Enemy Unidentified (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 3)

by Peter Nealen

  “Haven’t seen any bad guys in the last ten, fifteen minutes,” Bianco reported. “We’ve heard some shooting, but that’s it.”

  After another long moment, Brannigan started to heave himself to a sitting position. “Take it easy, John,” Flanagan said.

  “Teach your grandpa to suck eggs, Joe,” Brannigan replied. The response actually reassured Flanagan somewhat. If Brannigan had that much fire left, maybe he’d make it. “I’m breathing all right,” he continued. “I want to see the hole in my leg.” He pulled aside the tattered cammies. “Doesn’t look like it hit the artery. Help me pack it so I can get this tourniquet off.”

  “Not sure that’s such a good idea,” Flanagan began, but Brannigan cut him off.

  “We ain’t out of the woods yet, Joe, and I can’t walk right with that damned thing cutting off my circulation. I already can’t feel my foot, and the sonofabitch hurts. As long as I’m not going to bleed to death, let’s try and get me as mobile as possible. Unless you know of some second rescue force that’s on its way here?”

  Flanagan shook his head. The Colonel was right. They were on their own. Pulling another package of gauze out, he started helping Brannigan put a pressure dressing on the wound.

  Chapter 15

  “What the fuck is this bullshit?” Flint snarled, barely restraining himself from throwing his radio across the room. “Here I thought I’d gotten a crew of hardened killers, but instead I got the fucking Short Bus crew of retards! Fuck!”

  Several of Dingo’s team were watching him, and he knew that he was sending the wrong message. Let them think that he was losing it, and he’d lose some of the sense of fear that he’d so carefully cultivated. Then he’d probably have to pop one of them, and he’d rather save the ammunition to deal with whoever these boarders were.

  He leaned over Psycho’s shoulder. “Have we got any idea where they are right now?”

  “There might be two groups,” Psycho said. He was leaning over a printout of the platform’s layout, holding a map pen. “There’s the bunch that managed to break contact on the seaward side.” Psycho must have known on how thin a thread Flint’s patience was hanging, because he didn’t mention that that group had broken contact from Flint’s team, who hadn’t been able to pin them back down. “And somebody tore the shit out of Dingo’s group over on the coastal side. I think they’re moving up, too; there’s been no contact from Reaper or Gravedigger in about fifteen minutes.”

  Flint snarled silently, then forced himself to calm down. It wasn’t consideration for his men that prompted his anger; he couldn’t care less about any of these guys. Just like any of them would probably watch him get his head blown off without batting an eye. They’d been well-paid to do this, and that was all that mattered.

  But he was still pissed at these bastards who were fucking up a perfect op. Everything had gone without a hitch, until they’d somehow managed to board the platform, and in broad daylight, no less. He still remembered Dingo’s accusatory tone as he’d pointed out that it had been Flint’s team on lookout, and was momentarily viciously glad the fucking Aussie was dead.

  “What’s the status on the main charges?” he asked.

  “Shank says they’re ready,” Psycho answered. “He’s just waiting on the evac order.”

  Flint nodded, chewing his lip. The sub was due any minute, but hadn’t surfaced yet. They couldn’t make their escape until it did, and he didn’t want the final destruction of the Tourmaline-Delta to get headed off because they left the charges unattended. He’d never gotten to blow something the size of an offshore drilling platform up before, and he wanted to make sure this went off. He was even planning on making the sub’s skipper hold at periscope depth so he could watch.

  Assuming he didn’t kill the man for being late. There had better be a damned good excuse for that particular part of the plan going awry.

  Maybe I’ll shoot him once we get to the dispersal point. The bosses might not like it, but they need me.

  Then he had an idea. He grinned. “Hey, there’s a PA system on this rig, isn’t there?”

  Psycho looked up at him, a puzzled look on his dark face. “Yeah, I think so. Should be up in the main office.”

  “Good,” Flint said, still grinning. “Get everybody back to the derricks and set in. I’ve got an idea.”

  If this doesn’t work, at least they’ll all be nice and close when this fucker goes boom.

  ***

  “Hey!” a voice crackled over the loudspeakers in the passageways. Hancock and his element didn’t stop. They were moving fast, but not rushing, careful to scan every doorway and adjacent space as they proceeded. None of them wanted to get caught unawares.

  Tanaka jerked a little at the sound of the voice; he hadn’t been expecting it. Hancock half-expected Wade to give him shit about it, but the big former Ranger held his peace.

  They were all keyed up; Tanaka was just a little more keyed up and tense than the rest of them. His experiences were different.

  “Listen up, you fucksticks, whoever you are,” the voice continued. It sounded clearly American, vaguely Midwestern. “In case you haven’t found ‘em yet, I’ll tell you where the precious hostages you’re probably looking for are. They’re in the west break room. Been there for a while. They’re not going to go with you, though. They’re a little the worse for wear, if you know what I’m saying.

  “I thought about keeping them alive for this part, but they were just too much trouble. So, you’ll be the only ones to stick around when I finally push the button on this rig. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got about two hundred pounds of PETN very carefully placed on the two oil wells. They’re still working, at minimum capacity, which means that there’s plenty of drilling mud, gasses, and crude oil down there. Hell, they’re probably about ready to pop on their own, but I’m just going to make sure, and give ‘em that little extra oomph, if you take my meaning.

  “I’m telling you this out of professional courtesy, you understand. If you don’t want to go up in a nice, big fireball, you might want to go see if you can disarm the charges. Of course, I might already have made sure that that’ll blow up in your faces, but I’m a sick man that way.” The man laughed. “You might jump overboard, but I don’t know. That might just get you covered in burning oil. I don’t know just how big a boom this thing is going to make. I’m hoping it’s big enough to put the last few oil rig fires here on the Gulf to shame. Professional pride, you know?”

  Gomez hadn’t said anything, but picked up the pace. It sounded like Hancock’s suspicions were correct; the terrorists were going for the complete destruction of the platform.

  “Keep your heads up and your eyes open,” Hancock warned. Why else would this bastard taunt us like that, unless he’s got an ambush set in? “Let’s kill them before they can get to us.”

  Gomez slowed. He didn’t look back, but said over his shoulder, “If they’ve got an ambush set in, it’ll probably be high. We should go up, link up with the Colonel, and see if we can get the drop on them from above.”

  “He’s right,” Wade said. “There should be a good shot from the helideck, at both derricks.”

  “Good thinking. Up it is.”

  The four men turned in the passageway and headed back the way they’d come, making for the ladderwell off the boat deck.

  ***

  Santelli had reached the same conclusion. “If they’re all gathered around the wells to try to ambush us,” he said, “then we’ll have ‘em all in the same firesack.”

  He was looking forward to killing these assholes, especially that gloating son of a bitch on the PA. He didn’t know what their deal was, and he didn’t care. The motivations of terrorists had never entered into Santelli’s thinking. To him, it was a non-issue. They were terrorists, therefore they were Bad Guys, and Bad Guys needed to get dead.

  Some people might criticize him for simplistic thinking. He figured those people needed to think more clearly.

  Getting back to the ladd
erwell, they started up. Better to attack from high ground and work down.

  ***

  As they neared the top of the ladderwell, Hancock pulled his radio out of its pouch. He’d never been a fan of the black plastic radios; they were less than reliable, particularly compared to the military “green gear” radios they’d used in their past lives. Their arrangement with Van Zandt had gotten them the use of the green SINCGARS radios in Burma, but this op had been laid on too fast, with too many shortcuts.

  “Kodiak, Surfer,” he called. There hadn’t been any contact with either Brannigan’s or Santelli’s elements since they’d split up, and it was bothering him. He didn’t know where Brannigan was; only that he’d gone up top. Which meant that they were nearing the area where the Colonel was probably working, and if they didn’t coordinate their linkup, there was a risk of a blue-on-blue shooting.

  There might have been a reply, but it was broken and filled with static. Hancock cursed. “Kodiak, Surfer,” he repeated, as he pounded up the metal steps. Wade was in the lead, slowing as he neared the top landing, his rifle trained up to cover the opening above them.

  Finally, broken and static-laced, a voice came across the radio.

  “Surfer, Woodsrunner,” Flanagan’s voice said. “Kodiak is down. Professor is out. We are strongpointed on the second deck down.”

  That almost gave them pause. “Down” meant severely wounded and combat ineffective. “Out” meant dead. None of them were necessarily going to mourn Aziz that much, but it meant that the main element that had been hunting for the hostages was out of action.

  “Roger, Woodsrunner,” he replied. “We’re moving to link up.” He looked up at Wade. “Second deck,” he hissed.

  Wade didn’t reply; he didn’t even nod. But he cut his climb short, instead stacking on the hatch leading inside the superstructure just long enough for Hancock to get behind him and give him the go-ahead. Together, they flowed into the passageway.

  The target hatch wasn’t hard to spot; the bullet holes and blood splatter on the coaming were all that was really needed. “Friendly!” Wade called out. It wasn’t quite a shout, but not a whisper, either.

  “Come ahead,” Bianco’s voice replied from the bloodstained hatch.

  The four of them flowed into the room, to find Flanagan kneeling over the Colonel, who was sitting up against the wall, cinching down a pressure bandage around his leg. There was another bandage around Brannigan’s head, and he was covered in blood.

  Pausing just long enough to make sure the door was sufficiently covered, and that there were no more entrances, Hancock knelt next to the two of them. “What the hell happened?” he asked.

  Flanagan glanced ever so briefly at Aziz’ body, but then simply said, “Bad entry. They were already aimed in at the door when we came in.”

  Hancock had caught the glance. He peered briefly at Aziz’ corpse, but decided not to pursue it. There was no point in badgering the dead. “How are you doing, Boss?” he asked Brannigan.

  Brannigan looked pale under the drying blood, and his eyes were a little glazed. “I should be able to move,” he said hoarsely, “but I’m not doing too hot.” Hancock could only imagine what kind of pain he was in, as the initial shock wore off. Even bandaged up as he was, he wasn’t going to be much good in a fight.

  “Did you hear the PA?” he asked.

  Flanagan nodded. “Sounded like a call-out to me,” he said.

  Hancock agreed. “I think so, too. But it’s a lose-lose situation. Either we spring the ambush, or we sit tight and wait to get blown to hell. There’s a chance we could kill our way through the ambush. I’m not keen on the idea of sitting here when this thing goes Deepwater Horizon.”

  Brannigan nodded. “I can still handle a gun,” he said. “Let me get strongpointed in here. Roger, you’re in charge. Take these bastards down, then come get me when the platform’s clear.”

  But Hancock shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself,” he said. “If you pass out and they circle around on us, you’ll be a sitting duck. Tanaka!”

  With a faint grimace, quickly hidden, Tanaka backed away from the hatch and joined them. “Yeah?”

  “You’re gonna stay here with Brannigan,” Hancock told him. Tanaka tried to control it, but Hancock caught the sudden disappointed, crestfallen look in his eyes. He snapped a finger at the younger man. “Don’t start,” he said. “Somebody’s got to stay here. And the rest of us have more CQB training and experience than you do. This isn’t a reflection on you.” He clapped Tanaka on the shoulder, gripping it hard and shaking him a little. “Your time will come. This is just how it fell out this time.”

  Tanaka nodded, though he still looked a little like a beaten puppy. But Hancock didn’t have any more time to reassure him. “Everybody else, on me. Vinnie, grab Aziz’ mags and hand ‘em out. He ain’t gonna need ‘em anymore.” If it seemed cold, that was something else he didn’t have time to worry about.

  “Surfer, Goodfella,” Santelli’s staticky voice came over the radio.

  “Go for Surfer,” Hancock replied.

  “Hey, I can’t raise Kodiak,” Santelli said.

  “Kodiak’s been hit,” Hancock told him. “We’ve linked up, and I’m moving the element to deal with the bad guys on the derricks. What’s your location?”

  “Moving up to do the same, on the coastal side,” Santelli replied. “Be advised; we found the hostages. They’re all dead. Looks like they have been for days, too.”

  Wade started cursing, a low, hissed stream of vicious invective that was made all the nastier by the tone of his voice. It wasn’t even that emotional. It just promised horrible death to any of the terrorists who crossed his path.

  “Acknowledged,” Hancock said coldly. As if they needed another reason to kill all of these bastards. “You take the west derrick, we’ll take the east. Assume that they’ve rigged both, and watch your shots.”

  “Roger that,” Santelli replied.

  Hancock shoved the radio back in his chest rig and accepted the pair of magazines that Bianco was holding out for him. He found an empty mag pouch for one, and shoved the other into a cargo pocket. “Let’s go, before they set this thing off.”

  ***

  “Contralmirante?” the young Naval Infantryman called. “We think something is happening on the platform.”

  Huerta had been outside the command post, smoking a cigarette. He had no idea what the count was for that day. He’d smoked a lot. He dropped the butt in the dirt, ground it out with his boot, and turned to go inside.

  The command post wasn’t the most advanced; it would look shabby and low-tech compared to even the most expeditionary of American CPs. Two folding tables were set up in a tent, with maps scattered over them, a few tablets with commercially-available imagery on them, and a bank of radios. The radios were crackling with voices reporting in Spanish, both from the lookouts on the coastline and the bridge of the ARM Hermenegildo Galeana, the formerly American Bronstein-class frigate that was holding station to seaward of the Tourmaline-Delta platform. The coastal watchers couldn’t see the platform; it was too far out. Even with the powerful telescopes they were equipped with, the platform was a speck on the horizon. But the Hermenegildo Galeana had a better view.

  Huerta went to the radios and seized the handset from the young man talking to the frigate. “Report,” he said, as he keyed the mic.

  “There appears to be shooting on the platform, Contralmirante,” Capitàn Cantu replied. “We are too far out to say for sure what is happening. Perhaps the terrorists have turned on each other.”

  No, that’s definitely not what’s happening. But he wasn’t going to say that. He didn’t dare let anyone know what he’d done. Let it get back to Mexico City that he’d hired gringo mercenaries to clear the terrorists off the Tourmaline-Delta platform, and he was finished.

  “It is possible,” he conceded. “We do not know enough about the group to say. It seems somewhat improbable, though.”

&nb
sp; “What other explanation is there, Contralmirante?” Cantu asked. “This could be our opening. I do not have sufficient Naval Infantry to launch an assault, but if there is another platoon ashore…”

  Which there was. The Tourmaline-Delta standoff was of prime importance to Mexico City. Even as Los Zetas and Cartel Jalisco Nuevo Generaciòn started running even more rampant, resources were quietly being moved to Matamoros. Three more Mi-17s and nearly a company of Naval Infantry had arrived in the last hour, and were assembled and ready to launch. And with the firefight on board the platform, they just might make it all the way without being shot down.

  Huerta made his decision. There was a great deal of risk, but if that Brannigan gringo and his men got in the line of fire, that would just mean that he had little left to explain.

  Have you really fallen so far, Diego? He thought of what his mother and Padre Esparza would say. Yes, most of the authorities of his country were corrupt, and the worst gangsters lived in palaces in Mexico City. They were every bit as bad, in his mind, as the capos, but they wrapped themselves in the Mexican Flag, even as their people’s lifeblood was sucked out by corruption and the bandidos ran wild. But Diego Huerta had been raised a good Catholic, and he knew that to betray the men who had taken his pay to fix his problem was deeply wrong.

  They are mercenaries. He ignored the thought and keyed the mic again. “Agreed, Capitàn. Move your ship closer to provide support, especially if we need medevac.” He handed the handset back to the young enlisted man, and turned on his heel.

  If I go, maybe I can keep this from getting out of hand. He knew his Naval Infantry were not like the gringos. The Norteamericanos could be counted on to watch their shots, most of the time. His men would more than likely kill anyone with a gun, or near a gun, and then maybe ask questions later.

  It was a short walk to the tarmac, where the helicopters were staged, and the Naval Infantry were sitting next to their gear in the hangars. “Teniente Medina!” he barked.

  The Naval Infantry lieutenant came running. The younger man was a hard-case; Huerta had heard that he’d been a sicario himself, once, then had gotten out, killed a lot of people to do it, and joined the Navy. Exactly how he’d gotten a commission was a little bit of a mystery. It usually required connections to get into one of the service academies, but to the best of Huerta’s knowledge, the shark-eyed killer in front of him had no such connections, especially not after the string of horribly mutilated bodies he’d reportedly left behind him when he’d cut ties with the cartel.