Under Fire: The Admiral

by Beyond the Page Publishing

  “Quiet.” Bambi’s voice drifted softly like smoke. She tipped her head and Ben did the same. It was happening. The heavy air carried the sound of powerful boat engines surging and waning as the person at the wheel navigated up what could only be a very narrow channel. Men yelled over the engine noise. Bambi’s hand left her mouth and lifted two fingers to his eyes. He held up a fist. Flashed five fingers once, then twice, followed by two more fingers. Twelve men. Gemma nodded her understanding.

  Bambi poked Ben’s chest and signed okay. Ben responded with a nod. He did the same with her, receiving the same response. Next, the SEAL extended his hands, palms down, lowering them slowly. She nodded once, indicating she understood. He placed his machete in her lap and touched the holster under her breasts, giving her a thumbs-up. He re-anchored the edge of the tarp and ghosted into the jungle darkness so easily it was unsettling. She pressed her back against the tree trunk until it hurt. Ben scooted closer and seemed to be doing the same. She wished she’d thought of asking for camo paint for their faces and hoped like hell they wouldn’t need it. She held to the thought in a couple of hours Bambi or Hunter would materialize in front of them, grinning. She’d be taken to see the sub, men, millions of dollars of drugs and contraband. All would be well.

  Gemma checked the time, 12:17, then turned off the watch’s luminescent dial. Things would move fast now. She and Ben would remain hidden, still and quiet. The SEALs and agents would do the same, watching and recording the transfer for posterity. When the load was confirmed, they’d call the various agencies to swoop in. Larger ships would create a blockade. Heavily armed boats with heavily armed men would move in. Helicopters would discourage a boat from making a run for it. Even with thermal imaging, the thick jungle canopy made helos an accessory until daylight. They would circle above like dark dragons.

  The boat lights flickered eerily through the dense undergrowth, illuminating their hiding place like flashes of lightning had the previous night. The engines were killed and a heavy thunk of the boat connecting with wood, possibly a dock, echoed around them. Conversations could now be heard clearly. Their hiding place was closer to the water than she thought. She made a move to get in front of Ben. He held her in place. His other hand held a two-foot length of thick branch.

  The tension that fled earlier returned, bringing its companion, fear. Fear mixed with excitement. The combination had her brain shooting adrenaline through her body like an open fire hydrant. Her heart rate and respiration increased, the muscles in her back tightened with anticipation. Her legs throbbed, ready to spring into fight. Tremors of excitement rippled through her like tiny seismic waves. Barking out orders from the bridge of a ship or butting heads with politicos was nothing compared to being in the action. Deep breaths drew in the stench of diesel exhaust and swamp water churned to the surface by the propellers of powerful engines.

  Ben’s long fingers tightened on her waist. His body mirrored her tension. She leaned her head back until it rested on his shoulder and spoke into his ear. “Let go,” she whispered, peeling his fingers from her waist at the same time. “I have to be ready.” It was understandable his male mind was confused. Her protecting him instead of the other way around. She didn’t need him pulling the man card on her now. She touched the branch in his hand, nodded and smiled. He shifted, swinging his arm away.

  Halogen lights came to life, snapping and sizzling in the moist night air illuminating the area like the fifty yard line at a Monday night football game. She and Ben jerked back against the tree. This was not expected. Those lights were bright enough to be seen in outer space. The tarp and foliage kept them hidden, but . . . She reached down for a handful of moist jungle earth. Without taking her gaze from the slit, she smeared her face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben doing the same.

  They sat still as stones listening to the sounds of the men transferring the bales of drugs. Jesus, how were those five men out there staying calm? To keep doing stuff like this on a regular basis they had to be adrenaline junkies.

  Gemma lifted the machete, inserting the blade into the slit, resting the tip on the bottom of the opening, spreading it wider and all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 8

  Long bursts from automatic weapons came from the direction of the boats, along with curses and orders in Spanish to kill the intruders. The rumble in the jungle was on. Gemma threw her arm across Ben’s chest, pushing him back, and went to her knees, maneuvering into a defensive position. Thank gawd he wasn’t resisting her attempts to protect him and she could focus on making sense of the chaos. The staccato dit-dit-dit of the SEALs’ H&K 416s shattered the night. The big lights hissed and sizzled like water hitting a hot skillet as bullets struck, returning a measure of darkness to the night. The boat engines revved. The traffickers fired long spraying bursts that sounded like buzz saws and cut vegetation like supersonic weed whackers. The boat’s powerful engines shifted gears. A percussive whamp momentarily halted the gunfire. Gemma pulled Ben off the log, pushed him to the ground using her body as a shield. The SEALs set off a second charge, and a third. The bullet trading got serious.

  “They’re blowing everything up,” Ben said.

  Gemma shook her head. The SEALs wouldn’t destroy evidence. Loud cracks, very much like the one they’d heard last night in the storm, filled the night air, overwhelming the cacophony of the fight. Trees blown by the SEALs ripped and tore at branches and smaller trees on their way to the ground, ending in splashes and massive thuds vibrating the ground. Instead of scuttling the boats, the SEALs downed trees to block the waterway, preventing retreat. No matter what happened, those boats and drugs weren’t leaving.

  Shouts and gunfire bursts came nearer, reverberating. Pinpointing origin of fire was impossible. The five men hidden in the jungle were in extreme danger. Based on her experience traffickers didn’t give up easily. They fought until they couldn’t fight anymore. Then ran, living to fight another day. In the jungle, at night, they’d do both. Gemma moved off Ben. “Get up, be ready.” He said nothing and crouched gripping the branch. She freed the edges of tarp to facilitate a quick exit and positioned the machete near her feet. Her hand went back to the handle twice, memorizing the location. With the Ruger firmly in hand, she fixed her gaze through the slit and into the jungle.

  When she first caught the sound she thought it was wishful thinking. Seconds later there was no mistaking the engine whine and thumping rotor sounds of a helicopter. Not a small chopper. One of those honking big things meant to scare the crap out of opponents on the ground. A dark dragon. Gemma smiled. Reinforcements were here. Ben would be safe for sure. She relaxed her shoulders and took in a deep breath that froze in her lungs. In front of them men pushed their way through the undergrowth, coming at them as if they knew exactly where they were hiding. Two held automatic rifles high, using them to push through the dense jungle. A third stumbled behind holding a weapon at his side. Three. She could fire now. Kill them. The Ruger was small but powerful. It’s five full-powered .357 loads would take down anything she hit. She was an excellent shot. Unless those guns pointed in their direction she would do as told. Not fire unless they were in danger and until her target was close.

  The men halted five feet away. The stumbler fell to his knees panting, grasping his shoulder. The chopper’s high-powered searchlight swept over the men. Gemma zeroed in on the red stain at the kneeling man’s shoulder and the two-foot-long machete he carried.

  “Levantate. Vamos.” One of the men standing tugged on the man’s uninjured arm, urging him to get up and get moving.

  “No. No,” the stumbler gurgled and pushed the hand away. As the helicopter’s light made another sweep he leaned forward, coughed, spit, and raised his head. Gemma’s eyes were the last thing he saw.

  They only had seconds before one of the men would fire into the space. “Move,” she shouted, afraid the .357’s blast would have affected Walsh’s hearing. No need. He was already moving, swinging and hacking the machete Bambi left. He gripped
her shirt, dragging her clear as an AK cut lose. Her trailing leg was peppered with fragments of the log they’d been sitting on. Gemma stumbled and Ben steadied her. The prominent, unmistakable sound of an AK-47 stopped, replaced with a metal against metal friction of a clip being released. A reload. “Run,” she yelled. He hesitated. “Go. I’m right behind you.” He didn’t need to be told twice.

  Another burst. The second man fired while the first reloaded. Walsh cut to the right. She pancaked, low-crawled a few feet, rolled, raised the gun and fired, dropping the man. At the same moment Walsh appeared, ready to bring the machete down on the man. What the fuck did he think he was doing? “Get down,” she yelled and scrambled to her feet. Walsh dutifully dropped and she prepared to fire at the last man. Who was no longer there. She double-handed the Ruger, raised it to her chin, moving side to side searching.

  “There are two rifles here,” Walsh called out.

  The man wasn’t armed. Gemma sensed movement behind her. She twisted, fired, and missed as a machete brushed her hair. She continued her turn, powering up her left arm and connecting with the arm holding the wicked blade, shoving it back. She slammed her shoulder into the man and they went to the moist ground with an ouff, legs tangled, rolling.

  He came out on top of a roll, his hand wrapped around the wrist of her gun hand, shaking, preventing her from putting a round in him. She did her own preventing, gripping his wrist, fending off a swinging machete. He was wild-eyed, babbling, his spittle spraying her face. Enough of this shit. She head-butted him. It hurt like hell but he released his grip and flinched back enough for her to wedge a knee between them and lever him away. She rolled, took a knee ready to fire and . . . fuck, he was gone. Disappeared like a jungle rat. The gun battle resumed, making it impossible to hear him. She saw Ben coming her way. “Run. Get away. I don’t know where he . . .”

  The man exploded from the jungle. She fired. A metal against metal ching rang out and the machete hit the ground with a muted thud. She went to her feet. The scumbag made a guttural sound and was on her. Hands around her throat, fingernails digging into her flesh, forcing her back. The jungle snagged her clothes and scraped her skin. She brought the Ruger up to fire. Vines tangled around her arm as if they were alive, snatching the gun and it was gone. Fuck. She palmed his face, sticking fingers up his nose. He tightened his grip. The fucker fought with the superhuman strength that came from sampling the goods. She fought with everything she had, punching him over and over. He tightened his grip. Her boot tangled in roots and she went down with him on top. In her peripheral vision she saw Walsh coming toward them. “No. Run.” She tried to yell but the words were choked back to nothing more than a feeble croak. The strung-out man was astride her, blindly pummeling. She elbowed his face, bucked him, but he kept on. She went for his balls and squeezed. He howled and fell to the side. She was free and scrambled to her feet backpedaling. When she gained a few feet between them, she took a knee to free the Ka-Bar from her ankle scabbard. Before she could release the knife he was on her again growling and hissing like a mad dog. They fell backward into dark water. It wasn’t deep, maybe three feet. She could feel the bottom but he’d landed on top of her and had a firm grip on her throat, holding her head under. She wedged a hand under his chin, forcing him back allowing her to gulp in a couple of breaths before he was able to push her back under. This time she didn’t fight him for release, she went for the knife. Her lungs begged to breathe as she tore at her leg to free the blade.

  The helicopter lights swept over, illuminating the water to an unearthly green, reminding her of another accident when her flashlight cast a similar glow in the water. Another sweep. A gray fog replaced the green glow clouding her consciousness. Her body gave in and she stopped struggling. Her mind resisted. It was her job to rescue those in peril. Ben was in peril. No matter what she’d told him he was her first priority.

  Fight, Gemma. You’ve never given up before. Your job isn’t over. She forced the gray fog away. Your job is to protect Ben. Like a Chinese gymnast, she bent and twisted until her hand made contact with the knife’s handle. It came free and with everything she had left she plunged the blade into the dark form above her once, then twice. Still he held on. The fog was winning. Consciousness faded. She found the energy to slam the blade into him again, twisting and pulling, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone. Finally, finally, he let go and fell away, the knife buried in him. Gemma pushed to her feet, breaking the surface gasping, choking, spitting, flinging her arms defensively, preparing to be attacked with her own knife. A hand circled her arm and she rounded ready to fight.

  “It’s okay,” Ben said. “They’re all down.”

  She huffed in huge gulps of H2O, waiting for the low oxygen fog her body was experiencing to clear. Her attacker floated on his back, motionless beside her. Her Ka-Bar in his thigh and a good portion of his head gone.

  “Sounds like it’s over,” Walsh said, flinging away the machete he’d used to kill the man. He was right. Gemma listened. There was only a ringing in her ears and shouts to drop weapons. Ben wrapped an arm around her and together they staggered to solid ground, where she went down, bringing Ben with her. Before they could get to their feet, Hunter crouched in front of them.

  “Either one of you broken or leaking?” he said urgently.

  Ben said, “No, but . . . Gemma . . . The admiral.”

  “Fine.” She waived a hand and coughed. “Be okay.”

  Hunter stood, grabbed a fistful of Ben’s shirt, hauling him to his feet, pulling him away from her.

  “What the fuck?” Ben tried to break Hunter’s grip. “Gemma. She . . .”

  “She said she was okay,” Hunter said, not slowing.

  “What the hell is going on?” Ben said, his arm up to protect his face from whipping branches.

  “The lieutenant took a hit in his leg. It’s the femoral.”

  Ben quickened his step to match Hunter’s. “Jesus.” He could bleed out in a few minutes. “Hurry. Not much time.”

  Ben and Hunter came on Vegas sprawled on his back, not moving, Bambi crouched beside him spreading the contents of a medical pack across his torso. The lieutenant’s pant legs had been ripped away and a flashlight illuminated his wounds. “Shit,” Ben said. This was more than a hit. The SEAL’s right thigh looked like a grizzly had been feeding on it. Ben dropped to the ground beside him. The metallic smell of blood mixed with jungle smells was stomach-turning.

  “It’s a vein and the artery,” Bambi said without looking up. Hunter stripped off his vest and placed it under Vegas’s foot for elevation. “He took at least five. Got a tourniquet on. Applying pressure but . . .” He didn’t need to say any more. Blood wasn’t seeping from the leg, it was spurting like a water fountain with each beat of the man’s heart.

  Vegas rested a hand on Bambi’s arm and said something, his voice too low for Ben to hear.

  “Told you man, save your breath. No talking,” Bambi said.

  Gemma half crawled, half stumbled to them, and the moment she knelt next to Hunter he jammed a flashlight into her hand. “Keep it on the leg.”

  “Dear God,” she said, positioning the light.

  “Antiseptic,” Ben demanded.

  “No time. Find that fucking bleeder and tie it off,” Hunter said.

  “One of you open that saline bag and dump it on the wound. Wash the blood away so I can see what the hell I’m doing,” Ben ordered. Without hesitation Bambi slashed open the bag and squeezed it over the wound, washing the blood away, if only briefly.

  Gemma held the flashlight with both hands and braced her elbows on her thighs to keep the beam from bouncing. Ben pushed his hand into the wound, searching the mutilated flesh for the spurting artery.

  “I hear boat engines,” Gemma said. “Ours?”

  God, let there be medics aboard, Ben prayed.

  “Yes.” Hunter had a large knife cutting away the lieutenant’s sleeve. “You ready?”

  “Ready for what?” Ben didn’t l
ook up. He pushed his fingers deeper into the wound, amazed Vegas wasn’t howling with pain.

  “Not you. Bambi. We’re doing a transfusion.”

  “What?”

  Ben looked up to see Hunter wrapping a tube around his arm. “Transfusion will keep him going until we can get him to the ships.”

  “Stop . . .” Ben looked at Vegas, stunned he was able to speak with the blood loss he’d suffered. “Don’t . . . want . . . old man blood,” Vegas said.

  “Why?” Ben looked from Vegas to Hunter. “Are you compatible blood types?” He was willing to go along with any and all heroic lifesaving measures, but incompatible transfusion in these conditions was crazy.

  “Afraid . . . of getting . . .” Vegas coughed and Bambi put a hand under his head, raising it up slightly. “Sagging balls . . . like Hunter’s.”

  “Jesus, how much of that morphine did you give him?” Ben said, not amused.

  “Not fucking enough,” Hunter shot back.

  Bambi and Hunter worked quickly and quietly. Light and shadow displays from the sweeping lights of helicopters and boats created a surreal scene. “Have you done this before?” If they had they knew what he knew. To keep Vegas from dying Hunter would have to transfuse all his blood. And it, like the lieutenant’s, would ooze onto the ground. It was Gemma who answered. “They know what they’re doing,” she said softly.