Black wind

mutter a “What the hell?” over the underwater communications system before he was yanked away from the control station at gunpoint with Farley in tow.
    Like sheep led to the slaughterhouse, the shipboard crew was herded in groups of three and four to the rear deck of the Sea Rover. Astern of the moon pool was a recessed cargo hold where the submersible and other equipment was stored when not in use. Under Kim’s direction, the hold’s heavy steel hatch cover was winched off with one of the Sea Rover’s cranes. The frightened captives were then forced down a steel ladder into the dark, cavernous bay.
    Tongju approached Kim on the rear deck with a bound and limping Morgan in tow, another commando prodding the captain forward with the barrel of his assault rifle.
    “Report?” Tongju asked bluntly.
    “All objectives achieved,” Kim reported proudly. “One casualty in the engine room, Ta-kong, but all ship’s compartments are now secure. We’ve transferred all the captives to the stern hold. Jin-chul reports that eight units of ordnance have been located intact in the ship’s auxiliary laboratory,” he added, nodding toward a wiry commando standing next to a prefabricated structure across the deck. “The submersible is currently deployed in recovery of additional ordnance.”
    “Very well,” Tongju replied with a rare smile that revealed a set of heavily yellowed teeth. “Contact the Baekje. Tell her to tie up alongside and prepare for transfer of the ordnance.”
    “You won’t get far,” Morgan growled, spitting out a mouthful of blood as he spoke.
    “But, Captain,” Tongju replied with an evil smirk, “we already have.”
    A thousand feet beneath the Sea Rover, Summer was carefully placing the tenth aerial bomb into the makeshift holding tray alongside the ninth canister she had plucked from the bottom just moments before. She again secured both bombs with the mechanical arms, then turned to Dirk when she was finished.
    “Ten down, two to go. You may take us home now, Jeeves.”
    “Yes, m’lady,” he replied in a Cockney accent, then he actuated the submersible’s thrusters and backed out of the tight confines of the hangar. As they cleared the deck of the I-411, Summer radioed up to the Sea Rover’s control room.
    “Sea Rover, this is Starfish. Have secured the next batch and are preparing to ascend with the goods, over.”
    The call was returned with silence. She tried calling several more times as they started their ascent but again received no response from the surface.
    “Ryan must be asleep at the wheel,” Dirk said.
    “Can’t blame him,” Summer replied while suppressing a yawn. “It is two-thirty in the morning.”
    “I just hope the guy on the crane is awake,” he smirked.
    As they neared the surface, they spotted the familiar glow of the moon pool lights and maneuvered the Starfish into the center of the ring, where they bobbed gently to the surface. Dirk and Summer paid scant attention to the shadowy figures on the deck as the clank of the main hoist was dropped and attached to the submersible and they began to power down its electronic equipment. It was only when they were jerked roughly out of the water and swung wildly to the stern deck, nearly colliding with the port bulkhead, that they realized something was amiss.
    “Who the hell’s working the crane?” Summer cursed as they were set down harshly on the deck. “Don’t they know we’ve got two bombs aboard?”
    “It sure ain’t the Welcome Wagon,” Dirk said drily as he stared out of the bubble window.
    Directly in front of them, an Asian man in a black paramilitary outfit stood holding an automatic pistol to the stomach of Captain Morgan. Dirk looked beyond the man’s long Fu Manchu mustache and crooked yellow teeth splayed in an evil grin and focused on the eyes. They were cold, black eyes that portrayed a menacing air of utter indifference. They were, Dirk knew, the eyes of an experienced killer.
    Summer gasped at the sight of Morgan. A makeshift bandage was wrapped about his left thigh but failed to cover the rivulets of dried blood that was splattered down his leg. His cheekbone was bruised and swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and his eye had already begun to blacken. More dried blood ran from his mouth and onto his shirt. Yet the crusty captain stood unflinching, his lack of fear so prominent that Summer failed to notice he was still wearing a pair of boxer shorts.
    A pair of commandos suddenly