The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  “Is that one of ours?” asked Rosse,

  “No,” said Tate. He’d flown in helicopters all over the world on missions with other countries. He hadn’t been on this type, but he had blown up a few. Just another mission that, according to the Army, never happened with a Special Missions Unit that never existed. “It’s South Korean,” said Tate. “Called a Moth.”

  “Huh,” said Rosse. “More like a moth eaten, if ya ask me.”

  “How’s Fulton doing?” asked Tate. He’d sent them both out here knowing Rosse would be good therapy for the young private. Witnessing the execution of the little girl by the Scavengers had been a brutal eye opener to the level of violence people are capable of.

  “He’s okay,” said Rosse. “I mean, better, you know. That little girl being killed like that. It’s something you can’t unsee.”

  Tate understood. He’d had those nights when his mind was determined to flip through all of the horrible memories he could never free himself of. “I get it,” said Tate. “There’s never enough time to get over something like that, but we find a way to keep it from getting in the way of what we have to do. If he’s not ready for tonight I’ll have him sit this operation out.”

  “Hell, Top,” chuckled Rosse, “Never mind the kid. I dunno if I’m up for it.” The smile faded from Rosse’s broad face. “I ain’t a shrink,” said Rosse, more thoughtfully, “but I done a lotta years as a correctional officer. I seen all kinds of men wrapped up inside their own head over things they done. You learn to read ’em, if you know what I mean.” Rosse paused while he considered his answer. “Yeah. I think the kid’s gonna be fine.”

  “Fair enough,” said Tate. “See what you can do to help Monkhouse. I’ll catch up with everyone in a few.”

  Rosse nodded and headed over to Monkhouse. “Sergeant Wesson,” said Tate into his radio, “assemble the team in the barn in 15 minutes for our mission brief.”

  “Copy that,” crackled Wesson’s voice over his radio.

  * * *

  The team sat in a semicircle around Kaiden’s laptop as Tate explained the symbols littered around the map of the island.

  “There’s a fix heavy machine gun on the top of this hotel,” explained Tate, pointing at the map, “at the west tip of the island. It’s set up to shoot down on anything that approaches from the west. The north roof of the building will obscure their aim, so we’ll come in low from the north, under their field of fire. That leaves a heavy gun on top of the cargo ship’s bridge, an APC, also with a mounted machine gun and one, maybe two, patrol boats. Don’t worry, we don’t have to deal with all of them at the same time. The patrol boats will be running a quarter mile from shore along these tracks.” Tate pointed to the recorded guard paths of the patrol boats on the laptop. “It’s dark and they won’t see us until we’ve taken them out. Next is the APC and the position on the ships bridge. We take those out and, if possible, soften up any ground resistance with our .50 cal. The helo drops us in front of the drug factory, this metal structure here. We destroy that and move onto the cargo ship. The chopper will provide over watch.”

  “How do we take out the drug factory?” said Fulton.

  “Based on the size of that lab,” said Tate, “and the number of people working there it’s a safe bet they’ll be barrels of solvents, like kerosene or gasoline. Punch a few holes, add a match and stand back.” Tate zoomed the map onto the ship. “This part’s going to be harder. The only way to put this ship out of commission is to damage the engine beyond repair, but getting to the engine room is where things get hard. According to the track data from the URV there’s no more than ten armed hostiles on the ship at any given time.”

  “We’ll have to fight our way onto the ship,” asked Wesson, “and down to the engine room?”

  “Whoa, hang on,” said Rosse. “That thing’s like a giant, steel castle. Ain’t no way we’re gonna do that. No way.”

  The team all began talking at the same time. Deep inside himself, Tate knew what he was asking was impossible, but there was always a chance. The alternative was letting the ship deliver its deadly cargo. His mind skipped through one possibility after another, but each of them ended with them captured, or dead. He shook the grim images from his mind and turned his focus back to the team. Oddly, everyone was quiet, looking at Tate except Monkhouse, who said something Tate missed.

  “… but there’s no way to know if it will work,” finished Monkhouse with a doubtful smile.

  “What do you mean,” said “if it’ll work?”

  “Well, it’s what?” said Monkhouse. “Inch thick steel, maybe more if it’s angled.”

  “Monkhouse,” said Tate exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

  “The cannon,” said Monkhouse expectantly.

  “I swear,” growled Tate, “if you don’t start speaking in whole sentences I’ll…”

  “The twenty-millimeter cannon,” said Monkhouse, “on the chin turret of the helicopter.”

  Tate couldn’t help himself from standing there with his mouth hanging open. He didn’t see a chin turret on the helicopter, but it was dark when they towed it out of the barn, and his mind was on a million other things that he wasn’t paying attention.

  “We have a twenty-millimeter cannon?” said Tate.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” chided Monkhouse. “But hey, before you get too excited, I don’t know if it works. Well okay, it works cause I could hear the ammo feeder cycle, but targeting? There’s a bazillion wires and I can’t tell how they all connect.”

  “But it’ll shoot,” said Tate hopefully.

  “Oh yeah,” said Monkhouse. “It’ll shoot. Probably. Mostly. Or, maybe it’ll misfire, the shell will explode up into the cockpit taking out the avionics and we crash in a fiery ball of death.”

  Everyone stared at Monkhouse with pale disbelief.

  “I’m kidding,” said Monkhouse. “I’m almost a hundred percent that won’t happen.”

  “Just make sure it shoots,” grumbled Tate.

  Eventually everyone stopped looking at Monkhouse and Tate got back to the briefing. “We have a limited time to hit our objectives and exfil. There’s a small military base at the east end of the island by the bridge. They figure that’s the most likely approach of attack, so they’ve garrisoned the majority of their strength there. We don’t know if they have alarms, but they’re sure to have radios. As soon as someone tells them the dock’s under attack you can bet they’ll mobilize everything they have.”

  “I thought this island was crammed with Vix,” said Rosse. “How do they get around?”

  Tate shifted the map to a highway running the length of the island then zoomed in. What, at first, appeared to be piles of debris running the entire length of the highway resolved itself to be several hundred bodies. “The soldiers only travel in heavy vehicles and keep the foot on the gas. They plow through any Vix that are in the way.”

  Tate shifted the view of the map back to the docks, pointing to the high wall of containers surrounding the area. “This container wall is sixty to eighty feet high,” said Tate. “Look here.” Tate pointed an arrangement of steel container boxes that created an alleyway leading to the barricaded docks. “This is the only way in,” said Tate. “Using the giant cranes, they move the cargo boxes creating an opening to one end of the ally and the vehicles drive in. They return the cargo boxes and the ally is boxed off again. They kill any Vix inside the ally then open the other end and the vehicles drive right up to the factory.”

  “That sounds like it takes a long time,” said Wesson.

  “I’m counting on it,” said Tate. He looked at his team; their expressions all asking unspoken questions about a future he had no answers to. They weren’t alone. Tate could feel their need for something to hold onto in the face of so much doubt. He thought of the coming fight; the blaze and noise combat. He thought of the enemy who’s hope was to kill thousands of innocent people. His anger smoldered and lit a fire inside him that burned away his
doubts and fears.

  “I know,” said Tate. He smiled and nodded his head in unspoken acknowledgment of their thoughts. “If I had my choice I’d be home, in bed catching up on my beauty sleep.” The team smiled, some laughed, bleeding away nervous energy. “But, we have work to do. That’s why we’re here. There was a time we were all someone else. You were a prison guard, or a farmer, or bartender, but not today. Not anymore. Everyone here traded those lives to become part of this unit. Fight the darkness. That’s what we do; who we are. There’s an enemy out there that believes their cause justifies the mass killing of innocent people. That’s not going to happen. In a minute we’re going to get on that helicopter and crash their party. We will unleash an unholy rain of hell on their heads they will never forget.” The faces looking at Tate were set with fierce resolve. These were the warriors he would take into combat. “Grab your weapons, Grave Diggers,” said Tate. “It’s time to kick ass.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE ISLAND

  The twin 470 horse power diesel engines burbled softly as they pushed the light patrol boat at five knots across the ink black waters of the bay. The pilot kept a steady direction along their patrol route having done it so often he knew it by heart. Each of the other two men were stationed at their mounted machine guns. A .50 caliber in the bow and a 7.62 machine gun at the stern of the boat. Their duty to the Suicide King was to protect his island from intruders attempting to cross the bay. They were proud to do it, but the tedious role of lookout was not enough to keep the man in the stern awake. For the man in the bow the only thing to see in the darkness were the lights of the distant docks, the stars above. With visibility at a minimum they were relying on hearing the sound of an intruding vessel.

  The days were hot with a canvas canopy as their only shade. By sundown their eyes were red and tired from hours of scanning the surrounding area with binoculars. The nights were cold and a constant breeze chilled their damp clothing.

  The only break in their long and boring duty had been several months back when they spotted a rickety fishing boat setting off from the distant shore. They were satisfied to watch the small, white speck choose its course without interference, but fishing boat’s fate was sealed the moment it headed for the island. Still the men in the patrol boat weren’t in a hurry to chase it off, or capture it. That wasn’t part of the job description. Sink or destroy was all that was required of them.

  Anticipation got the better of their patience and the pilot gunned the engines. The beefy turbo charged, six-cylinder engines dug into the water throwing the light patrol boat forward. Carving through the water at forty knots they quickly closed on the intruders. The people on the fishing boat saw them coming. One of them held up a homemade white flag as the others waved their arms.

  The man in the bow of the patrol boat racked the charging handled of his .50 caliber machine gun. The fishing boat was easily within the effective range of the heavy machine gun when the gunner opened up. Confusion and panic swarmed the passengers of the fishing boat as spouts of water kicked up around their vessel. Using the tracer bullets to guide him, the bow gunner corrected his aim and was rewarded as the big rounds chewed into the fishing boat sending chunks of the hull and cabin flying into the air. The patrol boat pilot swung the boat parallel to their victim to bring the smaller M240 machine gun to bare. The people on the fishing boat disappeared from view as they desperately scrambled for cover, but the aged, wooden boat had no protection to offer. The two machine guns hammered the fishing boat to pieces. Smoke trailed from the hot machine gun barrels as both gunners stopped as the pilot circled the debris. There were no bodies, or survivors signally for help or quarter. They’d hidden in the lowest part of the fishing boat, below the waterline in hopes of salvation and that’s where they died as the old boat took them to the bottom of the bay. The Suicide King’s claim to the island was absolute.

  The sleeping gunman woke up when the lulling grumble of the twin engines went quiet. “What are you doing, Oscar?” complained the groggy gunner.

  “Do you guys hear something?” asked Oscar.

  “Si,” said the newly woken gunner. “I hear my rear getting chewed out for screwing around on duty.”

  “Quiet, Luis,” said Oscar. He tilted his head as his ear searched for something that maybe was real or maybe his imagination.

  “All I hear is the water,” said Luis, “and now I have to pee.” Luis got up and braced himself against the hump of the big, outboard motor as he undid his pants and relived himself.

  “I say to be quiet,” snapped Oscar, “and you make more noise.”

  Luis finished up and zipped up his pants unconcerned, but stopped in the middle of buckling his belt as he heard a sound. “Someone’s trying to sneak past us,” said Luis excitedly.

  Oscar turned his head trying to get a fix on the direction of the sound. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” said Oscar. “Javier, hit the spotlight.”

  The bow gunman snapped on the thousand-watt searchlight cleaving through the dark.

  “I hear it,” said Javier. “It’s close.”

  The sound was close and getting louder. Javier swung the searchlight in every direction, but all they saw was empty water.

  “It’s right on top of us,” yelled Luis as he grabbed onto his machine gun, desperately looking around. “They’re going to ram us.”

  Suddenly the water around the patrol boat churned into a white froth and the men were lashed with spray and wind.

  Fulton brought the Moth into a hover above the patrol boat as Tate centered the barrel of the heavy machine on his target and fired. Balls of yellow fire flashed as Tate walked the machine gun up and down the patrol boat punching through plastic, steel and flesh. The boat’s searchlight sparked then went out. Each strobe of Tate’s gun etched the mauling of the boat and its crew in a gruesome split-second image.

  “Target Bravo,” said Tate as his gun went quiet.

  The helicopter tiled to the side as it rose into the air and headed to the lights of the distant shipping docks.

  “Gun position on ship’s bridge coming up,” said Fulton.

  The details of the dock firmed up as they closed the distance. Industrial floodlights bathed the docks and surrounding water in yellow tainted light. Deep shadows thrown by stacks of shipping containers and the hanger-shaped coke factory contrasted sharply with the light.

  Fulton flew low over the water closing on the port side of the ship. With fifty yards to go he twisted the collective and the Moth quickly lifted. The ship’s eighty-foot-high bridge zoomed past them as Tate looked for the machine gun on the wing of the bridge.

  The sudden roar of engines and gust of wind caught the guard by surprise. The Moth’s black exterior made it hard to see, but not impossible. The guard looked up seeing a pale face looking down at him. The face disappeared behind a puff of orange flame and the guard instantly reacted. His heavy machine gun boomed as he yanked down on the grips of the gun tipping the barrel up. Tracers arced across the sky as he tried to find his target against the night sky.

  The Moth slowed as Fulton was mesmerized by the surreal streaks of green tracers flying by.

  “Move, Fulton,” yelled Tate over the radio. “Circle him.”

  Fulton snapped out of his trance and yanked the cyclic over. The Moth violently tilted throwing Tate against his safety harness. Something flew off the Moth cartwheeling into the water below.

  “Damn it, Fulton,” snapped Monkhouse. “Easy. This thing is barely holding together.”

  “What was that?” asked Kaiden.

  “A maintenance panel,” said Monkhouse. “I think. Nothing important… I hope.”

  Tate was nearly suspended by his harness looking straight down on the machine gunner below. Tate shoved his thumbs against the trigger lighting up the port wing in fireworks as the big .50 caliber slugs punched through the steel deck sending up showers of sparks. A bullet hit the ammo box of the guard’s machine gun, setting off a horrendous chai
n reaction of lead and steel. Dazzled by the flash of his own gun Tate didn’t know if he’d hit the guard, but knew he’d never survive that swarm of flying metal.

  “Target Charlie,” said Tate.

  The Moth shuddered as Fulton leveled off and slewed hard to the left with a sickening motion. Everyone onboard instinctively grabbed onto something as Fulton wrestled for control of the helicopter. Above their heads one of the turbine engines began to howl. Most of the gauges and indicators in the cockpit hadn’t been connected and showed nothing about what was happening.

  “Shut down the left engine,” yelled Monkhouse.

  “Where?” screamed Fulton as he countered the bucking Moth. The control panel was dark and impossible to make out where the engine switches were.

  Below, the dock was alive with activity and guards fired into the sky unsure where the helicopter was. Some spotted light gleaming off the shiny, black Moth and zeroed in on their target. More and more bullets zipped around the helicopter as the turbine engine reached a piercing scream. The engine exploded spraying out shards of the turbine blades and helicopter lurched down, as if punched. Smoke billowed out of the failed engine as Tate struggled to keep his aim and return fire.

  “We gotta land,” yelled Monkhouse. “This thing’s coming apart.”

  “Not yet,” said Tate. “Fulton. You got this?”

  The Moth evened out and Fulton felt the controls respond to his movements. “Yeah Top,” said Fulton. “I got this.”

  The guards sprayed the Moth with their AKs and bullets slapped stitched a path across the fuselage. The co-pilot’s windscreen spiderwebbed and rounds smacked the hardened plexiglass.

  The APC served into view and the turret gunner swiveled his big .50 caliber towards them. Fulton slewed the Moth to keep Tate and his machine gun facing the APC. Each opened fire at the same time in a duel between the APC and the Moth. The APC driver showed his experience by weaving the APC making it harder to hit, but the Moth’s speed made it the harder of the two to keep up with. Tate measured his bursts of fire watching where his rounds gouged chunks out of the asphalt as the APC dodged erratically. Guessing the APC’s next move, Tate aimed at the expected direction of the vehicle and opened up. The APC drove right into Tate’s stream of bullets and pulverized the windshield. Blind, but fearing Tate’s machine gun, the APC driver careened across the dock, plowing into several guards too focused on the Moth overhead. An instant later it slammed into a stack of cargo boxes. Unconscious or dead, the turret gunner stopped shooting.