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Collins stared at him, numb with disbelief. Then he blurted, "Good God, yes, man! Tell him to take us under tow."
Working feverishly, Collins's crew slipped the bow and stern anchor chains and made ready with the mooring hawsers.
In a feat of superb seamanship, Stewart swung the Sounder's stern under the Lady Flamborough's bow in one pass. Two heavy rope mooring lines were dropped by the crewmen of the cruise ship and immediately made fast to the survey ship's deck bitts. It was not the most perfect tow arrangement, but the ships were not going for distance across stormy seas, and the temporary expedient was accomplished in a matter of minutes.
Stewart gave the command for "slow ahead" until the slack was taken up from the tow lines. Then he slowly increased speed to "full ahead"
while he looked over his shoulder, one eye on the glacier, one on the cruise liner. The Sounder's two cycloidal propellers, one forward and one aft, thrashed the water as her great diesel engine strained under the load.
She was half the Lady Flamborough's tonnage and never meant for tug duty, but she dug in and drove like a draft horse in a pulling contest, black exhaust pouring from her stack.
At first nothing seemed to happen, and then slowly, imperceptibly, a small bit of froth appeared around the Sounder's bow. She was moving, hauling the reluctant cruise liner from under the shadow of the glacier.
Despite the danger, the passengers, crew and Special Forces fighters all tore away the plastic sheeting and stood on the decks, watching and willing the struggling Sounder forward. Ten meters, then twenty, a hundred, the gap between ship and ice widened with agonizing slowness.
Then at last the Lady was clear.
Everyone on both ships gave a rousing cheer that echoed up and down the fiord. Later, Captain Collins would humorously call it the cheer that broke the camel's back.
A loud cracking sound shattered the celebrating voices and grew into a great booming rumble. To those watching, it seemed as if the air was electrified. Then the whole forward face of the ice cliff toppled forward and pounded into the fjord like a huge oil tanker being launched on its side. The water seethed and boiled and rose in a ten-foot wave that surged down the fjord and lifted the two ships like corks before heading out toward the open sea.
The monstrous, newly calved iceberg settled into the deeply carved channel of the fjord, its ice glinting like a field of orange diamonds under the new sun. Then the rumble rolled down from the mountainside and echoed in the ears of the stunned onlookers, who couldn't believe they were somehow alive.
At first there was complete confusion, with much shouting and wild shooting. The Egyptians had no idea of the size of the force that fired on them in the dining hall during the passage of the . They snuffed the lights and shot at the earlymoming shadows until they realized the shadows weren't shooting back.
The dirt roads between the wooden buildings took on an eerie silence.
for several minutes the Egyptian hijackers made no effort to leave the dining hall.
Then, suddenly, a half-dozen men-two from the front and four at the rear of the building-broke from the doors, scrambling, crouching, and diving headlong behind predetermined shelter. Once in position, they laid down a circle of fire to cover the rest of the men, who then followed on their heels.
Their leader, a tall man wearing a black turban, directed the men's movements by blowing sharp biceps on a whistle.
After a rocky start, the Egyptian terrorist team was everything Pitt was afraid of-highly ed, practiced and tough. When it came to house-to-house street fighting, they were the best in the world. They were even well led. The leader in the black turban was competent and methodical.
They searched building by building, working toward the crushing Mill until they half-circled it like a crescent. No haphazard assault by Animar's hand-picked killers. They moved with stealth and purpose.
Their leader caned out in Arabic. When there was no reply, another terrorist shouted from a different location. They were hailing the guard and mechanics inside the crushing mill, Pitt guessed correctly.
They were too close now for Pitt to risk revealing himself at the window. He removed the terrorist's ski mask and clothing and threw it in a pile on the floor, then rummaged through a pocket of his ski jacket and retrieved a small mirror attached to a narrow stretch handle. He eased the mirror above the window sill and extended the handle, twisting it like a periscope.
He found the target he was looking for, 90 percent concealed, but enough showing for a killing shot.
Pitt turned the fire-select lever from FULL AUTO to SINGLE. Then he swiftly raised up, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
The deadly old Thompson spat. Black Turban took two or three steps, his face blank and uncomprehending; then he sagged, fell forward and pitched to the ground.
Pitt dropped down, lowered his gun and peered into the mirror again. The terrorists had disappeared. To a man, they had dodged behind buildings or crawled furiously under abandoned and rusting mining equipment. Pitt knew they weren't about to quit. They were still out there, dangerous as ever, waiting for instructions from their second-m-command.
Gunn took his cue and pumped a ten-round burst through a wooden door on a shed across the road. Very slowly the door swung open, pushed by a body that twisted and dropped.
Still there was no return fire. They were nobody's fools, thought Pitt.
Now that they realized they were not up against a superior force but by a small group, they took their time to regroup and consider options.
They also realized now that their unknown oponents had captured their helicopter and were holed up in the crushing Mill.
Pitt ducked, scurried over and crouched beside Gunn. "How's it look on your side?"
