He saw the boat, and a young American in an odd camo pattern with a flattop haircut and some godawful variant of an M4 Kyle wasn’t familiar with, with rails all over the receiver and barrel, a bulky suppressor, some kind of night vision, and other gadgets. But it helped prove he was an American, and was likely devastatingly effective.
“Monroe?”
“Yeah, injured, rocks,” he said through clenched teeth. “Teach me to hurry.”
“McLaren. Here.” The SEAL reached out a hand and heaved, taking the weight off Kyle’s injured foot. Kyle dropped the rucks and then they were swinging their legs over the gunwale of a Boston Whaler. McLaren stepped back and grabbed a ruck in each hand, barely straining.
“Anything fragile?”
“No,” Kyle said, as the three packs sailed over the side. He chuckled. The question had been an irrelevant formality.
The boat had a cockpit of sorts, enough for two crewmen to stand in. One stood there now. Another man crouched forward at a Browning M2HB .50 caliber machine gun. Kyle’s foot sent streaks of pain up his leg as McLaren piled in.
“Go,” the SEAL said. It wasn’t much above a whisper, but it was enough.
Then they were moving, slowly, as the heavily muffled diesels rumbled.
McLaren was speaking into an encrypted radio. “Got all three items, and two supplemental. Both female. Request female medical support who look as nonthreatening as possible, over. . .”
Kyle sank back and let the gunwale take his weight. Damn, that felt good. He was on a friendly vessel and didn’t have to worry about his command or about taking charge himself.
“You realize I am going to puke,” Wade said. He sounded cheerful about it, though.
“Red, white, and blue?”
“Or Army green. Something patriotic. Goddam, my man, we did it again. Busted up, worn out, but we saved a little girl. Dunno about you, but I feel pretty goddamned good!”
“Yeah,” Kyle said noncommittally. He really did feel good, but the exhaustion and tension were fighting inside him. He could feel a thrill of victory later. Right now, it was the agony of the feet.
But he did have to smile at the pun.
CHAPTER 19
Kyle was leaning back, limp, when they hit deep water minutes later. Whether it was wave pattern, or shelter from formations, Kyle didn’t know. But the motion changed from a light rocking to a heavy tilting. He understood why Wade got sick. He felt none too good himself. Though only part of it was the ocean. It was his medical state. He wasn’t sure how bad his foot was, but it was screaming at him. Surgery for certain, though he thought he had it all there. But hell, that meant they Couldn’t use him for a couple of months. He snickered to himself.
“So, we meet at last, Sergeant Monroe,” McLaren said. He cleared all three rifles and stowed them in an open crate. Made sense. Random holes in the sides or people would be a bad thing.
“I think we’re meeting at first,” Kyle replied. Dammit, Wade’s humor was catching.
“Right. Anyway, what I’ve heard impresses me. Both you and Wade.”
“Thanks,” Kyle said. Wow. Yes, they were all on the same team and all good at what they did, but the SEALs were about as overall best as you got. For one of them to say he was impressed was praise indeed.
“What’s the camo?” Kyle asked. He looked his host over again. Young, bulky but lean, no nonsense about him.
“Standard BDU pattern in gray and blue. Civilian purchase, but great for beaches at night. Or nightclubs.”
“Good. I wonder if the Army would approve them.”
“Not likely, Monroe,” Wiesinger said.
It was annoying. He’d been making a joke and chatting to unwind, while being friendly with a man who was saving their lives, and the asshole had to prove he had no sense of humor.
“Ah, shit,” McLaren said, cutting off further conversation. Kyle shifted and looked astern, following the SEAL’s gaze. He couldn’t see much from this low level.
“What is it?”
“Some kind of small craft. But bigger and better armed than this one.” He stared a bit longer. “Looks like a fifteen- to twenty-meter patrol craft. Same kind that’s involved in quite a bit of piracy.”
“Define ‘better armed’?” Wade asked. He looked a bit queasy, but it wasn’t the enemy. He’d looked like that the whole way out.
“Oh, probably a twenty-three millimeter Russian. Enough to blow the hell out of us before we do more than love taps with the fifty.” He turned to the bow and shouted, “Mike, bring the fifty!” Turning back, he said for no one’s benefit, though they all heard him, “But we’ll damned sure try.”
Kabongo had been largely invisible up front. He was a massive black man, with shoulders that looked to be carved rock. The defined shape of them could be seen right through his wetsuit. He carried the dismounted .50 Browning at port arms as he came surefootedly astern.
In moments, the two SEALs had it mounted to a rear pintle that had obviously been retrofitted. The welds on it were crude but sturdy. Apparently, it was intended that the heavy firepower be used forward. That was a limitation they obviously didn’t approve of.
“Piracy?” Kyle asked.
“I dunno. Fifty attacks in this area this year. That were reported. Plus tramps who went missing in unknown conditions that might not be storms. Or it could be contracted to the companies. Or it could be your friends. They might have seen us come in and then waited for us to leave, I don’t think they’re government.”
Kyle’s phone buzzed. He started in surprise, and grabbed it.
“Kyle.”
“Bakri here.”
“Yes, Bakri?”
“I was just called and threatened with death.”
“Damn. There’s nothing we can do at this point.”
“That is not why I called. Our friends had observers. They said they would hunt you down at sea.”
“That explains the boat behind us.” He stared at the dot on the waves.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, thanks much. You protect yourself.” Damn.
“I will do so. It is to get violent here. Very.”
“Good luck. I’ll call with my home number if I get a chance.”
“I hope to be here. I may change phones.”
“If that happens, I won’t try to find you. Not safe.”
“I agree. Good luck and God be with you.”
“And also with you.”
He clicked off and turned to the others, painfully. “That explains that. Assholes aren’t willing to let go.”
“Didn’t we do that a couple of shows back?” Wade asked. They’d been chased from Pakistan into Afghanistan.
“That group wanted revenge,” Kyle said. “This group is still trying to bag the target and win points. They kill the Maddens, they get a war started.”
“Well, maybe they’ll turn away,” Kabongo mused. “It’s not as if they’ve got good odds.”
“We’ve dealt with these assholes before,” Kyle said. “They won’t turn away. A bloody nose won’t do it. You have to knock teeth out before they get the hint. And some of them never do.”
“Well, we’re not that easy to hit,” McLaren said. “We’re small, moving fast, have a very low radar profile, and a head start. That might be enough. On the other hand, we’re not going to make thirty knots in these seas with all this extra gear.”
“Should we jettison?” Wiesinger asked, coming from the front. He’d been talking to the civilians, or at least trying to.
“Don’t think it’ll make that much difference, sir,” McLaren said. “And truthfully, the mass is holding us deep enough for better propulsion. I don’t want to start tossing stuff around. Especially as we may need ammo. Call me a miser, but I hate to throw away even government property if I can avoid it.”
“Same here; Thought I’d offer.”
McLaren nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Wiesinger asked, “What about the Indonesian coast guard?”
“Sir?” Kyle asked.
Wiesinger shook his head. “Let’s outrun them. I really don’t want that kind of attention drawn to us.”
Or to your next promotion, Kyle thought.
“Right. Do you want to call Gilpin or should I?”
“I will,” Wiesinger insisted. Kyle handed over his phone at once. The colonel dialed. “Wiesinger here. Yes, sir, injured but recovered . . . Thank you, sir. . . We’re aboard the boat and being pursued, last-ditch effort to get a kill, we think.”
Lei Ling cringed. Kyle thought, Nice going, asshole. Scare the civvies. But he should have been expecting it.
“Yes, sir,” Wiesinger said. “Understood. We are at sea, hope to call with better news soon. Out.”
“Oh, shit, they’re firing!” Kabongo said.
The blob on the horizon flashed occasionally from reflected moonlight. That was a silver light. This was redder, uglier. And it had a tempo that only comes from mechanical equipment.
The first burst was nowhere near the U.S. boat; Kyle didn’t see any splashes or hear anything. But it would be used to range them. By halving the difference every time, it would take less than five bursts to get the distance. After that, it was simply a case of pouring enough fire out to get lucky as the boat tossed on the waves.
The second burst was a lot closer. It splashed behind them.
“Can’t you stop them with the fifty?” Wiesinger asked before the next burst. He’d missed the earlier conversation.
“Not that easy,” McLaren said with a shake. “We can blow it full of holes, but it won’t sink at once. If they’ve got the pilothouse armored, they can keep closing. And they must have backup to recover them if they do sink. Closer than ours.”
“Time to call a chopper?”
“No, sir. Not while we’re in Indonesian waters. The twelve-mile limit is the minimum. We’re at an oblique course to clear various underwater obstacles. So it’ll be a half hour or so, and I’m saving the chopper. Would suck to have them show up, then leave because of fuel issues. We may need them a lot. Besides, we’re forty-five minutes from the USS Juneau, the amphibious ship picking us up,” he elucidated.
“Will some precision fire help?” Wade asked.
“Hell, if you think you can tag something, go for it.” McLaren shrugged. “Far be it from me to stop an ally from killing a bad guy. And fire downrange never hurts.”
Wade grabbed both of the long rifles from the locker and made sure he grabbed magazines of match grade. He tossed one to Kyle. Both snipers loaded and shouldered the SR25s and sat down, Kyle wincing in pain.
He hunkered low to rest the handguard over the tubular gunwale. This was going to be tough shooting. It wasn’t helped by the odd angle he had to keep to stop his foot from being squeezed, and hence sending sharp pain shooting up to his testicles.
McLaren started popping off bursts every time the shifting waves brought the two boats into line. The .50 BMG is a big cartridge, verging on being a light cannon shell, but half inch holes in a boat with good pumps aren’t an immediate threat. And he’d have to hit it first. But a single 23mm hit on the smaller craft could cripple it. The engines were exposed to incoming fire, and there was no protection for the occupants. Nor could the hulle too many hits from explosive or even solid projectiles before it split and the boat foundered. Both craft had low radar signatures and manually aimed weapons, making it a game of visual chase and shoot in the growing dawn.
Kyle winced as he shifted his seat. Cold seawater swirled around his ass and testicles. His stance had his foot braced against the gunwale and it hurt. Whenever another slop of water rushed over the boot, it would sting again, coldly, then slowly warm back up. While he wasn’t getting seasick, the shifting waves were disorienting him. Every swell caused the boat to sway, and the gray horizon blended into the black sky and gray mist. And it was dawn again, dammit. He needed some serious sleep once the threats were diminished.
A snapping, ripping, popping sound was a 23mm projectile through the air nearby. That got Kyle’s undivided attention, until he forced himself into his shooting trance. Nothing he could do would stop the incoming fire, except to hit it at the source. No panic, no shakes, just take the fire and make the shot count. A swell slopped over and soaked his sleeve, burning the raw patch on his elbow. He squinted for just a moment and got it under control.
He brought the rifle into plane and caught the pursuit in the scope. Now he had to find a worthwhile target, and he wasn’t that familiar with even U.S. military boats, much less foreign ones. He could see a lit pilot house, a gun mount up front with two men crewing it, and some assorted spidery equipment of no real interest. The best targets were the gun and the gunners.
This would work out to simply be a shot at a moving target, he figured. Or not “simply,” as the target was moving, he was moving, and the platform under him was subject to sudden direction changes.
“Range?” he asked Wade.
“I’d say one four hundred meters,” Wade replied.
“Long ass shot. But okay. Guns and gunner.”
“Roger tha—” Wade replied, drowned out by another burst from McLaren and a wave breaking over, them. They were now soaked through, eyes stinging from the salt and chilling quickly.
Kyle put that out of his mind. The shot was what mattered. He closed his eyes for a second to clear salt and let his mind refocus, then opened them again.
The swells were fairly steady, and the boat was moving with that motion. The other boat was moving with that motion, so he should lead about there. And how high to compensate for range? Could he recall the chart? He was zeroed for five hundred meters, and velocity at that range was about 1548 feet per second, figure the additional range and . . . He relaxed and steadied the rifle. It didn’t do any good to fight motion, in fact it made things worse. He’d have to squeeze the trigger quickly, losing some small accuracy in exchange for meeting the window he had.
There . . . and there . . . and BANG!
Wade’s shot was a bare fraction of a second after his, and an empty case smacked Kyle in the head. It stung for just a second, but didn’t burn through the sheath of cold water.
By scope, both shots had missed, because nothing happened. But Kyle had caught a glimpse of what might have been a ricochet. It was the only evidence to work from, so lead there and . . . BANG! as another burst crashed overhead.
Miss, but it was the best he could do. So shoot again. Breathe, relax, squeeze . . . BANG! Another of Wade’s ejected cases caught him. He should move, but it was a minor annoyance and he had work to do.
One of the gun crew spun and tumbled. Good. It might have been his shot or Wade’s. It didn’t matter. Kyle knew how good he was, and how good Wade was, and they didn’t need to compete. That was the right lead, and he fired again as it came by, and again. The remaining man tugged frantically at the gun. Perhaps one of the shots had damaged it? Or it could have just jammed. And shoot. And shoot.
Then the gunner staggered back, ducking a round. He seemed to crash against the pilothouse and fall over as the boat swayed. He scrabbled to his knees and disappeared inside. At this range by starlight it was a tough call, even with a night scope.
“Score two,” Wade said.
“Yup. More targets.” They were in good shooting position, comfortable enough and able to stay here for hours, with range and windage for the target. There was no hurry to move.
“Looking,” Wade said. “Nothing. Want to try for the pilot house?”
“I have an idea. Get the scope,” Kyle said. An idea that was goofy, except that it might work.
“Stand by,” Wade agreed. He fumbled with the rucks until he found his, then inside until he found the spotting scope.
“Mr. McLaren, I have an idea,” he said. McLaren looked at him. “I need to borrow your shoulder.”
&
nbsp; “Show me,” McLaren said, looking quizzical.
Kyle cleared the SR25 and laid it down, rose and took the grips on the .50. “You stand in front, facing me, gripping the mount. I’m going to steady over your shoulder. You’re a strong man?”
“Strong enough. I got ya. How the hell are you going to aim, though?” he asked as he squatted and wrapped himself around the mount.
“I’m not. Wade is. Wade?”
“Ready!” Wade agreed.
Wiesinger said, “Monroe, you’re a fucking nut. But good luck.” He was wincing from saltwater on his feet.
“Thanks,” he replied shortly, as he lowered the gun back down over McLaren’s shoulder. The SEAL reached up and wrapped an arm around the heat shield, placing the hand over his exposed ear.
“Perfect,” Kyle agreed.
He fell back into trance, closing his eyes, opening them, judging the combined motions, picking a lead. “Shooting!” he announced and gave the paddle a press.
The .50 fired and slammed. A single round banged out. McLaren shouted, “OW!” from the noise so close to him and the recoil. The empty case whipped out and over the side, a flash of slightly heat-crazed brass.
“Need me to stop?” Kyle asked.
“High and right, several meters,” Wade called.
“Your ass! Keep shooting!” McLaren said. “I’ll deal!”
Kyle nodded and shifted just slightly. McLaren was inhumanly strong; even with a good part of the 85 pounds of the .50 balanced against his shoulder, it took effort for Kyle to move him. Which was good. He chose his new point of aim and settled back in. With no scope, the boat was just a toy on the horizon.
“Shooting!” The Fifty crashed, McLaren shouted, Wade called, “Roof, left, one point five meters,”
“Dammit, it’s not steady enough. Going to take a lot of luck.”
“More mass!” McLaren shouted. “Kabongo, time to make your swim buddy smile!”
“Will do, Dan. Stand by.” Kabongo had been gently offering water to the civilians and Wiesinger. He came running over like a boulder with legs. He got behind McLaren, reached around him and grabbed two of the three struts on the pintle mount. He strained until his arms bulged and hugged tight. Then he straightened up.
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