Chapter 11 - The Belly of the Beast
The water inside the dry dock drainage conduit was freezing and choked with industrial sludge.
Anna swam behind Matteo, the small dive respirator clamped between her teeth, her night-vision goggles cutting through the murk in eerie shades of phosphor green. The narrow concrete pipe opened into the cavernous void beneath the massive steel belly of the Vanguard. Above them, the colossal hull sat propped on heavy concrete blocks, dripping seawater into the dark.
Matteo reached the open sea-chest valve—a four-foot steel intake grate unbolted for maintenance. He hauled himself up into the ship's ballast tank, turning to extend a hand to Anna.
She took his grip, pulling herself up out of the stagnant water onto the steel grating of the ship's lower pump room.
They stripped off their wet respirators, the silence broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ship's auxiliary generators echoing through the steel bulkheads.
Anna pulled her suppressed submachine gun from its waterproof sleeve, chambering a round with a soft, mechanical click. "Deck seven. Upper bridge."
"Maintenance ladders on the port side bypass the crew mess," Matteo whispered, pointing down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. "Watch the corners. Sterling's men are using biometric motion detectors on the main stairwells."
They moved like wraiths through the bowels of the ship, their rubber-soled boots making no sound against the steel diamond plate.
On deck four, a private contractor in black tactical gear stepped out of a cabin, bringing a mug of coffee to his lips. Before the man could register the shadows moving along the bulkhead, Matteo lunged. His forearm locked around the guard’s throat from behind, compressing the carotid artery with surgical efficiency. The man went limp in four seconds, Matteo lowering the unconscious body silently to the deck.
Anna stripped the keycard from the guard’s belt, swiping the heavy watertight door leading to the upper officer decks.
The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Ahead lay the executive corridor leading to the captain's quarters. Two armed guards stood outside the double doors, automatic shotguns slung across their chests, talking in low, clipped Afrikaans accents.
Anna and Matteo exchanged a single, wordless glance.
They stepped into the corridor simultaneously, their suppressed weapons spitting a silent, coordinated volley of lead.
Four rounds tore through the air. Both sentries collapsed instantly against the wooden paneling, their weapons clattering harmlessly onto the carpeted deck.
Anna rushed forward, kicking the double doors open, her weapon raised.
"Elena!" she called out.
The room was vast, luxuriously appointed with leather sofas and panoramic windows overlooking the docks. Sitting in an armchair in the center of the room was Elena, her hands bound to the armrests with heavy zip-ties, her mouth uncovered, her eyes wide with terror.
"Anna, look out!" Elena screamed.
From behind the heavy mahogany desk, Julian Sterling stepped out. He wasn't holding a firearm.
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In his hand was a heavy remote detonator wired to four blocks of military-grade C4 strapped directly to the frame of Elena's chair.
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