by Carl Bowen
“Nope,” Cross said, changing the whiteboard display once more. It now showed an ocean-level view of the Chinese GOPLAT, as seen from several miles away. A set of map coordinates and a time stamp from the previous day appeared in the corner of the screen. The platform looked like an array of metal scaffoldings with a huge crane on top. “We know exactly where it is — that isn’t the problem. The Black Anchor radioed for resupply early last week, but ever since the resupply vessel came and went, all communication ceased.”
“Do we know what happened?” Walker asked. He was still standing at the front of the ready room next to Cross.
“We didn’t know until last night,” Cross replied. “Shortly after the resupply vessel left, an unmarked speedboat showed up. It moored to the rig without permission and a team of armed men climbed aboard. They stormed the rig and took the crew hostage.”
“Pirates again?” Brighton said. “I didn’t even know the Gulf had pirates.”
“They’re not pirates,” Cross said, his tone growing grim. “They’re American mercenaries.”
That statement blew away the last of the morning haze in the men. Their eyes grew wide and alert now. Cross tapped his computer tablet once more, bringing up a file photo of a square-jawed blond man in his thirties. Below the picture was a corporate logo for an American company called Hardwall Security.
“This is Corbin Van Sant,” Cross said. “He and the attackers are private security contractors employed by Hardwall. The company’s website claims they specialize in providing security at sea all around the world. Their ‘onboard security experts’ get paid to ride along with merchant vessels or escort ships to protect clients from pirates and other criminals. They also occasionally patrol the coastlines at home for what they call ‘unwelcome visitors.’”
“Like the vigilantes along the border between the US and Mexico,” said Mark Shepherd.
“Except these guys are highly trained and efficient,” Cross said.
“In other words, dangerous,” said Walker.
Cross nodded. “They made headlines a few years ago for exposing a South American drug-smuggling operation,” he said. “But they spend most of their time searching for boats transporting illegal immigrants. The company’s founder, Corbin Van Sant, has a reputation for a tough anti-immigration stance. He seems to think it’s his personal mission to ‘protect the sanctity of America’s borders and waters.’”
“Sounds like a racist,” one of the men mumbled. Walker saw it was Second Lieutenant Neil Larssen.
“So what happened, exactly?” Walker asked, redirecting the conversation. The more interruptions Cross allowed, the further off track this briefing would get. “This Corbin Van Sant character just suddenly decided to go from American patriot to international pirate?”
“Specifics are sketchy,” Cross said. “What we know so far is that Van Sant had one of his boats watching the Black Anchor. He sent it over the second the platform left Cuba’s waters. His men probably tried to intimidate the Chinese into going back the way they came, and when the Chinese refused, things got out of hand. Now we have a hostage situation. We don’t know any other details, though. For all I know, Van Sant’s guys came to the platform with every intention of hijacking it.”
“How do we know this much in the first place, sir?” asked Yamashita. The stoic Army Ranger rarely spoke during mission briefings, which Walker appreciated, but something about this mission had apparently piqued his curiosity. “Have the Cubans asked us for help resolving it? Or the Chinese?”
“No,” Cross admitted. “The Chinese argue that the doughnut hole in the gulf is in international waters. They believe they’re within their rights. We only learned what we know from —”
“Spying?” Yamashita interrupted. He said it in a flat tone, without judgment.
“Yep,” Cross confirmed. “Now, obviously, American citizens taking Chinese and Cuban nationals hostage is a big problem. Everybody’s trying to keep it out of the news for now, but that’s only going to be in the victims’ best interests for so long. When the press gets wind of this, the United States is going to end up looking bad. The Chinese and Cubans are trying to negotiate with Van Sant’s people, but we believe they’re just stalling until they can mount a rescue operation. When they do, we’ll be facing a major international incident.”
“Not that we aren’t already,” Walker put in.
“Which is where we come in,” Cross said. “We’re going to board the Black Anchor before anyone else can, free those prisoners, and deal with the Hardwall mercenaries who took them hostage.”
“Deal with them?” Brighton asked. “You mean like . . .” He pointed his finger to his temple.
“I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that,” Cross said.
“With all due respect,” Walker said, “these are American citizens we’re talking about.”
“They are criminals,” Cross said.
“American criminals, sir,” Walker added. “We should make every effort to capture them alive so they can stand trial.”
“These men are terrorizing foreign nationals in the name of one man’s political agenda,” Cross said. “They’re an embarrassment to what our country stands for. If they force our hand, I will not make it easy for them.”
“All the same —” Walker began.
“This isn’t a discussion, Chief,” Cross said sternly. “Now sit down. We have some work to do.”
* * *
Walker’s pride still stung as they traveled in the SDV. He wasn’t normally the type to sulk, and he was disappointed in himself for not just shrugging it off and carrying on as normal.
But now wasn’t the time to for brooding. From here on out, floating in the moonlit waters, the team was on noise discipline until the hostages and mercenaries were seen to. After that, Walker would figure out a way to tell his senior officer what he really thought of him.
But that just made the long, silent trip toward the Black Anchor feel even longer.
As the SDV glided through the water carrying its six combat swimmers, Chief Walker piloted the vehicle while Cross sat beside him, navigating by GPS and SONAR. The instruments gave off the only visible light.
In the rear compartment sat Brighton, Larssen, Yamashita, and Hospital Corpsman Second Class Kyle Williams. All six men sat in nearly total darkness, breathing on regulators attached to the SDV’s onboard air tanks.
An SDV insertion wasn’t ideal for an assault on a gas-and-oil platform. Fast-roping down from a hovering helicopter would have suited better. But stealth was a much higher priority than speed this time out.
It wasn’t the hostiles the team had to worry about as much as the Cuban patrol boats around the Black Anchor. If one of those crafts spotted them sneaking in, they might assume the wrong thing — that the US government was trying to sneak out the Hardwall mercenaries. That would almost certainly lead to hostility.
So the team had chosen the SDV approach, which filled Walker with quiet satisfaction. Cross had initially argued for a fast-rope in, then for the Zodiac, almost as if he were afraid of using an SDV. Patiently, and with respect, Walker had poked holes in each of Cross’s suggestions for insertion until the SDV was the only option left.
To be fair, Cross was qualified for SDV operations and he was a skilled navigator. However, Walker couldn’t help but assume Cross was squirming with discomfort the whole time. And considering how far away in US waters they’d had to launch the SDV to avoid detection, it was an awful long time indeed.
Eventually, the Black Anchor platform showed up on the instruments. With practiced precision, Walker maneuvered the SDV alongside the submerged structure. Then he cut the engines.
Walker nodded to Cross. Cross killed the instrumentation lights and hit the release to open the doors. The pair of them switched from the SDV’s air supply to their own rebreathers. Then, still deep beneath the surface of the wate
r, Walker and Cross exited the vehicle. Behind them, Brighton, Larssen, Yamashita, and Williams emerged. While Cross moored the SDV to the Black Anchor, the others gently kick-stroked upward alongside it, taking great care to ascend slowly and silently.
Large blue and white LEDs dotted the outside of the tubes. They provided just enough illumination in the nighttime sea to lend the entire platform an alien appearance. Staring up at the overwhelming size of the rig, Walker could find no better word for it than amazing.
The underside of the Black Anchor consisted of six sealed vertical tubes wound around a seventh center tube. The tubes were hollow and allowed the rig to float or sink, depending on when the crew flushed or filled them with sea water.
Walker glanced at the set of four thick anchor chains that extended out into the darkness. It appeared that the crew had not been given a chance to extend the platform’s drilling apparatus before the Hardwall mercenaries arrived.
Once Cross had finished securing the SDV, he signaled to Walker that it was time to go. The pair of them followed the other four men up. They rose together at a leisurely pace so they didn’t decompress too quickly. If they didn’t pace themselves, then nitrogen bubbles would expand rapidly in their bloodstream, giving them decompression sickness. That would bring a quick end to the mission — and probably their lives.
Fortunately, the sea was relatively calm, so they didn’t have to fight strong currents to stay on course.
As they neared the surface, they found steel emergency ladders running up the outside of the tubes. Cross took the lead, swimming over to the nearest ladder. He ascended to just below the surface of the water, then stopped to look back at his men. They spread out below Cross so they could all see him. Walker could practically feel their excitement electrifying the water around them.
Cross’s first signal was for total noise discipline. It was pointless underwater, but vital topside. If they lost the element of surprise against the mercenary hostiles, the hostages would likely be the ones to suffer for it.
Next Cross set the climbing order. He would go first, followed by Walker, Brighton, Yamashita, then Williams. Larssen would take the rear.
When the swimmers finished shuffling their positions in the water, Cross held up one hand as if he were holding an invisible tennis ball. It wasn’t a standard military hand signal, but a reminder of a certain point Cross had relentlessly driven into their heads throughout training: think spherically.
It was a vital concept, especially on a structure like this. Incoming attacks wouldn’t be restricted to just the front and rear as on a normal battlefield. On this rig, with so many levels, enemies could just as easily attack from above or below, so the men had to be ready for trouble to come at them from every direction. Spherically.
Cross had repeated the concept constantly in training, making the hand signal every single time. Think spherically, think spherically, think spherically. It was solid advice, even if the repetition had gotten on Walker’s nerves long ago.
Finally, Cross nodded to his men, looped an elbow around the ladder, and begin to remove his diving fins. The other five soldiers got in order below and did likewise, tucking the fins on their backs under the straps that held their small complement of gear. When his booted feet were free, Cross began the long climb upward. The squad followed.
When Walker broke the surface, his sense of weight suddenly returned, as if he were an astronaut coming back from a long journey in space. Now he felt every pound of his gear, though he tried not to let it slow him down. A stiff breeze chilled the water on his hands and face, and the gentle muffling of sound beneath the waves was replaced by the harsh splash and crash of the waves below.
Under the full moon’s light, Walker could now see much farther. The improved view showed him the Cuban patrol boats waiting in the distance for their chance to close in and turn this mission into a total mess.
Cuba’s naval fleet wasn’t all that impressive compared to America’s modern ships, but it could still do plenty of damage. Intel indicated that at least one Chinese vessel was nearby as well, though Walker couldn’t see well enough to pick it out. But he did identify the mercenaries’ boat moored on the other side of the platform.
If things went according to plan, it wouldn’t matter how many boats were out on the water, or where they were located. But Walker knew that few plans remained intact after first contact with the enemy. Adaptation was almost a certainty in missions. Van Sant’s men could certainly testify to that — that is, if they hadn’t come planning to take hostages in the first place.
After a short climb, Cross reached the top of the ladder, coming to the underside of a metal catwalk. He suddenly gave the stop signal, and Walker passed it down even though he wasn’t sure what the holdup was. He got his answer a moment later as a mercenary strolled by on a long, lonely patrol of the catwalk.
This particular metal walkway was the lowest level on the platform that was still above water. The single sentry had likely been stationed down here to watch for boats trying to sneak people on board.
Walker smiled. Cross had to realize that if he’d had his way and inserted via Zodiac instead of SDV, this sentry would have seen them and raised the alarm. Or worse, the mercs would have waited until they boarded and then cut them down on the ladder as they climbed up. But because they’d done things Walker’s way, the team had remained undetected — and gained the safety of the shadows beneath the walkway.
The sentry wore black fatigues, combat boots, and a Bluetooth earpiece. Slung around his shoulder was a Heckler & Koch MP5A3 submachine gun. A ballistic vest covered his broad chest. As he paced, his eyes remained focused on the thrashing waters below, hoping to spot and prevent any attempted insertions — like the one Shadow Squadron had just successfully performed.
The sentry continued his circuit, passing by the ladder where Cross’s team waited below. He was entirely unaware of their presence. As the sentry passed, Cross signaled to Walker.
Quietly, Cross snuck up behind the mercenary with Walker on his heels. As soon as they reached the walkway, Cross rushed up behind the guard and slapped a choke hold around his neck. Cross’s muscles tightened. He squeezed the man’s pulsing arteries closed. Then Cross pulled the sentry to his knees, his weight pulling the man backward.
The mercenary tried to reach for his submachine gun hanging around his shoulder, but Walker cut the gun strap using his knife and took the weapon from the merc. He casually pitched it over the side of the safety rail and into the ocean.
Unable to shout for help, and growing weaker from the lack of blood flow to his brain, the sentry flailed wildly. Cross took the blows, patiently waiting for the sentry to slip into unconsciousness. Finally, the merc’s eyes slowly slipped shut and he slumped into Cross’s arms.
Cross carefully laid him on the catwalk. He checked his pulse, then nodded at Walker. Together, they flipped the merc over onto his belly.
Cross kept a lookout while Walker produced a pair of plastic zip ties from his pocket, then secured the man’s hands behind his back. After that, he secured one ankle to the metal walkway rail. A quick search revealed the man had no other weapons or ID of any sort. Walker pitched the man’s Bluetooth headset into the water below. Only then did Cross signal for the rest of the team to come up the ladder to the walkway.
Brighton, Yamashita, Williams, and Larssen climbed the walkway, then took their positions. Williams checked the downed mercenary. He was alive but deeply unconscious. Williams nodded once to Cross.
The six of them then spent a moment pocketing their swimming gear and readying their weapons. Each of them was armed with a suppressor-equipped M4 carbine with a modified, shorter barrel for the inevitable close-quarters combat that this mission would require.
Brighton had complained about the weapon choice during the mission briefing, clearly hoping to use his prized AA-12 combat shotgun aboard the Black Anchor. However, Cross ha
d accurately pointed out that the AA-12 just put too much lead into the air for this mission. And it was anything but precise — even if Brighton argued otherwise. Which he had. Repeatedly.
When everyone was ready, Cross gathered the squad and addressed them once more without words. He held up five fingers, reminding them of the number of hostile targets remaining onboard.
The Cubans’ intelligence suggested that only six Hardwall mercenaries had gotten off their boat and subdued the oil platform’s crew. Presumably, all five of the remaining mercs were armed and armored similarly to the sentry they’d just incapacitated. And they were sure to be in contact with each other via their headsets.
Cross tapped his watch, indicating it was only a matter of time before the other mercs noticed the missing man was no longer keeping in contact. That meant Shadow Squadron would have to move fast. And quietly.
According to the Cubans’ intelligence, the Hardwall men were keeping the hostages near the helipad. Cross circled one finger in the air, mimicking a helicopter’s spinning propeller. The message was clear: reaching the helipad was their first priority.
Walker knew this without having to read hand signals. Freeing the hostages was of the utmost importance on any mission. Engaging hostiles before securing the hostages almost always led to the loss of life.
Finally, Cross held up the think spherically signal one more time. As one, the men each gave a sharp nod. Together, they moved out along the catwalk to a set of stairs farther on.
As they moved, their eyes — and the muzzles of their carbines — kept in constant motion, scanning for trouble from all directions. Up, down, left, right — the enemies could come from anywhere.
The stairs up from the lower catwalk led up to the center of the structure. There they found a nexus of stairways, ladders, and walkways. It resembled a spider’s nest made of metal. An array of dim LEDs created a creepy web of intersecting shadows and dark spaces where enemies could hide.