Primary Threat

by Jack Mars

  “Swann!” he screamed into the darkness. “Where am I?”

  This thing was outfitted with radar, depth sounder, GPS, VHF tactical radio, and a host of other sensors and processing systems, but Murphy could barely steer the boat, never mind make sense of all the data coming in. Swann was supposedly tracking him and his relationship to the oil rig.

  A voice crackled in his headset.

  “Swann!”

  “Go north!” he heard the voice shout. “North by northeast. You’re being pushed to the south.”

  Murphy checked the compass. He could barely see it. He turned the boat’s wheel to the left a bit, aligning himself more to the north. He had no idea where he was going. Something could loom up right in front of him, he could crash into it, and never see it.

  He had no plan. No one knew he was coming, not even his own guys. Swann and Trudy were the only ones who knew he had taken this boat. They were the only ones who knew he had quickly shrugged into body armor, and loaded the boat with weapons and ammo. They were the only ones who knew where he was at all. He didn’t even know where he was.

  And he almost didn’t care.

  He didn’t care whose side he was on.

  He was empty, hollowed out.

  He was the Dexedrine speaking, and the adrenaline.

  There were terrorists out there, bad guys, and he was the good guy. He was the cowboy and they were the Indians. He was the cop, and they were the robbers. They were the FBI, and he was John Dillinger. They were Batman and he was the Joker. He was Superman and they were… whoever.

  It didn’t matter who was who and what was what.

  They were the other team, and he was going to ram this boat right down their throats. If he lived, he lived. If he died, he died. This is how he had always gone into combat, and he had always come out the other side. Total confidence.

  He didn’t care about life very much, his or anyone else’s.

  He was dead inside.

  This. These moments. This was when he was alive.

  “East!” Swann shouted. “Straight east!”

  Murphy gently steered to the right.

  “How far?” he shouted.

  “One minute!”

  A strange shiver ran through Murphy. He was freezing. Hell, he was practically frozen solid. Even in coveralls, a big parka, thick gloves, a hat, and his face covered, he was frozen. His clothes were drenched. He was shivering, maybe from the cold, maybe from the newest surge of adrenaline.

  This was the game. This was it.

  Right here. It was coming.

  He gave the boat even more throttle. He peered into the gloom. The storm surged around him. He steadied his legs and gripped the wheel as the boat got knocked from side to side.

  Now, he could just see some lights out there. And he could hear something.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  It was shooting.

  “Slow down!” Swann screamed. “You’re about to hit land!”

  In front of Murphy, bright lights suddenly appeared.

  He was moving fast. Too fast. Swann was right. The shoreline was RIGHT THERE.

  But the boat was designed for beach landings.

  There was no way to stop anyway. Murphy gave the throttle everything and braced for impact.

  * * *

  A dead man floated in the water above Luke’s head.

  Luke stared at the man. He was a Navy SEAL in full gear, shot as he tried to climb out of the water. He drifted this way and that, turning over like seaweed in the surging currents. His arms and legs waved randomly, like overcooked spaghetti.

  He sank toward Luke.

  Blood drifted out from multiple holes in the man’s body and stained the water near him red. Luke knew the bleeding wouldn’t last long—now that the man’s dry suit was cut open and he was exposed to the cold, he was going to freeze very quickly.

  Blinding white light shone down from above. A moment ago, land-based klieg lights had come on, illuminating the water. The SEALs were exposed, and it didn’t look like anyone had made it up out of the water yet.

  Forget about getting the dry suits off. Forget about getting the weapons out of their weather-proof bags. Forget about getting oriented and taking the initiative. Forget about a surprise attack.

  The enemy wasn’t surprised at all. They were positioned up there, firing down into the water.

  They knew the SEALs were coming. They had anticipated an underwater assault. The image flashed through Luke’s mind again—that robot, with an embedded camera, glowing green in the dark water.

  It was an ambush. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Luke, twenty meters below the surface, saw bullets penetrate the icy water above his head, then lose momentum as they approached.

  Inside Luke’s headset, someone shrieked.

  Ed was still beside him. He pushed Ed hard. Ed turned to look, and Luke pointed backwards and down. Deeper. They needed to retreat and go deeper. In a moment, those guys up top were going to notice the bullets weren’t reaching their targets, and they were going to start firing heavier, more powerful guns.

  “Abort!” someone else shouted in Luke’s helmet. It was the first time a message came through clearly. “Abort!”

  * * *

  The boat slid up onto the island and across the icy ground.

  The deceleration was instant. The sound of metal scraping rock was awful. Murphy was thrown like a rag doll. He flew over the control console and out of the cockpit. His legs caught on the console and flipped him upside down.

  He went head over heels and landed on his back in the bow of the boat. His head banged off the aluminum flooring. BONG. His ears started ringing instantly. Tubular bells. His night-vision goggles were gone.

  He gasped for air. The impact had knocked the wind out of him.

  No time for that.

  He groaned, pushed himself up and lurched like Frankenstein for the chain gun.

  He stood, taking in a view of the battlefield.

  At least twenty men were across from him, dressed in dark clothes and wearing black headgear and masks against the cold. Giant spotlights were shining down from ten-foot-high mounts. The men in black stood and kneeled in the freezing rain, firing guns into the water—the water where the Navy SEALs probably were.

  That’s what the big spotlights were for—to give them targets in the water. The lights probably also served to blind the swimmers and deny them targets, if any of them could even get their guns out.

  The men in black began to turn toward Murphy. They almost seemed to be moving in slow motion. In another second, they were going to start shooting him full of holes.

  Murphy gripped the heavy gun in front of him with both hands.

  His finger found the trigger mechanism.

  Please work.

  He opened up. DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH came the metallic sound of bullets firing. He easily rode the recoil of the mounted gun. Spent shells fell to the bottom of the boat, tinkling like jingle bells.

  Murphy hosed the men down. He hit four or five with his first burst.

  They didn’t fall as they were shot. They came apart like rag dolls, the bullets ripping through them. Now the others were running, seeking cover.

  “Run, you monkeys,” he said.

  A sound came.

  WHOOOOOOOOSSSSHH.

  A rocket flew past him. His entire body jerked in response.

  Just missed. He hadn’t even seen it coming. It hit somewhere in the water behind him. He didn’t hear an explosion, but he saw an orange and yellow flash go up.

  How did he see that out of the corner of his eye?

  No. He must have eyes in the back of his head.

  His ammunition belt was already running down. He didn’t have a backup.

  Running out of ammo was a problem. That RPG was also a problem—there were going to be more. Already, the men were regrouping out there and taking up firing positions facing Murphy. He reached with his left hand and fired a smoke grena
de.

  Then he dropped to the floor of the boat.

  A second later, rounds started hitting the armored plating of the boat. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk…

  Bullets whistled overhead.

  He looked up at the trigger of the chain gun. He still had some rounds left, but if he tried to reach his hand up….

  WHOOOOSSSHHH.

  Another rocket went by. Whoever had the rocket launcher was a lousy shot.

  Thank God.

  Murphy had a pistol on him. He pulled it from the holster. He crouched below the lip of the bow. The first man who appeared there was going to take a bullet in the head. After that…

  But they weren’t that dumb. A grenade suddenly appeared, bouncing around inside the front of the boat like a rubber ball. It made solid metallic BONKS as it bounced. Murphy picked it up, waited half a beat, and threw it back.

  An instant later: BOOOOM.

  Someone out there screamed. Dirt and ice and blood and meat rained down.

  They were right there, creeping up.

  Murphy’s breaths came in harsh rasps. He wasn’t gonna last. He was outmanned. He was outgunned. He couldn’t seem them—if he peeked over the side, they would take his head off. He couldn’t throw back every single grenade that came. The guy with the rocket launcher wasn’t gonna miss all night.

  Murphy was gonna die right here in this boat.

  His mind raced, looking for options.

  “Oh God,” he said.

  This might have been a mistake.

  * * *

  Something had changed.

  At one moment, they had seemed like they were all doomed, trapped in the water, the enemy above them and firing down, machine gunning them. Now they were on the offensive again, moving forward.

  Luke came bursting out of the water.

  He pulled himself up onto a low frozen seawall, an icy wave breaking over him, washing him further onto land. He reached down and wrenched his flippers off, tossing them aside. It was dark. All around him, men were surging out of the water.

  A few of the SEALs already had their guns out. There was firing up and down the beach. DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH.

  Bodies were strewn all over the ground.

  Where was the enemy? Luke couldn’t spot them.

  Nearby, two Navy SEALs dragged their fallen comrade up onto land. He was shot full of holes, blood all over him. The man was not moving.

  “Medic!” one of the men shouted.

  Another wave crashed, spraying Luke with icy foam. A cold rain came down in sheets. It took his breath away.

  There was no way around it. They were going to be wet, and cold. Luke unhooked his scuba tanks and let them drop. He pulled out his knife, opened it, and cut off the straps of his buoyancy compensator. He let that drop, too. Now he had to get out of this dry suit. It had taken him fifteen minutes to get into the damn thing.

  Whoever thought all this was somehow a good idea must have been out of their minds. Either that or they knew nothing about combat. Luke glanced around. All around him were men fighting to get out from under their scuba gear.

  An odd thought occurred to Luke, one he had never had before...

  Just wait until I file my report.

  He looked at the six-inch serrated blade of his knife. He shook his head. The hell with it. He unlocked the seal on his gloves and pulled them off. His hands would go numb quickly, he knew. He grabbed a hunk of his dry suit and pulled it away from his body. Then he slipped the knife in and started cutting.

  * * *

  Nothing happened.

  No more grenades came. The firing stopped—at least, the firing directed at him.

  Murphy still had his gun. He was still crouched in the icy rain, waiting for the enemy.

  But no one came.

  He peeked over the top of the armor plate, his mind recoiling from the task, fully expecting to take a sniper’s round in the head.

  Nope. Nearby, there was nothing but a bunch of dead and dying men, two or three crawling across the ground, leaving a trail of blood like snails. The rest were lumps of raw, steaming meat.

  Up the shoreline, men in dark scuba suits were appearing on the beach. A few of them had already taken up positions, their scuba gear still on their backs, and were lying down, suppressing fire. Murphy’s attack must have given them just enough time to come ashore. And face-to-face with Navy SEALs, the bad guys had fallen back.

  In the distance, the gigantic oil rig itself loomed against the dark sky.

  The SEALs were firing in that direction.

  As Murphy watched, another dark scuba diver crawled up out of the icy, raging water. The man wriggled up the beach about ten feet, rolled onto his back, and began to rip himself out of his diving suit.

  Another one crawled out of the ocean like a sea monster and did the same thing. As he did, a rocket came down from the rig and exploded on the beach.

  BOOOOM!

  It was the lights. The bad guys had evidently retreated, but those spotlights were still giving them something to shoot at.

  Murphy went to the chain gun and pointed it up at the big spotlights. With a couple of brief bursts, he took them out. The SEALs flinched as the lights shattered, sparked, burst into flames, and went out. But now they were safely in darkness again.

  Murphy sighed. He clambered to the back of the boat, opened the gear chest, and grabbed a shrink-wrapped MP5 from inside. His hands shook as he picked it up. The gun was heavy. Murphy’s shoulders slumped—he almost couldn’t lift the damn thing.

  His whole body started to tremble.

  He suppressed a sudden urge to start crying.

  “Almost bought it this time,” he said. The words didn’t sound like anything. His teeth were chattering. He was very cold now, and he had almost been dead. The energy seemed to be flowing out of his body. He’d never felt quite like this before.

  He looked down at himself, doing a body check. Was he hit?

  No. He was just… wiped out.

  He climbed over the gunwale, got low, and moved across the ice toward where the men were. He stared up at the giant oil rig, rising dozens of stories into the sky. He could see the muzzle flashes of enemy guns up there. They were shooting at them.

  Just in front of Murphy, a SEAL managed to rip open his dry suit across the chest. He pulled a small handgun from inside it. He ripped the gun out of its wrapper, then turned and pointed the gun at Murphy. It was almost laughable. The whole operation had taken the guy at least ten seconds. Murphy could have killed him twenty times by now.

  “Who are you?” the man said.

  Murphy smiled and raised his hands in mock alarm. He was still trembling, but already beginning to feel a little better. He was cold, he was soaked to the bone, he was shaking uncontrollably, and his body hurt from the impact of crashing into land.

  Admit it. You almost got killed out here.

  Yeah, he admitted it. And it brought back bad memories. He had almost died before, many times, but this one had seemed especially bad. He might even have been traumatized by it. For a second, he had really thought he was a goner. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt that way before, not even with Stone that time in…

  He shook that thought away. It had all been worth it tonight. These guys would have been Swiss cheese if it wasn’t for him.

  “I’m an American,” he said.

  * * *

  “Stone!” a voice shouted.

  Luke was still struggling to cut himself out of his dry suit. It was aggravating. The bad guys had pulled back, but if they hadn’t, he would have been a sitting duck in this thing. He would have practically been a baby seal, waiting to be clubbed.

  “Stone!”

  Luke looked up this time.

  Here came… Murphy?

  Murphy limped up the beach, cradling an MP5 in two gloved hands. He wore a heavy parka, black coveralls underneath. His hood was down, and he wore a thick hat of some synthetic wool-type material. His face was red and raw and exposed to the element
s. But his eyes were sharp.

  “What are you doing here?” Stone said.

  Murphy smiled. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came here to save your asses.” He gestured at the corpses of terrorists strewn on the ground behind him.

  “See all the dead guys? Who do you think deaded them?”

  Luke smiled and shook his head. The picture came together with an almost audible click. The reason why the battle turned was Murphy. Luke looked down the shoreline and spotted the silhouette of the Navy patrol boat on the beach.

  The guy was truly one of a kind.

  “Murph, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. Now cut me out of this thing, will you?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  12:01 p.m. Moscow Standard Time (12:01 a.m. Alaska Daylight Time)

  The “Aquarium”

  Headquarters of the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU)

  Khodynka Airfield

  Moscow, Russia

  “All is not yet lost,” the young man said.

  Marmilov took a long drag on his latest cigarette. The ceramic ashtray on his desk was already piled high with the dead ends of the others.

  “No,” he said. “But nearly so.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “Nearly so.”

  He was back again, this young man, with his military bearing and his ill-fitting business suit. He was bright enough, Marmilov thought, and he might have a decent career if he learned to dress well. But good clothes cost money, and money was likely the man’s problem. He was on a government salary. And perhaps he hadn’t yet learned that his position would afford him easy access to money, if he were just a little bit daring. The criminals, from the street pimps up to the corporation directors, were all terrified of the intelligence agencies.

  Marmilov sighed and shook his head. That was a lesson for another time.

  He had watched the American assault on the artificial island in the Arctic Ocean. He’d had a very good view, as a surveillance camera had long ago been set up along the waterfront where the frogmen came ashore. The imagery was grainy and in black-and-white, but the perspective couldn’t have been better.