The Oceanic Princess (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 2) Read online

  THE

  OCEANIC PRINCESS

  A BRICE BANNON SEACOAST ADVENTURE

  DAVID DELEE

  COPYRIGHT

  THE OCEANIC PRINCESS

  Published by Dark Road Publishing

  www.darkroadpub.com

  The Oceanic Princess, Copyright © 2018 by David DeLee

  Excerpt from Strike of the Stingray, Copyright © 2018 by David DeLee

  Cover art copyright © 2018 © Baranov_Evgenii | Depositphotos.com

  Book and cover design copyright © 2018 by Dark Road Publishing

  The Oceanic Princess and all works contained within are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities or resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is wholly coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner or form whatsoever without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violations of the author’s rights.

  For information, contact us at www.darkroadpub.com.

  All Rights Reserved

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  Thank you for purchasing this book, we hope you enjoy it.

  Dedicated to the brave men and women who serve in the U.S. Coast Guard,

  past and present, thank you for your service

  Semper Paratus

  “Always Ready”

  THE

  OCEANIC PRINCESS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE DARK TURQUOISE EXPANSE of the North Atlantic Ocean stretched out below them for as far as the human eye could see. Smooth and flat as a tabletop, the water reached to the ruler-straight line of the horizon, due east. The untouched sea swept past underneath them, fast and relentless, with only the gentle whitecaps and the bright sparkle of the glinting sun shimmering across its majestic surface to distinguish it from the azure sky. Pristine and unchanged since the oceans were formed, undisturbed by man this far from land.

  A few cotton ball clouds marred an otherwise unspoiled bright blue sky in the distance. A school of dolphins breeched the water to chase the racing shadow of the helicopter as it skimmed the surface of the sea below.

  Seated in the copilot seat of the white, red, and blue Sikorsky MH-60T Jayhawk helicopter, Coast Guard Commander Brice Bannon lowered his binoculars and pointed in a southwesterly direction.

  “There!” He shouted over the chomp-chomp-chomp of the main rotor overhead.

  The Coast Guard twin-engine, medium range, interdiction helicopter flew at a brisk one-hundred-forty knots. The engines thrummed smoothly through the decking, vibrating up through the soles of his boots. It was a feeling as familiar to Bannon as the rolling deck of a ship at sea or the grip of an M16 rifle in his hands.

  “Where?” Skyjack McMurphy growled from the pilot’s seat even as he gently urged the powerful bird in the direction his old friend pointed. He scowled behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Nicknamed Skyjack, John “Jack” McMurphy was a large, ruddy Irishman who’d easily be mistaken for an albino walrus if not for his bright red hair and a cigar almost always clutched between his teeth, lit or not.

  The two men had served in the Coast Guard together going on fifteen years. Both were retired from full-time service but remained active reserve. McMurphy glanced at the clock on the instrument panel. They’d been at it for over two hours and forty-nine minutes without a hint of even a false alarm.

  That was about to change.

  “Near the horizon.” Bannon returned the field glasses to his eyes. “Barely a black smudge from here but trust me. That has to be it.”

  Trust had never been an issue between these two men. Fifteen years earlier, the Coast Guard had brought them together. After so many years they’d become best friends, closer than brothers. Each having saved the other’s life more times than either man could count, made them comrades-in-arms.

  “About damn time,” McMurphy groused.

  They crewed with three Coast Guard Maritime Safety & Security Team members: a Chief Petty Officer named Johnson and two seamen; Reyes and O’Neil.

  Bannon twisted around in his seat, looking back into the cabin.

  The three men were strapped in padded black bucket seats. The side doors were open. The roar of the rotors and the wind were an assault on the ears. Each man was dressed in a dark navy jumpsuit and tactical gear, including a fully-loaded equipment vest and helmet. They wore Beretta M9 pistols strapped to their thighs and carried M16 assault rifles.

  “Chief,” Bannon said, adjusting the radio mouthpiece. “Coming up on our target in ten.”

  Johnson gave him a thumbs up.

  “I don’t like it,” McMurphy said.

  Bannon switched off comms. “You always say that.”

  “That’s true, but this time’s different.”

  Bannon smiled. “You always say that, too.”

  “We have no idea what we’re flying into. Lizzy didn’t tell us squat.”

  Lizzy was Elizabeth Grayson, the Secretary of Homeland Security and their boss. She didn’t like being called Lizzy, but over the years McMurphy had worn her down.

  Bannon frowned. His friend had a point. It seemed Grayson had been even more cryptic than usual with this mission. Bannon played it off as routine. “There’s a boat with some bad guys on it, planning to do something bad. We board ’em and we stop ’em.” There it was. A simplistic, barebones description of the op. “What more do you need to know?”

  “How many are on board? What level of resistance can we expect? Are they going to try and kill us?”

  “That last part,” Bannon said with a playful grin. “You can probably count on.”

  “Yeah,” McMurphy said, resignation in his voice. “That’s the part I don’t like.”

  Ahead of them, the boat had grown from a black line on the horizon to a medium-size cargo ship. The MV Naeem was a handysize ship with a 32,000 DWT, or deadweight tonnage. Five hundred twenty-five in length, it had five cargo holds, hydraulically operated hatch covers, and four 30-ton cranes. The accommodation section and bridge castle—that part of the ship that looked like an apartment building had been plopped down on the deck—was located at the quarterdeck. It housed the crew and officers’ quarters, and the mess, as well as the bridge, navigation, and communications.

  Handysize vessels were most often used as dry bulk carriers, as the Naeem was, or as oil tankers. They had a shallower draught than larger supramax and panama ships, which allowed them to operate in most ports and terminals around the world. An added benefit, most were geared, meaning they had their own on-deck cranes, like the Naeem had. This made it possible for them to operate in ports that lacked their own transshipment infrastructure.

  Bannon unsnapped his harness. He clasped McMurphy on the shoulder. “See ya downstairs.”

  “Try not to get yourself killed before then.”

  “That would be the plan.”

  Bannon pushed through into the cabin. Also dressed in a navy-blue jumpsuit, he donned his equipment vest and strapped a thigh holster to his leg. He tucked two full clips into their pouches, dropped a third from his old Colt Army .45, checked it, and slapped it back home before holstering the weapon. The .45 wasn’t a sanctioned Coast Guard weapon, but it was Bannon’s favorite. He preferred its stopping power over the Beretta M9 and Sig Sauer P229 nine-millimeter. He strapped a black bladed fiv
e-inch titanium diving knife to this opposite calf.

  “What more can you tell us, Commander?” Chief Johnson asked over the roar of the Jayhawk’s main rotor. His men looked eagerly at Bannon.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Homeland Security picked up reliable chatter the Naeem is transporting something they don’t want to reach the U.S. My best guess is it’s some kind of contraband cargo to be used in a possible terrorist attack. The mission is simple: secure the vessel and prevent the destruction or disposal of any contraband items until the Bowman catches up.”

  The USCGC Dixon Bowman was a 154-foot long, Sentinel-class Coast Guard cutter, often called a fast response cutter, assigned to back up Bannon’s interdiction effort. The ship crewed with twenty seamen and four officers and had a top speed of twenty-eight knots. It was armed with one MK-38, mod-2, 25mm chain-driven autocannon and four Browning M2 machine guns. Onboard was a twenty-three-foot rigid hull, short range, inflatable boat that could be launched at speed, for rapid deployment, if it became necessary.

  “We’ve radioed them our position,” Bannon said. “They’re twenty minutes out.”

  Seaman Reyes asked, “Do we know what the cargo is, sir?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Can we expect resistance?”

  Bannon tucked the compact Sig P229 9mm he carried as a backup into a side pocket—this one the Coast Guard allowed—and zipped it up. “We can count on it.”

  “Saddle up, boys and girls,” McMurphy said over the chopper’s comms. “We’re here.”

  The MSST team came to their feet and took their positions at the open cabin doors.

  They were approaching the Naeem from the port bow side. Bannon leaned out and fighting the wind saw no one visibly on the forward deck. Stacked red and blue cargo containers filled the midsection, but the bow deck was clear for landing.

  “Once we touch down,” Bannon said to Johnson, “McMurphy and I will secure the bridge. You and your team secure the crew and get control of the engine room.”

  “Roger that.”

  The chopper decelerated, losing altitude. McMurphy was the best pilot Bannon had ever known, and he’s worked with a ton of them over his military career. The Jayhawk hovered over a closed cargo hatch cover, nose slightly raised, before quickly dropping the last few feet to the deck below. Bannon stood with Seaman O’Neil, while Johnson and Reyes held on and prepared to leap from the other open cargo door. McMurphy steadied the chopper. The winds were less than five knots out of the southeast. As the landing skids were about to touch down, they suddenly took on a barrage of small arms fire.

  McMurphy cursed. “Son of a—”

  The chopper wobbled. Bullets pinged off the metal skin. The chopper rose sharply. Bannon and the others got tossed to the back of the cabin as the chopper tilted tail down and away. Caught by surprise, O’Neil clutched for the side of the open door, almost falling out. Bannon grabbed his vest and pulled him back in. The engines whined with the strain of the fast acceleration as they peeled off and to the left.

  “Everybody okay back there?” McMurphy asked.

  “All good,” Bannon shouted over the comms. “We need to go back.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” McMurphy complained, but already Bannon could feel the chopper banking, swinging around to line up for a return trip. “Plan B?”

  “Plan B,” Bannon confirmed.

  “What’s plan B?” Johnson asked. Reyes and O’Neil looked at Bannon, curious as well.

  Bannon grabbed an M16 from the bulkhead rack. He slapped a magazine in and jacked a round. “We rappel.”

  Johnson nodded, repeating McMurphy. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  His team hooked up their harnesses and guide lines. The metallic snap of D-clamps filled the air. Each man readied his M16. With a nod, each was cocked and locked and ready to rock and roll.

  McMurphy brought them around. This time he hovered twenty feet over the deck. Over the comms, he said, “Don’t dawdle, gentlemen.”

  Without comment, Reyes and Johnson dropped from the port side. Bannon and O’Neil did the same from the other side. Wind and the updraft from the rotors buffered them, twisted them around as they descended. Communication was impossible. Not that there was any time for talking. The descent would only take seconds.

  The crew of the Naeem opened fire on them immediately.

  They were dug in pretty well, Bannon noted, while he and the others were completely exposed. Bannon held the butt of his rifle against his hip, using his elbow to pin it there. With his hand squeezed around the weapon’s pistol grip, his finger on the trigger, he shot one-handed while controlling his descent overhead with his other.

  Muzzle flash gave their opponents away. Small arms, pistols. No automatic weapons.

  Bannon counted six men in all, shooting from three positions.

  He aimed at a dark figure crouched behind a red steel cargo container. A squeeze of the trigger and the figure fell back, shooting off a short burst of gunfire. Bullets whizzed by Bannon’s ear. He tracked another figure lying under a canvas-covered lift boat. Bannon’s rounds sparked across the metal deck, looking like a line of firecrackers. The prone figure jerked and twisted onto his side. His gun fell silent.

  Johnson and Reyes exchanged gunfire with three men they had pinned down along the port railing. Bannon swung the barrel of his weapon around, about to give them an assist, when behind him, O’Neil cried out. Instinctively, Bannon knew the kid had been hit.

  The shooter ran across the deck directly under them. A rifle pointed straight up. He fired blindly in the sky as he ran. Bannon put him down with a squeeze of the trigger.

  The team landed.

  Bannon quickly released his gear, and twisted around to tend to O’Neil.

  The young man was having trouble disconnecting from his line. He was only using one hand. His other arm hung limp, the sleeve of his jumpsuit wet with blood. He’d taken a round in the arm. The others had disconnected successfully. Johnson and Reyes scurried for cover, returning fire to keep the last remaining shooters pinned down.

  The chopper jerked upward suddenly.

  From the corner of his eye Bannon saw why.

  A crewman had climbed on top of a cargo container. He knelt down on one knee, holding a rocket launcher cradled on his shoulder. The sights were flipped up. He tracked the chopper with the weapon and fired.

  McMurphy banked hard to port, still rising. The chopper whip shot around in a spin. The rocket-launched missile streaked past the tail rotor, just missing it. A narrow escape by McMurphy but O’Neil was still attached to his line. The maneuver had jerked the young seaman across the deck.

  Bannon scrambled and dove for him.

  He caught him, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. Together the chopper dragged them across the deck as it continued to rise and turn to avoid a second missile. In seconds they’d be slammed against the ship’s railing. Bannon tried to release O’Neil’s harness, but the tension on the line made that impossible.

  Still holding O’Neil by his vest, Bannon reached for the dive knife strapped to his calf. He unsnapped the sheath with his thumb and pulled the knife. He swung the blade at the rappelling line. The sharp blade cut deep but didn’t slice completely through.

  With a downward swipe, Bannon cut at it again. This time the line snapped.

  The chopper pulled away.

  Clutching each other in a tight bear hug, Bannon and O’Neil tumbled across the deck like they’d been shot from a cannon. They slammed into the metal gunwale. Bannon took the brunt of the crash. He hit his head and saw stars. His breath exploded from his lungs. He grunted. O’Neil groaned.

  Bannon opened his arms, letting O’Neil spill from his grasp.

  “Let’s not ever do that again,” Bannon said between wheezing gasps.

  Breathless, O’Neil said, “Agreed, sir.”

  Bannon heard the continual pop of gunfire.

  Johnson and Reyes were crouched behind
tarp-covered cargo strapped to wooden pallets. The man who had launched the shoulder-fired missiles was dead. His body lay draped over the edge of the container. Amid the sound of dropping guns, the rest of the welcoming committee gave up the fight and retreated. Johnson glanced over at Bannon with a wide grin.

  “Five down,” Johnson reported. “Last one’s high-tailing it out now. You good, sir?”

  Bannon raised a hand, groaned, and gave him a thumbs up.

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “Peachy.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  BANNON GOT TO HIS feet as McMurphy landed the Jayhawk on the deck. Johnson and Reyes took up cover positions, watchful should any of the hostiles return. The chopper’s skids touched down. The rotors slowed and McMurphy climbed out of the cockpit. He took his helmet off and tossed it on the pilot seat. With a grin, he said, “That wasn’t so bad.”

  O’Neil sat on the deck with his back to the gunwale. He held his bloody arm in his lap. He looked at Bannon. “Can I shoot him, sir?”

  Reyes grabbed a first aid kit from the chopper and field dressed O’Neil’s wound while Johnson continued to keep an eye out for returning crewmembers. McMurphy strapped on his Beretta M9, grabbed an M16 and a couple of spare magazines.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Bannon checked his dive watch, a blue-face Tag Heuer Aquaracer. “The Bowman is ten minutes out, Chief. Do what you can to round up the crew. Like we planned, McMurphy and I’ll secure the bridge. You and your men shut down the engine room.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnson said.

  Bannon turned to O’Neil. “You up for finishing the mission, seaman?”

  Reyes helped pull O’Neil to his feet. “Try and stop me, sir.”

  Bannon clasped the shoulder of his uninjured arm. “Good man. Let’s move out.”

  Crouched, he ran across the deck toward the accommodation section. McMurphy fell in step behind him. Johnson barked orders to his men, directing them to the nearest passageway that would lead them below deck.