Scorpion Strike

by John Gilstrap

  Since leaving Security Solutions, she’d been doing office work for a trade association headquartered in D.C., and hating every minute of it. Digger had given her a nice recommendation letter, citing her previous duties as being “in support of multiple high-level corporate investigative efforts.” Even she didn’t know what those words meant, but as Digger had assured, they were just gobbledygook enough to attract notice from lobbyists. Her biggest challenge after being hired at the association was dancing around the questions of what, specifically, she had done for Security Solutions. She’d wing it with various iterations of coyness and evasion, and usually, that was enough. When it became necessary for her to make something up out of whole cloth, she’d call Venice, and Mother Hen would vouch for her.

  The job paid the bills, but Jolaine hated every moment of it. Trade associations didn’t produce anything. Rather, they thought lofty thoughts, sucked up to their members, and gave money to politicians for them to pretend to care about their cause. Influence peddling was the business of Washington, just as surely as steel used to be the business of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, but unlike the denizens of the Rust Belt, the business of Washington was, first and foremost, self-perpetuation.

  Boxers’ only instruction to Jolaine was to arrive here in Manassas and wait for him. She got the strong sense that the presence of the team would precede the presence of a plan. And why should this operation be any different than others she’d been on?

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she checked the screen. A text message read, Hangar E4. ASAP.

  She wasted no time rising from the hard wooden seat and strolling back out into the chilly breeze. She slipped into her well-worn Nissan Sentra, turned the ignition, dropped the transmission into gear, and made the short drive to the designated building. Call it half a mile.

  The aircraft hangars at Manassas were squattier than you’d find at larger airports because this was a place that catered almost exclusively to the community of executive aircraft. In her previous time with Digger’s team, they’d had an arrangement with a client to have pretty much unfettered access to the client’s jet. A Lear, she thought. Boxers had hated the small size—he called it a sardine can—so she was anxious to see if they’d found another set of wings.

  The front of Hangar E4 looked like a standard office, accessible through a glass door that dumped you into an empty reception area. She could hear voices from deeper inside the space, and one of them was unmistakably Boxers’. She followed the sound, anxious to meet the team with whom she would soon be risking her life.

  The center hallway dead-ended at the door to the hangar itself, but immediately before that door, to the right, another door opened to a conference room, where the others had gathered, Boxers and two other men. All of them had the thick necks and heavy-shouldered look of operators. A projector had thrown a computer image of an island onto the wall.

  Their conversation stopped as Jolaine appeared at the threshold. “Good morning,” she said. She worried that her smile looked as awkward as it felt.

  The men’s heads turned in unison, and Boxers unfolded himself from the chair he was sitting in to approach her with an extended hand. There would never be anything close to a hug from Big Guy. Not in front of the others. “Glad you could make it,” he said. His handshake was much lighter than she’d feared. He turned to the others. “Gentlemen, meet She Devil.”

  They stood. She recognized Madman, aka Stanley Rollins, from her career-ending operation in West Virginia. “Nice to see you again,” he said. His expression and body language said otherwise. But he shook her hand.

  “Madman,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Not long enough,” he replied. Stanley Rollins had always been a cranky SOB, and for a while was deeply disliked by the Security Solutions team. As Jolaine understood things, he’d once been Digger and Boxers’ commanding officer, and he’d done something that deeply pissed them off. She didn’t understand the details, but apparently they didn’t matter anymore because Madman had redeemed himself by doing a couple of favors for the boys.

  “I’m Conan,” said the younger man, and he offered a genuine smile. “Henry West. Not sure what that was about, but it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Stanley always has a stick up his ass about something,” Boxers said. “But we let him play with the cool kids, anyway.”

  “So,” Jolaine said. “What’s the plan?”

  “Infil by air is out,” Conan said as a smile bloomed. “Unless we’ve got a cargo chute for Big Guy.”

  The comment caused a chuckle to ripple through the group, but Jolaine wanted an answer.

  “We’re going in by boat,” Boxers said. “I’ve got assets picking up an HSB from a dealer in Zihuatanejo. They flew directly there, and we’ll join forces with them.”

  Jolaine recognized HSB to be high-speed boat.

  Madman said, “Tell me you’re not planning to motor up to the dock under fire.”

  “I’m still not suicidal,” Boxers said.

  “But still a little scary?” Conan asked. “I always found you kinda sexy when you were a little scary.”

  Boxers blew him an air kiss with his middle finger, then turned to the projected map. “Here’s our little slice of hell,” he said. “The northwest part of the island is where all the touristy stuff happens. Down there in the southeast section in our infil site.”

  “That’s the dock,” Madman said.

  “Yeah, well, the docks only take up about half an inch on the map there,” Boxers said. “We’ll come in at one of the other seven inches.” His dislike for Rollins was palpable. “We’ll motor out from the west coast of Mexico shortly after dark tonight, and we should be within swimming distance by midnight. Then it’s boom-boom time.”

  “Wait,” Jolaine said. “Swimming distance?”

  “We’ll have flippers and floatation gear,” Boxers assured. “It’ll be about a mile.”

  “I can swim,” Jolaine said. “But what about our gear?”

  “Inflatable dry bags,” Boxers said. “We’ll seal our stuff inside the bags, fill them with air, and then tow the bags behind us.”

  “Standard stuff for MAROPS,” Conan said. Maritime operations. He eyed Boxers with another smile. “And meaning no offense, Big Guy, when was the last time you tried an OTB insertion?”

  “Okay, guys,” Jolaine said. “Try to keep the acronyms to a minimum, okay? I’m the nonmilitary shooter.”

  “OTB is over-the-beach,” Boxers said, “and I swim twelve miles a week at the gym, thank you very much. And if I had a pasta belly like you’ve grown, I’d be careful of throwing stones.”

  Henry West was in ridiculously good shape by mortal standards, but Jolaine imagined that there was probably a little extra skin over his six-pack than there used to be.

  Boxers continued, “And before you say it, I’ve always had something of a pasta belly. Us D-boys had more important things to do than pose in front of mirrors like you SEALs.” That got a high five from Madman.

  Jesus, Jolaine thought. I’m going into war with thirteen-year-olds. “You say we launch tonight?” she said. “Where are we going to get the gear we need by then?”

  “I’ve got a better question,” Madman said. “We haven’t talked about mission needs. What’s our load-out going to be?”

  Boxers clicked a button on his laptop, causing the map to disappear and a list to take its place. “This is it, roughly,” he said. “Lots of five-five-six and seven-six-two ammo. Three thousand rounds of both. M27s for you guys and four-seventeens for the Chief and me.”

  The M27 was a Marine Corps modification of the Heckler & Koch Model 416, which itself was a modification of the M4, which, in turn, was a modification of the Vietnam-era M16. Boxers preferred the larger variant of the M27, the Heckler & Koch 417, which was essentially a man-portable cannon.

  Conan raised his hand. “Wait. The Chief?”

  “Yeah. He and his son, Torpedo, are my assets for the boat.”


  “What are their backgrounds?”

  “The Chief is a squid like you. Torpedo is a Millennial with big balls. I’ve run an op with both of them before.”

  Madman said, “What do you mean, he’s a Millennial? No team experience?”

  “I’m telling you he’s a good kid,” Boxers insisted. “Look, I want as much firepower as possible up there on the beach, and that means somebody has to stay with the boat. That’s Torpedo’s job. His real name is Jesse.”

  The rest of the list was a fairly standard load-out of armor and gear, with the very Boxers-centric additions of five claymore mines and five pounds of C4 explosives.

  “How are we getting in and out of the country?” Conan asked. “Twice.”

  “Friends,” Boxers said. “We’ve all got ’em, right? My team’s got connections who’ve got connections.”

  “Are they trustworthy from the top down and bottom up?” Madman asked. “Seems to me that you and Digger have a certain history with betrayal.”

  “Well, ultimately you’ve got to trust someone,” Boxers said. “I trust the guy who trusts his guy. Beyond that, it’s about keeping everybody scared enough to do the right thing.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Boxers?” Jolaine asked. She’d never heard Big Guy be so laid-back about security.

  He bristled. “Let’s be very clear,” he said. As he spoke, his voice dropped a menacing octave. “About the best friend some of us have ever had is caught in a shit storm. There ain’t a soul in this room who would be breathing today if it hadn’t been for him saving our asses.”

  “That’s not a license to take shortcuts,” Madman said.

  Boxers’ ears turned red, and he looked like he was ready to say something, then swallowed his words. After a couple of seconds, he said, “The locals are likely to think that we’re there on anticar-tel business, but that’s only what they’ve been fed so they’d leave us alone.”

  “We’re not seeking aid from Mexican police or army, are we?”

  “Oh, hell no. They wouldn’t give it, even if the White House asked, I don’t think. They’ve got no skin in our game at all. And I wouldn’t want them, anyway.”

  “No need to sound defensive,” Conan said. “I’m with you. But somebody in the government has to know we’re going to be there.”

  “If everything goes according to plan, no one in authority will know.”

  “Jesus, Box,” Madman said. “How many chits are you cashing?”

  “Every damn one of them. It’s that important.”

  “Then it’s an honor to be included, Big Guy,” Conan said.

  Boxers grew uncomfortable with the sentimentality. “I guess this goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. There’s no record of any of this. If we get our asses handed to us . . .” He let the phrase drop away.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Madman said, with a playful slap to Big Guy’s shoulder, which appeared to Jolaine to be a peace offering. “When was the last time any of us fired a shot that we could tell anyone about? Besides, aren’t you the one who always preaches that success is guaranteed to those who refuse to acknowledge the alternative?”

  Boxers gave a wry chuckle. “No. That’s Digger. I’m the one who says that success is guaranteed to those who plan, move, and shoot better than the sons of bitches on the other team.”

  That got a laugh from everyone.

  “So, about these caves you were talking about?” Jolaine said.

  “They’re storage magazines,” Boxers said.

  “Okay, then about the storage magazines. Why are they worth all this to the other team?”

  Conan said, “We don’t know that yet, do we?”

  “Not definitively,” Boxers said, “but Mother Hen has a theory that I think holds some water.” He rested a butt cheek on the edge of the conference table, which issued a loud crack.

  A few seconds passed in silence as everyone waited for someone else to make the smart-ass comment. In the end, the moment passed unmolested.

  “Mother Hen looks to the timing,” Boxers continued. “If what they had was there already, the assholes would have been in and out and done with it. Instead, they’re corralling people and hanging around.”

  “So, you think they’re waiting for something?” Madman asked.

  “I can’t think of another reason.”

  “Unless the magazines have nothing to do with it,” Conan said.

  “Yeah,” Boxers said, “except for that. And if that’s the case, it makes no difference to our mission at all.”

  “Tell me how you see this going down,” Conan said. “In fact, start at the very beginning. What does mission success look like?”

  Boxers didn’t drop a beat. “Scorpion and Gunslinger come home safe and healthy.”

  Madman sat up straighter. “What about the hostages?”

  “What about them?”

  “If we start a war, we can’t just leave a bunch of innocents as collateral damage.”

  “Let them hire their own rescue team,” Boxers said. “We go in, we snatch our precious cargo, and we exfil.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Conan said. “Even if I agreed with you—which I absotively do not—Digger would never go along with that. He won’t leave until every one of those tourists is safe.”

  “Then I’ll make him,” Boxers said. His words and his body language could not have been more out of sync.

  “No you won’t,” Jolaine said. “I actually agree with you—a smaller snatch and grab is a hell of a lot easier than a big one—but no one says no to Scorpion. No one. Ever. At least not in my experience.”

  Madman raised his hand. “Take it from the perspective of a former commanding officer,” he said. “She Devil is right. We need to plan for the evacuation of the entire island.”

  Boxers clearly wanted to press his point, but he equally clearly understood that the rest of the team was correct. Then he sat straighter and smiled. “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “What are you thinking?” Conan asked.

  “We only have to be concerned about the rest of the hostages if their captors, or keepers, or whatever the hell they are, are still around to pose a danger.”

  Jolaine felt excitement rising even as a look of dread fell over the others.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” Madman asked.

  “When we get there, we’ll just plan on killing all those sons of bitches.”

  CHAPTER 18

  JAIME LED JONATHAN AND THE OTHERS TO A ROCK OUTCROPPING ON the eastern side of the island. Jonathan estimated the elevation to be a hundred, maybe 150 feet above the rocky shore. They had a decent view of the arrival dock, but not much of a view of the roadway that served it. The old minesweeper remained moored where it was, but now a two-man guard detail stood at its side, looking as bored as guard details always looked.

  Given the rising body count at Jonathan’s hand, he thought it prudent to stay away from areas that could be easily patrolled. He hadn’t seen any hunter teams out looking for them yet, but he had little doubt that they would soon be on their way. There was a lot of time to kill between now and nightfall.

  Jaime leaned out farther than Jonathan thought prudent and pointed to a spot on the slope to their right. “If you stretch a little, you can see one of the caves,” he said. “It’s that patch of white over there.”

  “Pull back in before someone sees you,” Jonathan said. “And keep your voice down. We’ll get to the magazines in time. I presume there is a road that serves that magazine?”

  “Of course.”

  “And how far away from the road are we?”

  “It runs directly below us.”

  Jonathan exchanged rolled eyes with Gail. Barely above a road was pretty much the same thing as being on a road.

  “What?” Jaime said. “We can’t be seen from here.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jonathan said. “With any luck, we won’t be here that long, anyway.”

  The Crystal S
ands Express was within easy viewing range now. About the size of a Coast Guard cutter—half the size of the Olympia 3—Jonathan remembered the interior to be more suited to commuting than cruising. It was comfortable enough, with padded benches along the sides of wooden tables. Tended by obsequious white-gloved waiters, it was perfectly adequate for the hundred-mile journey from Zihuatanejo to here, but so far as Jonathan could tell, there were no sleeping quarters and even the kitchen was limited.

  In his mind, the vessel was packed with hundreds of soldiers, and he and his companions were righteously screwed.

  About fifty yards from the shore, the Express slowed to a crawl. Water churned at its aft end as the captain turned the vessel on its axis so that it could back into a dock that ran parallel to the minesweeper’s parking spot, and a little bit closer to Jonathan’s observation point.

  “It’s riding pretty high on the water,” Tyler observed. “That has to be a good thing, right?”

  Jonathan was impressed. He hadn’t noticed, but now that it was called to his attention, the ship was clearly riding high. Assuming that the laws of physics hadn’t changed, that was an indication of a lighter load. Soldiers and equipment were heavy, after all. “If nothing else, it means that the load is less scary than it might have been otherwise,” Jonathan conceded.

  The vessel progressed at what seemed a velocity of inches-per-minute as it backed up to the pier. When it appeared that it might collide with the wooden planks, the driver created another churn with the propellers, and the ship stopped. Two armed soldiers hopped out onto the dock with ropes in hand and tied the ship off to the pilings. The engines stopped, and Jonathan waited.

  And waited. Five minutes passed. The soldiers who’d disembarked remained in position on the dock, their rifles at a loose port arms as they scanned for targets. At least Jonathan and Gail were getting under the bad guys’ skin. That was something.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Gail asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “Maybe they’re waiting to receive something rather than deliver.” Even as he said the words, he didn’t believe them. They already had enough ship moored at the dock to carry pretty much anything they wanted.