Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  Marks looked back towards Lip. Off in the distance, about a mile down the highway, headlights appeared. Just two tiny dots. He didn’t linger, but went back down the embankment and got in the car.

  Lip’s eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror. He didn’t pull out, but waited. The headlights were getting stronger, closer. Seconds later a semi flew by. It shook their car in its wake.

  “Get what you need?” Lip said.

  Marks nodded. “That’s the spot.”

  “What now?” Lip said.

  “Chow.”

  Lip pulled back onto the highway. “Denny’s?”

  “Denny’s.”

  THEY did a double check of their clothes and bodies for unwanted stains before entering the joint. It had taken most of the ride for their noses to lose the pig stench. Even though they’d washed off the stink, it seemed to linger. A phantom smell, looming over their shoulder.

  Time to shut that door. Move on. New smells.

  It was 0215. Last time they’d eaten was yesterday—Marks before he went to work and Lip with his milk and cookies. They’d missed dinner completely and needed fuel. One of the basic rules. Keep hydrated, keep fed. You don’t want to hit the wall. Plenty of night ahead of them.

  DENNY’S had five customers, including them. The other three were truckers. Long haul types, drawn faces and thousand yard stares.

  Marks and Lip took a seat in a back booth, away from any ears and near the window where they could see their car. The lone waitress, an older woman with a smoker’s voice and hunched over posture, took their order.

  Marks ordered coffee. Black. Two omelets, cheese on each, Swiss, and three orders of toast. Woman didn’t raise an eyebrow—this was trucker territory. No doubt she’d heard it all. Lip ordered sweet tea, five eggs, scrambled, sausage links and two sides of bacon.

  “Really?” Marks said.

  Lip shrugged. “Kind of sick, I know. But it’s what I’m in the mood for.”

  Their coffee and tea came first. Coffee was adequate; seemed to have been recently brewed. Lip added two sugar packets to his sweet tea.

  They’d spoken some in the car and picked up where they’d left off. They’d already dissected everything that Vlad had told them. He hadn’t given them all the pieces, but it had outlined a picture. The outfit Vlad was with sounded like an abduction operation. Kidnapping and ransoming of kids. The filming was unusual—not quite sure what to make of that.

  “Leverage, to up their price? Or maybe it’s something different… a keepsake? Notch in their belt sort of thing?” Lip said.

  “Could be either,” Marks said.

  “What about the other outfit? Doesn’t sound like this stops at Rudnitsky.”

  “I agree. These guys are providing a service. I’m not sure how Marion comes into this. Why did they want to grab her?”

  “Contract job? Something to do with Johnny Two-cakes?”

  “Could be,” Marks said. “Maybe separate. Unrelated.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Marks nodded. “We work our way up—”

  Lip finished it for him, “—till we take out the entire structure.”

  Marks nodded.

  It was their standard M.O. Marks’s influence. He’d gotten the tactics during his recon days. It was straight from the book. How to successfully execute a direct action raid. You hit one target after the other, and use the intelligence gained from one hit to lead to the next. They’d gotten Vlad. He’d given them an address. They take it from there. See where it led. With any luck they’d leapfrog the whole equation. Take down the head in no time.

  Visualize. See it happening. A positive outlook. Key to any successful operation. Improvise, as needed, but never lose sight of the objective.

  “These guys are sophisticated,” Lip said. “Should be some sort of computer hub. I’m going to need all of it. Every last hard drive.”

  Marks nodded. “If it takes me a truck to haul it, you’ll get it.”

  “And don’t just throw them in, like you usually do.”

  “You’re getting picky now.”

  Their food arrived. Talk stopped. They dug in.

  Chow was decent. Marks’s eyes were bigger than his stomach. He ate one of the omelets; left half of the second.

  Fifteen minutes later, they resumed the talk. They worked out the rest of the plan. Marks would observe, then infiltrate when an opportunity presented itself. Lip would play God. Doing his usual from a removed spot. The infrared cameras would go down at the right time. He’d make them blind. Once inside, Marks would go to work.

  “And do what you do best,” Lip said. “Fart around, pull your pud, make me do all the work.”

  Marks grinned. “Is there any other way?”

  They went through the plan again, working out the kinks.

  Marks would have the initiative. He’d set the timeline. Once he had eyes on the target, he’d pick the time, place and form of attack.

  Fix it. Strike it. Exploit it.

  There would likely be civilian hostages—the abducted kids. Vlad had no details in that arena; didn’t know where they were kept, just that he was pretty sure they were somewhere on site.

  First priority: Marks would need to locate and secure them. Once that was done he’d need to address the opposition. From what Vlad had said, he’d be looking at between twelve and fifteen hostiles.

  12 to 1.

  15 to 1.

  As far as odds went, Marks had had worse. Lots worse.

  Once the opposition was addressed, the site exploitation would be the last part, and the most critical part, aside from saving the kids. Marks needed to get all the info he could get.

  “Smash and grab, baby,” Lip said.

  Haul it out. Then radio in help for the boys and girls. Easy breezy.

  LIP ordered a sundae. Marks finished his fifth cup of Joe. Got so the waitress just left him the pot. They left her a 100% tip. Big spenders.

  “Go out with a bang, baby,” Lip said.

  Next stop Walmart Supercenter. Where all the high rollers go.

  40

  THEY had their laundry list.

  Bottled water, energy bars, Red bull for Lip, skivvies (Lip said his was dirty).

  “Pig or you?” Marks said.

  Lip shook his head. “Amateur hour.”

  …cammies from the sporting goods department for Marks, a couple other miscellaneous items…

  Lip pulled up directions on his laptop for the closest Walmart Supercenter. Walmart was the obvious choice as they needed something that would be open at this hour.

  “Not good. Closest 24-hour one is in Severn, Maryland.”

  An hour drive. They had to take I-270 to the end, loop back on the Beltway, and then hook up with 295.

  “Not doing that,” Marks said.

  He looked across the street. There was a trucker’s stop, convenience store thing, all lit up.

  Improvise.

  “New plan,” Marks said.

  TWO birds with one stone. At Roady’s Truck Stop they filled the tank with gas. Got their bottled water, energy bars, and Red Bull. Next to the souvenir section in the store was a gear section. Hats, shirts…

  Marks perused the fare. His long sleeve shirt and tan khakis wouldn’t do. He needed something heavier in weight, darker in color.

  Most of the clothing options had ironed-on graphics—the more gaudy and bawdy, the more Lip got distracted—but there was some regular stuff. Marks pulled some dark brown work pants off a rack. Found a dark plaid shirt in black and olive that would fit over his shirt. He tried it on to make sure. It wasn’t stylish, but it would do.

  “Here you go, Gramps.” Lip tossed him a blue mesh baseball cap with a white foam front. It said Old School.

  Marks tried it on and looked in the mirror. Not bad, but he passed.

  Lip held up a black tee that said I Just Dropped a Load. “I gotta have this.”

  “Your money.”

  Not exactly true. Lip paid. He did
the usual. Used one of their Visa gift cards. They each had one. Only way they ever paid. Either that or cash.

  The Visa gift cards were replenished, as needed. Lip used their offshore accounts to wire money to the cards. The gift cards had originally been purchased by a shell company, owned by another shell company, sanitized along the way with just a numbered account, which was accessed by an eleven-digit password. Whole thing was untraceable.

  Habit of theirs. No record. They were never here. Would come in handy in this situation. With what was going down in the next couple hours, they didn’t want to be within a fifty mile blast radius of this area.

  41

  LIP went past the exit. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease onto the shoulder. It was the wrong side of the highway. Ten miles down the white lines he started to slow.

  “There it is,” Marks said, putting on the last of his gear.

  It was one of those vehicle cut-throughs that went across the grassy median. No State Troopers were stationed there. Lip slowed down some more, turned and executed a U-turn.

  Ten miles later, the same exit came up. Lip cruised to a stop about fifty yards past it, almost the exact same spot as before. Marks stepped out of the car.

  “Shock and awe,” Lip said.

  “Roger that.”

  Marks watched Lip pull away. Darkness took over. No cars. No trucks. Marks went up the embankment.

  42

  IN his hand Marks had his M4A1 carbine.

  Every Marine is a rifleman.

  It was the philosophy of the United States Marine Corps. Instilled and beaten into every Marine, till it became second-nature. Marines—to a man—knew how to use their rifles. They might specialize, become proficient in signal intelligence, logistics; be a radio operator, artilleryman, HUMNIT operative…

  Didn’t matter. To a man, every Marine knew their rifle. Knew it cold. They were a deadly force with it in their hands.

  Marks was one and the same. Once a Marine, always a Marine. He gripped his rifle with the familiarity that only came with years of experience. It felt natural in his hands, like an extension of his God-given senses: enhancing his sight, enhancing all his other capabilities.

  The M4A1 was no ordinary rifle. It was an exceptional weapon. Favored by special ops and designed specifically for close quarters combat. It was similar to the M16, except it had a shorter barrel and came with some modifications and special attachments. Its barrel was just over fourteen inches long. It had a telescoping buttstock and a ‘full auto’ option. The feed system took 30 round box magazines. Marks had customized his M4A1 with a MASS, which gave it another barrel beneath. It was a two-pronged beast. The MASS was an underbarrel shotgun attachment, which had its own trigger. The whole set-up was essentially two weapons in one.

  It was one kick-ass piece of weaponry.

  Shock and awe.

  Roger that.

  Marks was doing the layer thing. He’d ditched the khakis and was wearing the new trousers. They were a little stiff, but they had good weight and would hold up much better with what he needed to do. His body armor was over his long-sleeve shirt. The armor fully protected his torso. Over the body armor was the new shirt. The trousers and shirt certainly weren’t MARPAT, but they were dark colored, and with this moonless night they’d work fine. On top of the new shirt was his tactical vest.

  In his tactical vest Marks had plenty of spare magazines both for the M4A1 and the MASS. Strapped to his hip was his .45-caliber M1911 pistol. Two extra mags for that were in the vest, as well. Also in the vest were several stun grenades—flashbangs—some bolt snips and a moon beam. Rounding out the package was his KA-BAR, which was strapped to his thigh. Now that was old school. It was USMC issue. Had a carbon steel blade.

  Marks checked his comms gear, and tapped his ear mike.

  “Babel?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Lip was heading to his spot. Marks was belly down. No profile at all. He slithered down the embankment and proceeded to the hide. He’d seen a good location about twenty yards down, towards the left. He was in an area of tall grass, dirt and rocks. About twenty yards away was a fallen tree. It would provide just the sort of concealment he needed.

  Had he been wearing MARPAT and his matching boonie hat, he would have been invisible in the brush. As it was, he was damn near close to being invisible. He’d used a paint stick on his face. There were just his eyes; the rest was black.

  Mental note to himself: he needed to drop some extra woodland diggies and maybe some ghillie suits at Lip’s house. Lip’s little Bat Cave set-up had just about everything he needed. Reason being was that Marks’s one-bedroom condo didn’t have quite the same storage capacity as Lip’s pad.

  Marks kept half his gear stored at Lip’s house. Lip didn’t mind. His partner had several loves; it wasn’t just tech gear—he also happened to be a weapons nut too. Had almost more toys than Marks did. Lip, though one wouldn’t think it by looking at him, was a crack shot. His mobility might be lacking, but he more than made up for it with his other skills.

  “ETA?” Marks said, tapping his ear.

  “Turning off now.”

  Lip was using the other exit. It was seven miles down.

  Plan was for him to circle back. Use the feeder road. Find a spot about a quarter mile away. Go in lights off.

  No chance Lip was using the most immediate exit. Marks could see it now. Which meant so could they.

  They.

  He situated himself behind the fallen tree and used his night scope on his rifle. First two he pegged right away. They were inside the perimeter fence smoking cancer sticks.

  43

  THROUGH the scope their cigarettes looked like bright white bull’s-eyes. The men were stationed outside one of the buildings and could view the front gates. They didn’t appear to be armed. Least not overtly. Nothing in their hands. No Heckler & Koch UMP9s hanging around their necks.

  Their jackets were open. Marks couldn’t see anything that looked like a holster. Both just had plain blouses underneath. If they were packing, they weren’t packing heavy.

  Marks scanned elsewhere. The white phosphor technology in his night scope provided a high level of detail. The scope was the latest generation; one big step up from older cathode plate technology. Older scopes imbued everything in an eerie green light, but not this one. It was like looking at a black and white video.

  He did a quick pass over the buildings. There were two warehouses, long and rectangular with big shed roofs. The buildings next to them were old two and three-story brick structures. There were plenty of windows, but most had been blackened out.

  He scoped the perimeter. The few pole lights that were situated along the front of the fence registered as huge white lollipops. There were no pole lights anywhere else on the property.

  From a security standpoint the whole set-up was piss poor. Most of the site was cloaked in darkness. The perimeter only had the chain-link fence. There was razor wire on top, running in one continuous coil like a never-ending slinky, but that was it. From what Vlad had said it wasn’t even electrified. There were no concrete barriers. No earthworks to speak of. Just a fence.

  Any vehicle worth its salt could mow that down in seconds. Be inside before you could blink. These guys obviously were not anticipating a direct action assault. At a minimum, they should have barriers to prevent a quick breach. But they didn’t. Lack of foresight? Or something else?

  They’d most likely picked this location for a reason. Its proximity to I-270 was obviously a plus, as it provided easy on/off access. That would come in handy if they were transporting goods.

  Judging by the grouping of trucks by one of the warehouses that scenario looked to be a high probability. The trucks were medium sized delivery type trucks like those used in the inner city. They had plain sides with no identifying graphics or logos. They didn’t appear to be conditioned. That meant common freight. Not frozen or perishable goods.

  There was no signage on the fence or at the
gate. The gate itself looked to be automated. It was a little more substantial than the rest of the fence; it looked to be made of welded iron with pointy pickets. From the look of it, it would roll out of the way, not swing out.

  There was an intercom box at the front of the gate. No guard house or any type of structure. The entire property was anonymous looking. Nothing that made it stand out as anything other than a series of old warehouses and buildings. Perhaps that’s what they were going for here. Blend in, have nothing that would draw attention.

  The property had open fields on either side and towards the rear. No immediate neighbors. There was a culvert that went along the fence on the left, and some sort of retention pond. The closest adjacent structures to the property were over two hundred yards away. More warehouses by the look of them. No lights on. No activity at all.

  That wasn’t the case for the target, however. There were lights on in the buildings. Not many, but some. People were home, and not just the two hanging outside smoking their cancer sticks.

  Marks keyed in on the other vehicles. There were four SUVs and two sedans parked by one of the brick buildings. That building was the largest on the property. It looked like an old manufacturing plant; the kind with huge paned windows. It was three stories tall. The roof was flat and had what looked like an access hatch. Of all the buildings on the site, it seemed the best candidate for where the abducted kids might be.

  Marks looked at his watch. 0427. The guys inside that building weren’t working normal hours. Graveyard shift. Doing what? Vlad had painted a picture. Time to fill in the gaps, see what was happening in there.

  Marks tapped his ear. “Location?”

  Lip’s voice came through, “I’m set. Tell me when.”

  That was quick—his partner didn’t fool around. The target from a cursory view looked to have basic security, but that wasn’t entirely the case. Vlad had clued them in. Infrared cameras covered the periphery. They were along the fence, surveying the open fields. Anything that approached would be spotted and issue a passive alarm alerting those inside.