RW11 - Violence of Action (24 page)

My fucking stomach was in my throat as the ’hawk dropped like a gut-shot pigeon toward the darkness of the Columbia River. The pilot pulled the airframe up hard and leveled her out less than twenty-five feet above the water. The ’hawk’s nose dipped slightly and I felt the helo picking up speed. We were now hauling serious ass toward where
Wind Storm
was reportedly making her way upriver. I knew Lieutenant Fletcher and his crew of pirates were stuck to our ass in the second ’hawk. Danny would be coordinating our assault as well as getting the ’47 with Trace into a tight racetrack 500 feet above us and over the target. Barrett was also in contact with the AC-130, now code-named “Heavy Dancer.” Given the fucking
Wind Storm
cost about umpteen million dollars (to be precise) and made international trips year-round, I’d had a hunch the company responsible for leasing the boat might have had a worldwide tracking device secretly built into her hull. A honey like this was a prime target for high seas pirates and dope runners looking for an expensive cargo carrier to use, abuse, then pillage and sink at sea. An insurance carrier would want to save or recover the fucking thing if at all possible under such circumstances. With satellite tracking and GPS as sophisticated as it is today, I’d sure put one in. Hell, even piece-of-shit rental cars were getting planted with this technology these days.

Dickie’s hunch paid off. Before we left the PANG, the boat’s owners confirmed there were actually
two
such devices onboard. The first was standard issue and easy to find if somebody was looking for it. Apparently somebody had, because it was no longer operating. However, the second device was a sleeper and was actually built right into the hull itself. Only the owner and leasing agent of the
Wind Storm
knew of its existence. This device, the redundant system, was still operating perfectly. I’d shared my new intel with Danny who passed the information to the gunship, which in turn dialed in the homing device’s radio frequency on the pilot’s deck. This allowed the AC to vector our fast-flying asses right into the target zone with hair-splitting precision. Murphy was now fucking with Blanchard and I wasn’t complaining a bit. Make a note! What goes around comes around in the Rogue Warrior’s Book of Truths. Rogue Karma, you might say.

“I have her just off our starboard side! One minute!”

I pulled my headset off and handed it to the crew chief. Craning my neck, I could see the
Wind Storm
coming up fast. We were lining up with her bow for the final approach. The boat was lit up like Christmas. And why not? When I ran Red Cell and penetrated supposedly heavily guarded military bases, I’d soon learned that making a brazen and bold entrance was often a more effective strategy than trying to sneak in. Most people assume anything being done in broad daylight in the middle of the road is by definition not suspicious. Who would suspect a brightly lit, wildly expensive pleasure craft was the device smuggling in a stolen nuclear bomb? In the movies, it’s always men in black in a rubber dinghy on a moonless night. Besides, I’d certainly learned Blanchard had a taste for the finer things, and the
Wind Storm
was a beauty.

There were a couple dozen other boats in the immediate vicinity, all heading away from Portland at varying speeds and degrees of maritime competence. I hoped none of these fleeing skippers got themselves right in the way of our landing party. We wouldn’t be able to stop to explain to Popeye and Olive Oyl why they were suddenly getting pounded with more artillery fire than Omaha Beach. Why a boat like the
Wind Storm
would be heading
toward
a city about to be stirfried into black glass might have raised an eyebrow or two, but we all know rich fuckers are crazy about how they get their kicks. Most regular blue-collar assholes were more concerned with saving their own asses than fretting over a pleasure cruiser chugging toward the City of Roses on an apparent sight-seeing tour.

“Thirty seconds!”

We were now skimming barely above the water’s surface at high speed. I had my right foot buried deep in the thick black coil of rope positioned at the lip of the helo’s flooring, holding it in place until it was time to kick it out and away when the helo flared to a momentary hover over the boat’s foredeck. I’d directed the pilot to place us no more than fifty feet above the
Wind Storm
so the ride down the rope would be as fast as possible. By now Nemesis had to know we were inbound and a reception party was no doubt assembling to greet us. Blanchard would want to wax our uninvited asses before our boots hit the deck so I knew we needed to rip down the fast rope like chicken-lickin’ raped apes if we were going to survive the first contact. On the plus side, it’s harder than you might think to shoot a black blur dropping out of the night sky. At least, that’s what I was counting on.

Shit!
The ’hawk suddenly pulled pitch and shuddered to a crazy kind of stop over the
Wind Storm
. The change in “Gs” nearly blacked my ass out but I fought the wildly fluctuating pressures pounding against my brain and body and then felt the helo assume a bone-jarring hover. With a guttural roar I kicked the fast rope out and immediately grabbed a chunk of line even as it was free falling toward the hand-laid teak decking below. I threw myself out of the ’hawk and with a slight twist like I’d been taught to execute when inserting by FRIES, I began spiraling downward, holding the thick braided rope loosely between my Rogue-sized mitts. I wore my Hatch assault gloves with Kevlar palm padding to protect me from serious rope burn, but my descent was so fast and nearly out of control I still felt immense heat building up. I kept my boots completely off the rope since I had no intention of braking anytime soon. With my feet spread shoulder-width apart I slammed almost dead center on the ritzy little landing pad the
Wind Storm
had on its deck for hop-and-pop pleasure runs and catered partygoers.

Damn, I’m good!

My smug attitude was kicked right out of me as the SEAL only one boot heel above me on the line smashed directly into my fucking shoulders and upper back. I went flying forward and off the raised platform just as a stream of red tracer fire arced upward at the ’hawk. “GO! GO! GO!” I yelled at my operators as they came flying down the rope one after another. I landed hard on the deck hitting my face, hands, chest, and knees.
FUCK!
I rolled up into a kneeling position and swung my M4A1’s muzzle onto a figure one deck above me. Slapping the selector switch to
AUTO
I pressed the little carbine’s trigger and emptied my initial thirty-round magazine at the motherfucker who was trying to shoot down my aircrew.

Cocksucker!

The figure disappeared and I had no idea if I’d hit him or not. But at least his outgoing fire stopped and I watched as the lead bird slipped portside so the second chopper could maneuver into position and drop its load of operators onto the
Storm
. Off in the distance I could hear the distinct
thumpa-thumpa-thumpa
of the ’47’s twin rotor system as the 160 helo orbited above us. They’d be painting the
Wind Storm
with their onboard infrared capability allowing my airborne assets—especially the gunship high overhead—to monitor the action on the decks and in the surrounding water. We’d dropped in on Blanchard with our night vision goggles at the ready, but I knew Nemesis would be likewise equipped. They—like us—would take advantage of the IR spotlight Trace was now working the boat with. Sure as shit someone inside cut the electrics and the boat went dark from stem to stern. Goggles on, everybody. Now we were fighting in the odd green-black glow of night vision and that, dear reader, is some really weird outer space shit.

“MOVE FORWARD AND PUT SOME FIRE DOWN ON THE UPPER DECKS, GODDAMN IT!”

Even as I gave the order, all three M240s cut loose from behind and beside me, their muzzle flashes near blinding as ribbons of tracer-led steel began chewing the expensive luxury boat apart. The noise was deafening and I thanked the war gods watching over us we were all using New Eagle International’s most excellent facial bone tactical headsets. I could hear my operators despite the intense volume of firepower, and I could communicate with them and the birds simply by switching frequencies with the flick of a finger on my Saber. Make a fucking note! Commo in battle is key! It keeps a team shooting, moving, and thinking as a team. In my business, teams survive where individuals die. And I say dying is a fate reserved for the other guy.

“Dick! You’ve got movement on your left flank! On the main deck. He’s moving fast.”

I keyed my Saber. “Roger that, Danny! Trace, put some mini-gunfire down around this tub. Do a 360 and make it close. I want this son of a bitch to know we’ve pulled the fucking stops out on this one. It’ll put the fuckers’ heads down, too. GO!”

High above me and to my two o’ clock I heard the buzz saw throb of a mini-gun. A solid sheet of fire lit the sky up as the ’47 banked hard to port and began tearing up the river all around us. Through my NVGs I could see impressive geysers of water exploding into the air as hundreds of rounds slammed into the river’s surface at thousands of feet per second. At the altitude Trace was firing from and at the velocity of the incoming ordnance it was like shooting at concrete from an arm’s distance away. I heard ricochets pinging and zinging over us, many of them slamming into the
Wind Storm’s
hull. Suddenly the firing stopped and was replaced by a momentary weird-ass eerie silence.

I ended that little interlude by going after the man Danny warned me about.

Rolling over and over until I was looking down the long walkway on my left flank, I saw him. He’d gone to his belly when the mini-motherfucker had opened up and was just pushing himself up to his feet when I bracketed him with two rounds to the chest. Fuck me to tears if he didn’t just stagger backward under the two hammer-like blows and then let loose with a 5.56 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, on my big ass! I heard a grunt in my headset and knew someone behind me was hit. Shit! The Nemesis operator must have been wearing trauma plates inside his soft body armor, otherwise my two spine busters would have cut through him like crap goes through the proverbial goose. Fucking Murphy again! God, I hate that Mick! I willed myself to melt into the deck as a second long burst from the SAW roared over my back. I felt the TT-assault pack being ripped apart and then away by the angry little steel hornets my asshole buddy up yonder was sending in my direction. Suddenly a flash bang grenade went off between the shooter and where I was lying prone like a whore after a good hour’s gangbanging. The
WHUMMFF-BANG!
of the diversionary device seemed to lift me off the deck. The SAW ceased sawing and I took the opportunity to roll an M26 baseball grenade down the passageway toward the Tango’s last known location. When the fucking little ballistic globe went off, I heard a shrill scream followed by a series of grunts and sucking wheezes. I knew I’d nailed the bastard good and in an instant I was up and running toward him.

“GO—GO—GO!” I yelled into my voice-activated mike. I saw the downed man just as I was about to trip over his ripped-up body. The frag had torn one leg clean off below the knee and peppered the asshole’s lower body with hundreds of shards of splintered steel wire. His head, encased in a black balaclava, was lolling from side to side as he continued to moan and gasp for breath. I hopped over him, landed in a growing pool of blood, slipped and fell to my knees, swore like the goddamn sailor I am, then pushed my M4’s muzzle against the Tango’s forehead as it lolled into view and pressed my goddamned trigger on full auto.

Adios
, motherfucker. Better you than me.

Two SEALs darted around and past me. I could hear more firing coming from the other side of the fucking boat and then Trace was laying down a second ring of steel on the water. This one was so close I felt the spray coming off the boiling surface as she hammered away on the mini-gun now less than 300 feet above us. DELTA trained that bitch well, I thought. Fletcher appeared at my side.

“Skipper! You okay?” he asked.

“Right as fucking rain, Lieutenant! We got anyone hit so far?”

The young SEAL officer nodded quickly. “One dead. Simpson. Took a burst from the SAW amidships. Near cut him in half. I got another man down with a broken leg. Fast rope accident. He lost his grip and did a thirty-foot freefall to the deck. He’s conscious and providing good cover on our six. Everyone else got in okay but Banner.’Hawk #2 shimmied when it should have shook and he roped into the river. Cut away his gear and we fished him out using the fast rope the crew chief dropped before they pulled pitch. He’s still in the fight. I gave him my 240 to play with.”

I nodded. Teamwork. That was what had got us in here and saved a few of our asses so far. It was good to be back with my SEALs. “Let’s start digging the bastards out! I’m going to have Trace hose this fucking boat from amidships to stern. Then we go below decks and root through each fucking nookie and cranny for the nuke. We brought plenty of flash bangs so tell the men to use them, and to use them a lot. The nuke is the priority. Fuck Blanchard! We’ll deal with him only if he pops up on the radar screen. Copy?”

“Roger that!” Fletcher keyed his voice mike and relayed my orders exactly as I’d given them. I heard the ’47 way out over the water as it swung around and prepared to carpet the unsecured portion of the
Wind Storm
with mini-gun fire. It was not in our best interests to fight these fuckers one-on-one. We were too evenly matched on all levels and time was working against me where the SADM was concerned. The boat was still making headway up the river and at a fair rate of speed, too. That meant someone was still at the helm and that meant the gap between Ground Zero and the bomb was closing.