Chapter 10 - INTO THE BILGE
The water inside the ruptured stern compartment of the USNS Girdwood was black, oily, and so cold it felt like liquid glass slicing through Elena’s skin.
Even inside the Coast Guard drysuit, the sub-zero chill struck her chest like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs. She kept her head above the foul surface, swimming through the narrow opening where the granite reef had peeled the outer hull plating back like a tin can.
Behind her, Hayes and two Coast Guard operators slipped into the flooded compartment, their tactical lights cutting through the murky water.
The ship was groaning continuously—a deep, metallic scream that vibrated through Elena’s bones as the tide shifted thousands of tons of steel against the jagged rocks beneath them.
“This way,” Elena whispered, her teeth chattering violently.
She pulled herself onto an overturned catwalk that hung suspended over the flooded bilge. The air was thick with the stench of heavy bunker-C marine fuel oil and scorched electrical insulation.
High above, through three decks of steel grating, the dull, rhythmic thuds of heavy boots pacing across the cargo hold echoed down to them.
“They’re directly above us,” Hayes whispered, checking her weapon’s chamber for moisture. “Thermal scanner shows four heat signatures on the main cargo deck. Two around the white container, two near the main hatch.”
“What about Collins?” Elena asked.
“One of the signatures is pacing near the container. He’s holding a small electronic package. Has to be the master detonator.”
Elena looked up at the ceiling of the bilge compartment.
A circular emergency escape scuttle—barely two feet wide—led directly up into the forward storage bay adjacent to the cargo hold. It was designed for engine room crews to escape during a catastrophic flooding event, meaning it opened flush with the deck plates of the hold.
“If we open that scuttle, the hinge will screech,” Elena said. “They’ll hear it over the storm.”
“Not if we time it,” Hayes replied, tapping her ear. “*Steadfast* is maneuvering into the harbor mouth right now. On my mark, they’re going to illuminate the Girdwood with their five-million-candlepower searchlights and fire a warning burst of 25mm across the bow. When the thunder hits, we pop the hatch.”
Elena nodded, checking the safety on the Sig Sauer.
She crawled up the vertical service ladder, positioning her shoulder against the dogging mechanism of the circular hatch. The metal was cold enough to freeze moisture instantly.
Hayes held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
Outside, the Steadfast unleashed a massive, deafening roar.
A burst of high-explosive 25mm rounds tore across the forward superstructure of the Girdwood, shattering the bridge windows in an explosion of glass and flame. At the same instant, a blinding wall of brilliant white light washed over the ship, turning the dark night into stark, shadowless noon.
NOW!
Elena shoved the dogging handle with all her strength.
The rusted steel squealed, but the sound was completely swallowed by the thunder of the chain gun and the screams of the startled mercenaries on the deck above.
Elena threw the circular hatch open and surged upward onto the deck plates of the cargo hold, clearing the opening in a low, explosive crouch.
The hold was vast, cavernous, and bathed in the flickering orange glow of two burning thermite canisters set near the base of the white refrigerated container.
Ten yards away, an operator in full tactical gear spun around, raising his carbine toward her.
Elena didn't hesitate. She brought the pistol up, aligned the three tritium dots with the center of his chest plate, and squeezed the trigger twice.
CRACK-CRACK.
The heavy 9mm rounds hammered into the operator’s chest. The Kevlar stopped the penetration, but the kinetic energy drove him backward, his boots slipping on the fuel-slick deck.
Before he could recover, Hayes surfaced behind Elena and fired a single, surgical round through the side of his helmet.
The man collapsed like a dropped puppet.
Across the hold, the second operator dove behind a forklift, spraying a burst of automatic fire that sparked wildly off the steel bulkhead inches above Elena’s head.
Elena rolled behind a stack of wooden ammunition crates, wood splinters stinging her cheek.
Through the gap between the crates, she saw Grant Collins.
He was standing on the elevated platform of the refrigerated container, clutching a handheld radio in one hand and a military-grade electrical firing box in the other. His eyes were wide, completely unhinged, his face covered in soot and sweat despite the freezing wind howling through the shattered cargo doors.
“Stay back!” Collins screamed, his voice cracking with manic hysteria. “Stay back, Reyes, or I turn the key! I’ll vent every cylinder into the hold! We all die right here!”
Elena stepped out from behind the crates, her pistol leveled steadily at his face.
“Turn the key, Grant,” she said, her voice dropping into an icy, contemptuous calm. “Turn it, and prove to every sailor on this base that you’re nothing more than an errand boy for a coward sitting in an office in Washington.”
Collins flinched, his fingers trembling against the red ignition toggle.
“You think I wanted this?” he shrieked. “They promised me a carrier group! They promised me the stars! Sterling runs the board, Elena! You can't beat them! You can't beat the system!”
“The system didn't poison Seaman Miller,” Elena said, taking one slow, deliberate step toward him. “The system didn't shoot Captain Hale. You did. You pulled the trigger because you were terrified that someone would find out you sold your honor for a promotion that was never going to come.”
Collins’s face contorted in pure, uncontrolled rage.
“Damn you!” he roared.
He brought the firing box up, his thumb driving down toward the ignition switch.
Elena fired.
The round took Collins clean through the wrist of his right hand, shattering the bones and knocking the firing box from his grasp. It clattered down the metal steps of the platform, skittering across the deck toward Elena’s boots.
Collins screamed, clutching his mangled wrist, blood pouring through his fingers.
He stumbled backward, losing his balance on the wet platform, and toppled over the safety rail, crashing ten feet down onto the hard steel deck plates with a sickening thud.
Elena stepped forward, kicked the firing box away, and planted the sole of her boot firmly in the center of Collins’s chest, pinning him to the deck.
She pressed the warm barrel of the pistol directly against the bridge of his nose.
“Don't move,” she whispered.
Collins stared up at her through tears of agony and terror, gasping for breath.
“It... it doesn't matter,” he wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. “You stopped the container... but you didn't stop Mercer... Mercer isn't on the base, Elena...”
Elena leaned down, her eyes boring into his soul. “Where is he, Grant?”
Collins let out a wet, rattling laugh.
May you like
“He’s at the hospital... he went to finish the job... he’s going to kill the three sailors and Hale before the Coast Guard can secure the building...”
---
