Detachment Bravo

by Richard Marcinko

  I peered at the screens and made Xs on the white board where I saw tangos, then diagrammed the moves I wanted our assault team to make. It didn’t take long to come up with a game plan, because like those all-star football games, we’d have to stick to the most basic plays. So, I’d KISS this op off by keeping it simple, stupid: we’d blow the door, hit the hallway, wax the first two bad guys, then swarm the living room, split into three two-man groups with Butch Wells our rear safety, and take the rest of the bastards down. We’d have it AODW—all over and done with—in sixty seconds, and then it would be off to the Goat, my favorite London pub, for a half dozen rounds of the SEAL’s favorite bitter—Courage.

  I went over the plan three times. Shit. The Brits were shaking their heads up and down like the fucking toy dogs that sit in the back of car windows. But there was no choice here: the music was playing, and we had to dance with these assholes. Well, at least I’d do the leading in this little waltz. I caught a glimpse of Boomerang’s expression. It told me he understood this op was as full of big, loosely basted seams as Herr Doktor Frankenstein’s monster. But then, WTF, this was only rock and roll, right?

  2

  THERE WAS NO USE WASTING MORE TIME, SO WE LOADED up quickly. I went over each man’s gear, making sure that no matter how fast we might move, there was nothing dangling that would go tinkle-tinkle and give our presence away. One of the things that screws up assault teams time and time again is that they can be heard during their approach because they have not secured their gear properly. A magazine rattles in its pouch. Or a flashlight smacks against a piece of metal gear. Or a handcuff case that hasn’t been properly closed comes open and the fucking cuffs hit the deck. Or an assault pry bar rattles in its scabbard, and the bad guy hears it—you get the picture.

  And so I took the time to make sure we were all tied down and our flaps were Velcro’d shipshape. I inspected everyone’s weapons. And then we slapped loaded mags into the MP5s, and smacked the bolts forward, chambering rounds. Since the HK USP’s extractor does not act as a loaded-chamber indicator I thumbed the hammer on the pistol back, then eased the slide to the rear just enough to make sure I could see that a round of Federal’s 147-grain HydraShok was chambered. Then I eased the slide forward and decocked the pistol by sweeping the control lever downward. Finally, we checked our comms to make sure we could all hear one another, as well as listen to Roger the Intel Squirrel’s running commentary about who was where.

  When I was satisfied that we’d circumvented Mister Murphy—at least for the moment—I cracked the door of the apartment and we moved out in stealth mode. Because I live by the credo of Roy Henry Boehm, the Godfather of all SEALs, who taught that all leadership can be defined by the two words follow me, I took point, my USP in low ready position. Boomerang, who was carrying the shaped charge that would blow the door, followed close in my wake, an MP5-PDW subgun with its lightweight stock folded, slung around his neck. Andy the Marine came third, his suppressed MP5 providing Boomerang with cover. Nod, carrying another suppressed MP5, followed Andy. Butch Wells, whose Haavaad Yaahd accent courtesy of his hometown—Reading, Massachusetts—makes him incomprehensible to most Brits, followed in the utility infielder position, his suppressed MP5 in low ready. Bill and Gill carried silenced, stockless MP5s in the Brit CQC fashion, which is to say they held them at high ready. I signaled them to bring up the rear.

  We slipped out of the apartment single file, slid into the stairwell, and carefully, toe-heel, toe-heel, began to climb up one floor, staying well back from the rail.

  Did my back hurt? Bet your ass it did. But I put the pain out of my head and concentrated on the business at hand. You cannot be a Warrior and complain. Cold, heat, pain, discomfort—none of these adverse conditions can be allowed to affect the success of your mission. And so I simply tuned the pain out and focused on my field of fire, remembered to scan and breathe to keep my vision from tunneling, and paid attention to the white sound in my new earpiece. If there was any untoward movement in the apartment, Roger would let us know in plenty of time to make adjustments. I concentrated. There was nothing but dead air in the hairy Rogue ear. That was good.

  I moved cautiously but without hesitation, my GSG-9 boots silent on the stair treads. I was concentrating so hard that my whole body was a sensory antenna, receiving signals and interpreting them. I heard my heart beating ga-thoomp, ga-thoomp, and felt the pulse pounding in my wrists. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing, my friends. It always happens like this just before combat. My breath goes a little shallow; my heart rate increases to full-tilt-boogie pace, and my asshole gets so tight it would be hard to work a single strand of angel-hair pasta up inside. I fucking love it.

  I drew abreast of the thick fire door on the top-floor landing. I eased open a pouch on my CQC vest, withdrew a small can of Teflon lubricant, and sprayed the heavy hinges and the retaining spring to make sure there would be no squeaks when I opened the thick metal door.

  I replaced the can, reached my gloved hand down, and gently pulled the fire door open. Behind me, Royal Marine Andy had moved into position, the muzzle of his subgun providing cover as I “cut the pie” around the doorway, exposing only as much of myself as I could determine was safe to do.

  All clear. Boomerang wedged the door open, then we all continued, heel-toe, heel-toe, down the marble floor of the corridor toward the target doorway, hugging the wall. I could feel the vibrations of jackhammering, and the muffled, throaty growl of the air compressors as we were finally provided with audial camouflage by Scotland Yard’s undercover people. And then, in my earpiece, I heard a Cockney accent stage-whisper: “Straight base to assault group: scrub-scrub-scrub. You’ve got anuvver target ’eddin’ your way.”

  I looked down to the far end of the narrow corridor. Fuck me: the elevator indicator light was green, and the arrow was pointing in an “up” direction. Why the hell hadn’t they stopped whoever it was before they climbed into the elevator? Why the hell hadn’t they grabbed him/her/it outside the building? The answer was: it didn’t fucking matter, because this wasn’t the time or place for any recriminations. This was an immediate problem and I’d have to fucking deal with it right now, because we were way, way past the fucking point of no return. There was no way to get back into the goddamn stairwell without making the sort of ruckus that would alert the badniks inside the target flat, jackhammering outside or no. But I would sure as shit ream someone a new fucking asshole once we were secure. What was this, amateur night?

  I silent-signaled to Bill, Gill, and Andy to drop flat and stay put. Then my hands told Nod, Butch, and Boomerang what to do. I got three upturned thumbs. Shit, we’d done this sort of thing before on at least three continents. Boomerang laid the shaped charge on the deck and we headed past the target flat to the elevator double-time. Butch and I took the port side. Nod and Boomerang stacked to starboard. I pressed my ear against the cool metal door and listened to the electric hum of the motor as the car drew closer.

  It stopped. I drew back. The door clicked, then it was pulled open from the inside.

  I didn’t wait. I swung around into the car and came face-to-face with… Elevator Lady. EL was a very startled young woman of about thirty, wearing a dark blue beret over her raven black tresses, and an ankle-length green loden overcoat. Her arm supported a huge, paper grocery bag. Her eyes, which went wide with fright at the sight of me, were emerald green. “Good God,” she exclaimed in perfect, upper-class English, “what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Her reaction wasn’t unexpected. After all, I must have looked quite the sight: balaclava covering my face; goggles over my baby blues, suppressed submachine gun hanging off its sling; and CQC assault vest dripping with gear.

  But there was no time to explain, or to tell her she had lovely eyes. Not to mention the fact that I had no way of knowing whether this demoiselle was one of them, or just an innocent bystander in WPWT.6 And so, before she had a chance to react, or more to the point, to scream, I swung her around and slappe
d my hand over her mouth. Boomerang stepped in, grabbed the grocery bag, eased it onto the deck, and gave it a quick once-over to make sure she wasn’t carrying explosives or other lethal goodies. She wasn’t. As he was doing his thing, I dropped EL into quick & easy unconsciousness with an LAPD sleeper hold.

  She struggled, but not for more than a couple of seconds. Then she was out cold. I let her loose and she sagged to the deck. I dragged her out of the elevator car, and laid her on the floor, where Nod and Boomerang were waiting to duct-tape her arms and legs. By the time she came to, this exercise would all be over, I’d apologize for my brusque overture, and we’d sort things out. Maybe I’d even ask her out for a cuppa, or better yet, the beverage of her choice at a friendly pub. Then I radioed Mick and made it clear that I wanted one of his people to get up here and cover her while we went in. Lovely, she might have been. But I was taking no chances.

  Mick’s voice came back at me tersely. “Can’t deal with that right now, Dick—I have a nasty situation here. That chap from Whitehall is on the other line and he is not making things easy for me.”

  The JPA no doubt. Fucking bureaucrats. They want to micromanage everything. “Tell the cockbreath to sod off.”

  Mick was not amused. “That comment was played on the speakerphone, Dick.”

  Another coup for Roguish charm. Shit. We were fucked. But I wasn’t about to leave Elevator Lady by herself. I looked at Butch. “You stay with her.”

  Butch’s face fell. His MP5 drooped on its sling. But he obeyed. “Aye, aye, Skippah.”

  With the distraction under control, it was time to get back to work. We made our way down the hallway. Boomerang retrieved the shaped charge, which looked like a string of white Styrofoam sausages connected by a fifteen-foot length of high-explosive det cord, and placed it around the perimeter of the old, painted wood door. We stacked at a forty-five-degree angle to the door’s hinge side. I flicked the “transmit” button on the radio three times in rapid succession to let everyone know we were going in. Only then did Boomerang rig the detonator and wiring.

  I gave him an upturned thumb. He pulled the spring-loaded detonator switch back, then released it with a thwock.

  Whaaam—the door splintered in a huge cloud of orange flame and white smoke. The hinges and locks shattered. Nod tossed the first of the flashbangs. Two figures were silhouetted in the million candlepower flash.

  Whap. I was sent to my fucking knees by an elbow to the head as Andy the Royal Marine charged past me, screaming, “Get down get down get down, you Mick motherfuckers!”

  Oh, fuck me. The asshole was upsetting the choreography. And then, the no-load, pencil-dicked, pus-nutted cockbreath actually stopped. Stopped cold as he sighted his MP5, as if we were at a fucking carnival shooting gallery, not in the middle of a tactical op. That was bad fucking technique. Worse, he’d created a roadblock for the rest of us, and now we were all hung up in the doorway, allowing the bad guys to regroup and pick us off one by one, or blow the fucking bomb and vaporize us.

  The only answer was to get the asshole out of the way ASAP. But as I struggled to my feet so I could run right over the stupid dipshit, one of the TIRA tangos took care of the problem for me. He peeked around the wall, brought up a small-caliber, silenced automatic pistol, fired once, and Andy’s head exploded. The Royal Marine went down like the proverbial sack of merde, his blood splattering my goggle lenses and making it hard for me to see.

  I wiped the goo with my forearm and, USP up, started forward, down the narrow hallway, screaming “Target positions? Target positions?” into my radio. I wanted information from Roger, who could see where the bad guys were.

  But all I heard was static. My fucking radio had gone dead again. Was it from the flashbang concussion? It didn’t matter. We were all now operating blind. With at least one goddamn completed bomb on the premises.

  Fuck. Scan. Breathe. I stepped over Andy’s inert form and kept moving. Remember to concentrate on the front sight. Scan breathe. Scanbreathe. I picked up a target in my front sight: a human head and thick neck exposed around the end of the corridor. And then: pistol muzzle.

  I stitched a half-mag of shots upward, shattering plaster as the rounds climbed. I finally caught him in the face with the sixth and seventh shots, and he went down in a heap. Perfect combat shooting? No way. I was a butcher, not a surgeon. But I didn’t give a rusty fuck because however badly I’d shot, the rounds had done the job.

  I kept moving, steadily so the rest of the team could flow down the hallway. I pointed toward the closet doorway.

  Nod lapped me and took it. When I heard him shout, “Clear,” I moved past it and let Boomerang lap me, so he could deal with the loo.

  Bill rolled a second flashbang down the hallway into the living room. That gave Boomerang the chance he needed. He opened the loo door and tossed a flash-bang. Then he went in, low. I heard one-two-three three-shot bursts rip into the tile. Then Boomerang shouted, “Clear, Boss Dude—it was empty.”

  Now I moved fast-fast-fast, down to the end of the hallway. I cut to my left, my back against the wall, searching for targets. Nod gave me cover. Bill and Gill flowed smoothly to the starboard side of the living room, their MP5s up and ready. Boomerang came last, sliding to the port side to give Nod and me protection.

  Bill shouted, “Get down-down-down!” I heard a burst of automatic weapons fire. Shit—the sound didn’t come from an MP5, but something lighter. I glanced to my right and saw that another of the Brits was on the floor.

  “Boomerang—”

  I hadn’t had to say anything. My tall master chief had already shifted his position to reinforce the Brits, his MP5 raking the opposite side of the room.

  I heard a scream, and my peripheral vision picked up Boomerang advancing on a downed target. Since I’d already committed to the port side, I kept moving left, toward the bedroom door. This op had gone completely FUBAR.

  I swung up close to the wall. Nod came up behind me and slapped my shoulder to let me know he was ready to move. I nodded once to tell him I’d received loud and clear, and then, crouching low, moved around the doorframe and into the bedroom.

  Surprise: there were three of them in here, and two were pointing weapons at the doorway. Roger the intel squirrel had counted wrong. Oh fuck, oh shit, oh doom on Dickie, which as you know means I was being fuckeefuckeed in Vietnamese.

  Except … these assholes were not Warriors. If they had been Warriors they would not have hesitated. They would have pulled the trigger as soon as they sensed movement. They would have shot through the goddamn wall and hit us outside. Instead, they just stood there, frozen like jacklighted deer.

  Since I am a Warrior (in fact, since I be the one and only, singular, trademarked, copyrighted, original, accept-no-substitutes Rogue Warrior®), I do know how to take YES for an answer. So, I didn’t hesitate. I took down the port-most target with five-six-seven quick shots in the face, chest, groin, and legs. Which is when the USP’s slide locked back and I realized that I had fuckee-fuckeed my own trademarked, copyrighted, all-rights-reserved Rogue Warrior® self by not counting rounds. My gun was empty, there were still bad guys left alive, and there was no time to transition to my subgun. Maybe I could commit assault with a friendly weapon and beat them all to death with my dick.

  That was the bad news. The good news was that Nod, who was right behind me, carried an up-and-ready MP5, which he now brought into play, shooting over my shoulder. He took the starboard target with two quick bursts that cut the sumbitch in two pieces and slapped him against the wall, leaving a bloody Rorschach on the off-white paint as he slid onto the floor.

  That left target three. Who wasn’t armed. At least with a pistol. No, T-3 was holding a small, rectangular package stuffed inside a plastic container. Nod had seen what I saw, because while he’d swung the muzzle of his MP5 onto T-3, he’d taken his finger off the trigger.

  Meanwhile, T-3 was fumbling with his package, groping for something he couldn’t quite get his fingers around.
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br />   It is at times like this, my friends, that time moves very, very slowly, and you see every fucking detail of what is going on around you, almost as if you are drowning and scenes from your life play out before your eyes.

  In this case, I clearly saw T-3’s cowlick of reddish hair, and his jug ears, and his freckles, which made him look kind of like an Irish Dennis the Menace. I noted that he chewed his fingernails. I saw that he wore ultrachic, thick-soled, steel-toed, Doc Martens lace-up boots with bright red shoelaces. I realized that he had a chipped front tooth. And I saw that whatever it was he was carrying had been crammed (absurdly, I thought) into an opaque plastic Tupperware refrigerator container.

  This all took about a quarter of a second. And then, I launched myself across the three yards separating us, and forearmed T-3 across the narrow bed under which I’d spent so much time and left so much skin as I installed the worthless fucking fiber-optic cable and minilens and knocked him back into the wall. Except the blow didn’t separate him from his package, which he now tucked into his body like a football.

  This was good news, because while T-3 was concentrating on the package, I could concentrate on him. Unmindful of the goddamn MP5 hanging off my chest I wrapped him up and rolled him away from the wall, using my knees and elbows and my bulk to smother him and relieve him of his life.

  But he was a wiry little motherfucker and despite his fiddling with the package, he kicked and bit and clawed at me. He caught the barrel of my MP5 and used the sight to rake my face. He tried to stick the muzzle up my nose and then wrestled on top of me so he could straddle my chest, grab the trigger, and clear my nasal passages permanently. The fucking muzzle caught inside my nostril and ripped it as I pulled free.