RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  No one could hear shit over the roar of gunfire that was bouncing around the apartment like thunder trapped in a fifty-five-gallon oil drum. The fucking sprinkler system was working just fine, which meant it was practically drowning us and making it near impossible to get a good sight picture on anything more than three feet in front of our faces! I hoped to hell as I rolled and tucked up behind a non-bullet-stopping lounge chair that the HRT team outside the door in the hallway would hold their position. If they blew the fucking door and flooded the room we were now in, there’d be one helluva lot of friendly fire causalities to account for.

  “DICK!”

  Hearing Trace yell my name I chanced a peek and watched her as she heaved a flash bang grenade toward the Nemesis shooter. I clamped my eyes shut just as the damn thing went off. The resulting explosion made me even harder of hearing than I already was. I barely registered the rattle of subgun fire as the kids and Danny maneuvered their way around the fucking mess we’d made of things. This little surprise attack was going nowhere fast. And where the fuck was that other BG?

  The high-pitched stutter of a squad automatic weapon erupting behind me answered that question. BG2 must have been holed up at the opposite end of the spacious suite and he was now putting in his two cents. Me and my team were now caught between BG1 and BG2. I didn’t know exactly where BG1 had slithered off to, but he sure the fuck wasn’t still in the hallway where I’d last seen him trying to kill my big ass. The fucking automatic weapon working its way up and down the walls and tearing the absolute shit outta anything in its way was now my primary concern. That shit had to stop!

  Scrunching over on my side and changing my pistol’s empty magazine I saw Paul. His face and both his hands were bleeding badly. He was lying flat on his back in front of the shot-to-shit couch and yelling like a motherfucker into his handheld ICOM. I couldn’t hear a fucking word he was saying. I didn’t have a clue where Danny was. Trace was hunkered down to my right, flat on her belly, sending a full magazine of 10-mm hornets into the hallway where the SAW gunner was holed up and pinning us the fuck down. Well, suppressive fire is better than no fire at all.

  I did a quick battlefield assessment of our situation. First, we were fucked up beyond all repair, or FUBAR. I could live with that. Been there and done FUBAR many times before. I—we—just needed to keep our heads and fight our way out. The BGs were split up, which was good. They were holding their own, which was bad. It was pretty fucking clear HRT couldn’t get into the apartment from where they were. They were still in a firefight with BG1 who was tossing lead to his front and rear with great skill. That was bad. It was also clear BG2 was in full control of his half of the homestead and with the fucking SAW he owned our asses. Of the two Nemesis players he was the greater threat. If it were me I’d be getting ready to stroll down the hallway and into our damp little patch of Hell with a 250-round drum of man-killers on full auto. Unless a lucky shot took him out we’d be chopped to bits as he worked the gun around the room. After that it wouldn’t matter who won. Me, the kids, and Danny Barrett would be hunka-hunka bleeding corpses. End of story.

  What to do?

  Sometimes, the right answer is just handed to you. In this case, it exploded on top of me, literally, courtesy of the HRT team in the penthouse directly above us. It felt like my eyes had been blasted outta my thick Slavic skull when the concussion of an overhead breaching charge slammed into me with all the gentleness of a tidal wave. Forcing myself to respond, I got to my knees and emptied the little Glock down the hallway where BG2 was holding out. I holstered the pistol in one smooth motion and jerked my MP-5 up to my shoulder. ATTACK-ATTACK-ATTACK! To my left I saw Trace, who now looked like a drowned she-rat, throw another flash bang hard into the hallway. Closing my eyes, I pressed the MP-5’s trigger and began running forward. The first magazine emptied itself on full auto as I sent its full load down range where I hoped BG2 was. The full force of the flash bang’s explosion hit me square in the body, bouncing me sideways and off the fucking wall. I opened my eyes. At least I could still see. ATTACK-ATTACK-ATTACK! Thousands of hours of doing magazine changes took over as I switched out the empty mag for a full one from my left thigh cargo pak. I found my balance and kept moving forward. I couldn’t hear shit over the sharp staccato of continuing gunfire. It was clear HRT had blown through the ceiling above us. We were now reinforced and could begin taking the fucking fight to Nemesis.

  I cleared the short hallway with Trace backing my play. A quick glance backward showed Danny leading the charge on BG1 with HRT covering his six. BG1 was not going to have a good day. Sandwiched between HRT blocking elements and Danny on point he was pretty well fucked. I couldn’t stop to think about Paul’s status. He’d been breathing and talking when I last saw him so I figured he’d live. Right now I wanted BG2 alive and talking if at all possible. I turned to Trace. “Got any ‘bangs left?”

  She nodded and hauled two of the small black grenades out of a thigh pak and hefted them so I could see they were good to go. I nodded in the direction of the bedroom where I figured BG2 was now preparing to make his last stand. I knew I could have HRT blow the far wall and make an entry but if that happened they’d probably kill the silly fucker. I needed information. Dead guys can’t talk. So it was up to Trace and me to get the job done.

  “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” Trace called as she tossed both flash bangs into the room. As they bounced in the damned SAW opened up again, this time its fire chopping through the plasterboard walls of the room where we were crouched. I hit the floor and hugged the water-soaked carpet for all I was worth. I figured Trace was doing the same. Bits of debris swirled around us as the high velocity slugs turned the hallway into a nightmare of death-dealing fragmentation. The double BOOM-BOOM of the flash bangs was sweet music to my ears. With a roar I leapt up and rushed into the bedroom. Kicking torn up, ruined hotel furniture out of my path, I clambered across the soaked king-size bed, the barrel of my H&K swinging in short little arcs back and forth as I searched for BG2. Trace, her H&K at the ready, covered me from the doorway. I saw the silly fucker where he lay all stove up and stupid from the combined blast of the grenades. We’d rung his bell good. “HERE!” I yelled to Trace. Jumping down off the bed I pulled the SAW away from the unconscious form at my feet. A trickle of blood was running from his nose but other than that he looked fit as a fucking fiddle.

  “CLEAR!” yelled Trace back down the hallway toward HRT. “WE GOT ONE DOWN BUT ALIVE! NEED A MEDIC PRONTO!” She checked her weapon then gave me a thumbs-up. It was only then I saw she was bleeding from a flesh wound near the base of her throat. If she knew she’d been hit she didn’t give any indication of it. I wondered how Danny had made out. All I could hear were the sounds of men shouting instructions back and forth and the damn BEEP-BEEPBEEPING of the fire alarm system. The sprinklers had stopped, which was at least some improvement. Shit, I thought, what a fucking cock-up!

  Two HRT operators called out to us before entering the room. I jerked a thumb toward the Nemesis geek and said, “Hook him up and get him outta here!” The two nodded and roughly checked the inert form out for any hidden weapons. They then flex-cuffed his dumb ass and dragged him away. I’d be talking with him later. Right now I needed to check on Danny and Paul, not to mention the HRT guys and BG1. Placing my H&K on “SAFE,” I headed back down the hallway to the suite’s living room. Trace fell in behind me. “Get your throat checked out by the medic,” I growled at her. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!”

  She punched me hard in the back. “You love me and you know it!” she quipped. “You care about me! I think that’s sweet. I think you’re sweet. You can’t shoot worth a shit but you are so sweet. I think I love you, Captain. Really, I think I do.” She slipped past me before I could clobber her, her teasing causing me to smile for just a moment.

  “Kossens! Where are you, you son of a bitch!” I was now standing in the middle of the shot-to-shit room where we’d made our less than dynamic entrance. The fucking fire alarm had FI
NALLY been turned off. Still, my ears were ringing and my eyes stung from all the cordite swirling around the suite. I still couldn’t see Danny and now HRT was all over the fucking place. Looking up I saw where their breachers had blown a beautiful entry point through the floor to get to us. It had been a good thing, too. If they hadn’t dropped down the chimney like Santa-Fucking-Claus, we’d have bought the farm.

  “Over here, boss!”

  It was Paul. He was sitting out on the balcony, an HRT operator swabbing his face with a wet towel or some such shit. I kicked my way through the trashed contents of the room to where I could see him clearly. Fucking glass was all over the rug, mingled in with blood, spent shells, and blast debris. Remind me never to try to blow a sliding glass door with a beanbag round again! From now on I’ll simply have someone shoot the fucker out with a heavy caliber elephant gun. “How bad you hit?”

  “Minor face and hand cuts. A few good welts, bumps, and bruises. Shit was flying pretty thick in there. My bad luck. We get anyone alive?”

  I nodded. “Trace and me nailed our guy with a double dose of sound and white light. Knocked him up, down, and out. HRT just hauled him up to the roof. We’re pulling out and heading for the PANG. I’m gonna chat with him there. You good to go?”

  Paul flipped me a bloody bird then grimaced as the HRT shooter pulled a wicked splinter of glass outta his right eyebrow. “Ouch! Fucking-A! Yeah, I’m fine, Skipper. Dry clothes, hot meal, a few beers, and a hot tub with any female but Trace in it and I’ll be perfect.”

  I laughed. Although come to think of it seeing Trace in a hot tub wasn’t all that bad a mental picture. “She’d fuck you and me to death then ring for room service. Get patched up and let’s move.”

  Turning I brushed past a gaggle of HRT uniforms and headed towards Danny’s voice. The entire suite was shot to shit at this end. I peered into the suite’s second bedroom and saw where BG1 had blown his exit point. It was a nice piece of work. Too bad for him and his buddy that we’d secured the room next door and were waiting for just such a move.

  “Any of your people hit?” I asked a tall, lean HRT shooter.

  “Yeah, we got two down with serious gunshot wounds and one dead.” The man nodded curtly to me and walked away. Fuck! I hate losing people, especially other people’s people. Good men are hard to come by. HRT operators are among the best. There’d be some more sad calls to grieving parents and spouses before this was over. I could feel it in my bones.

  “Dick? You okay? How’s the kids?”

  It was Danny. He was soaked like the rest of us and covered with grit and glass. His H&K looked like a kid’s popgun hanging from its three-point sling around his massive chest. The S&W .41 was secured in its tac-holster and Danny’s black knit watch cap was pushed back on his head. He didn’t appear to have been scratched during the firefight. Come to think of it I’d never ever heard of Danny taking a round at any time in his career. Some guys are like that. They just live right, I guess. “Trace has a flesh wound in the throat but nothing that will shut her up. Paul’s face looks like a logger tap-danced on it with those fucking spiked boots they wear. He’ll be okay, though. How about you?”

  “Right as rain,” replied Barrett. “No hits, all misses. We nailed the cocksucker in the bathroom. I got maybe two good rounds into him when HRT fucking filled the bastard with enough lead to choke the EPA! All that’s left ain’t worth squat to us. I heard the Feds lost a man.”

  “Yeah, one dead and two down hard. They saved our asses, you know. Fucking sniper across the way took the window out when my fucking brilliant idea about using beanbag rounds went to shit. Their coming through the ceiling when they did was heaven sent. I thought we’d bought it until then.”

  “That was Paul’s call. With all that fire raining down, he got on the ICOM and told them to blow the ceiling and get the fuck down to us. Gutsy kid. You got a trooper in that one.” Danny shook a somehow dry cigarette from a soft pack he’d fished out from a deep cargo pocket. Lighting up he drew in a long, deep drag of tobacco-rich smoke then exhaled. “You manage to keep anyone alive at your end?”

  “Got one topside with HRT. We’re going to hit him with a new chemical interrogator the boys and girls at Langley have come up with. After the blood-and-guts thing with Karras, Karen made sure we got the shit before the Lear lifted off.”

  I massaged my skull with one hand. My graying ponytail was pleated tight and soaking ass wet. The adrenalin was starting to fade and I was beginning to feel the places all over my body that hurt. The smoke in the suite was clearing out some. We needed to keep moving and I knew it. Three down, and a hatful of terrorist assholes to go unless Blanchard went nuclear now. Then all this would mean fuck.

  Danny nodded. “Dick, you know it’s going to be like this—just like this—from here until we get to Blanchard. When we get to the PANG, how about you give me some time alone with this fucker? I’ll bet he hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to get to know African Americans. I’d like to begin his reeducation personally.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at this idea. Irony isn’t completely lost on the Rogue Warrior, you know.

  And I could use an hour of recovery time. I knew Danny was right—we were in for the fight of our fucking lives. If the others were willing and able to put up a battle like these two cocksuckers had, it was going to be a long, long day. “Agreed. We’d better stop talking about it and just get the fucking job done! This whole thing is beginning to piss me the fuck off! Let’s go. I’m hungry anyway. You hungry? I’m hungry. I always get hungry after shit like this. Must be a defect in my personality.”

  I made my way down to where Paul and Trace were waiting for us. “The ’hawk’s topside. Dry clothes and more ammo at the PANG. Eat when we get there. I need an intel dump so whoever has the opportunity needs to run it down for me. Danny will have a sensitivity training seminar with the prisoner. Let’s hope our POW knows something worth sharing.”

  We trooped out of the suite and headed for the emergency stairs. I could hear the whomp-whomp-whomp of the helo as it awaited us on the roof of the Fitz. Sure as shit, Blanchard would hear about this little party, if he didn’t know already. What he’d do I didn’t have a fucking clue. All I could do was my job. If the City of Roses turned to black glass while I was on the meter, so be it. In the meantime we needed to keep moving. I wanted to find the next cell and climb another rung up the ladder. I wanted Blanchard and I wanted the stolen nuke. I wanted payback for the dead HRT and NEST shooters. I wanted Karen to be able to look me in the face again and tell me she understood. I wanted my kids safe and sound and banging steel at the Manor once again. I wanted Danny Barrett home with his wife and grandkids.

  I wanted too much to slow down now.

  Upon reaching the roof I ducked low and began running hard for the bird. The first act was over. No intermission in this show.

  Chapter

  12

  “You must know then, that there are two methods of fighting, the one by law, the other by force; the first method is that of men, the second of beasts; but as the first method is often insufficient, one must have recourse to the second. It is therefore necessary for a prince to know how to use both the beast and the man.”

  NICCOLò MACHIAVELLI, The Prince, 1513

  “Dick? Dick? Wake up, brother. Time to run and gun again.”

  When I opened my eyes all I could see was Danny Barrett’s massive face not a foot from my own. The room the base commander made available to me was wrapped in soft darkness except for a single small light atop the desk in the corner. I was comfortable. I was warm. I was sore and not at all inclined to begin moving quickly just yet. “What the fuck? How long I been out?”

  Barrett pulled back into the darkness. “Forty-five minutes. I got some good poop outta the asshole we hauled in. That chemical cocktail Karen sent along may work on soft cases. But it ain’t worth a shit on guys with SERE training and a religious bent toward radical racism.”

  I gently swung my feet
off the bed and sat up. Sore is not the word to describe how I was feeling. I gingerly touched my ribs on the right side of my battered carcass. Yep, that hurt. So did my head. So did my ass where I’d bounced off the railing on the ride down the fast rope. The interior of my mouth was dry and there was a bitter, ammonia like odor to my breath. I needed a hot shower, a toothbrush, some strong, strong coffee, and some good fucking news. “So, what’d you find out?”

  Danny lit up a smoke. He seemed to enjoy the shit. Me, I prefer a good cigar. My old sea daddy, Ev Barrett, used a well-worked cigar to light demolition fuses. I learned from Ev how to light a fuse and how to smoke a good cigar at the same time. “I whupped him.”

  “You what?”

  “I whupped him. Sent everyone out of the room and bounced him around like a redheaded stepchild. Kicked his ass. Played pinball with him. Beat him like a yeller dog. Southern justice. Works every time.”

  “He talked because you beat his ass?” I started laughing. This was too good.

  Danny nodded in the shadows. “Yes. He did. I can be very persuasive. I have a way about me, or so I’ve been told.”

  Grabbing a clean, dry turtleneck from the neatly folded change of clothes next to the bed I pulled it over my head. A shower would have to wait. Next came the new jeans, socks, and a pair of Danner Arcadia tactical boots. In under three minutes I was dressed. I belted on the Glock and checked my extra magazines. I fished the big folding fighter Kelly Worden had given me before I left Tacoma out of my ditty bag and slid it into my left front pants pocket. The Emerson would stay behind from here on out. I’d undone and brushed my hair out before lying down. Now I pulled it hastily back into a loose ponytail and triple cinched it with an elastic hair band. Finished, I grabbed my Eagle daypack and checked its contents. All was in order. I was ready to roll.