Reflexive Fire - 01 (41 page)

   Deckard flicked his selector switch to auto.  Firing a burst, he stitched the nearest gunman from crotch to chest.  JF and the other mercs raked the enemy position with gunfire, cutting the gunmen down in short controlled bursts.  The last of the group turned and cut loose with a burst of his own, catching one of the Kazakhs high, right across the collarbone and throat before Deckard emptied the rest of his magazine into him.

   It was only superficially comforting to know that he probably never felt a thing.

   Inching out into the mall, they came under fire from the second wave of gunners down by the atrium.  They had managed to advance down through the mall by blowing through the walls but were still in the same predicament.  Pinned down and unable to push forward.

   Deckard ducked as a barrage of gunfire tore up a shelf full of recent best sellers.  The individual books hopped as bullets slammed into them, turning pages into confetti and tossing them into the air like a New Year's celebration.

   Turning to his men, Deckard gave them the hand and arm signal for grenades.

   One of the dead men lying alongside the fountain had something he wanted.

   When two of the FMK-2 grenades arched through the air, Deckard made his move.  It took a moment for the enemy gunmen to gain target acquisition of him, the same length of time left on the grenade's fuses.  They detonated simultaneously, shrapnel wreaking havoc as Deckard picked up the dead mercenary's weapon and rolled behind the water fountain.

   The Mk 46 was a light machine gun that fired from a two hundred round drum mounted underneath the body of the weapon.  This particular model was fitted with a shortened barrel and reflex sight as favored by US Special Operations units.

   He wasn't waiting for the opposition to recover from the grenade blasts, opting to hit them hard and fast.

   Holding down the trigger, Deckard cut loose with a stream of autofire.  Using the tracers as a guide he walked the rounds in a lazy figure eight pattern that pounded the enemy.  They had taken refuge behind several overturned tables, a wooden bar situated in the middle of the mall, and some of the concrete planters with palm trees sticking out of them.  The 5.56 bullets chased them like angry hornets, tearing through wood and sending splinters into the air.

   With the enemy effectively suppressed, the Kazakhs rushed from the bookstore, adding their own gunfire to the chaos.

   When the Mk 46's bolt locked to the rear on an empty chamber, one of the surviving contractors leaned from behind cover and took aim at Deckard.  Dropping the light machine gun with a thud, Deckard snatched his side arm out of its holster, the front sight blade lining up on the enemy with muscle memory built by untold hours on the range.

   The 1911 barked, the .45 hollow point coring the man's brain before exiting the back of his skull in a shower of gore.

   Jean-Francoise kicked away a fallen opponent's rifle as he reached out for it and was preparing a final kill shot.

   “Wait,” Deckard said.  With his ears ringing from the firefight, he was barely able to hear himself speak.  “We need one alive.”

   One of the elevators pinged as it arrived at the mall. 

   The survivors spun on their heels, rifles and pistols trained at the elevator doors as they slid open.

   “Holy shit,” Deckard sighed.

   “Warm welcome, thanks guys,” Pat said, stepping out of the elevator.

   “Weren't you supposed to be with Alpha Company clearing the starboard cabins?”

   “Got separated from the team after getting hit by a second group of reinforcements.  They got this place packed with more security personnel then crew and guests.”

   “What was the status before getting separated?” Deckard asked.  With their comms jammed he had no way of knowing.

   Pat shook his head.

   “You are not much better off down here with us,” JF commented. 

   Suddenly everything in the mall that wasn't bolted to the floor started sliding.  The mercenaries themselves were barely able to maintain their footing as the deck rocked to one side and then the other.  The super-liner was getting broadsided with increasingly powerful waves as was demonstrated by the waterfall that suddenly came down through the atrium after sloshing down the elevator shafts.

   Sheets of water cascaded down the open air shaft that led from the atrium up to the top deck.  Somewhere above, windows and portholes had been smashed to pieces by the rogue wave, allowing huge volumes of water to wash into the ship.

   “What the hell,” Pat cursed as he grabbed a railing for support.  “At least things can't get any worse,” he said, smirking at Deckard.

   Deckard eyed him angrily as the boat shook a second time.

Thirty Four

   Frank knew they were getting close to something or someone.

   The opposition had hit them with wave after wave of gunmen.  The Serbian and American contractors had worked in tandem to thwart Samruk's movement into the upper levels of the ship, deploying heavy machine guns and even antipersonnel mines in the hallways and stairwells.

   The corridors of the ship were running red with blood, the viscous liquid clotting and sticking to their boots as it congealed in the carpeting.

   The Serbs charged forward.  Having deployed thick bullet-resistant riot shields, they pushed forward almost in a phalanx down the hall, shooting and trampling over the Kazakhs in their way.  Frank was nearly black on ammunition when one of the Samruk troopers recovered a PKM from one of their dead and began to turn the tables.

   The belt-fed weapon sputtered, slamming shot after shot into the riot shields and knocking the Serbs off-balance as they strode forward.  With the shields flailing in their grip, several of the Eastern European mercenaries exposed their flanks, an opening that Frank and the other survivors were quick to exploit.

   Draining the AK-103, Frank let the rifle hang by its sling and transitioned to his Glock 19.  Firing shot after shot, he aimed for exposed feet beneath the protective wall of the shields.  Screams filled the hall, filling the random hiccups between gunshots.

   One of the Serbs tripped over his dead comrade and fell down on top of his shield.  Looking up he found himself looking down the barrel of a Glock.  Frank drilled him between the eyes.  The dead were piling up like cordwood.

   Reloading on the move, he took point, treading over the dead on his way down the hall.  Stopping at a T-intersection, he knew they were nearly at the penthouse.  The Alpha Company men would never have even known it was there if they hadn't suddenly encountered such stiff opposition as they got closer.

   At the end of the hall, yet another layer of protection was present.  They lined themselves in front of the penthouse's double doors, creating a wall with their riot shields.  Having gotten a quick glance, he was about to duck back behind cover when a bullet struck him in the shoulder.

   Mendez ran forward to pull him back behind the corner of the wall when the Serbs rattled off a long burst.  The submachine gun fire threatened to reduce the former mortar man into pulp, the shots puncturing his side, instantly deflating both lungs.

   Richie was the next on deck.  He stepped forward and sidearmed a claymore mine down the hall towards the Serbs.  Kurt Jager grabbed Frank by the leg and pulled him behind cover just as the British demolitions expert depressed the clacker.

   The mine ravaged the hallway and everyone left in it.  Even with the riot shields in place, the blast's overpressure alone was enough to kill the Serbs in an enclosed space.  The steel ball bearings did the rest, severing flesh from bone.

   The Samruk men struggled to their feet, many with blood coming out of their ears.

   The explosion made a breach into the penthouse unnecessary.  The wooden doors had been torn right off their hinges and deposited a few dozen feet somewhere inside.

   Kurt racked the charging handle on a fallen enemy's MP-5k sub-machine gun, his own weapons exhausted of ammunition.  Somehow, he knew that in the smoking wreckage of the penthouse was one of the HVTs, preparing for a desperate last stand.

   Kammler held his head in his hands.

   “Leave me,” he bellowed.  “Leave me!”

   Half-naked children fled his bedroom.  Their small feet padded away as quickly as legs would carry them.

   Kammler had demanded a high price for a place in his new world.

   Fellow members of the Council on Foreign Relations, The Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderberg Group, among others, had been brought in on parts of the conspiracy.  They were key leaders in vital positions around the world, needed before, during, and in some cases, after the great cleansing.  In exchange for inoculation to the trigger virus and safe passage on the super-liner during the crisis, Kammler had demanded their unflinching loyalty.

   Not to mention their children whenever he felt the need to indulge himself.

   He could not fathom how it could happen.

   Guarantees had been made.  Everything had been put in its proper place, and now it was falling apart.  He was falling apart alongside what would have been his kingdom.

   Gunfire grew near.

   The outer circle of protection had been made up of Serbian mercenaries, veterans of the killing fields of Eastern Europe.  He knew of their ruthlessness.  He had seen it first hand as a child in Austria.  His father had met his fate at the hands of such men in a war long since passed.

   One of his bodyguards cracked open his door, looking in on him for a moment.  The younger man's eyes were wide, pupils dilated.  He closed the door on Kammler, seeing his resignation.

   The inner circle was made up of the best men that his military-industrial complex could produce, or at least the ones who had been willing to compromise themselves in some manner.  They were American and British.  Ex-soldiers.  They were the last line of defense.

   The super-liner rocked, a wave pounding the decks.

   Explosions sounded somewhere outside.

   It was too real.

  
Enough was enough.

   Check out.

   Reaching inside his pocket he retrieved a small pill box.  Flipping it open revealed a small white pill.  It was fast acting, normally given to field operatives in case of capture.

   Blinking absently, Kammler placed the pill in his mouth and swallowed.

   In moments the room grew darker.  Black walls were collapsing on both sides of his vision.

   Gunshots and shouting seemed to close in from every direction.  His vision growing hazy, he saw a large man kick open his bedroom door.  Snow from the Bavarian mountains drifted in from between the soldier's feet.

   Sliding with his back pressed against the foot of his bed, the old oligarch fell to his side.

   Eyes fluttering closed one last time, he heard the familiar sound of his native tongue, almost as if the old gods were whispering in his ear, calling him away.

   With drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, the voice came into focus.

   “
Scheisse
,” the German voice said.  “That's him.”

   Deckard slammed home the breach on the M203 grenade launcher and let another HE round fly across the dining room.  It exploded with a flash, creating a cloud of smoke.  Screams of the dying sounded in between bursts of gunfire.

   During a short tactical pause, he and his team had stripped dead enemy of weapons and equipment, including body armor and ammunition to replenish what they had expended.  A hasty interrogation had netted them the information they needed before moving farther into the ship.

   Once again, they were on the verge of being overrun.

   Sliding the grenade launcher open, a smoking 40mm cartridge casing fell to the floor.  Thumbing a fresh grenade into the chamber, he slammed the slide shut and took aim.  The dining room would normally host formal dinners for the cruise's patrons.  Now the dining room was converted into a war zone as Deckard's men were confronted by a few dozen triggermen, trying to prevent the mercenaries from reaching the Operations Center.

   Hooking his finger through the trigger guard on his M4's under-barrel grenade launcher, Deckard was about to fire his next round at a trio of bad guys clustered behind a support beam on the other side of the dining room.  Stumbling forward, the M203 discharged its round, as another wave rocked the ship.  With his aim spoiled, the 40mm grenade went way low, skipping off the ground before slamming into the far wall and detonating.

   The enemy gunmen were counting themselves as lucky, knowing the shot was meant for them as they took aim at Deckard.  The next wave blasted everyone off their feet.  Chairs and tables were sent tumbling across the floor.  Anything that wasn't nailed down went skidding across the ground including the contents of the buffet.

   Bracing himself against the wall, Deckard clung onto a decorative piece molded into the wall.  It was with wide eyes that Deckard saw all three of the enemy contractors sliding across the deck amid a pile of furniture and loose silverware. 

   They were heading straight for him.

   Chad slammed both fists down on the table.  Wood splintered and the table hinged in the middle, sending a computer printer and a couple coffee mugs crashing to the floor.

   Outsourced Indian technicians looked down at their toes as their security chief stomped across the room, throwing chairs and people out of his way.  Muscles rippled under his shirt while his face had turned beet red.

   They'd watched the entire assault on the wide screens, every detail captured by security cameras throughout the ship.  It was now clear that his employers' plaything was coming back to haunt them.  His ship was infested with the little Afghani-looking fuckers, not to mention their Western military advisers. 

   The group that was closing in on their Command and Control, or C2, node had interrogated one of his men in the shopping mall and apparently got an answer out of him.  It was a good thing that they had finished him off afterwards, because he was definitely off Chad's Christmas card list.  Currently they were holed up in the formal dining area, exchanging shots with his men.

   There was no way shit was falling apart this quickly.  He'd been throwing everything he had at his disposal at the problem.  They were winning by attrition, but the question became whether they would exhaust Samruk before their command systems were overrun and destroyed.

   They were closing in fast.  Decks Seven and Four were both partially on fire.  It was time to end this.

   Picking up the phone, the ex-Delta man punched in one of the extensions.

   “Get Maahir on the line right fucking now,” he growled at the operator.