Dana Stabenow - Prepared For Rage

"Nothing interferes with Munro standing by this launch, Captain," Matson said, and returned to the port bridge wing.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"One thing at a time," Cal said to his crew. "The BT will start the checklist, get the boat and crew information, if they're talking. In the meantime, we'll get this bird in the air. Then, if they haven't returned and we still haven't heard from them, we'll go over and take a look for ourselves."

"Works for me," the XO said more cheerfully.

ON BOARD USCG SMALL BOAT MUN 1

Akil, Yussuf, Mahmoud, and two of the others had donned the uniform shirts and life vests stripped from the dead boat crew. Mahmoud, the only experienced boatman among them, was in the coxswain's chair. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls before starting the engine.

Akil, sitting next to him, donned the headset and keyed the mike. He spoke tentatively, not entirely certain that the script he had put together from information received from Adam Bayzani and the traitor on board Munro was accurate enough to pass muster. "Munro, Mun 1."

The answer was prompt and sounded relieved. "Mun 1, Munro."

"The captain and crew are Haitian," Akil said. Unchallenged, he gained confidence. "The captain says his home port is Port-au-Prince." He dropped his voice as he said the last words.

"Mun 1, Munro, say again?"

Akil did so, again mumbling the words and keying the mike and throwing in the odd whistle and growl.

"Mun 1, Munro, you're breaking up."

"All right?" Akil said to Mahmoud.

"Yes, Isa," Mahmoud said.

"Then take us to the ship."

"Yes, Isa," Mahmoud said.

"Munro, Mun 1, the radio is breaking up. Mun 1 returning to base."

The tedious months of waiting, the interminable hours on the freighter, now it was all finally culminating in glorious action, action that would make them household names around the world, feared by their enemies and canonized by their friends. Mahmoud was a true believer, and if Akil could not easily make out his face in the darkness, he could plainly hear the joy in the other man's voice.

"Allahu Akbar!" Mahmoud said.

Eight of them responded, if not as joyously then with as much manufactured enthusiasm as they could bring to bear, knowing that they were going almost certainly to their deaths. Even the most fanatic among them suffered at least a pang of uncertainty when faced with the near future.

And then they looked to Akil sitting on the side of the small boat, at the calm certainty on his face, and were reassured. This was Isa, after all, Zarqawi's right-hand man, the author of too many successful actions taken against the infidel to count.

They could not fail.

Exalted they might be, careless they were not. They approached the cutter on the starboard side. A shout from the bridge.

"Radio's down!" Akil shouted back.

They waited a few moments, and then another shout from a man in a white hard hat two decks down. That would be the boat deck captain. "Captain says he'd like to leave the lights off until after the shuttle launch so we don't screw with everyone's night vision. You okay with that?"

In a passable American accent, Akil said, "No problem!" From Adam Bayzani and the traitor, he knew the boat crews practiced boat ops in the dark all the time. In this case the dark was a friend to him. Five of his men were lying flat on the bottom of the small boat, hidden by the men in the stolen uniforms.

The tension on the small boat was palpable as they heard the whine of the boat davit and the clink of the shackles as they were lowered. The man in the bow grappled for his shackle, missed, grabbed again, and this time caught it. In spite of the calm seas the small boat did move up and down and he fumbled with the clasp. When he got it on he threw himself backwards.

"Bow on?" The boat deck captain sounded testy.

"Bow on!" Akil said.

The stern shackle was even more recalcitrant, but it was finally fastened to the small boat and this time Akil's man bellowed, "Stern on!" without prompting.

There was a clank and a whine and a moment later the boat began to rise in the air.

"Cut the engine!" came the irate yell from the boat deck. Further comments were clearly audible, and probably meant to be. "Crissake, one shuttle launch and suddenly the boat crew doesn't remember how to run a boat."

Hastily Mahmoud cut the engine.

Akil wondered if the boat deck captain was annoyed at the possibility of his missing the shuttle launch himself. He didn't know it yet, but he was about to witness something far more spectacular and significant.

Something truly historic.

"Stand by, we're putting you in the cradle, we don't have any crew on the main deck," the white hat said. The whine of the davit increased. They ascended past the main deck and were swung aboard with neatness and dispatch, the hull settling into the cradle with a small jolt.

"You guys are supposed to report to the captain, as in pronto. Come on, Orozco." A door clanged open, and shut again.

"Quickly, now," Akil whispered, "and silently."

His men, galvanized, slid over the small boat's gunnel to the deck of the cutter. As Akil had hoped, the starboard side of the main deck was deserted. All of the cutter's crew was on the port side watching the shuttle.

"You have your radios?" Akil said in a low voice.

Yussuf held his up and clicked it twice. The click was repeated in the radios held by Akil and Mahmoud.

"You remember the plan?"

"I remember, Isa," Yussuf said, and surprised him with a fierce embrace. Five shadows went up the flight of stairs forward of the boat.

"Go," Akil said to Mahmoud. Mahmoud opened a door to the main deck and went inside. Akil and the rest followed.

Inside, the ship was dimly lit by red lights. Akil paused at the top of a flight of stairs and watched Mahmoud walk down the passageway toward the door leading into the engine room. He waited long enough to see Mahmoud open the door. Mahmoud and four men entered. The door closed firmly behind them, and Akil waited until he saw the levers lower and lock. He turned then and went down two flights of stairs, ending up in a tiny alcove between two heavy steel doors.

He straightened the life vest and the uniform shirt beneath it, and pulled on the bill of his cap. It was too large, and stiff with the coxswain's blood and brains.

He didn't look up at the closed-circuit television camera mounted above the door. It doesn't work, the traitor had told him. It's supposed to but we don't have the money for it.

He pressed the buzzer beside the door on the left.

They're not expecting someone with a gun.

He waited. A trickle of sweat snaked down his spine.

They'll open the door to anyone, especially if they're in uniform.

There was an answering buzz, and the sound of a bolt going back. The door cracked open and he stared at it in momentary disbelief.

The door didn't open any further. He realized that whoever had opened it had walked away, leaving him to enter on his own. He pulled the door open and walked in.

It was a large, cool, dark room, with many banks of screen displays, radios, and control consoles. There were four people looking up at a square screen. One of them looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Hendricks, come on-wait a minute, who are-"

Akil shot him. The woman next to him screamed, and he shot her, too. The third man put his hands out and backed up. "No," he said pleadingly, no-

He was the third to die in that room.

But not the last.

The fourth man sat where he was, a rictus of a smile on his face, his eyes wide behind round, silver-rimmed glasses. "You did it," he said.