The center of the hangar deck was comparatively dark, and Steven Harris was glad for at least that much. He continued to march stiffly through the shadows just outside the opened hatchway that led back into the bay where he and the other hostages had been imprisoned until just a short while before. Steven cradled the fake submachine gun in his hands — a crude, makeshift design constructed out of a welding rod and a few scraps of wood — as he worked hard at not glancing too noticeably toward where Mr. Grisby stood. Steven knew that Mr. Grisby had the real submachine gun in his hands, aimed carefully toward where the terrorists would be coming from. At the moment, that seemed like very little protection.
Get yourself into the role. Don't look at the audience. Miss Miller's words ran through his mind as Steven tugged nervously at the itchy, uncomfortable collar of the dirty black turtleneck, the one they had taken off the unconscious terrorist. Relax. Become the character you're playing. Steven tried very hard to concentrate on his assignment. He was a terrorist now, guarding the entrance to the hangar bay where the hostages were being held. He didn't give a damn about their lives, all he cared about was keeping those people caged. Steven knew that he had to keep up that facade until the rest of the gang stepped into sight. That moment would be his cue to launch into the act that Captain O'Brien had rehearsed with him.
A loud but slow creaking sound began to float across the darkness from the other side of the hangar bay. Steven tugged at the waist of his pants to pull them up, then continued to march back and forth across the front of the open hatchway. I should have rolled up the cuffs, that guy's legs are longer than mine. Don't trip, it'll look too phony. Steven heard footsteps and muffled voices, apparently coming toward him from the darkness beyond the display aircraft. If they didn't buy that radio message, I'm dead. Streams of perspiration rolled down his neck and gathered up in a puddle where the black turtleneck rubbed against his skin. Steven resisted the temptation to glance toward the sounds that came toward him while he prayed that the cut-off radio message they had sent a few minutes before — clipped phrases of words sliced into unintelligible gibberish by the tinkering one of the passengers had done with the wires inside the walky-talky — had sounded like trouble with the radio, not anything more.
"Eddings! Is that radio broken? Did you drop the damn thing again?"
Steven spun himself around. He held his body in such a way that, with the light from the open hatchway behind him, only his silhouette would be visible to the people who came toward him. "Yeah," he shouted tersely, his voice as near to what Miss Miller had said the unconscious terrorist's voice had sounded like as he could imitate. Since they were nearly the same height and build, if he didn't say too much, Steven felt he could get away with this impersonation for the few brief seconds that were required. At least he hoped so. "Over here," he shouted, this time his arm raised in an open gesture, the imitation submachine gun held with its tip pointed slightly upward to make it even more visible from across the hangar bay. Having a stage prop was a waste of time if the audience couldn't see it.
"What is it, for chrissake? I gave you one damn simple job, but you don't seem able to follow instructions." Richard Yang strode purposefully toward where his man guarded the hangar hatchway, his own weapon held casually in his arms. Behind him several of the others — all armed with the same type of weapons — followed him. "Didn't I tell you to keep that goddamn hatch closed? What the hell's wrong with you?"
Steven grunted an unintelligible response, something he hoped would pass for an expression of regret. The man in the front of the group marching toward him had stepped out of the deep shadows beneath the wing of the B-25 in the center of the hangar floor and into the half-light that poured through the opened hatchway. Steven desperately wanted to glance toward where Mr. Grisby was, hidden in the corner of the other side, because he needed that reassurance. Play the role, forget the audience. Somehow, he managed to control himself enough to prevent his head from turning. Instead, he concentrated on watching the leader of the terrorists as he walked toward him. Five more steps, that's the cue. Four. Three. Two.
"Did you have any problems? Any problems with them?" Yang took another step toward where Eddings guarded the hatchway. He was beginning to get an impression that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. "I hope to hell you haven't been telling them anything." Yang was no more than a dozen steps away when Eddings suddenly twirled around. He faced the hatchway as if he had heard something, his submachine gun pointed toward the opening. "What is it, Eddings? What's happening?"
"Quick!" Steven had shouted the word as gutturally as he could, but he didn't wait around long enough to see if that last imitation of the unconscious terrorist's voice was as convincing as the first ones had been. Steven had his excuse now, one that would allow him to take the few steps between him and the open hatchway door without the risk of the madmen behind him becoming wise, without the risk of them beginning to shoot. In nearly one motion, Steven Harris had vaulted over the threshold of the hatchway and into the hangar bay, then turned abruptly to his left and disappeared to safety behind the steel plating of the bay wall.
"Wait!" Yang took one more step toward the entrance before he realized that something had gone wrong. But it was already too late. Yang froze in his tracks. He now knew that it hadn't been Eddings at the entrance to the hatchway, that he had somehow been tricked.
"Don't move!" Nat Grisby shouted, his voice echoing in the stillness of the hangar. He stayed crouched behind the wall of metal drums he and the others had erected near the far wall. "Drop your guns! Drop them right now, or I'll shoot!"
"Christ!" Yang pulled up his weapon and squeezed the trigger as he dove toward the wheel of a nearby display aircraft. "Fire! Fire at them!" he shouted, his words drowned out by the enormous racket of his own submachine gun and — in answer to it — the sound of the weapon that fired toward them. "Keep firing! They've only got one clip — make them use it!"
From where he was behind the strut of the hollowed-out hull of some World War II relic of an airplane, Yang could easily see the first results of the battle between them and the hostages. Frank Davis and Mary Solenko had been hit. They both lay motionless on the hangar floor, Davis far to the rear, Mary Solenko nearer to the center. Yang was too far away to tell for sure if either of them were still alive. He looked toward the barricade of steel drums near the far wall. He could make out enough movement behind the drums to tell that there was more than one person back there, although he was certain that they had only one weapon between them — the one submachine gun that imbecile Eddings had somehow let them have. "Listen to me," Yang shouted, now that the firing had momentarily ceased. "You don't have a chance. You don't have much ammunition left. We've got you surrounded. Outnumbered. Give up now and we'll just lock you back in the hangar bay." Yang waited with his submachine gun raised, hoping to be able to blow off the head of the first person who showed himself — regardless of whether or not they might be surrendering. After a few seconds it was more than obvious from their silence that they weren't going to take the bait. "Okay, you've asked for it," Yang said in a loud, firm voice. Yet even as the words came out, he wondered what the hell he would be able to do next.
"What should I do?" a voice not far from Yang whispered. It was Bill Kurtz, the youngest of the terrorists. "There's only three of us now. Maybe we should run for it. Maybe we should give up."
"Stay cool." Yang knew that Kurtz would be the first to break if things got rough. "Where's John — do you see him?"
"Yes. He's by the nose of that next airplane, behind the tire." Kurtz leaned out far enough from his hiding place behind the brightly colored cutaway display of an aerial bomb to make himself visible to Yang. "Over there, see him?"
"Right." Yang could make out the side of John's face in the vague, diffuse light that reached far into the darkened center of the hangar deck. "You keep me covered, I'm gonna go 'round the back to get him."
"Okay." Kurtz stuck the barrel of his submachine gun around the edge of the hunk of metal he lay behind. "Go ahead."
"Not yet, I need more cover. Count to five, then give me a two-second burst." Yang didn't intend to take any chances, even if it meant having Kurtz waste ammunition. His own ammunition clip was nearly full, and that was all that mattered to him.
"Count to five. A two-second burst," Kurtz repeated in a flat, drained voice.
"Right." Yang took one more breath, then crouched down, his submachine gun held rigidly to his chest so he wouldn't drop it when he began to run. He had just positioned himself properly when the sound of Kurtz's firing began. Yang pushed himself off without hesitation and bolted toward where John Solenko was.
Yang was nearly all the way across the open span when the first of the hostage's shots — single shots, not a burst from the captured submachine gun's automatic firing position — kicked up chunks of metal shards from the decking plates near his feet. Yang dove heavily onto the floor near Solenko's position.
"Pretty close," Solenko whispered hoarsely. He looked down at where Yang lay prostrate on the hangar deck a few feet from him.
"It sure as hell was pretty close. That guy's a good shot. He didn't have much trouble putting half a clip into Mary." At the mention of Solenko's wife's name, Yang could see the expression on Solenko's face begin to change.
"I was thinkin' that she's just faking." Solenko peered out from around the side of the tire he had hidden himself behind. "She could be just waitin' for a better shot... at them..." His voice, which had started at a whisper, had trailed off to nothing.
"Don't be an ass." Yang picked himself up on one leg and looked squarely at Solenko. "They did a good job on her — although she's probably not dead," he added quickly. "They'll finish her off in a few minutes, as soon as they get a chance."
"What can we do?" Solenko leaned back against the tire and shook his head slowly from side to side, as if he were in deep thought. "If she's hit, we've got to get to her."
"Sure. That's my plan." Yang crawled over to where Solenko was, lifted himself up and looked the man squarely in the eye. "We can save her, but only if you follow my instructions to the letter. Are you ready?"
"Yeah." Solenko nodded enthusiastically, then glanced out toward his wife's body. She lay at a grotesque angle on the cold hangar floor, her legs tucked up and her arms trailed behind her.
"Okay. Listen to me." Yang grabbed Solenko's shoulder and forced him to turn away from his wife — he knew damn well that no matter how stupid the man might be, he would soon see the growing puddle of blood beneath her head, the growing puddle that showed that she had unquestionably already been killed. "There's time to save her, if we hurry. I figure they've only got a few shots left, that's why they've gone from automatic to single shot." Yang motioned toward the line of steel drums against the far wall.
"But we're too far in the open. They'll get me for sure if I try to reach her."
"Not necessarily. Not if I get them first." Yang surveyed the battle scene in front of him. As reluctant as he was to admit it, he and his men had been set up marvelously. The only thing that stopped the ambush from getting all of them at once was the hostages' lack of weapons. Even now, because the hostages had set themselves at such a good spot on the hangar floor, there was no way that Yang could make a break for the single exit at the far corner without exposing himself to their gunfire. He could either wait out the hostages in hopes that they would waste their ammunition soon — a chance that seemed unlikely, the way they were handling themselves at the moment — or else he could use someone else as a decoy. Since Yang knew that McClure was determined to stick to the original schedule for sinking the Yorktown, only option number two seemed workable. What Yang needed in order to implement his new idea was an unknowing volunteer — and for that job, John Solenko would do just fine.
"I wanna get Mary out of there," Solenko said.
"We both do." Yang edged nearer to Solenko. He could tell from the man's emotional state that he would buy most any plan, as long as it had Yang's assurance of success. "We can pull this off, trust me."
"What do we do?"
"Easy. You give me one minute to position myself further to the left," Yang began as he pointed toward the edge of the deepest shadow from the B-25's overhanging wing. "Then you come around this way." He motioned with his arm to show Solenko what he meant.
Solenko blinked. "What happens then?"
"Once you're in position, you'll have a clear path to get to Mary. When the man with the submachine gun raises himself up in order to follow you — you see how they've got to come around the other end of their barricade in order to follow you toward where Mary is..."
"Yes, I see."
"... then I'll have a perfect shot at them from my position in the rear. Even if I miss, which I don't think I will, my shots will drive them back far enough for you to have a clear run to pull Mary back to this spot."
"Okay. Good." Solenko glanced out at his wife's body, back at Yang, then down at his wristwatch. "One minute?"
"From right now." Without waiting for another word, Yang began to maneuver himself rearward, careful to keep himself hidden in the deep shadows and out of line of any potential gunfire from the barricades. When he reached the point beneath the center section of the B-25, he turned toward the left wing, his body still crouched low, his own weapon held close to his chest. Yang knew that from the end of that overlapping shadow from the wing he had no more than a three or four second dash to reach the dark corner on the far side — a run he could make in complete safety while the hostages aimed and fired at Solenko. Once he reached that exit on the far wall, Yang would free to radio the submarine and have them pick him up, then leave the Yorktown as quickly as he could.
From his position beneath the end of the wing, Yang could see Solenko quite clearly. The man had maneuvered himself to the proper side of the tire and was crouched down in preparation to spring out toward the body of his dead wife. Yang got himself onto his haunches in order to be ready for the quick spring across the open space. When he did, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a figure — a solitary man — at the closest end of the line of barrels. He was approximately forty feet away, but even at that distance Yang could easily see what his intentions were. Yang had hardly enough time to make up his own mind about his change in plans when he saw Solenko jump out from behind the tire and run toward the body of his wife.
"Stop!" The hostage with the submachine gun moved quickly to the farthest end of the barrels and rose up slightly to take aim at the incredible fool who was now in the center of the open hangar floor. "Drop the gun or I'll shoot!"
"Yang! Now, for God's sake!" Solenko had already realized that he was far more exposed than he thought he would be. He looked around at the shadows that surrounded him for a brief instant before he faced forward again. More out of instinct than any rational attempt to save his own life, he pressed the trigger of his own weapon. The burst from his submachine gun cut diagonally across the row of steel barrels, the bullets ricocheting off in every direction, splinters of torn metal following them. The shots from the hostage's weapon came a few seconds later, and the bullets immediately found their mark. Solenko let out a loud scream as the short burst caught him dead-center, picked him up slightly, then dropped him heavily on the hangar floor.
Yang had already moved out from under the shadows, but instead of heading for the exit he had shifted his attention to the newest target of opportunity. The solitary man at the near end of the barricade had used that very moment to lunge out himself, toward where the body of Frank Davis lay sprawled across the submachine gun that he had carried. Although it only took a few seconds for the entire sequence to be completed, Richard Yang found himself gazing down at Paul Talbot as the old man attempted to snatch the heavy submachine gun from where it lay beneath Davis' massive and inert body. "Okay, pops. Leave it. Get up quickly. If you don't, I'll blow your goddamn face off."
Talbot looked up, startled. He hadn't expected anyone from that corner of the room, so he had disobeyed O'Brien's direct order about staying behind the barrels and rushed out to get another weapon for them to use before their one gun had run out of ammunition. When the one terrorist made his suicidal run toward the center of the hangar floor a few moments before, Talbot decided that he could use that distraction to safely capture another gun for them. He had been wrong. "You son-of-a-bitch," Talbot said as he rose slowly to his feet, his arms raised above his head. "But they don't know me well enough. They won't trade my life for that gun they've got."
"I wouldn't think of asking." Yang grabbed Talbot, spun him around, then stuck the barrel of his submachine gun into the old man's ribs. "Listen to me, all of you," Yang announced in a loud voice. "I'm walking out of here with this gentleman in front of me. He'll make a nice shield for your bullets, so I'd advise you not to waste them." Yang began to back away carefully toward the exit at the far end, his attention on the men in front of him. "This couldn't have worked out better for me. I know for a fact that this man knows every corner of this tub, so I'd much rather have him with me than with you."
"Let him go. We'll let you out of here." Drew O'Brien stood up from behind the barricade, but he gestured for Grisby to stay low, the barrel of his gun aimed toward Talbot and the terrorist.
"Sure, you'll leave me alone," Yang said. He laughed. "Tell me another one about Santa Claus and the Easter bunny." Yang had nearly reached the exit when he stopped again. "Kurtz? Can you still hear me?"
"Yeah. I was getting worried. I thought you forgot me, that you were gonna leave me." Bill Kurtz rose up from where he had remained hidden the entire time behind the strut of the display aircraft at the other end of the hangar bay. "I'm coming."
"Good. I don't want loose ends." Yang watched as the young man threaded his way carefully toward him, the barrel of his weapon pointed at the men at the barricade.
"Here I come."
"Don't bet on it." Without a word of warning Yang squeezed the trigger of his submachine gun and sent a short burst into Kurtz. The young man sagged to the floor immediately, the gun in his hands clanking loudly as it crashed to the steel decking.
"For God's sake, that's your own man," O'Brien shouted incredulously. "What the hell did you kill him for?"
"Because he's a coward. He's useless. That's one less distraction for me to cope with." Yang backed another step, opened the hatchway slowly, then began to retreat into the dark corridor behind. "I'll keep pops with me as insurance, but I'm certain you're not so foolish as to try to follow me. You've got control of the Yorktown, that should be enough for you."
"What are you going with him?" O'Brien shouted as Yang and the old man disappeared into the corridor that led somewhere into the bowels of the ship. But there was no answer from them, except the sound of their fading footsteps as the two of them hurried down the corridor to someplace unknown.
<>
It had taken several minutes for the two of them to wind their way around the narrow corridors that led deeper and deeper to the interior of the Yorktown. With Richard Yang shoving from behind, Paul Talbot stumbled and fell twice — one of the times cutting his arm slightly on a jagged piece of metal on a narrow catwalk.
"Where are you taking me?" Talbot asked as he continued ahead because of the prodding of the muzzle at his back.
"Don't play stupid with me, pops. You know as well as I do where we're going."
"The engine room?"
"Good guess, you win the prize." Yang pushed the barrel of the submachine gun a little farther into Talbot's spine. "You're gonna get your prize soon, too, so don't you worry."
Talbot didn't answer. Instead, he concentrated on trying to find something or some way to overpower Yang, to get that gun pointed away for just a moment. Even though Yang was less than half his age, Talbot felt that if he could get the gun away from him he would take the chance, no matter how desperate it might be.
"To the left. Open the hatchway."
Talbot complied. He stepped over the sill and into the mustiness of the aft engine room. "I thought you already destroyed the engines," Talbot said as he gestured toward the array of boiler pipes and turbine components below. The odor of diesel fuel hung heavily in the air, and it coated everything with a fine, slippery film. The two men began to move even lower on the catwalk, toward the base of the control panel for the number-two engine.
"You're right about the engines, pops, although it won't make a damn bit of difference to you in the long run." Yang balanced the submachine gun carefully in one arm while he used the other to keep a firm hold on the handrail in order to keep himself from slipping on the slick deck plates. "Go down the ladder. Sit on the floor with your back to the panel. Keep your hands where I can see them. Don't try anything stupid, because if you do, all you'll be accomplishing is a shortening of your life."
"Cut the bullshit. I know that you're going to kill me." Talbot allowed himself to stare at Yang with undisguised hatred for a few seconds before he began to maneuver himself carefully down the metal ladder that led to the lowest level of the engine room. He glanced to both sides as he descended the ladder, in a desperate search for something that he might use as a weapon. There was nothing there, not a scrap of iron, not a spare tool, a section of rail, a coil of wire. "What do you need me here for?" Talbot asked as he reached the base of the control panel. Talbot sat himself down slowly, his legs curled under his body in such a way that he would be able to spring out toward Yang if the opportunity somehow presented itself.
"That's something I don't mind telling you, pops." Yang grinned. "What I said before was true, that if I left you up there you might be leading a search party for me right this minute. I knew that I needed to come down here once more, and I didn't need your knowledge of the ship as leverage against me."
"What do you need to be down here for?" Talbot asked in a conversational tone. He knew that as long as Yang continued to talk, there was still hope. The clock had not run out yet.
"For a simple reason, although one you weren't aware of. In addition to the transmitter on the bridge — one that I've already destroyed, so don't get any bright ideas about that one — I had another radio down here, my emergency method of contacting the submarine. I'm gonna use it right now to let them know that I'm on my way. After that, I'll destroy this radio too."
"Then what?"
"Then I'm going to kill you."
"Why?"
"Why not?" Yang adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, then took another step to his left. "Besides the fact that you know me too well — a fact that won't be pertinent anyway, since everyone on this ship will die at dawn when the torpedoes hit — there's also the additional risk that your knowledge might represent. As unlikely as I can imagine it will be, the fact remains that you do know a great deal about this old tub of shit. If I eliminate you, I eliminate the last chance that the hostages can come up with some way to fight back, some way to use this ship against us. With control of the Yorktown in their hands, I need to make certain that everyone stays put and that the ship stays disabled." Yang waved the barrel of his submachine gun toward the machinery to his left. "As you can see, pops, I think we've done an admirable job at making this engine into nothing more than a hunk of scrap iron."
Talbot's eyes ran up and down the banks of valves, piping, gears and shafts that comprised the running gear of engine number two. Even from a few dozen feet away, Talbot could easily see that several critical components had been destroyed beyond repair, that it would take teams of experienced technicians several days to put this engine room back into working order.
"I can see that you appreciate our handiwork," Yang said as he watched Talbot's eyes. "I'll spare you the agony of asking by informing you that the number-one engine room has also been equally disabled."
"You're a real son-of-a-bitch."
Yang shrugged, then grinned. "I guess I'll have to consider the source. If I were in your position, I wouldn't think much of me, either." Yang took two steps to his left and reached behind a sheetmetal panel. "If you'll excuse me, pops, I've got a call to make."
Talbot watched as Yang turned the radio on and made a few adjustments to the controls on the set. No time left. Try anything. Talbot was just about to leap forward — an act of desperation that he knew had just about a zero chance of success because of the way Yang had the submachine gun pointed — when he noticed a slight quiver in one of the needles on the control panel. Steam pressure in manifold three. The buildup from the boilers hadn't been bled off yet. Manifold three. Talbot's eyes ran up and down the rows of pipes on the ceiling until he found the one he was looking for. Manifold three, overpressure relief. The one we hadn't repaired.
"Hello, Trout, this is the Yorktown." Yang said into the microphone. "We've had a problem."
"Go ahead, Yorktown."
Talbot turned his body slightly as he visually followed the maze of pipes that led from manifold three. The crossover duct is still disconnected. The exposed pipe is only a few feet above his head. Talbot tried not to look too pointedly at the spot near Yang where the pipe ended abruptly, the new section not yet attached. Manifold three has pressure. It can be vented through the overpressure line. Without pausing for a second so that any one of the thousand reasons against it would register in his brain, Paul Talbot suddenly dove away from Yang and toward the gang of levers on the left side of the control panel.
Before Richard Yang could twist to his right and raise his submachine gun, the old man had scrambled across the oil-soaked floor fast enough to already have his hand on the lever that controlled the emergency steam release for manifold number three. In less than an instant the old man had released the safety chain and had yanked the handle fully back. An enormous, billowy flow of hot frothy steam flooded out of the exposed end of the opened pipe as it spit itself into the aft engine room.
Richard Yang was less than four feet from the exposed end of the pipe, facing it, when the boiling swirl of steam began. Before he had even sensed what had happened, his hair and eyes had been boiled beyond recognition. Most of the skin on his face was turned into a mushy-soft layer of paste — a layer which was then peeled back by the enormous force from the hot air and boiling liquid. The plastic inserts on Yang's wire-rimmed glasses melted instantly, then began to adhere to the now-exposed bones across the bridge of his nose. Yang's neck and shoulders — slightly farther away from the effects of the direct blast of super-heated steam — turned lobster-red as the blood vessels in them ruptured.
Yang's hideous scream was completely smothered by the roar of the escaping steam. His body — the muscles convulsing wildly — pitched forward, the weight of the submachine gun he held in his arms helping to steer him in that direction. The plastic microphone and the rubber microphone cord melted and stuck to what was left of his arm. As he pitched forward, the stretched cord yanked the radio from its rack, tumbled it over and smashed it on the floor. Just a short moment before Yang's body would have hit the floor his hand and finger muscles began to contract involuntarily because of the myriad of conflicting signals caused by the roasting that his brain had taken. The submachine gun, which was unaffected by the cascading bath of boiling steam, responded in the fashion in which it had been designed.
A short burst of bullets spit themselves out the barrel of the submachine gun before Yang's finger finally slipped off the trigger. The bullets hurled themselves in the direction that they had previously been aimed — toward the floor at the base of the control panel.
Paul Talbot, who had stayed on the floor to be as far beneath the flow of steam as possible, had been only marginally affected by the hot mist. But Talbot was repeatedly struck by the bullets. By the time the firing had ended and the noise from the steam had died away, Paul Talbot lay sprawled across the deck plates, unconscious, with one bullet in the leg, one in his hip and three in his stomach.