The Judas Strain - James Rollins [39]
Finally, the speaker switched to English, heavily accented.
“The ship is now ours. Each deck is patrolled by guards. Anyone caught out in the halls will be shot on sight. No one will come to harm as long as we are obeyed. That is all.”
The speech ended with a snap of static.
Henri tested to make sure the cabin door was locked, then stepped toward Lisa. “The ship’s been hijacked. Someone must have been planning this for some time.”
Lisa flashed back to the Achille Lauro, an Italian cruise ship hijacked by Palestinian terrorists back in 1985. And more recently in 2005, Somalian pirates attacked another cruise ship off the east African coast.
She turned to the porthole, staring out, and studied the boats patrolling the waters below, operated by teams of masked gunmen. They appeared to be pirates, but she suspected otherwise.
Maybe some of Painter’s paranoia had rubbed off on her.
This was all too coordinated for a random act of piracy.
“Surely,” Henri said, “they’ll ransack the ship and steal everything not locked down, then flee back among the islands. If we can keep alive, avoid any confrontation…”
The speaker screeched again, and a new voice spoke through the general shipboard communications. In English. It didn’t repeat in Malay or Chinese.
“The following passengers will report to the ship’s bridge. They will be expected here in the next five minutes. They will come with their hands on their heads, fingers clasped. Failure to appear will result in the death of two passengers for every minute you are late. We will shoot the children first.”
The names were stated.
Dr. Gene Lindholm.
Dr. Benjamin Miller.
Dr. Henri Barnhardt.
And last: Dr. Lisa Cummings.
“You have five minutes.”
The radio went silent again.
Lisa still faced the porthole. “This is no hijacking.”
And these were no ordinary pirates.
Before she turned away from the window, she spotted a Jet Ski racing across the water toward the cruise ship. A rooster tail of water jetted high behind it, making it easy to spot. It weaved through the debris with skill. She could not make out who was aboard the craft. The rider was hunkered low.
And with good reason.
Two speedboats were in tight pursuit, crashing through flames and smoking planks. Muzzle flashes sparked from the boat.
She shook her head at the Jet Skier’s foolishness.
From over the top of the cruise ship, a helicopter dove into view, sweeping down toward the Jet Ski. She didn’t want to watch, but she felt some obligation. Some acknowledgment of the rider’s suicidal assault.
The helicopter tilted in a sharp arc, side door open.
A blast of smoke spat from its interior.
Grenade launcher.
Wincing, Lisa glanced down in time to see the Jet Ski explode in a fiery ball of smoke and charred metal.
She swung away, numb and trembling all over. She faced Henri. They had no other choice.
“Let’s go.”
2:12 P.M.
MONK SANK INTO the depths of the sea, dragged down by his weight belt and tanks. He did not fight it and held his breath. Overhead, the blue of the water blazed with fire. Shrapnel from the blasted Jet Ski sizzled through the water. Two meters away, the watercraft sank nose first into the depths.
As Monk followed, he struggled out of his Mango Lodge windbreaker. There was no reason to keep his tanks hidden any longer. He pulled up his scuba mask and swept his arm out to gather his air hose. He used the regulator to blow his mask clear, then secured it.
The depths turned crystalline clear.
He seated the regulator and drew his first breath.
More a sigh of relief.
Had his bit of subterfuge worked?
A moment ago, as the helicopter had dove toward him, drawn like a hawk to a mouse, Monk had eyed the gunman in the open hatchway. As the grenade launcher was pointed at him, Monk flipped the Jet Ski over at