Page 81 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Juan remembered a large coil of rope they had passed on the way down. He pushed past Linc, ran ahead and grabbed it, and jogged back a minute later. He tied one end to his waist and tossed the rest to Linc.
Juan edged toward the gaping hole as Linc secured the line around his body and in his massive hands.
“Easy, boss.”
“Don’t you know it.”
Juan glanced over the lip of the hole. Down below, the Frenchman lay unconscious on the floor of another tunnel, face down in a puddle of water, his body illumined by his weapon light.
Juan looked back at Linc.Let’s do it.
Linc nodded in agreement.
“How far down?” the big African American said.
“Twelve, maybe thirteen feet. We need to hurry.”
Juan stepped over the crumbling edge and lowered down, hoping he wasn’t too late.
?
Twenty minutes later, Plata and Dragu? appeared out of the gloom, huffing with exhaustion. The big Guatemalan was about to cuss a blue streak at the laggards for holding everyone up until he saw Juan and Linc marching toward the surface with the body of the muddied, unconscious man stretched between them.
The five men made their way back up to the staging area. The two Poles pulled out a fabric stretcher and loaded the Frenchman onto it. Over the course of the next half hour, several men took turns ferrying him back up to the surface.
It terms of combat performance the entire exercise was a bust. But in terms of unit cohesion, Plata couldn’t have planned it any better. As far as he was concerned, they were ready.
McGuire had warned Plata earlier about the big Black American fighter. The cagey Irishman smelled something fishy about him on the trip from the airport. But Davis and the Mexican had proven their mettle today both in combat and in the rescue of the former French commando.
Come to think of it, Plata mused, the selfless act was quite unusual given the sordid histories of both men.
Perhaps McGuire was on to something after all.
41
Aboard theOregon
The Malacca Strait
Steve Gilreath sat at theOregon’s helm station in the op center, its cool confines dimly lit by the blue glow of LED monitor lights. He was the only one in the room. Rimsky-Korsakov’sCapriccio Espagnolplayed softly on the overhead speakers. The giant LED screens wrapping around the room were as dark as the night engulfing the ship. The only thing they displayed were a few distant ship lights on the far horizon and the blanket of stars above.
It was two a.m. and he was sipping his third cup of coffee. The retired tin can driver served on the overnight watch or whenever Eric Stone or Linda Ross were unavailable. When the ship was in port or anchored, anyone could stand watch while the rest of the crew slept, but not while at sea, and especially at high speed. TheOregonhad been racing for Kuala Lumpur over the last three days in order to provide backup to Juan and Linc. It was a long way from the Gulf of Oman to Malaysia.
TheOregon’s magnetohydrodynamic engines were spinning like Swiss clockwork and the speed log held a constant forty knots—an incredible feat for a ship as large as theirs. Of course, theOregonwas capable of even faster speeds, but the sight of a 590-foot break-bulk carrier rooster-tailing through the water like a Jet Ski drew too much unwanted attention.
Just as Gilreath brought the steaming cup of brew to his lips, a sudden thud rang the ship’s hull like Big Ben, sending a shudder through the deck and spilling his coffee onto his shirt.
Collision alarms screamed. Gilreath smashed theall stopbutton on his console, killing the engines. Just as he put his ceramic mug aside, Max came storming bleary-eyed and barefoot into the op center wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a rumpled T-shirt emblazoned with the “Budweiser” SEAL trident, an homage to his son, who recently graduated from there.
“Status!” Max bellowed as he raced over to the engineering station.
Gilreath killed the alarm. “We hit something—I just don’t know what.” He dashed over to the Kirk Chair and punched a button on the console, throwing the external cameras into night vision mode.
“Possible hull damage,” Max said as he scrolled through his sensor screens.
Eric raced into the op center and Mark Murphy came in right behind him. Both men were disheveled and red-eyed, wearing whatever clothes they could pull on in a hurry. In Murph’s case, straight out of his dirty laundry basket.
Gilreath scanned the full aft monitors, but saw nothing. He turned to the starboard/stern camera as Eric took over the helm and Murphy ran to the sonar and radar stations.
