RW11 - Violence of Action (25 page)

This was a bad thing.

I kill bad things.

It’s just my nature.

“Everyone down, we’re hosing the stern and the wheelhouse from the air,” calmly ordered Fletcher. He then slid down the inside bulkhead of the main deck and propped his Joint Service Combat Shotgun atop his knees. With a forty-meter effective range and seven-round, three-inch Magnum ammo capability, the new SOF ’gauge was a nasty little bit of hardware any way you sliced it. “Anytime now,” mused the lieutenant.

No fucking shit! I instinctively tucked my chin deep into my chest as the mini-gun opened up just a hundred feet off the starboard side of the
Storm
. Everything from gigantic chunks to tiny splinters of deck, trim, and anything else the gunfire hit went spinning through the air and out onto the river like a Texas hailstorm. Trace was hitting the wheelhouse first in an effort to bring the
Storm
to a halt. Whoever was topside and sailing this poor bitch could not have survived the greasing she was applying in long, accurate, hellish hundred-round bursts. I heard the ’47 moving forward and through my night vision goggles I could see my she-cat in the open gun window. The damn mini opened up again and this time it was the back half of the boat she was raking in long, lazy strokes. I knew Trace would rotate around the stern of this now seriously fucked up pleasure palace and hose the shit outta the props. That would effectively disable the
Storm
and guarantee it would be here and now that this matter would be settled by
moi
and my chain dogs from SIX. Sure enough, I felt the vibrations of the pounding the screws and their shafts were taking as Dahlgren stripped them clean away from the hull. The ’47 then moved again and Trace repeated the pounding of the decks, this time from the opposite side of the boat.

“All clear, Skipper! I’m outta ammo, so you’re up!” she announced over my headset. The Chinook rose and lifted away into the darkness. Anyone who’d survived the scrubbing Trace had just given the
Storm
would have to have been holed up below decks. It was rat-hunting time for the boyz and me.

“Get ’em moving, Lieutenant!”

That’s when my fucking cell phone rang. I couldn’t resist—I fished the little fucker outta a utility pouch and punched the “
TALK
” button. Remember what I said about commo? “MARCINKO! GO!”

“Dick, it’s Karen. Can you talk?”

The absurdity of it hit me like a punch from Mike Tyson. “Sure,” I said, even as Fletcher fired off a short burst at someone I couldn’t see, “just taking a fucking break when you called. Whazzzz up?”

I feared my attempt at humor had gone awry when Karen angrily replied, “Fuck you and listen up! I just left the president and that asshole Mulcahy. I’m at a fucking bar in Alexandria in the women’s bathroom. I think that prick Clay is outside shadowing me!”

The stubby little black hairs on my ears stood straight up as I heard the venom in her voice. Warning bells were going off in my skull even as a bevy of automatic weapons fire rushed over and past me, the
craaak-THUD
of flash bangs accenting the ferocity of the combat now beginning to take place below decks. “Spill it. Shit’s going down and I’m playing the back-field by myself right now!”

“Dick, you watch your six! Clay plans to order the gunship to sink the
Storm
with all aboard if he feels you’re losing control of the situation. Worse, the president sees you as excess baggage and a possible political liability if what you had to do to get this far ever becomes public. Your pardon means squat right now unless you’ve covered your ass in some way I’m not aware of!”

Hmmmm, I thought to myself. The beltway bandits strike again. “Fuck him,” I barked into the cell. “Anything else?”

“Yes. There’s a plan taking shape to do an end run around the Constitution using Blanchard as the fall guy whether you get him or not. Telling you all this will probably cost me my career but…”

“I’ll handle it,” I told her, and I meant it. “Play nice-nice with Mulcahy. I’ll deal with him when I get back. Gotta go, my long distance card is about to run out!”

I punched off and shoved the cell back into its holder. Fuck me to tears! Cross, cross, and double cross! I could handle the president because I’d followed his directive to the letter. By any and all means, he’d told me during our telephonic
chit-chat
at OISA. I love my microcassette recorder and use the little bastard all the time these days. You never fucking know when someone is going to say something you’d just dearly love to have available later on. I’d covertly taped the silly SOB and then made half a dozen copies and sent each one to a trusted friend—including my first editor who is now working for the FOX network—and my mean-ass Doberman of an attorney. If the president wanted to fuck with Dick, then Dick would fuck with the president—but in the public forum. I’d never brought down a presidential administration before but I’d always wanted to, just to say I did. Not a bad pickup line in a bar. As for Mulcahy, I’d deal with him in my own way and in my own time. You find rats everywhere. Karen had come through for me and at great personal and professional risk to herself. I wouldn’t forget that. Loyalty is
Numba One
to me. She’d surely earned mine tonight.

“DICK! Need some help down here!”

Back to work.

“Whaddaya got, sailor?” I barked into my mike. I’d fired off half my magazines and was doing a hands-on check of my gear while I moved toward the sound of the action taking place. I stumbled over a body, or what was left of a body, on the rear deck. The mini-gun had hacked the pleasure cruiser’s upper decks to sawdust. From the boat’s slight list, I guessed we were taking on water. Trace had probably opened up the hull when she’d raked the screws on her last pass. Uncle Sam could pay for the damage; it’d be a bargain compared to rebuilding Portland. I took up a security position and scanned the decks and wheelhouse above me. The
Storm
was smoking from a hundred small fires, thanks to our ample use of tracer rounds, as well as the flash bangs my SEALs had been using in great numbers to flush any Nemesis rats out of the cabins below deck. “SitRep!” I barked into my mike.

Fletcher’s voice came through my earpiece. “We’ve got two additional KIA. Another two with serious wounds and I need MedEvac ASAP off the foredeck. One with light injuries from flying glass but still operational. Three unhurt, including me. What’s your status, Skipper?”

Damn it! My force of ten had been thinned out to four motherfuckers with all their eyes, ears, and fingers properly functioning. “What about Nemesis?” I asked the lieutenant.

“I think we got all of ’em, except the Colonel… and the nuke. I haven’t seen either down here but that’s not to say he isn’t curled up under a bunk somewhere with his favorite toy.”

I shook my head like an angry lion.
Goddamn Blanchard to Hell!
Where was the fucker? Where would I be if I were him? I’d keep the fucking nuke with me, that much was certain. No one reported seeing any one or thing leaving the
Storm
and with the amount of night imagery we’d laid down from both the ’47 and the AC, I couldn’t imagine Blanchard getting away from us unless he swam out using a Drager or SCUBA system. I hadn’t given the rotten bastard enough time to do
that
.

“Trace?”

“Dahlgren here! Whatcha need, boss?”

“Bring the fucking helo down on the deck and drop off the security team. Fletcher needs shooters to secure this piece of shit, which is sinking beneath our feet thanks to your fine aerial gunnery skills!”

“Inbound, Skipper…and thank you.
I aims to please
!”

Christ, it was like having Jerry Fucking Seinfeld on the team. But much better looking.

“Danny! Get those ’Hawks in here. Have one hover off the foredeck so we can get our wounded out and away. Advise the PANG we got hurt people inbound. Then get the fuck outta here and call Karen on her secure cell, the one
I
gave her. She’s got some info you need to hear.”

From off in the distance I heard the two PAVE ’Hawks pounding the air toward us as Barrett complied with my orders. I wanted my wounded SEALs off the terminally damaged
Wind Storm
before it went belly up. I’d seen ships go down before and I knew that when it happened, it happened fast. No five-minute warning bell.

It was high time to find the nuke, and maybe in the process reintroduce myself to Colonel Max Blanchard. I checked my M4 and switched out a half-empty mag for a full one. Slamming the clip into the carbine’s well, I jacked the slide to the rear and extracted a live round, replacing it with a fresh one from the new mag. I let the bolt fly forward and hit the forward assist for good measure. The little rifle was once again locked and loaded.

Okay. Where would I take the nuke? Where would I go if I were in charge of this sack of shit outfit?

To beat a terrorist you have to think like a terrorist.

My eyes roamed over the shattered upper decks finally coming to rest on the badly mauled wheelhouse. Who’d been steering this ship when we’d come up on her? Who’d kept her on track during the initial assault and firefight?
Who’d leased the bitch to begin with?

I began climbing over small mounds of burning debris and headed toward the wheelhouse. Through its shattered windows I could see flames licking away at its interior. Someone had been up there doing his job and I was betting that person was none other than my MIA crackpot colonel. Find the colonel, find the nuke. It just made good sense. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the ’47 maneuvering into position and dropping off the six-man SEAL reaction force. They’d bolster Fletcher’s thinned out assaulters and help load the wounded and the dead.

I couldn’t wait for the cavalry to ride in. I crept past bits and pieces of something vaguely human and scooted up next to the blown out doorway leading into the once super-luxurious control room. Remind me never to let Trace do my interior decorating, unless I’m looking for sawdust everywhere. Pulling my last flash bang from the drop pouch on my assault vest, I gave a quiet warning to anyone listening on the radio that I was about to make some unpleasant noise topside. I worked the safety pin free, dropped it to the ruptured decking, and tossed the grenade into the gutted wheelhouse. It never hurts to be sure.

As soon as I heard the
KA-WHUMMP
of the little banger and saw the momentary bright flash of light it emitted upon detonation, I pulled my goggles off and let them fall against my chest on their dummy cord. Rather than bursting in with my normal roguish flair, I slipped quietly inside the cabin area, the muzzle of my M4 sweeping from left to right, my trigger finger poised above the smooth steel lever, ready to apply instant pressure if necessary. A small blaze crackled near the center of the cabin, providing a hellish kind of illumination to the scene. Fire and brimstone, present and accounted for. But was Blanchard here or not? It was a damn good thing I was playing it coy since the sound of a handgun going off to my right reached me a split second
after
the bullet it fired took off the lower half of my right ear! I dropped to one knee and fired the M4 on full auto into the cabin, trying to aim in the general direction where I thought the bullet had come from.

I stopped shooting and waited, holding my breath and trying to discern any movement or sound in the cabin. Out on the deck I heard the ’47 pull pitch. Its roar was replaced by the PAVE ’Hawks I’d ordered in to get the wounded to safety. With a sudden lurch I felt the
Storm
begin to keel over on her starboard side. Time was running out. I had to search the cabin and hope to
fuck
I’d killed whoever had fired at me. If I really hit the jackpot, it would have been Blanchard! If I were lucky, if I were truly blessed, if Murphy had forgotten about his old pal Demo Dick, I’d get my bad guy, get my nuke, and get my frogman’s ass off this fucking tub before it went to the bottom of the river!

Crouched just inside the doorway, all my senses strained to the max, I tried to detect any movement or sound in the wheelhouse that would tell me where my opponent was taking cover. I didn’t need to work so hard; from across the cabin, a voice suddenly called out my very own name.

“MARCINKO! I figured it’d be you who’d come.”

Blanchard’s smoke-filled, rasping voice sent a chill up my spine. Sounded like a dead man talking. But maybe that was just wishful thinking….

“Where’s the nuke, colonel? Neither one of us has time for small talk.”

“Oh come now, we’ve got all the time in the world. And I’m so enjoying getting reacquainted with your little Jew friend here. That ugly bit of gunfire you just sent in here almost deprived me of his company. How sad that would have made me.”

There—in the corner—I could just make out two figures. One had to be Blanchard, partially protected behind a massive, solid brass table that had been turned on its side. The metal tabletop, pocked with scores of bullet scars, must have acted like a wall of armor and allowed him to survive the assault. But somewhere along the way the fire had obviously gotten to him. His uniform was badly scorched and I thought I could see places where actual bits of skin were peeling from his body. Fine. He deserved to burn. What concerned me was the man on his knees next to him, gagged and blindfolded, totally exposed. Blanchard held his gun directly against the man’s handsome, blond head. Paul Kossens.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.