieces.

"Go! Go! Go!" Brooks shouted, pus.h.i.+ng one man out through the door and then grabbing the wounded pilot and scrambling to safety.

The Black Hawk's crew and the twelve Marines were clear of the helicopter when it exploded. Three men were injured, as well as the pilot, and a mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had suddenly turned into a desperate fight.

The men took cover near a rock wall and set up a defensive perimeter. Brooks saw the other Black Hawks fleeing to safety. It looked as if they would all clear the danger zone when a missile launched from another dilapidated shed.

The fiery tail of the rocket was easy to track-it raced south after the helicopter and illuminated it in a ball of flame.

"d.a.m.n!" Brooks cursed. "We've been set up."

By now men were streaming from the barracks, and small arms fire was whistling past overhead.

Brooks grabbed the radio and called out, "Dragon leader to Dragon team. Stay clear of the fire zone. I repeat, stay clear of the fire zone. Compound is more heavily defended than antic.i.p.ated. Missiles and heavy-caliber weapons."

"Dragon Three clear," a call came back.

"Dragon Four also clear."

That meant Black Hawk Two had taken the missile. Brooks had no way of determining if anyone had survived the explosion.

Brooks pressed the talk switch. "Dragon Five, what's your position?"

Dragon Five was the spare helicopter brought in primarily to haul the hostages out, but it also carried two Navy medics.

"We're still at point alpha. Do you need us?"

"Negative," Brooks said. "Remain there until I contact you."

"We're not going to leave you down there, Lieutenant."

"You will if I order you to," Brooks replied. "Stay clear until I tell you otherwise."

Putting the radio down, Brooks looked around at his men. Three of them were injured. That left nine, plus the copilot, who had to do more than fly at this point.

"Jones," Brooks called to one of the men. "Get your squad to the south. Make sure no one flanks us."

"Yes, sir."

"Dalton, Garcia, you're with me. We've got to find those guns and that missile battery and take 'em out."

"Yes, sir," the men replied in unison.

Under a covering fire, the three men moved out, racing fifty yards to the north and then scampering up the wall onto the next terrace.

As the unexpected battle raged all around the compound, Joe remained with the hostages. He could tell by the din of the explosions and the volume of gunfire that something had gone wrong.

"Everyone get on the floor," he said. "Flip those tables over and pile up those mattresses."

Almost on cue, gunfire ripped through the top of the building. Joe hit the deck along with everyone else. Prayers could be heard in three different languages. The sound of children whimpering needed no translation.

"I thought we were leaving?" someone asked.

"So did I," Joe muttered.

Wondering what had gone wrong, Joe crawled to the door and pushed it open a crack. Flames lit up the sky at the bottom of the hill.

He heard the sounds of the helicopters maneuvering in the distance and the report of the heavy machine guns. Over the headset, he heard Brooks calling out that they'd been shot down and warning the others away. Across the terrace he saw two separate groups of men rus.h.i.+ng down the hill and firing wildly. Between these men and the men from the barracks, the Marines from the downed helicopter would soon be badly outnumbered.

Joe knew his help was needed, but if he left the hut the hostages would be utterly alone and defenseless.

He studied the action a moment longer. It was all going on down the hill from where they were, with the sounds of another battle raging at the main house. But to his right, out to the south, all was quiet.

"Time to go," he said. "Don't want to miss the bus." He began waving them up to the door, pointing to the right, where it was dark and quiet. "There's a wall about seventy yards away. Get to it, climb over it, and keep going. Don't stop until you're at least a thousand yards from here and you've found some kind of shelter. A ditch, some bushes, a stand of those weird trees, anything that can hide you."

He handed Montresor the green flare. "If you see any helicopters overhead, light this and hold it up. They'll know you're the hostages and not enemy combatants."

As Montresor and the others gathered around the door, Joe took another look outside.

"What about my mom?" Tanner Westgate asked. "Kurt will find her," Joe said. "You can count on that." The little faces streaked with tears clutched at Joe's heart.

When each of the young children was holding hands with an adult, Joe snuck forward, made sure the path was clear, and then waved them out.

He led them about halfway, and when he was certain they were clear of the firefight he pointed toward the wall. "Go," he said, urging them forward, "get over that wall and don't look back."

As the prisoners scrambled into the darkness, Joe turned back toward the sounds of engagement. Gazing down the hill, he could see the firefight in all its nighttime iridescent glory. From the tracer fire it was clear that Lt. Brooks and his men were getting shot to pieces from three sides as thirty or forty of Brevard's men slowly closed in around them.

Joe began to move forward. "Unbelievable," he whispered. "All this time I've been waiting to call in the cavalry and it turns out I am the cavalry."

With that thought in mind, he pressed forward, unsure of what, if anything, he might achieve.

As the chaos outside grew, Kurt and Calista found themselves in a running battle with the rest of Brevard's men. They'd made it down one hall, with Kurt laying down a suppressing fire to keep those behind them at bay, only to run smack into a second group coming the other way.

Now, halfway to the control room, they were caught in cross fire, with shots coming at them from both ends of the hall.

"Get behind me," Kurt said to Calista as he returned fire. "You should have given me a gun," she said.

"I had my reasons," Kurt said.

"How do those reasons sound now?"

"Not as good as they did back then," he admitted. With little cover beyond an old wooden credenza, Kurt had to keep up a steady rate of fire to keep their enemies back. A blue digital counter on the top of the gun told him the status of his ammo. It hit zero rather quickly and he changed clips.

Realizing they had to get out of this battle before he used up the second clip, he began shooting out the lights one by one until the central section of the hall was bathed in shadows. In response, their attackers. .h.i.t the main switch and doused the rest of the hall in darkness, which only helped his plan.

Kurt retreated along the wall, found a door, and kicked it open.

"Get inside," he said.

Calista did as ordered as more bullets skipped off the marble floor. Hoping to trick the two groups into shooting each other, Kurt fired a half dozen shots along one length of the hall and then loosed a few more back the other way.

As soon as he'd finished, he stepped backward and shut the door. As it closed, he heard volleys being fired from both sides. For a little while at least they would have trouble distinguis.h.i.+ng between their own shots and Kurt's, but he knew all he'd done was buy him and Calista some time.

As Kurt plotted their next move, Calista was busy shoving a large couch up against the door and wedging the arm under the handle.

"Not a bad idea," he said.

"How long do you think we have?" she asked, pulling a dresser against the couch.

"They'll figure out pretty quickly that I'm no longer firing at them," he said. "But it'll take a minute or two before they get up the courage to rush down the hall."

"And then what?"

Before Kurt could answer, the scream of a rocket sounded outside the building. As Kurt turned, he saw the white flare of another missile ripping its way into the night.

"Sebastian," Calista said. "Always another trick up his sleeve. Those are Acosta's. He was the arms dealer."

Kurt made a quick but grim a.s.sessment. "We have to stop this. Or none of us will leave here alive."

"We have to get to the control room," she said. "It's all operated from there."

They would never make it by charging down the hall, not even with the railgun blazing and the Kevlar armor to protect the most vital parts of Kurt's body. There had to be another way.

"What else is on this floor?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, "just more rooms like this. As if we were going to hold court someday."

An idea came to him. "It just might work," he said to himself.

He moved up to the wall, felt along it, and then began to punch holes in the plasterboard with his fist. It was fairly standard, a wood-and-drywall construction. He found the studs and then stepped back and with measured precision pointed the railgun at a section of wall, blasting a vertical line of eight shots from top to bottom.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I prefer to stay in adjoining rooms," he said. With a run of several steps, he crashed into the perforated section of the wall, smas.h.i.+ng through it with his shoulder and plowing into the s.p.a.ce next door.

Calista followed. And, in quick succession, they had done the same to the next three rooms.

Had he been using a standard rifle, Kurt might have expected the teams of men outside to hear him, but the railgun made no sound. The only noise was the projectiles flying through the plaster, a sound that reminded Kurt of an overzealous librarian energetically using a three-hole punch.

"This is the last room," Calista said.

Kurt checked the railgun. The counter on the top told him he had ten sh.e.l.ls left. Ten sh.e.l.ls. Just in case, he unzipped the diagonal pocket across his chest that held the old Colt revolver.

Hoping there would be no more resistance, he moved to the door, pulled it open a crack, and looked back down the hall. Their enemies had converged on the door to the room he and Calista had entered and were trying to break it down.

"Get ready," he said.

As the men down the hall blasted their way through the barricade she'd built and forced their way into the room, Kurt pulled his own door wide and dashed quietly across the hall and onto the stairwell. Calista was right behind him.

"Two levels up," she said.

Kurt raced up the flight, moving so quickly that he was skipping stairs.

As he neared the final turn, a trio of men came rus.h.i.+ng down in the other direction. Kurt had no choice. He pulled the trigger. The iron sh.e.l.ls went right through the first man and into the second, cutting them both down. They fell backward, knocking the third man to the floor, who opened fire with his Uzi submachine gun.

Several sh.e.l.ls. .h.i.t Kurt's chest plate, knocking him backward. He was fairly certain that at least one sh.e.l.l hit Calista because she screamed and tumbled down the stairs.

Lying on his back, Kurt hit the lower trigger and sent the p.r.o.ngs of the Taser blasting into the man's neck. He snapped into a p.r.o.ne position as the electricity surged through his body and he began to shake.

Kurt held the trigger and kept the electricity flowing as he got to his feet, ran forward, and kicked the man in the face like he was trying to punt a football out of the stadium. The man's head snapped back and he lay still.

With the situation in hand, Kurt grabbed the Uzi and dropped back to where Calista had fallen.

"You've been hit."