by Jack Murphy
Ospanov swung the thermal night vision goggles up on its swing mount while he worked the door. The others adjusted their equipment and reloaded their weapons for the final push. Fedorchenko readied a smoke grenade.
Nodding to his team leader, Ospanov was ready to initiate the countdown.
The team stacked up down the hall, giving Ospanov plenty of distance as he initiated the time fuse. Sparks flew across the corridor as he began the burn sequence. Running back, he jumped into the stack with the other assaulters.
When it blew, it was even worse than when they had run over the land mine in Burma. The overpressure was nearly enough to do them in even though they had inserted hearing protection and covered their ears with their hands.
The heavy steel door had crumpled under the force of the plastic explosives and imploded into the helm of the ship. The crew members were ready, and gunfire blasted through the open hatch, anticipating the Kazakhs' entry as they approached.
Fedorchenko underhanded his smoke grenade through the hatch. Allowing the smoke to billow for a moment, the team pulled their newly liberated PSQ-20 goggles over their eyes as Ospanov lobbed a flash-bang through the door.
Pouring through the entrance, they alternated between moving to the left and right, leaving them staggered against the near wall. Underneath their equipment and inside a cloud of thick smoke their situation felt hot and claustrophobic.
Scanning from side to side, the thermal detection unit in their goggles cut right through the smoke, outlining human targets in blazes of red to indicate body heat signatures. The Kazakhs point shot each thermal signature, aiming their barrels through the haze as if pointing an accusing finger at the crewmen. Bursts of auto fire cut through the smoke for tense seconds before a creepy quiet left them alone in the room.
As the smoke cleared, Fedorchenko visually confirmed that his men were all still on their feet.
His assault team had captured the helm.
Deckard chambered the 40mm buckshot round into his grenade launcher and triggered the shot. The two enemy guns-for-hire were caught in the open absorbing twenty-seven buckshot pellets that spun them both around in a macabre dance of death.
The dining hall was rocked again, another superheated projectile slicing through the walls steadily turning the room into a slice of Swiss cheese.
Deckard heard a thump. Turning towards the source, he saw another of his men smeared against the wall, missing the upper portion of his shoulder, clavicle, and half of his face.
Running for the exit, the next hypersonic missile missed him by inches.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
Incredulous, Chad spun around, eager for confrontation.
“Cleaning up your mess.”
Hieronymus' eyes went wild.
Chad grinned for the first time in days. The old man wasn't used to people telling him how it is.
“Stand them down,” the oligarch ordered the Indian crewmen. “Stand them down immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” the senior captain on deck chirped.
“They'll be here in minutes,” Chad said, crossing his arms in front of him.
“It's your job to make sure that doesn't happen,” the old man reiterated. “And make it happen without destroying the ship. Johnston Atoll is gone, and all we have left is the enclave in Hawaii or one of our bunkers in Micronesia. With the ship on fire and you punching it full of holes we'll be lucky if the Zumwalts can tow us that far.”
“What the fuck were you thinking hiring that guy?” Chad asked, pointing at the flat screen monitor bolted to one of the walls. The picture displayed live footage from one of the security cameras. A Caucasian mercenary in jungle fatigues fired a buckshot round from a captured grenade launcher, shredding two of Chad's men.
“O'Brien. Our calculations gave the odds of something like this happening as one in thirteen quadrillion chance of happening. A statistical impossibility,” the old man stated flatly.
“Your statistics count for exactly jack and shit when you don't even know who you are talking about. That guy on that monitor is named Deckard, not O'Brien.”
“Impossible. Kammler Associates had their best people dig up the dirt on this guy.”
“He must have had some deep cover. I'm telling you that guy's name is Deckard.”
“Are you sure?”
“I never worked with him personally, but he has been on the CIA's targets of opportunity list for years now. He used to work for the Agency's Special Activities Division and had a little bit of a falling out with them, to say the least.”
Hieronymus looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
“Sir,” one of the Indians interrupted. “The helm has just been overrun.”
At his age, Chad wouldn't put it past him.
“Fix this,” the old man said through clenched teeth. “Fix this now.”
Deckard slipped down the stairs amid a cascade of water flowing from somewhere above.
The situation had gotten a little hot in his opinion. Dropping to a lower deck, maybe they could avoid some security as they infiltrated through the ship, making their way for the enemy's operations center. Reaching the landing, Deckard was grateful that the cannon fire had ceased. Whatever the hell that thing was, it wasn't anything he had seen before.
The Kazakh behind him slid on unsure footing in the puddle of water as Deckard held up a fist.
They had moved down into a service area that guests weren't supposed to see. The hold looked to be packed to the ceiling with luggage and supplies. The passengers were in it for the long haul, probably intending to stick it out for several months at sea before making landfall in their new world.
When the coast looked clear he took a knee, prepared to lay down support fire as he waved his men forward. Pat took point, rifle leading the way. There were only a few of them left. A couple of his C/co Corporals along with JF and Pat.
When the last Kazakh troop passed, Deckard glanced back checking their six, before picking up and moving with his team. As they began moving through aisle after aisle of stowed luggage, the ship trembled once again, the floor slanting at an angle as another wave tumbled over the Crown of the Pacific.
The mercenaries reached out and clutched anything in reach for support. Most of them grabbed onto the metal racks that the ship's supplies were strapped into. Pat found a metal attachment point on the floor that made a convenient handhold.
Jean-Francoise yelped as he somersaulted head over heels and crashed into one of the aisles at the end of the hold. He came to a stop on his rear end and was trying to regain some sense of orientation when Deckard heard a snapping like someone plucked a giant rubber band.
Metal clanked across metal as an industrial forklift broke free from its lashings and rolled down the aisle as the ship continued to list to one side.
JF looked up a moment too late, the forklift slamming into him head-on with a bone crunching crack.
A second later the boat righted itself, the forklift rolling back on its wheels. JF's body slumped to the floor, his face crushed, an exaggerated caricature of the man he had been a moment before. Deckard turned away. His comrade's face looked like a Halloween mask.
“Let's go,” Pat said, grabbing Deckard by the sleeve.
Now wasn't the time to dwell on what could have been.
“Listen to me, Deckard.”
Jogging through lifeless mechanical rooms and empty corridors, he tried not to.
“This is where you make the right decision and get with the winning team,” the voice of the PA system blared. “I did what I had to do, to make sure my family is protected, that we have a place in what is coming. Hieronymus tells me he is disappointed in your decisions but impressed by your abilities. They are going to give you one last chance.
“Work with us. We have a place for someone like you. Call off your men and we can work something out.”
Deckard had no interest in nihilistic explanations or apologies. They were making an o
ffer because they were desperate. He pressed on, knowing they wouldn't be reaching out to him unless the rest of the battalion had been having their own successes. They were getting close.
“Join us.”
Deckard looked into one of the security cameras as he passed and spoke.
“What the hell did he just mouth to the camera?” Chad asked no one in particular.
“Uh,” one of the Indians struggled for the words.
“I think he said: go fuck yourself.”
Chuck Rochenoire came awake to the sound of gunfire.
“Sorry pal,” someone was saying. “Nothing personal.”
Chuck leaned up on his elbows, taking stock of the situation. Looking down the hall, he saw Adam down on his knees, his back pushed against the wall. One of the American mercenaries stood in front of him, a pistol pointed at Adam's face. A trio of trigger men stood around their leader, gawking at the captured man.
He hadn't been spotted, not yet.
“Business is business and Chad pays.”
Blinking away the stinging sensation out of his eyes, he struggled to play catch-up. He lay among a pile of dead bodies. Two contractors came down the corridor, dragging a limp form under each arm.
“Fuck you,” Adam said, glaring.
Chuck pushed a lifeless body away, reaching for a discarded AK-47 lying nearby.
“I'm sorry you think so.”
The contractor had a smile on his face as he pulled the trigger, splattering Adam's brains against the wall. The Samruk intelligence agent's body hit the floor with a hollow thud. Chuck gritted his teeth against the pain in his side, his fingertips brushing against the Kalashnikov.
“Who's next?” the executioner laughed.
Sergeant Major Korgan was forced to his knees alongside Adam's corpse.
“Where the hell did all these Afghani fuckers come from?”
“Afghanistan?” one of the gunman's boys ventured.
“Very funny,” he said, pressing his Glock into Korgan's forehead. “Guess it doesn't really matter what kind of Hodji this guy is.”
The mercenary's finger tightened around the trigger as Korgan leaned forward, into the barrel of the pistol. With the slide pushed backward he had effectively knocked the weapon out of battery. The contractor snarled in frustration, the pistol seized up in his hands, refusing to discharge.
The staccato chatter of 7.62 rounds put a halt to the cold-blooded murder, Chuck holding down the trigger as the hallway turned into an ultra close-range firefight. Bullets crashed through bulkheads and shattered light fixtures as Chuck went cyclic, the contractors firing hastily aimed shots in return.
The AK barrel flexed as the former SEAL sprayed fire down the hall. One contractor wisely took a knee, avoiding the rounds that snapped over his head. Firing off a burst of his own, sparks showered off Chuck's AK. Still in a seated position, Chuck was thrown backwards and lay still.
Reaching for the downed executioner's pistol, Korgan stood and placed the muzzle against the shooter's temple. He squeezed the trigger just as someone fired, a muzzle flash catching his attention farther down the hall.
Catching a round in his side the Kazakh fell alongside the corpse he had just made, and struggled to breathe. He knew he was breathing at half capacity, the still rational part of his mind telling him that he had a punctured lung.
Clutching the pistol in his hand, he heard voices approaching.
Thirty Six
Jarogniew's heart threatened to thump right out of his chest.
He stopped, gasping for breath, his body having been exerted beyond his limit. Gunfire sounded all around him. Bodies were everywhere, death displayed on a grand scale. In other circumstances he would have basked in it as he had in countless wars engineered under his guidance. Terrified, he knew his last chance was to make it to a lifeboat. Once he activated the search and rescue beacon, his people would pick him up eventually.
Carefully, he stepped over the fresh corpses. Lifeless eyes stared at him questioningly. Flecks of blood were smeared across his expensive Italian loafers as he tried to tiptoe through the carnage. Some of the bodies belonged to the contractors employed by the moronic Chad Morrison. Kammler Associate's Human Resources Division fucked that one up at inconceivable levels of incompetence.
Others belonged to passengers. The chief executives of Fortune 100 companies, foundation members, even a former prime minister lay on his back full of bullet holes, unblinking eyes fixed on the over headlights. Still others looked Central Asian. They weren't under attack from some rogue military unit. This was their own creation, their own puppet, like Pinocchio finding a life of its own.
This situation can still be salvaged, he thought to himself, if he could just get away. There was always a back-up plan for the back-up plan.
“Hey, mate.”
Jarogniew turned, hearing the wheezing words. An ashen faced man leaned wearily against one of the walls.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Name's Richie.”
The British man was breathing hard, blood speckling the side of his face. A wound in his abdomen had dyed his field uniform shades of red.
He was one of them.
“Where are the rest of your people?” Jarogniew said, bending down to be eye level with the dying man. “You may still be of some use to me.”
“Don't be such a fucking cunt,” the Brit choked out.
“Just a damned minute--” Jarogniew grabbed the younger man by the collar.
“Piss off,” Richie spat back.
Looking down at his hands, Jarogniew was too late to stop him from squeezing the Claymore clacker.
Deckard leaned out from behind the bulkhead and rattled off another burst from his M4 before the bolt locked on an empty chamber.
“Black!”
Shifting back behind cover, he loaded his last remaining magazine for the captured assault rifle. Pat took a knee and fired his own rifle, laying down fire for Deckard's movement as he bounded down the corridor. The enemy was sending their final wave forward, the last resistance to their forward progress. Attrition had nearly exhausted all of the Samruk men as they neared the operations center in the heart of the ship.
Shooting a controlled pair into two advancing Serbian mercenaries, Deckard indexed both targets center mass. Behind him, his two remaining Kazakhs bounded up to his position. Ibrashev and Garri moved into position with practiced precision.
Underhanding a frag grenade, Garri yelled something in Russian. The Americans needed no translation and braced themselves for the blast. Before the smoke cleared, they were moving forward, when the four survivors collided with the enemy.
The Serbs came pouring out of one of the side corridors, physically running into them. The Samruk mercenaries operated in synchronization almost like a gestalt. Each broke down their individual sectors of fire, overlapping with their comrades' sectors to the left and right as they swept the corridor.
In the narrow confines of the hall, the enemy was unable to mount a flanking maneuver; all they could do was attempt to force their way forward.
Serbian gunmen in the back pushed forward, stepping over the bodies as the battle quickly transitioned to ultra close quarters. Pat released his grip on his rifle as it cycled on empty and grabbed his Glock 19 pistol out of its holster in one fluid motion.
Garri grabbed the barrel of the closest enemy's M4. Pushing it away, the muzzle flash mushroomed with automatic fire that shredded the ceiling tiles. Finally he freed his own sidearm and managed to dump half a magazine into the Serb before he went down.
Pat engaged a second target with his pistol.
Ibrashev pushed the enemy closest to him away, attempting to create some space to spare him the fraction of a second he needed. Freeing his Glock, the Kazakh took up a two-handed grip and began shooting.
Deckard squeezed off another double-tap with the M4, and the dead mercenary in front of him was quickly replaced with a live one. Shooting again, the Serb soldier for hire dis
appeared in a cloud of blood. Locking on empty, Deckard brushed aside an enemy's rifle barrel as he attempted to bring his weapon into play. Getting inside the Serb's space, Deckard drew his 1911.
Pushing the muzzle up under his opponent's chin, he squeezed the trigger. The top of the man's head turned into a fountain of gray-white matter that sprayed the ceiling.
With his Glock in slide lock, Pat executed a combat reload in a blur of motion.
Ibrashev lost his pistol as he went hand to hand with two Serbs who were attempting to wrestle him to the ground.
Garri collapsed, lights off, a circular bullet hole appearing between his eyes.
Pivoting, Deckard snapped a shot into one of Ibrashev's attackers before having to turn his attention back to his front as he was charged. At least he had helped even the odds.
Two .45 caliber rounds ended the foolhardy attempt to rush him.
Ibrashev managed to draw his combat blade, sinking it deep into his second attacker's neck.
Pat snatched his final pistol magazine from his combat harness and racked the slide. Deckard stepped over a corpse, triggering two more shots into the next would-be shooter. The Kazakh pulled his knife free from the Serb, allowing him to bleed out on the floor.
Catching the man he shot before he fell to the ground, Deckard used the body as a human shield while burning off the rest of his magazine, firing one-handed down the crowded hallway. It was almost impossible to miss at such close range.
Pat dropped his empty pistol and bent to pick up one of the enemy's weapons. Acquiring an M4 from a fallen enemy, he sent half a magazine ripping into the Serbs’ ranks. A shotgun blast ended the fusillade that threatened to drive the enemy back a final time. Pat collapsed against the bulkhead before crumpling to the floor.
Deckard released his hold on the corpse and went down to the floor with it. Kneeling he reloaded and thumbed the slide release.
Ibrashev's head snapped back, a stream of blood leaking from his forehead.