“Fulton, get us on the ground, fast,” ordered Tate. “Everyone get ready to bail out. Monkhouse, stay with Fulton. Make sure this chopper stays in the air.”
Fulton dove for the dock. His gut clenched as he realized they were going too fast and twisted hard on the collective hoping to slow their decent in time. The remaining turbine engine howled, as the Moth clawed at the air to slow down. The helicopter’s skids hit the ground hard sending up sparks and bouncing the Moth four feet into the air.
“Go, go, go,” yelled Tate, as he sprayed the last of the .50 caliber ammo, slowing the rush of the attacking guards.
The skids were still in the air as the team jumped down and dashed for the nearest cover. Fulton quickly lifted off and was lost in the night sky leaving the guards to turn their full attention to the grounded team. The guards lost sight of them behind the jumble of trucks, forklifts, packing crates. The clatter of gunfire abruptly silenced only broken as a guard took a random shot at an imagined movement.
Tate fought against the illusion of time dilation, thinking that reinforcements would be arriving from their military base soon. What felt like an hour of combat was, in reality, only a few minutes, but time was as deadly an enemy as the men hunting for them.
Tate quickly got his bearings as he snugged up against a large, grease stained, wood crate. The coke factory was a few yards away on the other side of a stack of containers. At best guess there were twelve guards left.
Tate suspected the Suicide King wouldn’t use his prime troops for something as menial guard duty and he was right. Tate could tell the guards were rattled by their nervous shouts.
“Team,” hissed Tate over his radio, “Move right. Stay in cover. I’m flushing hostiles into the open. Be ready to fire on targets. Out.”
From his position, Tate could see Ota and Wesson. Both nodded and moved quietly out of sight. The guards had gone quiet and now it was a guessing game of where they would appear. Tate unsnapped a frag pouch on his assault vest and pulled out a M67A2 grenade. He twisted the fuse head to activate the motion sensor and looped his finger into the pull ring.
Tate froze. His intuition blared a warning his other senses missed. Without questioning himself he acted, reaching around the corner of the crate his hand hit something that grunted in surprise. Before the guard knew what happened Tate yanked him around the corner of the crate and drove his elbow into the guard’s jaw with a crunch of bone. The guard feebly pushed back, but it was already too late for him. Tate’s grip quickly transitioned to the guard’s shoulders, simultaneously jerking him down, Tate drove his knee into his chest. His lungs collapsed under the force knocking the air out of his lungs. In one fluid motion Tate reached over his shoulder and pulled his tomahawk out of its sheath. As he let the guard fall, Tate buried the tomahawk’s spike in the back of the guard’s skull. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The man had died in less than ten seconds. Maybe Tate would remember the moment when the leisure of old age were forced on him, but right now the body never got a second look.
Tate picked up the dropped grenade, pulled the ring and tossed it around the corner. He heard it land and roll followed by panicked shouts of ‘granada’. Assault rifles opened up for only a moment and then everything went quiet.
“Report,” said Tate. “Everyone okay?” His radio crackled back.
“Doing fine,” said Ota. “Got two.”
“Okay here,” replied Wesson. “Four.”
“I’m good,” said Kaiden. “Two. Wounded one.”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” reported Rosse. “Uh, I dunno. I think I got one, but I don’t see him.”
“Stay put,” said Tate. “There’s a live grena…”
Tate never finished as his grenade exploded in a gust of fragments and dust. One, or more of the guards had wandered into the sensor radius of the grenade.
“Disregard my last,” said Tate. “Move up and check your targets. How copy?”
Everyone acknowledged and the team moved forward. Cautiously the team moved up, glancing around corners, hoping they wouldn’t be looking down the barrel of a gun. To guarantee no Vix would attack them each of the dead guards were shot in the head.
Soon the team was standing in the clear with no signs of any guards.
“Looks like that’s all of them,” said Wesson.
“Target Charlie’s next,” said Tate. They’d taken out eleven guards leaving Tate arguing with himself whether he’d miscounted the number of guards, or one was missing. “Keep your eyes open. There may be more hostiles.”
Staying low they crouch-walked to the door of the coke factory and stacked up against its metal wall. Light spilled out of the gap of the partially opened door. Ota was in first position with Tate as number two. Ota pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun. Nothing happened.
From the end of the line, or stack, each member signaled their readiness to enter by squeezing the shoulder of the teammate in front of them. Tate felt Rosses meaty hand heavy on his shoulder, waiting for him to a squeeze. Rosse must have been worried his signal would be missed and squeezed Tate’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. Tate pressed Ota’s shoulder. Ready. Ota nodded, he was going in.
The team flowed through the door, each checking their assigned threat area given in their briefing. Tate couldn’t suppress a smile witnessing his team’s skills beginning to show.
“Clear,” barked Wesson. Her signal was repeated by the rest of the team.
There were no hostiles in the building and any civilians that were here had run out the moment the shooting started. In front of the team were rows and rows of long tables equipped like an assembly line for producing cocaine. Beakers, tubs, ovens, and on and on it went. The smell of kerosene and gasoline assaulted their senses from the rows of plastic and steel, fifty-five-gallon drums.
“Won’t be hard to burn this down,” said Wesson fighting back her gag-reflex.
“Reminds me of the CS gas we used for prison riots,” grinned Rosse; the harsh vapors making his eyes stream.
“I can’t tell if you’re crying from the fumes, or you’re homesick,” said Tate.
“Maybe both,” said Rosse wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Rosse and Ota,” said Tate, getting back to business, “put a plastic barrel against the far wall every sixty feet. Take the top off of some of the steel ones in the back. Wesson, you’re with me. Kaiden, you’re over watch.”
Each acknowledged their assignment and got to work. Positioning the drums of chemicals went quickly as they knocked them over and hastily rolled them in place.
Tate stopped as Fulton came over the radio. “Hey Top?” said Fulton. “There’s like four trucks filled with soldiers and a APC pulling up to the outer set of containers.”
“Copy,” said Tate. “Are there Vix around them?”
“Oh, big affirmative,” said Fulton. “A couple hundred.”
“Good,” said Tate. “They’re trapped in their trucks and they don’t know there’s nobody’s here to open the door for them. They’re stuck and we’re almost done here. Pick us up.”
“Roger,” replied Fulton.
With an ironic grin Tate cursed himself under his breath. He’d worried and stressed about attacking the shipping dock like a nervous old man and, instead, they were almost done and about to exfiltrate. He felt it and so did the team. They were focused and intent on their tasks, but the edgy tension was gone. They were nearly home.
“And Fulton,” added Tate, “Don’t land near the factory. There’s going to be a little bit of fire.”
“What? Oh, I get it,” laughed Fulton. “The factory.”
Tate could hear the pent-up anxiety in Fulton’s laugh and it reminded him of how much he was asking of them and how much they were giving.
“Top, something’s happening out here,” said Fulton, breaking into Tate’s thoughts.
“That’s not helpful,” bristled Tate. “Details, corporal.”
“One of the big cra
nes is moving,” said Fulton. “It’s picking up one of the containers where the reinforcements are.”
Tate kicked himself for being an idiot and doubting his earlier count of guards. He’d counted twelve guards when they landed, but talked himself into believing he’d made a mistake after they could only account for eleven of them. The missing guard, the one he should have known was around, was now in the operator’s cabin of the crane.
“Copy. We’re on our way,” said Tate. “That’s it, team. You have thirty seconds. Punch holes in the drums. Move.”
The change in mood was instant reflected by everyone’s grim faces and heightened speed. Rosse and Ota had moved five barrels, but Tate and Wesson had only placed two before Fulton’s radio call. The vapors of gas and kerosene were overpowering as the liquid spilled across the factory floor.
“If I breathe any more of this stuff,” said Rosse with a lopsided grin, “I’m gonna be loopy enough to fly home without a chopper.”
“I think you’re already there,” said Tate as he took Rosse by the arm and headed for the door. “Everyone out.”
Fresh air greeted them as the team stumbled out the door. The world slurred around Tate and he breathed deeply trying to clear his head.
“There’s our ride,” said Kaiden and headed for the Moth.
Fulton had landed near the cargo ship, and the team set out for it. Even from nearly five football fields away Tate could easily see the huge gantry crane just as it dropped a steel cargo container into the water with crash. The operator’s cabin hung from the crane’s boom over a hundred feet in the air. Tate knew he’d be wasting valuable time trying to hit the guard from here. The crane’s jaws were already dipping down to grab another container. The damn thing moves fast.
Tate glanced over to the Moth and saw Ota climbing aboard. He lifted the flap of his grenade pouch and pulled out a phosphorus grenade out of its sleeve.
Tate smiled at the thought of the Suicide King’s face when he saw the wreck of his cocaine operation. His elite army were nothing more than thugs and his poison attack on north America was something a coward would do. But he did have an army and was dangerous. The Suicide King was a snake’s head Tate would personally cut off.
“Wishing you were here,” said Tate as he looped his finger into the pull ring of the grenade. Tate jolted from a loud, sharp crack behind him. He snapped around, but saw no danger.
“Jack,” snapped Kaiden over his radio. “The ship is pulling away.”
Now Tate saw it. The huge cargo ship had snapped the stern line tying it to the dock. Instead of the typical six mooring lines only two, the bow and stern, had been used and the cables were no match against the ship’s massive hundred, thousand horsepower engine.
There was no victory to savor now as the ship’s monstrous propeller thrashed the water, pulling it away from the dock. Tate yanked the pin on the incendiary grenade, lobbed it through the door of the factory and ran like hell.
The grenade’s fuse detonation charge wasn’t as powerful as a fragmentation grenade. It wasn’t made to accelerate deadly shards of steel. It only needed to burst its outer skin, launching pieces of phosphorus in every direction. The grenade bounced and skittered across the concrete floor of the factory until it bumped against a table leg. Seconds later the grenade exploded. Exposed to air the chemical reaction was instantaneous igniting the flying bits of phosphorus to five thousand degrees. The white-hot fragments did their work long before they touched the fuel soaked floor. In a millisecond the vapor choked factory erupted from a thousand-miniature super novas vaporizing the roof as a massive ball of fire rose into the air. Even from his cover Tate felt the hot shockwave pound his body.
Tate took off, sprinting for the Moth as falling debris pelted down around him.
“Get us out of here,” yelled Tate, as he threw himself into the Moth. “Go. Go. Go”.
Fulton pulled up hard on the collective and the Moth’s remaining engine rose to a scream as it drove the helicopter into the air. The air cracked as the container ship snapped it’s bow line and the thick cable whip-sawed below the Moth.
“Get us over water,” ordered Tate.
“Everyone hang on,” shouted Fulton as he banked the Moth over the ship, away from the dock. Pieces of the factory were falling everywhere and they could see splashes in the water. Tate winced as he climbed into a seat. Blood was oozing below his right knee. As he buckled himself in he guessed he’d slammed his knew on the edge of the Moth when he did his John Wayne dive into the cabin. Fulton flew the Moth far out over the water until the Tate told him to hold their position.
“What about the ship?” asked Wesson.
The container ship had left the docks behind and still building speed leaving a churning wake in its path.
Tate craned his neck to look into the cockpit. Monkhouse was in the copilot’s seat looking at the inert instrument panel with concern.
“Monkhouse,” said Tate. “You’re up. Fulton, bring us behind that ship. Monkhouse will tell you where he needs you.”
“What are we doing?” asked Wesson.
“Sinking that poison barge,” growled Tate. “This bird’s got a twenty-millimeter cannon. More than enough to punch through the steel of that ship.”
“I just bolted it on,” cautioned Monkhouse. “I can’t tilt or rotate it.”
“Does it shoot?” asked Tate, frustration edging his voice.
“Yes,” said Monkhouse.
“Then make it happen,” said Tate.
The stern of the container ship was filling the windscreen of the Moth as Fulton quickly closed the distance.
“Look at that the size of thing,” said Wesson. “We can’t do enough damage to the hull to sink it.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Kaiden. “Watch and learn.” Kaiden pointed over Monkhouse’s shoulder at the ship. “See that large, rear deck behind the superstructure?” asked Kaiden. It wasn’t hard to miss. At the base of the tall bridge was a broad, windowless platform nearly thirty feet high. “Inside that are the ship’s fuel tanks. Drill ’em.”
Monkhouse flipped a switch and the cannon came to life. He tapped the trigger on the stick. There was a muffled boom beneath their feet and a flash of light as the chin turret fired. A wink of sparks appeared on back of the ship and was gone.
“Hey, it works,” said Monkhouse sounding pleased with himself.
“Focus your aim to the right and left of your shot,” said Kaiden. “That’s where the tanks are.”
Fulton was holding steady behind the ship as Monkhouse had him drift slightly to the right.
“This will be,” said Monkhouse, “like shooting fish…”
Bullets hammered across the belly of the Moth as the lower cockpit window shattered. Fulton banked the Moth sharply as tracers sliced pasted from below. The cabin was thrown into fear and confusion as they looked out the sides to see what was happening.
“It’s another patrol boat,” yelled Rosse. “They must’a called in the one from the other side of the island.”
“Everyone all right?” shouted Tate. “Anyone hurt?”
Holes riddled the floor of the cabin, but miraculously nobody was hit. Fulton was swinging the Moth wildly, trying to avoid the twin machine guns from the boat below.
“Fulton,” said Tate. “Get us back behind that ship.”
“Top, that boat’ll chew us to pieces,” protested Fulton.
“Follow your orders,” commanded Tate. “Monkhouse, take out those fuel tanks. Everyone else, hose that damn boat.”
The patrol boat maneuvered to stay directly under them making it impossible for Rosse get them with the .50 caliber. They were hanging out of the sides of the Moth to shoot down at the boat.
Fulton lined up on the rear of the ship and Monkhouse tapped the trigger, firing one round at a time. Monkhouse winced as tracers ripped by, tearing at his nerves as he tried to place his shots. The 20mil cannon chugged almost leisurely compared to the chaotic gun battle happening in the c
abin behind.
The patrol boat fought against the boiling wake of the container ship trying to stay under the Moth. The prop-wash of the Moth’s blades beat down on the team as they leaned over the edge of the cabin into the face of boat’s machine guns.
“Reloading,” shouted someone over the radio reminding Tate their ammo was exhausting fast and soon they’d be sitting ducks for that boat.
“Concentrate on the bow gunner,” yelled Tate over the chaos. Instantly, all their tracer fire focused on the bow gunner chewing up the deck of the boat and splattering off the gun shield. Tate’s attention turned to Monkhouse and he heard the methodic beat of the 20mil cannon.
“Monkhouse,” said Tate, “stop babying that thing and open up.”
“I don’t know it’ll handled the shock,” said Monkhouse.
“How about getting shot out of the sky?” snarled Tate. “Think it’ll handle that shock? Do it.”
Monkhouse gripped the trigger and the back of the container ship lit up with tiny fireworks as the heavy rounds punched through the steel. A moment later the impacts where hitting all over the place and the gun stopped shooting. The nose of the Moth lurched up as something bumped hard under their feet.
“We lost the gun,” called Monkhouse. “I think it tore itself off the helicopter.”
Tate knew better than to waste precious time questioning Monkhouse’s judgement. “Get us out of here, Fulton,” barked Tate. He didn’t need to be told twice and the Moth pitched forward, swooping over the length of the container ship. The patrol boat swerved out from behind the ship to chase them, but the pilot changed his mind deciding to stay behind the ship and protect it from another attack.
The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2) Page 20