The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [143]
“Could somebody,” crackled Sally’s voice, “come back up here? He’s been on the phone again, and Lamar wants you up here when he calls back …”
We got back to Hester’s office, and had to wait for almost a minute for Gabriel to call. Lamar looked worried and pleased at the same time. No dead or injured hostages. But we still had to coax Gabriel off the boat.
The phone rang. Gabriel.
“What have you done at the bank? You stupid sons of bitches, what have you done?”
He knew. He was, after all, listening to our radio traffic. I also noticed that his cell phone sounded weak. His batteries were wearing down, I thought. More pressure.
“You might as well give up,” said Lamar.
The connection went dead.
This time, water didn’t just boil up by the General Beauregard. This time, there was a fountain of water more than fifty feet in the air, as the next charge went off. It came shooting up out of the fog, followed a moment later by a thunderclap that rattled our windows.
Captain Olinger had assessed the damage to the Beauregard almost before the water plume subsided.
“Void four,” he said. “She’ll be down a good foot to two feet at the stern with that one … I sure as hell hope the fuel tank wasn’t ruptured …”
People burst out onto the forward weather decks of the Beau, climbing the exterior steps to the next deck. As she settled, I could see the water creep above the bottom of the glazed panes toward the rear of the boat. That would put the cash-counting rooms, rest rooms, and coin room into the water. The blackjack tables and the lower bank of game machines would be getting damp, as well. And that water was damned cold.
“If security is being restrained,” asked George, “who’s moving the people around like that? The bad guys?”
“The dealers and the waitresses,” said Hester. “And the deckhands. They’re trained for that.”
As she spoke, we could see the black slacks and white ruffled blouses of the employees going to the big lockers, beginning to hand out the personal flotation devices. They seemed calm. The passengers, though, were starting to move toward the edge of the decks, and you could almost see them thinking of jumping in. So far, the icy water and the small PFD they’d been issued seemed to be dissuading them from leaving, but it was a funny thing. I was certain that as soon as the first one jumped, we’d get lots more. Anybody in that water for more than ten minutes was as good as gone, especially given they were mostly in their fifties.
The General Beauregard stabilized again, with the portion of the deck we could see angling down at about a 15 degree angle, and the last half of the main deck had to be awash. Steam was wafting out of the gangway doors, where the warm air inside met the cold water.
Just seeing her like that gave me butterflies. I fully expected something to give way, and for her to slide stern first beneath the water.
The phone rang again, and we all expected Gabriel. I know that Sally did, because she put it on “speaker” automatically.
It was Nancy, her voice sort of quivery, and no longer bothering to whisper.
“Houseman, this fucking thing is sinking!”
“No, no, it’s not. Not yet.” I am sometimes honest to a fault.
“‘Not yet’? ‘Not yet’!”
“No, we have a captain here, and he says it’s not. Here. Just a second … This is a lady we know, and she’s on the boat,” I said to Captain Olinger, gesturing for him to help.
“That’s right, ma’am,” he said, loudly. “It’s not going to sink after that explosion. Please tell the rest of the passengers that…”
“Get us OFF this thing!”
“We’re working on it,” I said. “We gotta clear this line …”
“Nancy, isn’t it?” said Volont. “Could you look around and get a number on the terrorists for us?”
“What? What? Not on your stupid little life,” she said, and hung up.
“Wait a minute,” I said, after Nancy had terminated the conversation. “Wait… What’s happening here? I mean, Gabriel doesn’t kill for no reason, right?”
“No reason in his own mind,” said Volont.
“Right. So, the stretch van has been eliminated … and now the bank is back in our possession. So, what the hell