by John Ringo
"Okay," Courtney said unhappily. "I don't suppose going with you would be better."
"Not hardly." Mike grinned. He handed the light to Pam, then made his way to the weapons room, turned on the bluelight in there, then picked up his packs, going back out to the fishing deck.
The boat had had a nice center console inflatable for a dinghy when he got it. He'd replaced it with a black Zodiac for reasons that had never been clearly articulated in his mind. Now he knew why and why he'd also gotten an engine silencer installed. He undid the Zodiac, then swung it over the side, bringing it around to the fishing deck to load.
There was another bluelight on the fishing deck and he turned it on, then stripped and put on pantyhose. Over that went a black 3mm wetsuit. He wouldn't need it for the water, but it was better, he thought, than using fatigues for a combat swim, and the pressure of the neoprene tended to reduce bleeding in minor wounds. Once he had the suit on he camouflaged his face, then loaded all the gear he'd assembled from the weapons room into the Zodiac. Last he got out a Kryton rebreather and dropped that in the Zod. Rebreathers, which were underwater breathing apparatuses that didn't release bubbles, instead "rebreathing" the diver's exhalations, were generally considered to be military gear. However, modern rebreathers not only gave very long endurance underwater, up to twenty-four hours, but because there were no bubbles they also made spearfishing much easier. Fish tended to run from the sound of the bubbles with normal SCUBA. He'd picked up the rebreather for sport diving, but it would work just as well for a combat swim.
Once the Zod was fully loaded he climbed in and put on a set of NODs. The night was clearly lit with the goggles on and he started up the Zod, first circling the small string of keys and making sure that there was no sign of life, occasionally switching to a small thermal viewer to look for heat signatures. There didn't appear to be anything there, so he picked up his GPS, keyed it on, and headed south.
* * *
"This really sucks," Pam said as she heard the tiny sound of the motor fade into the distance. They were sitting in the near darkness of the lounge with only the small bluelight filtering out of the Bluebeard Room.
"I know," Courtney replied, fingering the pistol. "I really don't want to think about trying to defend this boat. I'm scared and bored at the same time."
"And horny," Pam said. "Is that crazy?"
"I dunno," Courtney said. "But so am I."
"I don't want to stay here," Pam said, looking around the room. "It's too spooky. But I don't want to put on a light, either."
"There aren't any windows in the Bluebeard Room," Courtney pointed out. "And it's got that reinforcing he was talking about."
"Right," Pam said, standing up and making her way into the room.
"Well, now I'm really bored," Courtney admitted after a minute, setting the pistol on a locker. "And still horny. I wonder when he'll be back."
"I wonder if he'll be back," Pam said, leaning into her. She paused as she did it and cleared her throat. "Uh, Courtney . . . ?"
"I was wondering what you were waiting for," Courtney said, putting her arms around the girl and lying back on the bed.
Chapter Twelve
There was still a wind from the north kicking up a light chop and he used the chop to look for shoals. Small breakers could be seen on the upwind side and the shoals were also marked by flatter water. He steered clear of these while keeping one eye on the GPS and checking around for signs of life.
He saw nothing on the transit to the target area. The water was clear of boats as well as islands. When he neared the target area he bore southeast, swinging in from the east towards the target and using the cover of the small islands northeast of the target, hopefully unsentineled, for cover.
He drove the Zod onto a slip of open beach and donned his gear. He'd loaded most of his weaponry in a waterproof bag, but he donned his armor and combat harness, with a USP .45 for a sidearm and MP-5 SPD on a friction strap. Then he put on his swim gear, including the rebreather, and slipped over the side, dragging the bag behind him.
The water was shallow around the keys but deep enough that, with the weights loaded into the rebreather harness, he could keep below water level. He crab-walked along the bottom, using the contour of the bottom and his compass, to move towards the northeast end of the island. He hit a couple of shoals and had to maneuver around them. He tried to stay eastward, where the map indicated thick mangrove cover.
The Kryton rebreather was good for nearly twenty-four hours and he could have made a much longer swim approach, but getting the yacht into position and all the rest had pushed him for time. It was nearly two AM by the time he started his swim and if the intel was correct—that the pickup was to be at around four—he barely had time to make the short swim from the Zod to the target, recon and do his raid. So he pushed his movement faster than he'd have liked, occasionally surfacing and using the waterproof NODs to check his position.
Finally he got to within a few dozen meters of the mangroves on the northeast side of the island and found a fairly deep channel in which to rerig. He dropped the rebreather, attaching his fins to it, and slowly surfaced, MP-5 in one hand, dive bag in the other, checking his position and looking for threats.
No one was in sight so he kicked towards the mangroves until his dive booties found soft ground. In moments he'd made his way into the outer rank of the mangroves and started making his way deeper into the thicket.
Mangroves were the major nurseries of tropical waters, small trees with complex root systems that acted to form cover for small fish and invertebrates. The roots curved downwards from the trunk and often were covered in oysters. In addition to being a nursery, they captured soil and held it in place, slowly building up land around their roots; many keys in the Caribbean were nothing more than the build-up from mangroves. They dropped their leaves regularly and the decaying leaves both supplied food and added to the material trapped in the roots. The roots prevented erosion from wind and wave, often being the only thing that survived hurricanes and kept the land from being completely swept away. All in all they were something of a miracle plant.
They also were a pain in the ass. The tangled roots constantly tried to trap him as he made his way through the thicket. The microclimates formed in the roots mostly consisted of hot, almost boiling hot it seemed, water that stank to high heaven from decay. Each step raised bubbles of foul-smelling hydrogen sulfide gas, and the oysters and barnacles on the roots tore at his wetsuit, shredding it before he could even get shot.
But they gave him cover as he made his way onto the land, finally passing into a narrow strip of sand where the mangroves ended and the sea grape still hadn't started. He paused before he entered that strip, sticking his head out of the mangroves and looking around carefully as well as using his ears and nose to check for signs of threats. Since nothing was in sight, he slid out into the open area and considered the situation.
There was a small gap in the mangroves on the north side, a strip of dirty beach about three meters wide. On the south side of the island there was a strip of real beach. The charts indicated truly shallow water near the north opening, so it was unlikely the relief boat would come in that way. However, it was a natural place to put a sentry.
The small island was covered in scattered palms with a heavy undergrowth of sea grape. Sea grape wasn't thorny or particularly unpleasant, but it was thick, too thick to walk through. However, it had open area under it. He paused and opened up his bag, pulling out equipment and checking it. The main thing he needed from it was the thermal imager. Nobody had ever made a thermal imager that could handle a dive approach, unlike standard NODs. He flipped up the NODs and swept the imager around, looking for hot spots. The immediate area seemed to be clear, so he slid the imager into a pouch on his combat harness, stored the bag in the mangroves and started crawling northeast under the grapes, cautiously probing for sentries.
He found the first one more or less where he expected, sitting on the sand of the nor
th beach, looking out at the water and smoking a cigarette. The wind had shifted around to the south and Mike moved cautiously so as not to give away his position, choosing each placement of his hands and knees with care.
There was a narrow path running generally southeast to northwest and terminating at the water. He slid out into this open area carefully, checking to see that the sentry wasn't in sight of any of his friends, then slid the MP-5 to burst and put three rounds in his head. The sentry flopped backwards so that he looked like he had simply fallen asleep, except for the twitching of his legs and arms. Mike wasn't sure exactly why one guy in four was a twitcher, but it was pretty consistent. Make for a great doctoral dissertation some day.
He used the path, cautiously, probing southwest towards the target building, stopping from time to time to check with the thermal for heat. Finally, after a move of about fifty meters, he spotted a heat image and dropped down to crawl cautiously forward.
There was an open area running up from the beach. It was about seventy meters long and about fifty deep, in an irregular oval. The target building, which was lit, was on the north side, the beach on the south, and otherwise it was surrounded by sea grape. There were a few palm trees scattered around, but not many. The ground was sand covered liberally with palm fronds.
There was another sentry standing outside the main door of the small shack. He was looking pretty bored, but reasonably alert. He also was close enough that simply shooting him was likely to trigger the group on the interior.
Mike crawled backwards and into the sea grape, cautiously and silently making his way to the building under cover of the grapes. When he reached the building he found that the thicket came right up to the walls and moving through the thick portion at the edge was hard to do silently. He slowly slid up through the plants, though, until he could get an optical viewer over the edge of an open window and get a look inside the target building.
There were five Middle Eastern males in the room, lounging on cots or seated. At the far end of the room was a large bomb-looking thing on a rolling cart. It didn't have the shape of a MIRV and his last class in Soviet nuclear weapons was a very faint memory. It more or less had to be the target, though. The light came from a Coleman lantern on a table.
He made his way back down through the sea grape, silently, then low crawled to the front edge of the thicket. He slid slowly out, keeping the MP-5 centered on the chest of the sentry, who was totally oblivious. The wind was from the south, filling the area with the sound of rustling palm trees and sea grape, and that rustling hid the faint noises he was making. It was dark by the sea grape, with shadows cast by the light from the windows; it was unlikely that the sentry would have seen him if he'd looked right at Mike's position. Which he wasn't doing, simply looking down towards the sea, clearly hoping that the boats would get here soon.
When Mike was clear of the entangling vegetation he slowly stood up, keeping the sentry targeted, and stepped forward, one step, two, then triggered a burst into the sentry.
The sound of the weapon was masked by the sound of the wind and trees, but the thump of the sentry hitting the ground was noticed by those inside as Mike could tell by the questioning tones in Arabic. He didn't give them much time to react, though, stepping to the nearest window and tossing a frag through, then up to the door. The building was cast concrete and he stood to the side of the thin wooden door until the frag went off, extinguishing the light, then flipped down his NODs, opened up the door and stepped into the room.
Three of the terrorists were on the ground, screaming in pain from the fragments tossed around the room by the grenade. Another had apparently been right by it when it detonated and he wasn't going to ever scream again. The fifth was wounded, but trying to get his AK operational. Mike triggered a burst into him and then into each of the surviving terrorists, filling the already blood-soaked room with more spray.
The bomb had apparently been undamaged by the grenade. He hadn't been worried about it sympathetically detonating. Nukes were hard enough to get to go off at all; it wasn't going to be detonated by a grenade.
However, he didn't want the reinforcements snatching it away from him, so he needed to do something with it. He rolled it out the door and to the east, driving it up a small path in the grape until he was well away from the building. Then he carefully lifted the heavy device off the cart, knowing he was probably getting radiation exposure, and rolled it under the sea grape.
After that he rolled the cart back into the building and followed the path to the beach. From there he made his way through the entangling grape to where he'd dropped his swim bag. With that in hand, he made his way back to the edge of the open area and set up.
Mike was more than capable of fighting at close range, but if he could take out the enemy at a distance he much preferred it. And while the MP-5 was great for close, silent work, he preferred something with a bit more range and punch if he had to engage an enemy in open field. Thus he'd packed along both a Mannlicher 7mm sniper rifle and a silenced M-4. The silencer on the M-4 didn't really make it silent, but it did reduce and modify the sound. It also made it harder to pinpoint.
He put the MP-5 in the bag, switched out magazines and rolled the bag back under the sea grape. Then he set up a good sniper position, including dragging a couple of the cooling bodies over for cover. He got some of the palm fronds for minor camouflage. He was only expecting five, but it never hurt to be safe.
That done he took a pull of water from his camelbak and got out a power bar. The whole mission had been more exercise than he'd been getting lately and he was pretty tired. He also ached, probably due to the weather change, and if he had to sit still for long he was going to lock up.
He'd hydrated and gotten down a couple of power bars when he spotted a faint white mark on the sea a few hundred meters out. He flipped down the NODs and spotted the cigarette boat immediately, moving in slowly, making its way through the shoals. He glanced at his watch and it was right on time. The only problem being that it was followed by four more.
"You said five," he muttered. "Five targets. Not five boats!"
As the boats got closer he saw that they were also filled with targets. Each seemed to have about four or five. Crap.
He snugged the Mannlicher into his shoulder and tracked them with the thermal scope as they got closer. As the first boat came in sight of the building it slid to a stop, working back and forth at steerage and apparently unsure if it should come in. Mike suddenly realized they were either waiting for a signal or bothered by the building being unlit. He probably should have replaced the broken Coleman with something, although he couldn't think off the top of his head what.
Finally the boat came forward, cautiously, followed by the other four. They spread out as they approached the beach. When they'd beached, armed men came forward and jumped to the sand, running out anchors, looking around at the darkness under the trees and calling out softly.
Mike scanned the sniper rifle over the target-rich environment until one of the men on the boat climbed onto the bow and started ordering the terrorists on the beach to head for the building and waving at others to land.
Mike laid the crosshairs on the man's head and gently squeezed the trigger. The target's head exploded like a melon and he started tracking other targets.
The men on the ground had spread out and gone to ground, most of them firing wildly into the darkness. Mike slid the Mannlicher from one to the next, pumping rounds into them and silencing the panicked fire.
One of the cigarette boats suddenly sprung to life, backing away, dragging its anchor. Mike tried to target the pilot, but the man was hunched down, so he put three rounds into the engine compartment and the boat gave a cough and stopped.
By this time most of the terrorists on the boats had unloaded and were firing in his general direction, some of them coming forward at a run. The area was getting a bit hot, so he dropped the Mannlicher and picked up the M-4. The Mannlicher only had a five-round magazine compared
to the thirty-round mag on the assault rifle. He targeted three of the terrorists, spinning them into the sand, then rolled backward into the sea grape.
He wasn't sure how many terrorists were left, but his main concern was the cigarette boats. He didn't want them either getting away or, worse, being used to move terrorists around to the sides of the island. So he made his way quickly through the sea grape, pausing only to connect the MP-5's friction strap, until he was at the edge of the open area by the sea.
The open area was swarming with terrorists by this point so he couldn't go in there. He made his way southward, then into the mangroves on that side, cautiously making his way down to the waterline. He found a small channel, stinking with rot, and sunk down into the putrid water, cautiously sliding out into the open water and submerging.
It was a short swim to the boats and one that he could make entirely on a lungful of air. He was mainly worried about phosphorescence. Any movement in tropical waters caused flashes of luminescent light from small planktonic creatures in the water. But the terrorists apparently were focusing on the land and ignoring the water. Stupid terrorists, water is for SEALs.
He reached the hull of the nearest cigarette boat and slowly surfaced, letting out his breath silently and getting another lungful. He was shielded from view by the hull of the boat and he paused a moment to consider his next move. Then he lifted his left hand up to the bulwark of the boat and gently lifted himself from the water.
There were two terrorists in the boat, watching the goings-on on the land. He could see more on the other boats. He quietly lifted himself, one-handed, up to the bulwark, lowering his barrel to clear it of water, sliding over on his belly as quietly as he could. When he was in the boat, he triggered a burst into each of the terrorists.
The faint sound of the M-4 apparently didn't carry to the other boats, or the terrorists couldn't place it, since they continued to pay more attention to the land than the boat he'd boarded. Mike carefully corrected for the rocking of the boat and targeted the terrorist on the next boat, taking him down as well.