Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  Kemper surveyed the mayhem. The tarps that had been covering the crates were now strewn haphazardly about. Terrorist shooters were popping up and firing from hiding places strategically located around the cargo deck. The multiple firing angles created a wicked crossfire and made escape impossible for the four SEALs pinned down at the package.

  Time to do something about that.

  Kemper found a target, dropped a bright red dot on the fuck-stick’s temple, and squeezed off a single round. The man’s head disappeared in a puff of blood and brains painted in night vision green. His body slumped and then disappeared behind a wooden crate.

  Sparks flew around Kemper, blinding him for an instant, as bullets slammed into the generator beside him. Enemy shooters had sighted his muzzle flash, and now they were lighting him up. He dodged right two paces and dropped prone onto the deck—the barrel of his rifle now below the bottom railing slat.

  Shoot and move—Spec Ops Survival 101.

  He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check as he sighted a new target. These assholes knew we were coming.

  Trigger squeeze.

  Pop.

  Another dipshit crumpled onto the deck.

  A never-ending stream of tracers streaked across his field of view. He scanned right, checking their escape route to the stern deck. Shit. There was no way they could move aft through that much fire. Maybe he and Spaz could cover the demo team up onto the deck rails for an “over the side” drop into the water. Possible, but the Darya-ye Noor’s freeboard was pretty fucking high. Even worse than the three-story drop, they would be vulnerable to a 180-degree assault while they tried to set up ropes.

  Movement to the left grabbed his attention. Sight . . . trigger squeeze . . . miss.

  He frowned as the terrorist scurried behind a crate and disappeared from view.

  Something slammed into his back—a sledgehammer that sent a tsunami of pain through his entire body. The pain in his spine was so acute, so electric, that it stole the breath from his lungs. He tried to move. Sparks of pain shot through his ass, down his leg, to his left foot. His big toe felt like it had exploded inside his boot. He tried to call out to Spaz, but he couldn’t find his breath.

  He didn’t need to; he heard Spaz’s voice in his headset.

  “Shooter on the bridge tower! Sniper up on the tower. Lead, Four—are you okay? Are you hit?”

  Kemper moved a hand to his radio and pressed the button to transmit on the wider frequency band to include Command and Control on his transmission. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was “Uhhhh.” He tried to cough, tried to clear his throat, but he couldn’t inhale enough air to push any out. It felt like a car had run over him, and now that same car was parked on his chest.

  He heard Spaz again in his ear.

  “One is hit. One is down. I’m gonna get him.”

  “Four—hold,” Kemper wheezed. “I’m okay.”

  The electric shocks in his ass and leg were subsiding, but the pain dead center in his back was debilitating. He finally managed to suck in a deep breath, which radiated a new, heavier pain out along his ribs to both sides of his chest. He tried to move his legs and was punished with another lash of pain down the left leg, but his legs moved.

  His legs moved just fine.

  If I’d been shot through the spine, I’d be paralyzed.

  Despite the pain, Kemper couldn’t help but grin. He’d almost left the ceramic plate out of his Kevlar vest when he was gearing up—hating how heavy and uncomfortable the damn thing was. But tonight, prudence had persevered, and that damn SAPI plate had stopped an AK-47 round from punching a hole through his spine.

  He counted to three, took a deep breath, and rolled to his right. Pain mushroomed across his back and down his leg as he dragged himself awkwardly toward the metal stairs leading down to the cargo deck. More sniper rounds rained down around him, exploding chunks of stair tread in his face as he belly-crawled. He collapsed at the bottom of the stairs in a heap. Steeling himself, he crawled on his elbows around the staircase, moving outboard until he was behind the staircase and underneath the port deck rail. He pressed his back against the hull of the ship and exhaled with relief. In this position, he was shielded from above and out of the bridge sniper’s line of fire.

  “Four,” he called to Spaz, loud enough to be heard even without the voice-activated mike. “Dude, come to me.” Knowing he needed to provide covering fire, Kemper reached up and grabbed a stair rung. Ignoring the pain that shot down his leg, he pulled himself to one knee and aimed blindly up at the catwalks that lined the bridge tower. He thumbed his M4 to a three-round burst and squeezed the trigger. He kept shooting, shifting his aim among different areas of the tower, until Spaz had ducked in beside him. With Spaz safe, he pulled back against the hull with a grunt.

  “You hit, Senior?” Spaz asked, looking him over through his goggles.

  “Took a round in the back,” he groaned.

  “You mobile?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said and waved a hand in annoyance. “But I’m not sure where the fuck we’re gonna go.”

  A grenade exploded somewhere in the middle of the deck, showering everything in a fifteen-yard radius with wood fragments and pieces of burning tarp.

  “That was one of our grenades,” Kemper said.

  A second explosion followed, equally satisfying.

  “That one, too,” added Spaz. “Paradise is gonna get crowded with martyrs tonight.”

  “Amen, brother,” Kemper said with a smirk. He thumbed the wider frequency button on his radio. “Blackbeard Main, this is Blackbeard Actual. Blackbeard Main, Blackbeard Actual.” While he waited for a reply, he watched Spaz take up a cover position.

  “Blackbeard, this is Main—go.”

  “Main, Actual—heavy contact. Pinned down and need air support ASAP. Over.”

  There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity. Kemper could picture Commander Dietrich, the squadron skipper in the Tactical Operations Center, asking the SEAL air-support coordinator for a time check, and then swearing up a thunderstorm when he got the answer.

  “Blackbeard, Main—little birds in five mikes. Do you need hot EXFIL from the target, or are you still a go for Alpha?”

  Kemper thought a moment. With the little birds hosing the bad guys, they could probably make the water for their plan A for EXFIL. But if they took casualties, then no way. And, if he was dicked up worse than he thought, could he make the swim? He thought of the fractured SAPI plate, the trauma to his back, and said, “Main, Actual—likely Alpha but have Bravo in orbit and available.”

  “Copy,” Dietrich said. “Four mikes. Switch to air.”

  Kemper would switch to the air channel in a minute, but first he needed a SITREP from his team.

  “Two, One—SITREP?”

  “Still at the package. Still heavy fire, but no casualties.”

  Kemper nodded. “Two—hold position. Stay put. Six, One—you off the deck rails?”

  “Six—check.”

  So everyone was clear of the raised deck, and the demolition team was still hunkered down near the package. The Night Stalkers in their OH-58s were coming. With their mini-guns, the helicopter pilots would hose down terrorist snipers on the bridge tower and then lay down suppressing fire, clearing a path from amidships to the stern. Kemper could direct them to use a rocket or two if needed, but that would be a last resort. Better to get off the ship and blow the package from a distance. Safer for all the good guys that way.

  “Everyone hold. Little birds in three mikes. Let me know if you have to move.”

  He switched his radio from the tactical channel to the air channel by feel.

  “Stalker Two-Five, Blackbeard Actual.”

  “Blackbeard, Stalker—go.”

  “Stalker, Blackbeard. Team in two elements. Half at the package on the cargo deck amidships. Half-split between port and starboard below the deck rails. Taking sniper fire from the bridge tower, and heavy contact from the aft cargo d
eck. Everyone aft of our lights is a shithead.”

  “Copy,” was all the little bird responded. It was enough. Kemper’s team worked almost exclusively with the 160th. This was just another day at the office.

  Kemper gritted his teeth as he took a knee next to Spaz, pain flaring in his back and leg. He tapped Spaz on the shoulder.

  “Relay to the team. I’ll monitor air.”

  Spaz nodded and then repeated the plan to the rest of the SEALs using his radio.

  A moment later, despite the din of automatic weapon fire on the cargo deck, Kemper’s ears pricked to the familiar whine of the little helicopters. The sound was raspy and higher pitched than the stealth Black Hawks on which they had arrived. The need for stealth was past, and the call of firepower never sounded so sweet.

  “Blackbeard, Stalker. Lights on,” said the pilot’s voice in Kemper’s earpiece.

  “Lights on,” Kemper said to Spaz, as he turned on his strobe.

  Spaz nodded, flipped on his own strobe, and relayed the order into his boom mike.

  A skinny guy holding an AK-47 popped his head around a crate less than twenty feet away. Without hesitation, Kemper fired two rounds: the first hit the crate, making the insurgent turn in Kemper’s direction in surprise; the second round blew off the guy’s lower jaw and half his face. The man dropped his rifle and fell twitching backward onto the deck. Kemper continued his sweep of the cargo deck and breathed a sigh of relief as other white strobes began to flash. The SEALs were switching on their helmet-mounted infrared strobes—an ID light visible only with night vision, and a safeguard against friendly fire.

  A heartbeat later, two OH-58s screamed across the deck of the ship at low altitude and then pulled up into a static hover.

  “Clearing the bridge,” Stalker reported in his headset.

  “Copy.”

  Tongues of flame spat from the helicopters as they showered the bridge-wings and catwalks with .50-caliber fury. Tracers in the bullet streams created the illusion of long, fiery orange lassos licking the bridge tower. Entire sections of superstructure exploded, and chunks of metal crashed onto the raised deck. A moment later, a massive span of catwalk groaned and then broke free—tumbling in a roaring cascade of sparks, flame, and twisted metal. Kemper had seen it all before, but the destructive power of the tiny helicopters never ceased to amaze him.

  “Clearing the deck for you, Blackbeard,” Stalker reported in his headset.

  Kemper clicked his mike twice and then switched back to his team’s tactical channel. “Get ready to move,” he called over the radio. “Rally point Alpha. Prepare for EXFIL.”

  He shifted into a crouch and sighted over his rifle. He followed the bouncing red dot through his NVGs, looking for terrorist shooters trying to flee the maze of crates. No visible targets. He wasn’t surprised, considering the strafing in progress. The OH-58 pilots were using night vision, which meant they could see the SEAL strobes, but they also had their thermals up to spot the heat signatures of any shitheads still hiding under the tarps. Kemper squinted as the two little birds swung around and began to light up the cargo deck. Hopefully Thiel had correctly identified the package, and the remaining crates being obliterated weren’t loaded with sarin.

  Tracer flares, muzzle blasts, and spot fires turned night into day, and Kemper had to look away to preserve his night eyes. Staring down at his feet, he waited, listening to the sound of wooden crates exploding like geysers, raining fiery chunks of debris across the cargo deck.

  And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the firestorm was over.

  Kemper got to his feet and assumed a tactical crouch. He raised his rifle and signaled to Spaz to move aft. The first heavy step of his boot unleashed an explosion of pain in the middle of his back and a fresh bolt of lightning down his left leg. Two more strides and his foot felt blown up inside his boot. He paused for a moment and the pain waned, leaving only a throbbing ache in his pelvis and thigh.

  Dread washed over him as the severity of his injury finally began to register.

  Bullet broke my fucking back.

  One bad step, one wrong movement, and the fractured vertebrae could slip, shift, or collapse and cut his spinal cord in half. What the hell was he supposed to do then?

  “We gotta keep movin’, Senior,” Spaz whispered.

  “I know,” he grumbled and took another step.

  Spaz fanned out to the left while he stayed right. He swiveled back and forth in a thirty-degree arc, scanning the path ahead for enemy shooters moving up from the stern. Each turn of his torso brought another red-hot saber stabbing him in the back. He tried to swallow the pain and push forward, but he was beginning to falter.

  He was falling behind.

  “Movement—port side—aft of last row of pallets,” Stalker warned in his earpiece. “You’re too close for me to engage.”

  Kemper swung left and scanned the inboard deck. He spied the row of pallets, but no movement. He surged forward as Spaz widened his sweep. Kemper’s IR dot danced with shadows green and gray, but he found no enemies to engage. He held his crouch and moved another three steps. Then, in his peripheral vision, something flashed white; the guttural pop of an AK-47 followed a split second later. He swept the deck and spotted a prone figure holding a rifle. Kemper trained his targeting dot onto the man’s forehead and fired twice. The impact flipped the terrorist onto his back, where he stared up at the night sky, one eye remaining in half a head.

  “Shit—I think I’m hit,” Spaz called out.

  Kemper spun to his right and found Spaz sitting on the deck, his rifle in his lap. He took two giant strides to close the gap, adrenaline masking his pain. He knelt beside Spaz. “You okay, bro?” he asked, quickly scanning an arc around their position for other shooters.

  “You tell me,” Spaz said, looking down at his leg, bewildered.

  In the monochrome green of night vision, Kemper saw a black stain spreading on Spaz’s gray utility pants. Not good. The wound was located on the thigh, just below the drop holster straps for the kid’s Sig Sauer P226 9 mm pistol. Kemper reached down with a gloved hand and pressed. His pressure was met with a nauseating crunch and an equally nauseating moan from Spaz.

  “Your fuckin’ femur’s broken,” Kemper said.

  “Awesome.” Spaz coughed through gritted teeth.

  “Got a man down,” Kemper said into his mike. “I can get him to the fantail, but I need some cover.”

  Two clicks told him his message was received. Whether he could actually deliver on his promise was a coin flip. His back was completely fucked, but he was a goddamn SEAL, and SEALs do whatever it takes for their brothers.

  Whatever it takes.

  He helped Spaz recline until he was lying on the deck. Then Kemper positioned the nape of his own neck and plateau of his shoulders across Spaz’s midsection. He wrapped Spaz’s left arm and bleeding left leg around him, like putting on a sweater. Then he twisted and rolled Spaz on top of him. He struggled to his feet under the crushing weight of his fully loaded teammate. Staying in a crouch, he crossed Spaz’s arm and leg together in front of his chest and held them in place with his left hand, freeing up his right to bring his rifle to bear. He scanned the deck, saw no one, and moved forward.

  The first step stole his breath, leaving just enough air for an anguished howl. On the second step, his left leg turned to a bag of dead meat. He crumpled to his knees, the explosion of pain in his back dangerously close to making him pass out.

  “Fuck,” he grunted as he tried to push himself back onto his feet, using his rifle as a cane.

  “Put me down,” Spaz whispered, his voice ripe with agony.

  “No.”

  Kemper staggered forward, leaning heavily on his right leg and supporting his left with his rifle-cane. Less than fifteen yards to go. He could already see two of his fellow SEALs adjusting ropes on the stern deck ahead of him.

  “Put me down, Senior. I can walk.”

  “Not with a shattered femur, you can’t,” he huf
fed. “We’re almost there.”

  Automatic weapon fire echoed behind him, but Kemper couldn’t turn, much less return fire. He pressed forward, depending on the other operators to kill the threat. If they didn’t—at least his world of pain would end.

  Fifteen feet.

  Ten.

  Seven.

  Five.

  He collapsed at the feet of two SEALs providing cover fire for them at the railing. Tears clouded his vision. He felt someone lift Spaz off his broken back. Unencumbered, he tried to press up onto his hands and knees, but his left leg was dead.

  “You first, Senior. No arguing,” said the closer SEAL. It was Rousch, their eighteen-Delta combat medic, who was now in command since this had just become a CASEVAC instead of an EXFIL. “I’ll send Pablo down next. Then Spaz. Okay?” Rousch added.

  “’K,” Kemper said through gritted teeth. “Spaz took one to the right femur. He’s bleeding out.”

  “You carried his ass, Senior, but it’s my job to fix him. Now go.”

  Thiel and Pablo got Kemper to his feet, while Rousch attended to Spaz. Thiel helped him hook a figure-eight descender device onto the rappelling rope, and Pablo clipped it to a carabiner in the center of his kit. Thiel lifted Kemper’s left leg over the railing for him and handed it to him like a piece of luggage.

  “Might wanna take that with you,” Thiel said, the corners of his mouth curling up.

  Kemper grunted, leaned back, and pushed off the hull of the Darya-ye fucking Noor. Rappelling down the side of the ship, he could manage. Finning away with his broken back and useless left leg—that was going to be a bitch.

  His gaze on Thiel’s furrowed brow and his thoughts on Spaz, Kemper descended into the black.

  CHAPTER 3

  The instant he hit the water, he knew something was wrong.