Holmes took the night vision scope and lifted it to his right eye. “Apparently, foamers, thousands of them, are marching down the road toward that building. Confirms my thoughts of where they might be, eh, commander?”
“Yes, it does, but I’m not so sure our force of twenty or so can handle all those foamers plus these people you’ve followed.”
“Perfectly understandable, my good man.” Again he sounded like Etheridge. “But here’s what we’ll do.”
After he listened to Holmes’s tactical plan, Red Beret ordered that the boat be brought to a stop; the other two stopped as well. They would sit and watch the show from out here on the water. As long as the sea didn’t get rough, they could stay for some time. The bows of the three boats huddled together in the water.
“It will depend on how much ammunition they have, but this could go on for some time. And you can rest assured, the tall fellow I told you of will keep one round in reserve for every person in that structure.”
“And when they’re about to use it, we’ll charge in like the 7th Cavalry and rescue everyone. Well, rescue them from death at the hands of foamers, anyway.” Red Beret turned and winked at Holmes.
Hmm, maybe he can be of use after all. I’ll probably need someone to keep the others in line. We’ll find out soon enough, I imagine.
The shooting at the fish market intensified. Semiauto fire still rang out but was so intense it sounded like full-auto.
“Let’s hope they get most of those foamers before we come in. Make it a hell of a lot easier on us, eh?”
“Damn straight!”
Yep, he might be of some use.
* * *
Brass shells flew in all directions, hit the walls and the carpet, and occasionally struck the top of someone’s head.
“They’re coming thick and fast now!” Chess yelled. He had taken position at the window while the previous soldier took a breather and changed mags.
“I’m out,” the soldier at the window next to Chess said and jumped from the chair to allow his replacement to get into position.
“How many you have left?” the Tall Man called from the hallway that divided the two main office rooms. A smaller office and a storage room separated the larger rooms, with the restroom at the rear.
“I got one clip,” said the soldier who stood on the chair to continue the fight.
“I’ve got this and one more.” Chess popped off four or five well-placed shots.
“Shit!” the Tall Man cursed then noticed Elliot flashing by in the near dark. “Where are you—”
He got no response, but moments later Elliot returned with two of the soldiers who had been left to guard the front and back entrances.
“Give your magazines to these guys!”
“Fast thinking, Elliot, fast thinking.” Elliot was a step ahead, and the Tall Man complimented him for it. The two soldiers could make out the silhouettes of the men at the windows, and were about to hand over two mags each when a heavy thud, like a battering ram, hit the outside wall below the window.
“What the—”
A foamer had launched himself through the air, grabbed hold of the window sill, and pulled himself in. Chess panicked, and in his attempt to avoid contact, he fell backward and off the chair. Chess had his finger on the trigger but had the forethought to raise the muzzle as he fell. Several rounds were fired into the ceiling above, but—thankfully—no one was injured.
The foamer was halfway through the window when it stopped to squawk at the occupants, like a cross between a crow and a cobra. This was the closest many had come to a foamer, and the panic followed.
“Back, get back into the other room!” Mulhaven ordered, afraid of what was to follow.
He stood by the door as he ushered everyone out before the green bile flowed; he’d seen enough of the foamer behavior to know it was next. He took one last look back at this foamer in the improving light, and noticed the difference in its appearance. The skin of this horror, or what was left, was as pale as the patches of snow outside. Some internal organs that were on view through the gaping holes in the body were dark and dried from exposure. The undead heathen still retained hair, but the eyes were the biggest difference from the foamers encountered previously. While every foamer Mulhaven had seen before now had fiery red embers for eyes, this foamer’s eyes were all white, like hard boiled eggs. The look of death itself. The creature screeched again as it struggled to get itself through the window.
“Fuck you!” the soldier on the other side of the window roared. He turned his M4 around and gripped it by the barrel—like a baseball bat—and swung the butt into the foamer’s face not once, not twice, but three times until the walking dead bastard fell backward to the ground outside with a squishy plonk.
The Tall Man jumped onto the chair where Chess had been. “Great job, soldier!”
He then hoisted himself up, Desert Eagle in his right hand, leaned out the window, and popped the foamer that had tried to crash this party once in the head.
Another look up at the parking lot and he knew what ammo they had wouldn’t be enough. If they were to survive, direct action was necessary—by him.
Where do all these fuckers come from? he asked himself.
This would be their Battle of Pork Chop Hill, their Dien Bien Phu; he couldn’t let that happen. They’d come too far, they had too much to live for now. They had a future … they all had a future.
“I’m not about to let this happen!”
“What did you say?” Elliot heard the Tall Man, as did everyone in the room, but with the shooting starting up again he wasn’t sure what Chuck had meant.
“I’ll be back!”
In the dim light, Elliot thought his buddy resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger of Terminator fame—just a touch taller and with no accent.
No one in the room suspected anything untoward, and they allowed him to leave. When the two men from the opposite room came back, it raised Kath’s concerns.
“Where’s Chuck?”
“He said he would be right behind us after he checked the locks on the door.”
There was only one door in that room, and it opened onto the hallway. Why would he want to check that lock?
“Chuck? Chuck?” Kath ran across the hallway and into the next room. The window in that room, like that others, was situated high and in one corner. Like the others, it opened outward, and that was how she found it.
The Tall Man was gone.
* * *
There was but one hope, as far as the Tall Man was concerned. He had to get to the catamaran, gather more ammunition, and get back before the inside of the building was breached. He’d jumped from the side window and landed without trouble. He was a veteran of more than forty night parachute jumps, so an eight foot drop in the early light wasn’t about to present a problem. He knew all of them couldn’t make it—not with a single dinghy to send back and forth. Everyone could swim the distance from the harbor to the cat if it weren’t for the ice cold water. Death by foamer, drowning, or just freezing to death—it wasn’t much of a choice.
The Tall Man kept twenty rounds of ammo in a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Mulhaven and Elliot did too, and he thought Chess and Tristan probably did also. He saw now that Chess was fully with them, and as he untied the dinghy, he allowed himself a smile. “That’s one thing I was wrong about, and happy to be,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to attract the foamers.
It took him the best part of ten minutes to row the twenty or so yards to the twin-hulled craft that had brought them to Sandspit. The one oar he had wasn’t the problem, it was that he had to row silently. He was thankful for the morning light, but he could tell it wasn’t going to be a bright, sun-filled day with the storm clouds that had begun to roll in and the smoke haze that hung around like a London fog. He quickly filled an old sports bag with extra magazines. It would have to be enough.
He jumped back into the dinghy and rowed hard. He didn’t care about noise this time—he had to get b
ack!
* * *
“There’s someone on a dinghy headed for that catamaran.” Holmes pointed toward the small Sandspit Harbor.
“Someone trying to escape?” Red Beret took the night scope from Holmes for a look.
“I don’t like it. Get your men ready, it’s time to attack.”
“I don’t think that’s the right move to ma—”
Holmes pulled a 9mm pistol from his back pocket; it had been returned to him once Red Beret had agreed to follow him to Graham Island and the sanctuary on offer. He shot the commander of the Terrace force in the center of his forehead just below his beloved Red Beret. Holmes had no use for insubordination—not at a time like this. Holmes observed for the shortest of moments how, in the half-light, the blood that ran from the commander’s wound matched the color of his beret, which now floated in the sea after it was blown through the air with part of the wanna-be officer’s cranium.
“You!” He pointed his pistol at another soldier. “You’ve just been promoted. Now let’s get this attack underway!”
“Err… ” The shocked soldier, who was more inexperienced than the previous commander, hesitated for a moment. He responded when Holmes brought back the hammer of the pistol. “Yes sir, right away!” He had little respect for Red Beret and his decisions, which had cost men their lives. Hell, this CIA guy seemed to know what he was doing.
“And throw that piece of shit overboard.” Holmes indicated the body that still thrashed about on the deck.
“Yes sir, Mr. Holmes, right away!” The soldier was delighted with the new level of authority and acted accordingly.
Red Beret was dumped into the sea as unceremoniously as one would throw back an undersized fish. The boats moved into top gear, magazines were inserted into rifles, and the soldiers were eager to perform. After all, they’d seen what happened if you disappointed the company man.
* * *
Ahead, the Tall Man neared the jetty with the extra ammo as the firing from the fish market slowed dramatically.
“Shit. Hold on, fucking hold on!” he yelled.
He paddled as fast as he could with one oar, and with about five yards to go, he heard it: The sound of the powerful engines of the three cruisers. He turned his head to the sound of the boats. He saw the three boats head toward the beach to the side of the jetty; they weren’t slowing down. As they neared, he also saw that each boat was full of camouflaged soldiers. They hit the beach in a classic commando-style raid. They were usually conducted with Zodiacs, but if this was all you had, it was all you had.
It’s a rescue. The thought crossed the Tall Man’s mind when he saw the armed men aboard the boats, but just as quickly, he found himself in doubt. One man in a suit jacket exited the cabin of the lead boat, and the Tall Man recognized him immediately; this wasn’t a rescue at all.
The man was Holmes, Richard Holmes.
* * *
“TAKE OUT THOSE FOAMERS!” Holmes yelled loud enough to be heard over the motors of all three boats and the sound of the water as it crashed into the hull.
Three or four armed men at the bow of each boat opened fire—not selective semiauto fire but full automatic. Flames burst from the muzzles of their M4s and empty brass cases flew wildly. Foamers fell as they neared the market building. The firing from inside had decreased to such an extent that the foamers had gained a good deal of ground. An M249 light machine gun was soon brought into action from on board one of the boats. This belt-fed weapon provided larger capacity for sustained fire, and soon it had taken its toll on the foamers, which had already been thinned out from the accurate fire from inside the market.
* * *
“Elliot! Elliot, come here, come here!” Chess screamed. “We got a rescue team!”
Elliot was in the room across the hall. After Kath had discovered the Tall Man gone, he’d been at a loss as much as she was until he had looked out the window and saw the Tall Man in the dinghy. He knew Chuck wasn’t out to save his own skin; that wasn’t in the Tall Man’s nature. He went to get more ammo to give them a chance at survival.
“What the hell …” Elliot had heard the full-auto fire from outside, and he was as aware of the confrontation outside as Chess was—he just hadn’t seen anything.
“Oh my God, Elliot. It’s Chuck. He’s come back, he’s come back!” Kath looked out the window and saw her Chuck coming to the front entrance. “The front door, Elliot, he’s headed to the front door.”
* * *
The soldier with the M249 saw the silhouette of a tall figure running toward the front of the building. Holmes had specifically instructed Red Beret not to kill the tall one or the former president. The commander hadn’t informed everyone in his force. A burst from the light machine gun sent six or seven 5.56mm rounds in the direction of the Tall Man, who was about five yards from the front entrance. Two rounds caught him in the upper abdomen, and a third slipped by his ear. He stumbled, regained his balance, and then went down, the bag of ammo still held tightly in his hand.
“CHUCK! CHUCK!” Kath screamed from inside. She hadn’t seen him get shot, it was just out of her view, but she heard the burst of fire and she sensed it. Like a part of her own body had been ripped from her, she knew the man she loved more than life itself had been shot.
“Grab her!” Mulhaven yelled when he saw Kath run to the front door. Caution didn’t enter her mind. She had to find her Chuck.
Tristan took hold of her, and she screamed in protest. “Let me go, let fucking go!”
“Keep her there,” Elliot ordered as he headed to the front of the building, Chess next to him. “Open the door,” Elliot yelled to the soldier. “You ready?”
“Better believe I am.”
The soldier who had been on guard at the front door opened it, and Elliot rushed outside, M4 at the ready, and fired three bursts of full auto in the direction of the harbor while Chess ran and grabbed the Tall Man under his armpits.
Chess wasn’t a small man himself, but he didn’t attempt any heroics; he just wanted to get their injured friend inside. As Chess dragged the Tall Man back, Elliot let loose with his last burst from the M4 and scurried backward himself. This time he saw two pleasure boats that had beached themselves to one side of the jetty and another just out in the water, and there were more than a dozen armed men, some of whom fired in his direction.
This wasn’t a rescue, it was their execution.
* * *
“You fucking idiot!” Holmes screamed. “I gave express orders not to kill that man!”
“Sorry, sir, I thought it was a foamer.”
Holmes counted to ten. He wanted to shoot the asshole, but he needed to keep as many of this outfit as possible.
“Foamers!” A call went up.
The foamers who had been closing on the market had switched their attention to Holmes’s raiding force. Holmes’s group made far more noise and were out in the open, but the problem for the foamers was that their number had significantly decreased.
Almost twenty full-auto M4s and a single M249 opened up on the foamers as they approached; it was a turkey shoot.
* * *
“Chuck, Chuck, oh my—” Kath managed before her emotions got the better of her and fainted at the sight of her man. Chess dragged him in as fast as he could, but that also caused the blood to pump faster from the Tall Man’s wounds.
“Morris! Sergeant Morris, get in here!”
Morris was a combat medic and knew what to do.
“Chess. The bag. The bag …” The Tall Man struggled.
Chess took the bag, looked inside, and saw the magazines. He wasn’t slow, either; he knew the “rescue team” were the ones who had shot the Tall Man, and the fact that they continued to fire in this direction told him they hadn’t mistaken him for a foamer. It was deliberate. If they didn’t react now, they’d all be dead—or at least, most of them.
“Right, gotcha! Come on, Elliot, we got work to do!”
“But Chuck is—”
“In
good hands. And if you wanna live, let’s fucking GO, soldier!” Chess asserted his authority now, this time, when it was needed most.
The Tall Man smiled as he looked at Sergeant Morris, who busied himself with cutting the Tall Man’s jacket and shirt. “He’s a good man, a good …” The Tall Man lost consciousness.
“Magazines! Fresh mags, come and get ‘em,” Chess yelled.
Every soldier who had come in on the C-17 now had three full clips, as did those who carried the AR-15s. Now was the time to show these jokers what real professional soldiers were like.
* * *
In the time it took the Terrace force to take care of the remaining foamers, the Prince George survivors regrouped and positioned themselves for a counterassault.
The force from Terrace was not prepared—not at all.
Concentrated and accurate semiauto fire rained upon the Terrace force, which had formed into a closed position, from the two windows of the administrative offices of the Sandspit fish market.
“Holy shit! They’re shoot—” one cried before he was cut down.
With a fusillade of fire from the market providing cover, four armed men rushed out the front door of the building, weapons at their shoulders. They peeled off in two groups of two; one went left, the other right to flank the Terrace force—or what remained. The trees that dotted the area and some waste Dumpsters concealed the two groups in the semi dark as they took up positions on either side of the Terrace force. They communicated using hand signals, which they could just make out, before they opened fire.
There were fewer than a dozen men left, and the first volley whittled that amount by half. Those left returned fire; it was all they knew to do. Panicked, and with visibility low in the early morning light, they could only fire in the direction of their attackers. A few trees were wounded and a Dumpster took a barrage of hits, but that was all. The soldiers who had flown into Prince George in the C-17 and joined up with the group of survivalists from Twin Falls played cat and mouse, and they were definitely the cat in this game.
Toward the Brink (Book 3) Page 17