Red Ice
Authors: Craig Reed Jr
OUTCAST Ops: Red Ice
Craig Reed, Jr. and Rick Chesler
Copyright © 2015 Rick Chesler and Craig Reed, Jr. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to:
[email protected]
Cover art by J. Kent Holloway
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CONTENTS
San Francisco, California
2:15PM
Billy Dyachenko’s eyes widened as the methamphetamine hit his system.
It was Alec W. who had shown him what this new drug was. Billy’s dealer, an Asian with multiple facial tattoos, had sold him the reddish-tinted powder. “New and improved,” Alec had said. “It’s called Red Ice.”
Billy hadn’t been convinced until Alec had given him a free sample. The high had been intense and much longer than normal. When he finally came down, he knew he had to have more.
Alec had smirked when Billy had shown up at his door. “Thought I might see your ugly mug again. Check it out. New form of Red Ice, even better than before,” Alec had told him, handing over a strip of skin patches after Billy gave him the cash. “Suppose to be quicker into the bloodstream and last longer than smoking or snorting it, plus it looks like a nicotine patch, so the cops won’t be looking for it.”
Billy was disappointed the drug wasn’t exactly the same as the last batch he took, since that was such high quality stuff. But if Alec said it was better…He didn’t want to wait. Twenty minutes after leaving Alec, Billy pulled into a parking garage on the corner of Beach and Powell Street, found an empty parking spot for his three-year old Ford F-150, and took out the skin patches. He peeled one off and stuck it on his left wrist over the veins.
As the drug coursed through his bloodstream, he leaned back and let the rush flow through him. He felt so good, smart, confident, better than anyone else. Better than his father and his grandfather who had been longshoremen on the San Francisco docks. Better than his boss, a red-faced jerk who yelled at him every chance he got. Better than his ex-girlfriend, who had walked out on him. He howled and drummed the steering wheel. He’d show them all, including those repo bastards!
Billy hadn’t been home in three days, as he knew the repo men were waiting him so they could steal his truck. He’d been sleeping in the truck cab and, with the exception of only a couple of quick trips to the bathroom, the convenience store, and the gas station, he hadn’t been away from his vehicle. He was six months behind on the payments, but he wasn’t going to give her up without a fight. He just needed a little more time to get those payments together…
Then the truck spoke to him again.
Stay with me
, a female voice whispered.
Be with me always
.
Billy smiled. She had begun speaking to him right after the first Red Ice dose hit his system. She was his only friend, the closest thing he had to a lover these days. It didn’t yell at him, didn’t call him worthless or useless. In fact, it sang to him!
Don’t let them take me
, she cooed sweetly.
I am yours forever
.
He began scratching at his arms, feeling the bugs under his skin begin to move.
They’re coming for me
, she said, suddenly sounding fearful.
They’re coming to take me away from you!
He glanced behind him and saw two men walking toward a car. They were dressed in suits, but Billy knew it was a trick. Repo bastards were cunning; he’d seen the reality TV shows. They’d do whatever it took to make a buck.
He started the truck, slammed his foot on the accelerator and reversed out of the parking spot as fast as he could. With tires smoking and squealing, the truck slammed into the two disguised repo men, knocking both to the ground. Billy drove over them, and then the rear bumper struck a Honda Prelude hard enough to cave in the smaller car’s side. He jammed the transmission into drive and floored it, burning rubber and sending thick acrid smoke out behind him. He barely felt the bump as he ran over the repo men again.
Billy sped through the parking garage, sliding through the turn and smashing into several more cars. He exited the garage the same way he came in, smashing through the wooden bar and out onto Beach Street, making a hard right turn and sideswiping a Subaru in the process. By the time he shot through the intersection with Powell Street, he was doing forty miles an hour.
Yes
, she sang.
Save me
!
He passed several cars, ignoring the honking and screeching of brakes. Traffic was light for early afternoon, but Billy didn’t care one way or the other. By the time he reached the intersection with Jefferson Street, Powell and the Embarcadero, the F-150 was doing sixty. He shot through the intersection against a red light, clipping a compact car and sending it spinning into the path of a double-decker tour bus. While the bus wasn’t traveling fast, its mass was enough to total the little car.
They’re coming
! The truck said.
They’re right behind us
!
Now on Embarcadero North Street, Billy turned the truck’s wheel to the left, following the road. The truck shot between two lampposts onto the sidewalk, clipping a trash can and slamming into three people who never saw the truck coming. Billy increased speed, watching in glee as more people scrambled to get out of the way. A few were too slow, and the F-150 stuck them, either knocking them out of the way or dragging them under the truck’s wheels. All the while, Billy was laughing, giddy with excitement. Those repo bastards would never get his truck!
Running out of pavement, he swung back onto the street, plowing into a family too slow to get out of his way. He shot past the ferry terminal, clipping several cars and rear-ending a Kia Elantra. He yanked the wheel to the right, sending the truck up onto the pavement again. He saw Pier 49 ahead of him. Why was that familiar to him?
He shot through the open iron gates, smashing through a group of people. The space between the warehouse on the left and the water on the right was wide enough for two F-150s, and people scrambled to get out of the way. Some chose to dive into San Francisco Bay, while others hurled themselves into warehouse doorways.
It wasn’t until he shot past the submarine anchored to the pier that Billy remembered where he was. The sub was the
U.S.S
Pampanito
, a World War Two memorial. Which meant the ship anchored up ahead was the Liberty ship, the
SS
Jeremiah O’Brien
. He had been on both when he was a child, on a class field trip. He never noticed the three women and two men he ran down while he mused about that long-ago trip.
They’re right behind us!
His truck sang.
We must escape
!
He was doing eighty by the time he reached the
O’Brien.
By now, most of the people who had been on the dock had gotten out of the way, but a hand-in-hand couple were too slow and they were struck and flattened under the truck wheels. Still moving forward, the F-150 smashed aside signs about the
O’Brien.
We’ll be safe soon
, the car crooned.
That was the last thought Billy Dyachenko ever had, as an artery in his brain ruptured and flooded his gray matter with blood. Trapped in a sea of pain and rapidly weakening eye sight, he was almost unaware of the F-150 launching itself off the end of the pier at ninety miles an hour, flying thirty feet before slamming nose-first into the cold waters of San Francisco Bay. By then, Billy was unconscious.
He was dead before the truck sank to the bottom.
San Francisco
Forty-eight hours later
2:17am
DEA Special Agent Sarah Vessler looked at her watch one more time, then stared through the night vision glasses at the Pier 80 gate. “Where the hell are you bastards?” she muttered. She was blonde and athletic, but the grind of several years of sixty-hour weeks and no time off had worn away at her natural beauty.
Daniel Choi sighed and leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Patience, Grasshopper,” he said, mimicking a stereotypical martial arts master. Looking more like a living Buddha than a DEA agent, he was the ice to Vessler’s fire.
Vessler rolled her eyes at Danny. “Shut up.”
“Seriously, Sarah, why the rush?” Choi asked. He was a stocky Korean-American, a couple of years older than his partner. “Billy Hung and his boys will either show up, or they won’t.”
“Maybe Vess has a hot date,” fellow agent Gary Daniels said from the back seat.
“Don’t make me shoot you, Gary,” Vessler growled.
“It’s that team from D.C., isn’t it?” Choi asked. “The ones we’re supposed to wait for?”
“I don’t have time for some D.C. suits who don’t know their head from a hole in the ground telling me what you and I already know!”
“What about Casey?”
Vessler turned her head and glared at her partner. “We need him even less than we need the suits!”
“He’s the Special Assistant to the President.”
“
A
Special Assistant. He’s one of a dozen. Just because he used to run the FBI doesn’t mean he knows anything about the DEA. This is our case, we don’t need D.C. suits sticking their fingers in and messing it up!”
“If the Black Dao boys don’t show, there won’t be a case to mess up.”
Vessler went back to looking through the night-vision glasses. “Hong will be here.”
“Alec W isn’t the best confidential informant out there.”
Vessler shrugged. “He wouldn’t lie to me. He knows what would happen if he did.”
The black Chevy 2500 Suburban was one of three sitting in an empty lot a hundred yards from the main gate of Pier 80, the only place in the Port of San Francisco where general non-container cargo could be unloaded from ships. There was only one cargo ship currently berthed at the pier, a Chinese vessel named
The Seven Lucky Dragons
. The ship had arrived three hours ago and was currently unloading a cargo of power transformers.
At this time of night, this mostly business area of San Francisco was quiet. The sky was overcast and the air was cool, a common occurrence in the coastal city. There was no fog, which made the surveillance of the pier gates easier.
“Hey, kid,” Daniels said to the fourth person in the Suburban. “You scared?”
“Knock it off, Gary,” Vessler barked, still peering through the night-vision glasses. “Jimmy, you okay?”
Jimmy Pelton was the youngest agent in the SUV, and the least experienced. “I’m fine,” he replied, shifting inside his armored vest.
“First raid?” Daniels asked.
“One this big,” Pelton replied.
“Don’t worry,” Daniels said. “More likely than not the Black Dao boys will put their hands up as soon as we show up, or run for it. I really hope they won’t run. I hate chases.”
“I’ve got movement,” Vessler said. She picked up her radio. “Striker to all Golden Carp agents. Stand by. Two SUVs and a cargo truck, heading for the gate.”
“I still think it’s a stupid name for an operation,” Gary muttered.
“No one’s asking your opinion,” Vessler said.
The three vehicles approaching the gate were a Ford Explorer, a Cadillac Escalade, and a 20-foot box truck. The two dark-colored SUVs were newer models, while the cargo truck was dirty white and stood out like a sore thumb along with the other two. The convoy stopped at the gate and several Asian men in business suits climbed out of the SUVs.
Vessler grinned as she saw one of the men, a stout individual with slicked-back hair and a moon face, surrounded by three bodyguards. “Bingo!”
“Definitely Hong,” Choi said. He was staring through his own night vision glasses at the scene in front of them. “Looks like there are maybe a dozen Triad hitters, armed with pistols and a few submachine guns.”
“Good. We can add weapon charges to the indictment,” Vessler pointed out.
“We need to catch them in the act of accepting a drug shipment first.”
Two of the Triad gunmen walked over to the small guard shack while Hung and his bodyguards stayed next to the Escalade. After a brief discussion with the guard, both men walked back to Hung and had a brief conversation before they climbed back into their vehicles. With the Explorer leading the way, the three-car procession drove through the gates and out of sight.
Vessler lowered the night vision glasses. “Striker to all Golden Carp units. Bears are at the picnic. Check in.”
“Paparazzi here. Ready to get plenty of glamour shots.”
Paparazzi — DEA Special Agent Neal Lear and his partner, Gloria DuVey — were on the second floor of a two-story office building next to the gate. They would take pictures of the expected drug transaction before Vessler’s team moved in to arrest Billy Hung and the other Black Dao Triad members. With the broad flat expanse of the pier, there was no place closer where the DEA agents could hide and still observe the transaction.
“Hunter to Striker. We have overwatch.”
On a warehouse roof not too far from Vessler, Hunter – San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) Sergeant Chad Dembski and his spotter, Sergeant Hector Godin — had a clear view of the pier. Dembski was behind a 7.62×51mm Remington Model 700 bolt-action sniper rifle. If there was trouble, it would be up to the snipers to warn, track and neutralize any threat to the arresting force.
“Calvary’s ready to go.”
Nearby, Calvary — SFPD Lieutenant Rhonda James and her Narcotics unit — was ready to move in through the other entrance onto Pier 80. This was a joint DEA/SFPD task force, operating under the codename GOLDEN CARP, with one goal: eliminate the Black Dao Triad’s drug running operation.
Vessler nodded. “Stand by, everyone. We move on Paparazzi’s say-so.”
The next several minutes were filled with tension. Unable to see the pier because of the warehouse between it and her team, Vessler drummed her fingers on her door’s armrest. In the back she could hear Pelton and Daniels check their DEA-issued LAR-15 rifles. Choi, on the other hand, sat quietly, one hand on the wheel.
“Paparazzi to Striker. Bears have the picnic baskets. Repeat, bears have the picnic baskets.”
“Getting the pictures?”
“Copy. Beautiful ones.”
“Right. Striker to team. Operation is a go!”
#
“Phoenix to Dragon Six. The eagles are inbound.”
Major Rhee Kyu-chul of the Korean People’s Army Ground Force nodded. He stood in the shadow of one of the cargo crates containing power transformers. He had been on the dock for several hours now, him and his men staying in the shadows of the crates being unloaded.
The Seven Lucky Dragons
was one of several ships owned by a shell company that was actually a front for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’s State Security Department. The DPRK, better known as North Korea, had dozens of front companies to get around the American-lead sanctions, but this mission was a little different.
Rhee and fifteen of his men had met the freighter fifty miles out to sea and boarded the ship as planned. They had hidden in specially constructed crates and waited. They waited while the U.S. Coast Guard boarded the freighter for a contraband check when the
Lucky Dragons
had passed into American territorial waters. Once the crates had been unloaded, it was easy to stay in their shadows and wait for their allies and enemies.
Rhee was dressed for war in black fatigues and a battle harness with several grenades. He held a Type 56 assault rifle (Chinese version of the Russian AK-47) in one hand while his other gripped a UHF encrypted radio. “Dragon Six to all Dragons. Eagles are inbound. Wait for my command.”
A dozen yards away, Billy Hong was in the open. Head of the Black Dao Triad, he watched the truck loading along with half a dozen bodyguards. The guards were nervous, not liking the idea of sixteen well-armed and trained soldiers within a few yards of their boss, allies or not.
That was fine by Rhee. He didn’t want them to be comfortable around him or his men.
He put the radio into a belt holder and pressed a button on a cell-phone, smiling when he saw Hong react to his phone’s alert. The Triad leader took his cell phone out of his pocket and answered it. “Yes?”
“The Americans are coming. Clear the area.”
Hong nodded and broke the connection. He turned to one of his men and said something that Rhee couldn’t hear. The man nodded and started shouting in Chinese. The Triad men nodded and began heading for their vehicles.
Rhee smiled. Five years of planning were beginning to blossom into action that would cripple the Americans. “Dragon Leader to all Dragons. Unleash your righteous fury.”
#
The clicks of the camera were the only sound in the office. Both Neal Lear and Gloria DuVey were hunched over the lens, taking as many shots as they could. The camera featured sophisticated, digitally-controlled optics, recording high resolution images of every movement of the drug deal.
Suddenly the Triad members ran for their vehicles. “Crap!” Lear said. “Glory, call Vess and let her know the bears are heading for the hills.”
As Gloria reached for the radio, the office door behind them crashed open. She and Lear turned, their hands going for their pistols. But the trio of gunmen in the doorway fired first, killing both DEA agents in a flurry of bullets.
Neither had a chance.
Two of the gunmen moved into the room, their silenced Tokarev pistols pointed at the dead agents, while the third stayed by the door. Both bodies were checked for signs of life, then both assassins collected the dead agents’ cameras and recording equipment. They left the same way they had come in, leaving only the deceased behind.
#
Chad Dembski and Hector Godin were ready for action. Dembski was behind the Remington Model 700, while Godin was watching the ship through a pair of binoculars. Godin concentrated on the cluster of men near the cargo truck. The Triad gunmen suddenly stopped what they were doing and ran for their vehicles.
Dembski adjusted his position slightly. “Looks like something’s stirred up the horne—”
A 7.92 millimeter round slammed into his head above his left eye and blew the back of his skull out. Godin had only heartbeat to react before a second sniper round struck him in the mouth and shattered his spine.
High on the superstructure of
The Seven Lucky Dragons
, Seonwoo Hun-Jai smiled as he saw that both shots from his and Sergeant Jee’s Jeogyeok-Bochong silenced sniper rifles had found their targets. “Dragon Three to Dragon Leader. Snipers eliminated.”
#
The three DEA Suburbans raced through the gate, ignoring the shout from the gate guard. They turned to the right and headed for the ship, across the pier’s flat and open space. They spread out in a line, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Ahead of them, the
Seven Lucky Dragons
sat on dock. As they came into view, the Triad vehicles were already moving, driving behind the crates.
Vessler frowned. “What the hell?”
“Something’s wrong,” Choi said.
“That your samurai sense tingling?” Daniels called out from the back seat.
“I’m Korean, not Japanese, you jackass,” Choi shot back in a distracted tone.
“Shut up!” Vessler snapped. “Striker to Paparazzi, Striker to Hunter, talk to me. What do you see?” Five seconds passed without any response. “Striker to Calvary. Can you hear me?”
“Hear you loud and clear. I don’t like this. Do we abort?”
Vessler thought for several seconds. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. “Striker to all Golden Carp elements. Ab—”
“RPG!” Daniels yelled. “One o’clock, two hundred fifty yards!”
Two men in dark clothing with tubes over their shoulders stepped out into the open from the crate’s shadows. Vessler didn’t know if Daniels was right, but despite his caustic attitude, he was an Iraq veteran and a good agent, not one to see shadows where there weren’t any. “Striker to all Carps! Abort, abort! It’s an ambush! Enemy has RPGs!”
Both ambushers fired the rockets on their shoulders, each one sending a five and a half pound warhead flying at the oncoming cars, covering the distance to the Suburbans in about two seconds. The Suburban to Vessler’s left exploded as the armor-penetrating warhead punched deeply into the vehicle and exploded, ripping the vehicle apart.
“Get out of here!” Vessler screamed. “All Carp units, abort, abort, abort!”
Danny spun the wheel hard to the right, bringing the fifteen hundred pound vehicle into a tight turn. Vessler lowered her window as Choi began making the turn. She stuck her LAR-15 out of it and sent half a magazine of 5.56mm rounds back at the RPG gunners, who looked like they were loading again.
Choi straightened out the wheel and stomped on the accelerator, the 6.2 liter, V-8 engine roaring as the vehicle picked up speed. All the windows on the driver’s side exploded and Pelton yelped as he was struck. Choi, his face bloody from several cuts, yelled, “Machine gunners on the office roof!”
Daniels leaned over a slumped Pelton and fired a full magazine at the office building. “Light machine guns!” he shouted while switching magazines.
“Calvary to Striker, We’re on our way in!”
Vessler’s eyes widened. “Negative, Rhonda! It’s an ambush! Stay out!”
“We just turned onto Marin and — oh shit!”
“What?”
An explosion from the direction of Marin Street sent a jolt of fear down Vessler’s spine. There were a few shouts over the radio, but the only words Vessler could make out were “Ambush!” and “RPG!” A second explosion from the same area followed a few seconds later.
