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Machado was good. Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and Bat Masterson would have been proud of him. His shot struck the intruder square in the center of the chest.
With older bulletproof vests, the pure force behind the blow could snap a rib or stop a heart. The vests worn by the SOF men, however, were the latest state of the art. They could even stop a 308 NATO round and distribute the impact so it left only a bruse.
Dillenger shuddered slightly from the bullet, took one step back and pulled the trigger of his Heckler & Koch, all in the same motion.
Machado wore a vest too, but the older model. Dillenger's burst tore through and riddled his chest. His spine arched like a tightly strung bow and he staggered backward, falling against the Captain's chair before dropping to the deck '
The Mexican guard raised his arms and shouted, "Don't fire! I am unarmed-"
Dillenger's short burst into the throat cut off the Mexican's plea, knocking him into the ship's compass binnacle, where he hung suspended like a limp rag doll.
"Don't move or I'll shoot," Dillenger said belatedly.
Sergeant Foster stepped around the Major and looked down at the dead terrorist. "He's dead, sir."
"I warned him," Dillenger said casually as he slipped another clip into his weapon.
Foster kicked the body over on its stomach with his boot. A long bayonet knife slipped out of a sheath below the collar and rattled on the deck. "Intuition, Major?" asked Foster.
"I never trust a man who says he's unarmed-"
Suddenly Dillenger stopped and listened. Both men heard it at the same time and looked at each other, puzzled.
"What in hell is that?" asked Foster,
"They were a good thirty years before my time, but I'd swear that's a whistle from an old steam locomotive."
"Sounds like it's coming down the mountain from the old mine."
"I thought it was abandoned."
The NUMA people were to wait there until the ship was secure .
"Why would they stoke up an old locomotive?"
"I don't know." Dillenger paused and stared distantly, a sudden certainty growing within him. "Unless . . . they're trying to tell us something."
The detonation on the glacier caught Hollis and The team by surprise.
His team entered the dining salon immediately after a wild shootout.
His dive team had sliced their way through the plastic and found a tight passage between the fake cargo containers. They had passed wanly through a doorway into an empty bar and lounge outside the dining salon, fanned out, dodging pillars and four men covering the stairs and two elevators, and surprised Machado's Mexican terrorist team.
All but one terrorist was down. He still stood where he'd been hit, hate and vague astonishment reflected in his dying eyes. Then his body collapsed and he fell to the carpet, staining its rich, thick pile a deep crimson.
Hollis and his team advanced, warily stepping over and around the bodies. A blood-chilling of the ice wall sounded throughout the ship, rattling the few undamaged bottles and glasses behind an ornate bar.
The Special Operations men stared uneasily at one another and at their Colonel, but they stood firm and ready.
"Major Dillenger's team must have missed one," Hollis mused calmly.
"No hostages here, sir," said one of his men. "All appear to be terrorists."
Hollis studied several of the lifeless faces. None of them looked like they came from the Middle East. Must be the crew from the General Bravo, he thought.
He turned away and pulled a copy of the ship's deck layout from a pocket and studied it briefly, while he talked into his radio.
"Major, report your status."
