Support tender Tulsa.
Bridge.
Indian Ocean.
Monday, July 30, 10:35 p.m.
Roy ducked back against the forecastle bulkhead and clenched the .357 Magnum pistol close to his face as the bullets sang in deafening ringing ricochets off the steel.
“Sonofabitch,” he hissed under his breath.
That was close.
Quarry was somewhere near on the foredeck, gunning for him.
Roy almost shot the fleeting shadow he saw in the darkness to his right, then his finger relaxed on the trigger just in time as he made out O’Brien’s crouching bulk—the surface controller was sneaking around the bulwarks, aiming to get behind the gunmen infiltrator.
The two men locked eyes.
O’Brien gave a hand signal. A pointed finger in the direction of the spy, then a closed fist.
Roy nodded.
Then he whipped around the side of the iron partition and blasted two rounds into the darkness before ducking back swiftly, laying down cover fire for his comrade. O’Brien’s shadow vanished toward the bow like a specter. There was the strident PTANG—WYANNG of Roy’s spent bullets caroming and rebounding off the steel superstructure of the Tulsa, where they were answered by a string of louder shots from the infiltrator somewhere in the darkness, closer now.
A single small-caliber pistol crack sounded.
Then a man’s screams in the sea air and a heavy thud.
Quarry was down.
Knowing the coast was clear, Roy jumped around the bulkhead, gun held forward in a lock-elbowed two-hand grip, and saw a beautiful sight.
The spy was on the deck, clutching his arm, writhing in agony. O’Brien’s burly shape stood over him, pointing his smoking gun at the man’s head. “Move and you’re done,” he growled.
“It’s over. Pick that piece of shit up. Bring him to the mess with Kotter and Rogers.” Roy half-grinned, half-sneered. “We got all three of the motherfuckers; now we’re gonna make ’em talk.”