Dead Six-ARC

by Larry Correia

“I’m through!” Byrne shouted as he extinguished the torch. Tailor and Hudson covered forward while Byrne and I went aft to clear the engine room. A couple of full-force kicks and the cut-through hatch slammed to the deck in a deafening clatter. The engine room was dark and filled with smoke from my grenade. We switched on our weapon lights, sending bright columns of light piercing into the hazy darkness.

  A crewmember was lying on the floor by the hatch with blood leaking out of his ears. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or dead.

  “Damn,” Byrne said, looking down. “Do you—” BRRRRRRRP! One of Rafael Montalban’s security men appeared from behind a fixture. His MP7 was extended in one hand, like a pistol, while he covered his bleeding ear with the other.

  Snapping the shotgun up, I fired. Two loads of buckshot tore into the bodyguard in a splash of blood. As he hit the deck, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I swung my weapon around, firing twice again, dropping another crewmember that was running toward me. I quickly scanned the engine room for any more threats. Then I noticed Byrne lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his right eye wide open. What was left of his left eye was hidden under a puddle of blood. A bullet had punched right through his safety glasses and into his head.

  Enveloped in the Calm, I didn’t feel anything as I looked down at his lifeless body. No, that would come later.

  “Clear!” I shouted. “Man down!” Tailor and Hudson came in a second later. I was crouched by Byrne’s body, thumbing more shells into my shotgun.

  “Goddamn it!” Hudson cursed, punching the wall so hard I thought he’d break his hand. He looked down at me. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking the torch,” I said. “We might need it again.”

  Tailor quietly swore to himself. He then squeezed his throat mic. “Alpha Team, this is Bravo, engine room secured, what’s your status?”

  “This is Alpha!” Holbrook replied, sounding shaken up. “We’ve got the bridge secured. Commo equipment is trashed. They’re trying to retake it, but we’ll hold ‘em off. Animal is down, KIA.”

  “Roger that,” Tailor said flatly. “We’re down one, too. Disabling the engine now. We’re then going after the target.”

  “Good luck,” Holbrook said, and the radio went silent.

  ***

  Our first objective was complete. The Santa Maria was dead in the water. The engine was disabled, the radio was smashed, and the bridge was controlled by Holbrook’s chalk. It was now up to the three of us to find Rafael Montalban and capture him.

  The two choppers circling were watching for lifeboats or swimmers. No one had left the yacht. Rafael Montalban was on board somewhere. Tailor figured that he’d be holed up in the security office. It was at the end of a passageway on one of the lower decks, and was defensible. If we didn’t find him there, we were going to head to his stateroom next. If he wasn’t there either it was going to be a room-by-room, deck-by-deck search until we found the son of a bitch.

  We encountered almost no resistance as we crossed the yacht. Sporadic gunfire could be heard coming from above us. Holbrook reported that Montalban’s security force made their attempt to retake the bridge, and failed. We expected the remainder of the security contingent to be protecting the man himself.

  We were right. We came under fire as soon as we set foot in the passageway that led to the security office. Instead of a few disorganized guys in suits with machine pistols, we were now encountering guards in body armor, armed with G36C carbines and Benelli shotguns. To make matters worse, we were outnumbered.

  But they were outgunned. The Santa Maria shuddered with another concussion after Tailor sent a grenade rolling down the passageway. As soon as it detonated, Hudson leaned around the corner and laid down suppressive fire. Tailor and I quickly advanced up the corridor. There were several compartments on either side of the passageway, with a few of Montalban’s remaining bodyguards using the doorways as cover. We were sitting ducks as we moved down the hall. We had to use overwhelming firepower to keep their heads down.

  My shotgun wouldn’t penetrate their vests, but a shotgun with a holographic sight on top of it makes for comparatively easy head shots. We brutally cut down the rest of Montalban’s security force in that passageway. When the shooting stopped, six men lay dead on the deck in a mix of spent brass and spilled blood. The air stunk of smoke and burnt powder. Only the three of us remained standing.

  I used the brief lull to pull more shells from the bandolier across my chest and thumb them into my shotgun. The weapon was hot to the touch. My cheek was sore from the pounding the stock gave it. Even an autoloader could be rough with three-inch Magnum buckshot.

  As expected, the hatch to the security office was sealed from the inside like the engine room had been. According to the ship’s schematics, these were security features in the event the Santa Maria was overrun by pirates. The security office was designed as a sort of panic room where Rafael Montalban and his personal guards could hold out until assistance arrived.

  No assistance was coming. Our choppers had impressive electronic warfare suites and were effectively jamming all transmissions that weren’t on select frequencies, like our radios. And your typical pirate didn’t have access to a Broco torch.

  My teammates covered me as I fired up the torch and began to cut through the hatch. This one was less substantial than the engine room hatch had been, and the cutting went faster.

  It was done. Tailor was ready Mk 16 carbine shouldered. I dropped the torch, doffed the welder’s goggles, and clicked off the safety on my shotgun. Hudson had just finished loading a fresh hundred-round nutsack into his saw and nodded at us.

  Tailor kicked in the hatch. The last three bodyguards were waiting inside, sporting compact assault rifles and body armor. My team swept into the security office all at once. We didn’t use grenades this time. We needed Montalban alive.

  The first guard was ducked behind an overturned metal desk. He fired off a burst as we came into the room. Hudson replied with the SAW, tearing through the desk and ventilating the man trying to hide behind it. At the same time, another guard leaned around a corner, G36C shouldered. Tailor and I hit him at the same time. The guard was ripped apart by the barrage of buckshot and 5.56mm rounds and collapsed to the deck.

  We didn’t stop. Moving through the office, we turned a corner. A hammer weight slammed into my chest as a loud handgun discharged in front of me. I yelled that I’d been hit and stumbled backward, falling to my butt. The shot was answered with a hail of gunfire that was over in a second.

  “Val! You alright?” Tailor asked, crouching beside me.

  “I’m fine! I’m fine!” I gasped, looking down at my chest. The bullet had blown open two of the shotgun shells on my bandolier and lodged in my front armor plate. I was okay.

  Tailor extended a hand and helped me to my feet. I shook my head and stepped around the corner. Two men had been holed up at the back of the office. One was a big guy in a dark suit, with an ear bud. He was dead on the floor with about a dozen exit wounds in his back. His pistol lay on the deck in a pool of his blood.

  The other man was still alive. He was an older gentleman, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He had an aristocratic air to him and was wearing what looked to be a very expensive suit. He stood against the wall, eyes wide, with his hands on top of his head. Hudson had the barrel of his SAW practically shoved up the man’s nose.

  My eyes narrowed. “Rafael Montalban?”

  “Yes,” the man replied. “What is the meaning of this?” I had to give the guy credit. He hadn’t pissed himself or anything. He had some semblance of backbone at least.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tailor said harshly. “You have a computer?”

  “I have many,” Montalban replied with an aloof sniff.

  “We’re only concerned with the one,” Tailor said. “You know the one I’m talking about.” Tailor was bullshitting the guy. All we’d been told was to get his laptop. W
e had no idea which laptop or what they were looking for.

  Rafael Montalban frowned. “You’ve been well informed. It seems I have a leak in my organization. I’d speak to my head of security about it, but I’m afraid you just killed him.” He nodded to the dead man on the floor.

  “Just show us where the laptop is, playboy,” Hudson growled. “I ain’t in the mood for any bullshit.”

  “It would seem not,” Montalban said, his English only had a hint of a Spanish accent. “Very well. It’s in a safe in this office. This way.” Hudson led Rafael Montalban around the corner. Tailor and I looked at each other and shrugged. I can’t believe that worked.

  Tailor bent over and picked something up. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “He shot you with this.”

  I looked down at the gun in my hand. It was a Korth .357 Magnum revolver, beautifully engraved, with a brightly polished blue finish. The grips were genuine ivory and had what I guessed was the Montalban family crest inlaid in them in gold and silver. Ijust been shot with a ten thousand dollar gun.

  After Rafael Montalban opened the safe and retrieved the laptop, Tailor made him boot it up and enter the password. He then shoved the laptop into his backpack and keyed his microphone. “Control, this is Xbox. Bravo Team has secured the package and the target, repeat, we have the package and the target, both intact. Requesting immediate extraction.”

  Gordon Willis himself came on over the radio. “Excellent work boys!” he said enthusiastically. “Your ride will be there shortly. Over and out!” Tailor rolled his eyes.

  “Xbox, this is Control,” Sarah said then. “What’s your status?”

  “One KIA on our team,” Tailor said. “It was Anarchangel.”

  “Control, this is Joker,” Holbrook said, sounding very tired. “We’ve got two KIA, Animal and Linus. I’m wounded but still mobile. Copy?” Sarah acknowledged while the three of us swore aloud. Linus was Cromwell’s call sign.

  I didn’t really listen to the rest of the radio chatter. We were ordered to gather up and stand by for extraction at the aft heliport. We still had to use caution. Most of the Santa Maria’s crew was still alive. Even though we’d wiped out Rafael Montalban’s security detail, there was no telling who’d be waiting around the corner, ready to be a hero.

  “Gentlemen,” Rafael Montalban said, sounding detached and aloof. “Surely we can come to some sort of understanding? I assure you I can triple whatever it is you’re being paid. People died tonight, yes. Your people and my people. But we can all walk away from this.” Montalban then winced as Hudson roughly pulled his arms behind his back and secured them with a zip-tie.

  “There’s no going back for us,” Tailor said, lighting a cigarette.

  “I see,” Montalban said, discomfort apparent in his voice. “I’m going to ask you again. Let’s talk about this like civilized people. Believe me, gentlemen, I’m a man of means. And I’m not a man to be trifled with. I have powerful friends.”

  “I think you better shut your mouth, playboy,” Hudson said roughly. “Your friends ain’t here.”

  Tailor gestured at our prisoner. “Bag this motherfucker.” Rafael Montalban was forced to his knees. Hudson pulled a heavy black sack over his head and slapped him upside the head to shut him up. Tailor led the way down the corridor as we marched the Spanish billionaire topside.

  I looked at the ornate revolver in my hand again. Feeling a slight twinge beneath layers of Calm, I ejected the one spent case and five unfired rounds and stuffed the gun into a pouch on my vest. Rafael Montalban wasn’t going to need it anymore.

  ***

  The extraction from the Santa Maria went smoothly enough. The other chopper landed first, depositing Anders onto the deck. He collected the laptop from us as soon as we made it topside. Holbrook and Fillmore boarded that chopper with Anders. It lifted off and hovered nearby while the other one set down.

  As Hudson, Tailor, and I shoved Rafael Montalban onto our stealthy helicopter, we noticed the survivors of the Santa Maria’s crew quietly watching us from a distance. Some looked angry, others looked terrified, but most appeared in shock. None had offered any further resistance after we’d wiped out the security detail.

  I looked at them one last time as we lifted off. They were all dead, and they didn’t even know it. It felt wrong. A lot of people had died, and I found myself wondering why. The helicopter’s door slid shut as we ascended into the night sky. I quickly grew tired as the chopper droned on. The Calm was wearing off, and I began to get the shakes. I was experiencing adrenaline dump. Closing my eyes, I tried to concentrate on something else.

  I couldn’t wait to see Sarah when I got back. I’d probably go straight to bed and fall right to sleep. Holding her in my arms helped me forget things for a little while. In the morning, we’d probably hold a memorial service for the three men we’d lost. I’d been to several such services already. There were no bodies this time. Our friends’ remains had been unceremoniously dumped into the ocean.

  The events of that night strengthened my resolve to escape Project Heartbreaker. We’d gone from meticulously hunting terrorists to recklessly killing the employees of a European billionaire, with no regard whatsoever for our safety. I’d had enough. I was done doing Gordon Willis’s dirty work. He could find another damned errand boy.

  My thoughts were interrupted when the chopper’s copilot called my name. I left my seat and went forward.

  “You have a call,” the copilot said, handing me a headset.

  “Who is it?” I asked, my voice raised so I could be heard over the noise of the chopper’s engines.

  “Gordon Willis,” the copilot replied. I pinched the bridge of my nose, took a deep breath, and put on the headset.

  “This is Nightcrawler.”

  “Nightcrawler,” Gordon said. “Listen up. Damn fine job you did tonight. I’m proud of you. But something’s come up. We have a slight change in our game plan. Can you handle that?”

  “What kind of change?” I asked, my voice flat.

  “I just got confirmation from Drago,” Gordon said, referring to Anders by his call sign. “Everything we need is on that laptop. Excellent work securing it with the password already entered.”

  “So, what’s the change?” I repeated.

  “We no longer need Rafael Montalban alive. Liquidate him immediately.”

  “What?” I snarled, furious. “Three guys died trying to get that asshole, and now you tell us you don’t need him? What the fuck are you doing, Gordon? Who in the hell is making these decisions?”

  “Nightcrawler, I know you’ve had a bad night, but—”

  “I haven’t had a bad night, goddamn it!” I snapped, shouting into the microphone. “A bad night is when you get a flat tire or you break your cell phone. Tonight I killed a bunch of people and three of my teammates died, and now you’re telling me it was for nothing?”

  “Mr. Valentine!” Gordon barked, ignoring radio protocols. “We’ll discuss this when you return. Believe me when I say that tonight’s operation was not for nothing. You have your orders. Carry them out.” The radio fell silent. I ripped the headset off and threw it to the deck. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, swearing to myself. Taking another deep breath, I regained my composure and warned the pilots about what was going to happen.

  “What was that all about?” Tailor asked. I didn’t say anything in response. I just pointed at Rafael Montalban and dragged a finger across my throat. Tailor’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Jesus Christ, you gotta be shittin’ me,” Hudson said, shaking his head.

  I steeled myself; I had my orders. I turned to face Rafael Montalban and pulled the bag off of his head. He squinted in the red light, obviously confused.

  “What’s happening now?” he asked, still sounding defiant. “Have you come to your senses, young man?”

  “This is where you get off,” I said levelly.

  “I . . . don’t understand,” Montalban replied hesitantly.

  “You wil
l.” I pushed a button on the hull. The chopper was filled with a windy roar as the door behind our prisoner slid open. His eyes grew wide at the sudden realization of what was happening. He looked out at the blackness behind him, then back at me.

  My .44 was already in my hand. I fired from the hip, putting the bullet through his chest. He didn’t even scream. Before he could crumple to the floor, I kicked the dying man in the chest. Rafael Montalban, aristocrat, billionaire, industrialist, and head of an international conglomerate, tumbled out the door and disappeared into the darkness. Holstering my revolver, I closed the door and sat back down. I held my head in my hands.

  ***

  The subsequent trip back to Fort Saradia was long and uneventful. I slept through most of it. The choppers had landed somewhere in the desert again. The five of us piled into a large van for the long drive back to the city. I didn’t wake up again until we crossed into the fort.

  Upon arrival we were immediately herded into the briefing room. Colonel Hunter and Sarah were both waiting for us. We shuffled into the room, still in our body armor, weapons slung, and tried to sit at the desks with all of our gear on.

  When I stepped into the room, I made eye contact with Sarah, who was standing back by Hunter. I knew I looked like hell. I wanted nothing more than to stride across the room and take her in my arms. I didn’t think the colonel would approve. I managed a smile for her to let her know I was okay, even though I wasn’t really. I just didn’t want her to worry, even though she undoubtedly would anyway.

  The debriefing went by quickly. Hunter just wanted to get through it while the mission was fresh in our minds and let us get some sleep. It had been a tough run. Holbrook had a bandage on his arm. I had a .357 slug stuck in my vest. Three of our teammates were on the bottom of the Persian Gulf. Bad op.

  We all chimed in during the debriefing. Sarah recorded and Hunter listened intently as we retold the events of the mission, from beginning to end. Fighting fatigue, I explained the entry into the engine room and how Byrne died. The image of him lying on the floor, left eye socket filled with blood, flashed in my mind and I stumbled on my words. Tailor interjected and continued the narrative.