by Myke Cole
He dropped back onto his carbine’s sights and stared into a mass of enemy surging around the container’s side. He’d been right. The entire ship’s hold must have been crammed with them. What the hell was going on? He cursed and thumbed the fire selector switch to three-round-burst mode. It wasn’t like he could miss anyway. He swept the barrel as he fired, trying to make the rounds find as many different targets as possible, knowing that was futile. The heat from the barrel was beginning to register through the top of his glove. The patter of spent brass around him was a reminder of how quickly he was tearing through his limited supply of ammo.
Chang grunted and staggered into view, his body armor smoking where he’d been hit. He collapsed into a sitting position against the side of the container, still firing at the enemy. Whether the round had penetrated or not Schweitzer couldn’t tell and didn’t have time to consider.
With Chang and Perreto sewn up, they were cut off.
Now, the only way out was through.
Perreto tapped Schweitzer’s shoulder and knelt at his side. He’d taken care of the man who’d tackled him and taken his shotgun. The Coast Guardsman racked the slide, firing a blast of shot at close range into the attackers on the flank. They fell back, howling, and Schweitzer returned to Ahmad’s side, just as the tripod-mounted weapon on top of the stacks opened up, drilling heavy-caliber rounds into the deck and forcing them back into the container.
Ahmad’s expression was even. She wasn’t even breathing hard as she turned to Schweitzer. “You find a back door?” The rounds thudding into the deck outside provided a stuttering reminder that the front was no longer a viable exit. Chang collapsed in alongside him. Schweitzer still had no way to tell how bad Chang’s wound was.
Schweitzer shook his head at Ahmad. A small part of him was amazed at how quickly the op had gone south. There had been so many unexpected turns. The number of enemy belowdecks for one.
Ahmad glanced up, noted the bodies, stiff and silent on the steel racks. If the sight affected her, she didn’t show it. She only blinked and turned back to the mounting odds against them.
It didn’t matter. She’d go down fighting. They all would. That was part of the job. They’d known it when they’d signed on. Schweitzer’s only regret was that he wouldn’t have the chance to make things right by Sarah, wouldn’t see his son’s sudden smile when Daddy walked through the door. He kept firing, imagining he saw the tracery of his wife’s dyed hair in the filtering starlight that had begun to dapple the bullet-scarred deck outside.
Starlight.
The cloud cover.
Schweitzer didn’t wait for Ahmad’s say-so. He toggled channels on his radio. “White, white. Blue is pinned down with one WIA and TIC. Request CAS run. Your brief, stack, mark, and control.”
Again, Ahmad gave no sign she noticed, other than to reach into a pouch on her tac vest and produce a targeting beacon, which she hurled out the container doors. Schweitzer followed suit, throwing his as far from hers as he could, to give the sortie a range. Chang, still shooting one-handed, added his out the container’s far side.
“Blue, blue. This is white,” fire control responded. “Two hawks in the air.”
“Paint is on target,” Schweitzer replied. “We’re danger close forward of the mark. You are cleared hot.”
“Roger that. Hawks are cleared hot. Birds away. Hold on.”
They held on.
The tight confines of the container limited their maneuver, but the racks provided some cover. The SEALs moved seamlessly. Bang. Target down. Move. Somewhere along the way, Schweitzer noticed that Chang had stopped firing and was lying against the container wall, his carbine resting across his lap like he was taking a nap. Unconscious, he’s unconscious. He’s not dead. Ahmad tossed a grenade outside, and the team took cover. Schweitzer dragged Chang behind a rack as they weathered the backblast.
“How the hell are you supposed to take care of Sarah if you die, asshole?” Schweitzer asked him, trying to see if his brother SEAL was still breathing. The heavy body armor and tactical vest made it impossible to see the rise and fall of his chest.
Or lack thereof.
Screams reached him from outside, and he stepped back into the smoke. He fired, the carbine’s bolt locking to the rear to remind him that he had no ammunition left. He dropped the long gun and wrenched his pistol from its drop holster, firing again.
Silence. The blast had bought them some time.
Hopefully, enough.
He bent to check on Chang, but Ahmad called to him, firing out of the container entrance as the enemy began to regroup. Boots tromped, voices shouted. Even with his adrenaline pegged, Schweitzer had been fighting nonstop for too long. His hands began to tremble, his limbs feeling heavy. He swallowed. The fear and fatigue, the worry about Sarah, the painful tide of missing his son, all slid down his throat and into his gullet. He tightened his abdominal muscles and crushed the emotion, held it there, freeing his mind and hands to do what they had been trained to do. What they had been born to do. Bang. Target down. Move.
The knot of enemy formed a solid black mass outside the container, surging inward. Too many. Way too many.
“Shipmate . . .” Ahmad began, her voice hinting at the first strains of emotion he’d ever heard from her.
“Shots on target,” Schweitzer’s radio buzzed. “Take cover.”
The team hit the deck as thunder erupted around them. The steel of the deck outside the container churned like liquid and the black mass of attackers suddenly vanished. There were no screams, only the thunderous roar of the guns followed by the dull thumping of the helicopter rotors as the birds finished their strafing run and turned to sweep back over.
The SEALs weren’t the only professionals. The aviators put their fire precisely on target. Spent bullet casings rained down across the shattered freighter deck, pelting off the stacks of conex boxes and smoking in the shredded remains of the enemy lying among them.
But not a single bullet fell forward of the target. The team sheltered in place unnecessarily. They could have walked to the edge of the storm of rounds had they chosen, reached out, and felt the bullet contrails skim past their fingertips.
The helos made another run, then turned their attention to the bridge. They had eyes on the target now and no longer needed direction from Ahmad’s team. The thundering of the miniguns ceased, and Schweitzer began to hear the crack, pause, crack of single shots as the snipers on the helos began to pick out individual targets on the deck, among the stacks, through the bridge windows.
Ahmad moved to the container mouth and scanned outside. After a moment, she nodded, radioed that the target was clear, and returned to check on Chang. The operator breathed shallowly, his pulse normal. Schweitzer stripped off Chang’s body armor and probed the wound behind it. An ugly patch of purple had spread across the unbroken skin over his chest. “What do you think?” Ahmad asked.
“Broken ribs. Probably in his lung. Fucked up his air. That’s why he passed out. He’ll make it if we hurry.” Thank God.
Ahmad nodded and called for a medevac as the first members of the regular boarding team fast-roped to the deck, boots resounding loudly, the need for stealth long past.
Schweitzer looked back up at Ahmad, whose game face was back on again. The sound of gunfire had stopped. The battle was over.
The charge lay undetonated, but the interior of the container had been shredded by bullets, the corpses lying in heaps, torn to pieces by the sheer volume of fire. Whatever the Body Farm had wanted to do with these cadavers, it wasn’t happening now.
He turned back to Ahmad. “So, Chief, how about that leave?”
Ahmad shook her head, but Schweitzer found himself smiling.
Because Chang would live. Because he knew Ahmad would be as good as her word.
Because he knew they’d all be going home after all.
CHAPTER I
I
HOMEWARD-BOUND
Chang was conscious and joking with the pararescuemen before his medevac helo even lifted off. The senior airmen lifting his stretcher into the helo confirmed Schweitzer’s suspicion. The round had cracked Chang’s ribs, driving them into his lungs and depriving him of oxygen. But the oxygen mask over his face made up for it, and his eyes were in focus as Schweitzer squeezed his shoulder.
Perreto’s face was a mask so rigid that Schweitzer could tell he was holding back tears. “God, Steve. I’m so sorry. I fucked up, brother.”
“Jesus, Dan,” Chang said. “Shit happens. You didn’t choke him all the way out. I blocked bullets with my chest. Even perfect people make mistakes.”
His chuckle quickly turned into a cough, his smile melting with pain.
Schweitzer winced, tried to distract him. “Hell of a fight, Steve. You went down shooting. Badass.”
Chang found his smile, wheezed through the mask. “Just needed a nap. Would have finished things up if you hadn’t pussied out and called in the cavalry.”
Ahmad snorted and called down to Martin, telling him to shove off. The team would take one of the helos out.
Schweitzer smiled and nodded to the pararescueman. “Take good care of him, Doc. We need him back on the line so I can take leave.”
Then Chang was off into the helo, and Schweitzer followed Ahmad and Perreto to the freighter’s helipad, where a large gray Seahawk was landing, keeping its rotors spinning, ready to take off again.
“Dan,” Schweitzer began.
“Stow it,” Ahmad said. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. We made it. That’s what counts.”
Perreto kept his eyes straight forward. “I fumbled the ball. I’ll take what’s coming.” As the Coast Guard liaison, Perreto already caught a rash of shit from the all-navy unit, and every action he took reflected on the Coast Guard. Until tonight, he’d covered his service in glory. In a way, Schweitzer thought, he’d gotten it worse than Chang.
Chang would heal. Mistakes like Perreto’s never went away.
The intel and medical teams were already scouring the freighter, along with security forces, securing any enemy left alive.
There were precious few of those.
Perreto gratefully left the SEALs to join the regular boarding team, lending the Coast Guard’s police authority in case any of the Body Farm operatives turned out to be United States citizens.
Lieutenant Biggs sat in the Seahawk’s interior, typing fiercely on a ruggedized laptop. He was bigger than all of them, a giant of a man who Schweitzer knew had been a ground operator himself before successive promotions had taken him out of the action. He looked up as the team came aboard, barely acknowledging them, focusing on completing his work. The team clipped into the floor ring and patched their helmet mics into the helo’s system as it slowly lifted off. Biggs looked up, still typing, and cocked an eyebrow at Ahmad. “You look tired, Chief.”
Ahmad shrugged. “Intel got the enemy numbers wrong.”
“I heard,” Biggs said. “Sounded like a lot.”
“A few.” Ahmad shrugged again.
It was almost a whole fucking company, Schweitzer thought. Why would they commit that much firepower to guard a box of dead bodies?
Biggs looked over her shoulder and down at the freighter’s deck, still littered with corpses and living men being forced to their knees and into zip-cuffs. “A few,” he said.
“Cloud cover was a problem,” Schweitzer added.
Biggs waved a hand. “Skipper’s call. How’s Chang?”
“He’ll be okay,” Ahmad said. “SAPI plate caught the round. Broke some ribs.”
Biggs nodded. “You take care of my lamb.”
Schweitzer nodded along with Ahmad. Biggs referred to every SEAL under his command as one of his lambs. “Always.”
“Anyone want to tell me why that turned into a stand-up fight?”
Schweitzer shut his mouth. He wasn’t going to talk smack about a teammate. That the blunder was inexcusable didn’t change the fact that that kind of thing could have happened to any of them. “Perreto didn’t finish his target. He garroted him out, but left him breathing. Bad guy raised the alarm after we moved on.”
Biggs frowned. Schweitzer wouldn’t want to be Chief right now, but shitty tasks like owning up to your team’s failures were part of the job she’d signed up for when she’d pinned the anchors on.
“How the hell did that happen?” Biggs asked.
“Perreto didn’t check the target’s ABC’s. He thought he’d killed him. Target was just passed out.”
“Fucking Coastie,” Biggs growled.
Ahmad smoothly interrupted. “What do you want? Bad guy had an iron neck. It was a good hit from where I stood.”
Biggs shook his head. “Well, he’ll have to answer for it.”
Ahmad said nothing. She knew that. Perreto knew it, too.
“So, corpses,” Biggs said.
“Yeah. There was a refrigeration unit to keep them cold,” Schweitzer said, grateful for the change of subject. “I’m guessing twenty to thirty at least. Got chewed up pretty bad in the gunfight. Any idea what that’s all about? Who the hell pays for shipments of corpses?”
Biggs shrugged. “Not our problem.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Schweitzer said. “If its bio stuff, there are more easily concealed ways to move it. Someone had put some effort into prettying them up, too. They were cleaned, stitched. If you’re just moving bioagents, why the hell would you do that? And why use people?”
“I’ll say it again,” Biggs said. “It’s not our problem.”
Schweitzer frowned. “Okay, boss.”
“You misunderstand me,” Biggs added. “I mean it’s officially not our problem. As in, we’re not to talk about it.” He pointed down at the laptop. “That’s what this e-mail is about. Comes from the skipper himself. The intel team is being stood down. No follow-ons. No tactical questioning. No document exploitation. Langley’s sending in their own people to go over the ship. Civilians.”
“Civilians?” Ahmad asked. Schweitzer’s own curiosity was piqued as well, but it was overridden by another thought: Please don’t let this turn into another long paperwork drill. I need to get home. I need to see Sarah and Patrick.
But that thought was followed by another, more urgent. Something is wrong here.
“Boss, this doesn’t . . .”
“Operations is your job, Petty Officer,” Biggs said, steel coming into his voice. “What comes after is above your pay grade.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t we at least debrief with the intel team? I mean . . .”
“Holy shit, Jim. We are not having this conversation. Is that clear?”
Biggs had never talked to him like this before. He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “You’re the boss.”
“I’ve got Non-Disclosure Agreements on here.” Biggs tapped the laptop again. “I’ll need digital signatures from both of you, and we’re still going to need you both to write your statements for the After-Action Report. Chief, you’ll have to get Chang’s once he’s recovered.”
Schweitzer and Ahmad shrugged simultaneously. SEALs weren’t exactly known to be people of many words. That part would be short. A human-trafficking organization selling corpses, with more firepower than some armies, and the government stepping in to keep it quiet. Schweitzer began turning it over in his mind, then dismissed it with a will. Not your problem. Get home and take care of your family. You’ve done your job here.
“One last thing,” Biggs added. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but it’s protocol for big firefights. I’ve got to send you off to see the wizard once we land and you clear medical.”
Schweitzer groaned inwardly. He knew the corpsman and would clear the physical checkup in no time flat. But a meeting with the
psych doc would take hours, and he’d have to wait on post to get an appointment.
Ahmad came to his rescue. “Boss,” she said, “Schweitzer’s due for a break. You’re really going to have to send him off to see the wizard if you don’t let him get home as soon as he clears medical.”
Schweitzer shot her a grateful look. Good chiefs took care of their sailors, and Ahmad was the best he’d ever known. Biggs paused. Ahmad never countermanded her officers unless it was critical. Biggs turned to Schweitzer.
“It’s Sarah.” Schweitzer shrugged. “I really need to get home.”
“Okay.” Biggs nodded. “I’ll handle it on our end. File your report and go home. You’re lucky they ordered no follow-ons. I’ll stand up section 3 for the next two weeks.”
Ahmad nodded gratefully. With their section stood down, everyone would get some much-needed rest. “Outstanding,” she said, leaning in to sign the electronic NDA.
“Remember,” Biggs said as Schweitzer added his signature, “this is compartmentalized now. They’re not screwing around. No gossiping about it, no speculating. No e-mailing anyone, even on the classified network. You don’t talk about the Body Farm. You don’t talk about what we found. You don’t talk about what happened on this raid.”
Schweitzer nodded as he signed. “When Chang . . .”
“Chang will be fine. I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Jim,” Biggs said, “I’m not fucking around here. I am counting on you keeping mum about this. You got that?” Schweitzer nodded again, but Biggs’s words came to him as if from the bottom of a well. They didn’t matter. Sarah’s face was filling his mind. He was an artist in his way, and she was in hers. Painting, papermaking. She smelled of rosewater that she made herself from the dried petals. He could almost smell it now over the high chemical reek of the Seahawk’s burning fuel.
Once I see her, I can fix this. If I can just touch her, she’ll know.
The Seahawk banked again, eating miles, each twist of the rotors carrying him closer to home.