by Mike Kraus
“Are we supposed to care?” Gilliam replies.
“Not really, but I thought they were our allies.”
Someone snorts, and Lieutenant Scott snaps. “Knock off the chatter. Keep your minds on the job.”
The team quiets down and waits for his command to move out while he performs one more survey, picking apart the base’s defenses.
“It’s hotter than what they told us in the briefing,” he murmurs, “but more than tolerable. There’s a clear insertion point along the south fence line. We cut across the road, disable the watch tower, and we’re in.”
He taps a button on his helmet, and the magnification instantly snaps back to normal view. Scott breaks cover, rising from his position behind the rock, and starts down the hill.
“Fall in,” he commands the team, and they descend the rugged trail to the desert floor. He jogs ahead, picking up speed, not concerned about being seen quite yet. They’re still a quarter mile from the insertion point, their combat outfits made of a specialized heat-reducing material that covers every inch of their bodies. They will be almost impossible to detect until they’re right on top of the base but still, they exhibit caution, using the desert brush and defilades to pick their way closer, avoiding the watchful eyes of the guards in the south tower.
They reach the road in two minutes, easing into a ditch so they don’t kick up dust. The tower is twenty yards ahead of them, Scott’s night vision showing two guards stationed atop the steel-framed construction. One stands at the glassless observation window, looking slightly west while the other lingers at the back of the guardhouse, their spotlight off, tilted upward to the night sky.
Scott starts to rise when the sound of a light vehicle roars in from his right and he hits the ground, holding his rifle ready. The vehicle rumbles past them, washing them in a wave of oil-scented heat before moving down the road. Once the Jeep passes, Scott checks the guard tower one more time and streaks across the road, the SEAL team on his heels. They lean against the base of the scaffold, huddled around the ladder, no sign of detection or alarm from above.
“McCarthy, Gilliam. You’re up.”
The pair wordlessly and silently scale the scaffolding toward the platform and Gilliam is the first to reach the top. He grabs the soldier overlooking the grounds and pulls his head down, applying a front choke hold. The man fights and punches Gilliam’s shoulders, but the lack of oxygen overwhelms him.
McCarthy appears next, heading through the window to grab the second guard when the sounds of a struggle ensue. Something slams against the wall, rattling the structure and a pair of dark forms hit the observation rail, leaning out over thirty feet of open air. McCarthy grunts in his earpiece, stabs, and makes a twisting move that sends the soldier flying. The body plummets thirty-five feet to thud on the ground and Scott creeps forward, noting the blossoming circle of blood on the soldier’s fatigues, a gaping wound across his throat.
“Dead,” Scott says with a disappointed shake of his head. “So much for no casualties.”
“Sorry, sir,” the tone is cold, devoid of emotion and apology.
“Tie up the other one and get down here. Someone split the fence.”
Another pair of SEALS takes clippers to the chain linkage, snipping it wide open. The team files through the gap like liquid darkness, racing toward the airfield. They fall-in behind a pair of long maintenance trucks, the troops crouched as the lieutenant creeps past his men to a front fender, peering around it at the aircraft hangar.
The lights are on and the three bay doors all stand open, but while there’s some activity happening inside, Scott can’t see what it is. He looks farther north toward the command center and adjoining roads, watching as a dozen figures from a nearby building run out and leap into the back of a troop transport. A soldier slams the gate closed, and the truck pulls onto a side road and heads for a junction. Another platoon jogs in formation in front of the command center and takes a left to disappear around the other side.
“Things are definitely heating up,” Scott says. “I wonder if they’re on to us.”
“It couldn’t have been the guard tower, sir,” McCarthy says in his ear. “We bundled the soldier up good and disabled the comm.”
“They could have been tipped off by someone else,” Scott muses. “Maybe they detected the helicopter.”
“Or maybe they have really good instincts.”
Scott scoffs and turns his attention back to the plane hangar. A pair of aircraft roll out, surrounded by a half-dozen men in orange coats. The aircraft are shaped like jets but only a quarter of the size with rounded domes where the cockpits should be.
“I’ve got my eyes on a pair of drones,” he tells the team. “They’re launching them. Could be trouble for us.”
He waits patiently as the aircraft taxi onto the runway, propeller noise whining up, the maintenance crew’s full attention on the spy craft. The drones gain speed and start to lift off. Two maintenance workers raise their arms and wave while others jostle and joke, clearly enjoying the takeoff show.
“Stay on me,” the lieutenant orders.
Without waiting for a reply, he breaks cover, half-crouched and leaning forward, sprinting toward storage sheds sitting on the hangar’s south side. The propeller noise drowns out the sound of their running boots, though it seems to take an eternity to cover the distance. Scott reaches the buildings first, ducking behind a wall in a rush of breath, heart slamming blood through his veins. He creeps between the structures, staying away from exterior lights that shine poorly from above the shed doors and a glance back toward the runway shows the drone team still occupied with the aircraft lifting into the sky.
“Now.”
The lieutenant sprints toward the massive hangar, staying within the shadows, knees pumping until his chest presses against the wall. Flattening himself, he waits beneath the glow of exterior lights while his team flows silently up beside him, their forms like liquid filling the corner where the wall meets the ground. Scott creeps to the southwest corner of the building and peeks around. In back, fuel trucks sit side-by-side, and supply crates are stacked in rows three high and five wide. Glancing back the way they came, he sees spotlights shining down across the desert as if searching for someone.
“They’re waking up.” A discomforting feeling settles in his belly. “It’s just a matter of time until they discover the insertion point.”
“Then let’s shake and bake,” McCarthy says, the rest of the SEALS in agreement.
With a silent nod, Scott creeps along the rear wall past steel doors, maintenance vehicles, and crates. At the northwest corner of the building, he taps his temple and uses his magnification to scan the north grounds again. Platoons jog along the service roads, and three groups of six soldiers each break off and stand at intersections. He identifies at least two VCR-TT armored trucks in position in front of the command center with .50 caliber guns mounted on top.
“This is going to be--”
Something clicks behind a bay door behind them. The SEAL team snaps into action, forming a semi-circle around the entrance, rifles raised to their shoulders. There comes a pop and a rummaging sound as the metal door rolls upward, slamming against the top of the frame. A man strolls out, wearing a gray maintenance outfit while he stares at a clipboard in his hand, completely absorbed by its contents. It’s only when he smacks his head on a rifle barrel that he stops, raising his eyes, jaw dropping when he sees the black-clad soldier on the rifle’s other end.
Before he can so much as grunt in surprise, a gloved hand slides around his mouth, choking off any sounds. The SEALS converge on him, binding him and placing him in a heavy, but breathable, sack. Two men drag him to the supply crates, open an empty one, and drop him inside, while another pair quietly shuts the steel door he came out of. The lieutenant returns to the corner of the building and looks out across the grounds.
“Stevenson and Taggart, you’re up.”
The pair sprint past him, heading north to the armory.
“Rose and Holloway. Go.”
The next pair spring from cover, following Stevenson and Taggart but angling slightly to the right. Scott gives them thirty seconds before gripping his weapon tightly against his chest.
“McCarthy and Gilliam, with me.”
The pair gathers behind him as he stares out at the spotlights now crisscrossing over the grounds. He takes note of the parked vehicles, sheds, and dark buildings where they might seek cover, forming a path in his mind before he gives a breathless whisper.
“Let’s go.”
He darts from cover and sprints across the open field with his men tight on his heels, their dark forms weaving a course, crossing access roads and dancing around search beams. They avoid a foot patrol by silently scaling a supply building, retrieving their ropes, and creeping to the other side before dropping to the ground, and the lieutenant notes a marked increase in vehicles rumbling to life and shouts from prowling troops. What should have been a quiet base has come fully alive.
They cross to a power station, fall to their bellies, and crawl to the command center’s western side. Removing their climbing gear, they toss sleek hooks thirty feet to the roof and scale the wall like shadows, drawing themselves up over the edge and rolling to their feet. At the top, Gilliam and McCarthy slip away to take out a pair of gunners stationed in the corners while Scott slinks toward a set of stairs leading down. An enemy soldier jogs to the top just as he arrives and Scott whips the butt of his rifle around and strikes the soldier in the jaw before grabbing the man by his fatigues and jerking him forward to hit the roof face first.
After a quick check to ensure the man is unconscious, Scott creeps to the edge of the stairs and makes sure no one else is coming. He glances back to see Gilliam and McCarthy have successfully disabled the two gunners, and they lay bound on the hot tar roof. His men join him at the stairs, and they tie up and drag his man to the side.
Scott addresses his men. “Team, we are entering the command center. Stand by.”
“Roger that,” Stevenson says.
“Standing by,” Rose replies.
Scott gestures for Gilliam and McCarthy to lead them down the stairs. Before he follows them, the lieutenant glances up at the white, green and red flag waving from a pole out front, its strips flapping in the cooling desert wind. He shakes his head, doubt creeping into his mind, agreeing with Smith and McCarthy’s earlier sentiment. They are invading a sovereign nation’s base – one of their closest allies, no less – performing an act of war. Keeping the casualties low won’t make a difference when the bill comes due.
Quick-stepping it, he follows his men down the stairs and into the belly of the command center, disabling two more guards with soft grunts and groans before navigating a block of steps that corkscrews downward. At the bottom, they face a long hallway that stretches fifty yards underground. Scott knows the passage is filled with monitoring gear, cameras and motion detection systems.
He nods to Gilliam and the man removes a baseball-sized sphere from his jacket and rolls it down the hall like a bowling ball. As it moves, it emits a strong electromagnetic pulse that temporarily disables any delicate electronic equipment in the walls. The SEALS sprint along the passage directly behind the sphere, reaching the end in less than ten seconds, a steel door separating them from their goal. Gilliam uses a coded transponder to disable the lock and pop the door and as it flies open, the sound of gunfire erupts, catching the trio off-guard.
The control center is a large room with three rows of computer stations lined up with gaps on the sides and down the middle. Scott rolls to his right, rises with his weapon, and squeezes off a burst at a soldier coming around the edge, sending his feet flying up, rifle jerking reflexively to fire at the ceiling. McCarthy and Gilliam combine to take down two more, any pretense of civility ended, their momentary surprise overridden by their years of carefully-trained instincts.
The lieutenant sees a man typing vigorously at a console across the room, shouts for him to stop, but when he doesn’t, he targets him and fires, putting a bullet through his left temple, blood and brains spraying the far wall in an elliptical shape. By the time they’re done, three Mexican soldiers and two officers are dead. Scott jogs over to the console the man was typing at and sits. Still logged in, he uses the man’s access to pull up the data he needs. As he works, he makes contact with his men outside the control center.
“Stevenson. Rose. Do you read me?”
“Yes, sir,” replies Stevenson.
“Loud and clear.” Rose’s voice cuts through static.
“Be advised, it’s about to get hot up there.”
“Are we still keeping casualties low, sir?” Stevenson asks.
“Negative. That bird flew the coop.”
“Standing by.”
Scott removes a USB stick from his pocket and pushes it into a slot on the computer. Fingers flying over the keyboard, he types a few commands and begins loading the data, watching a meter on the screen as it measures the data upload progress.
“They’re looking for us hard now,” Rose says in his ear. “Lights are sweeping everywhere.”
“Hang tight,” Scott glanced at the monitor. “We’re at fifty percent.”
“They’re moving on the command center,” Rose said. “Be advised.”
“Noted. Sixty-two percent.” Scott stands and addresses his teammates next to the door. “McCarty and Gilliam. You two advance and make sure the stairwell remains clear. Seventy-five percent.”
The pair exit the command center and stalk down the hallway, leaving Scott alone in the room.
“Moving in to support,” Rose said.
“Same here,” Stevenson adds.
“I hear boots on the stairs,” McCarthy murmurs. “Engaging.”
A close rattle of gunfire goes off like a snare drum through his earpiece, quickly followed by another nearby.
“Two down.” Gilliam states. “I’m smoking the stairs. Be advised.”
Scott grabs the bottom of his visor and lowers it, locking it in place, sealing his mask and activating an air filtration unit in the side. “Ninety-three percent,” he says. Almost there. “Rose, are you in position to disable those armored vehicles sitting out front?”
“On it.”
The gunfire and explosions continue, intensifying in a rising press of sound, the signature rifle bursts of his men laying a cover that’s impossible to defend against. He can almost feel the enemy’s fears as his soldiers rise from the shadows, more resembling monsters of legend than actual blood-and-flesh men.
“Ninety-eight percent,” he says. A moment later, he jerks the stick free and places it inside a pocket in his vest. “Got it. On my way. Prepare for evac.”
He steps over dead bodies as he strides toward the door, the battle escalating through his earpiece; bursts of rounds, shouts and cries, and a distant boom. Scott grips his rifle tight to his chest and prepares to charge into the fray. A soft groan draws his attention, and he spins to the right, snapping his rifle up to fire. A Mexican soldier lies on the floor in a pool of his own blood, trying to lift a pistol to shoot Lieutenant Scott, but he doesn’t have the strength. At the last second, his shoulders shiver, and the weapon clatters useless to the floor.
The man glares at the lieutenant before his eyes glaze over, and he dies. Scott stares at him a moment and then exits the room, slipping into the approaching smoke like an apparition.
Chapter 11
Tom, Virginia Beach, Virginia
The sounds of shattering glass stung his ears, and Tom twisted and glared out the foot-wide crater someone had made in it, the safety glass spiderweb-cracking all the way to its edges but not bursting completely. Standing slightly behind and to the side of the Toyota were a man and woman from the ABC Liquor parking lot, both holding bats, the man lifting his to swing it again, face twisted into a grimace.
Tom jammed the truck in reverse and slammed his foot on the gas, tires squealing as they shot backward, splitting the
pair and sending them dodging off to the sides. The man’s bat flew down as they roared past, smacking the front windshield and causing the glass to spiderweb like the back window.
“Seatbelts!” Tom yelled over his shoulder as he continued careening toward the main road. “And hang on!”
He couldn’t see much out the rear window, most of it just a white mesh of jagged, puzzle-piece lines. A glance forward showed him the pair of attackers running after them, but Tom didn’t slow down, pressing the pedal harder, gripping the steering wheel as the Toyota twisted back and forth in retreat. His rear tires ground hard against the curb before they leapt onto the sidewalk and weaved into the grass. Tom tried to overcorrect, but the truck slewed and slid, ignoring his commands.
He slammed his foot on the brake, locking them up to send them hydroplaning across the swampy ground, a thick tree trunk centering itself in his rear window. He had a fraction of a second to clench his shoulders before they smashed into the tree in an explosion of airbags and flying glass. Tom rocked back in his seat and fell forward over the deflating balloon, sucking air between his teeth and groaning, staring through the cracked front windshield at the figures slogging through the grass toward them.
He turned to Jerry, the young man gripping his right shoulder, his expression caught in a pained daze. Releasing his arm, he reached for the door handle, mumbling something about getting someone to help them when Tom growled, grabbing his arm back from the handle.
“No!”
A bat smashed against his driver’s side window, jerking his attention back, a woman glaring down at him through the cracked glass, teeth bared.
“It’s those people from the liquor store! They’re trying to bash our windows in!”
A thick, shadowy figure stood at the front of the car, arms spread in a masculine, dominating pose. “Get out of the car!” he screamed, raising a baseball bat and smashing it on the Toyota’s hood.
“Come on! Get out!” the woman screeched. She brought her bat down to smack Sam’s window just behind him, cracking it from center to edge before lowering her aim and whacked the door with a heavy thud.