“Fire in the hole,” he warns over the squadron frequency, and we immediately press our backs against the wall of the staircase as the world above us detonates in a head-rattling shockwave.
Murph and I rush through the haze of the flash banger, its energy triggering concussions on the ship’s fifth level. This is a smaller luxurious saloon decorated in white leather, glass, and shiny steel under soft-white recessed lights.
The classic chaos in the wake of an MK32A surround us: a dozen figures scattered on teak floors vomiting, clasping their heads, obviously disoriented. Eight are men. The rest women in bikinis, though two are topless, their tanned figures crying on the floor.
I look at each man carefully, searching for my mark while my team flex-cuffs them. Just then a figure rises behind a sofa, Uzi in hand.
Not Sokolov.
The guard staggers but manages to regain his footing, but not before I align him in my scope, firing a single round.
The face vanishes in a cloud of blood as he collapses behind the same sofa.
“We have company!” Murph shouts, pointing at the lights beyond the panoramic windowpanes. The boats escorting the massive yacht are turning toward us.
The word is out and—
“Got him!” Mia shouts, having located our HVT—High Value Target: Sergei Sokolov. The Russian mob boss is trying to crawl behind a sofa.
“You are surrounded!” Sokolov hisses in a deep voice and a thick accent.
“Damn right!” Murph shouts, standing next to me guarding my six. “That simplifies the problem!”
I’m about to ask the Russian boss for the location of the canisters when his eyes betray him as they look toward a black metal footlocker next to the sofa.
Cope sets down his Barrett, opens it, and then gives me a thumbs up. I guess Uncle D. was spot on when he told us that the man never lets the bioweapons out of his sight. The sniper tilts the box in my direction and I see four shiny steel canisters. I look over at him and grin.
“You will not get away with this!” Sokolov shouts. “You will not—”
Mia walks up to him and just bitch slaps him across the face with a gloved hand, knocking him out before flex-cuffing his wrists and ankles, and placing a bag over his head.
I grin again. Mia would have made a great SEAL.
Cope transfers the canisters to a rucksack and puts it on, just as we planned it, before grabbing his Barrett. Meanwhile, I hoist Sokolov over my shoulders.
“Sundown!” I say into my mic.
“Wilco!” replies Casey, acknowledging the order to head straight to the helipad on the sixth level, above and aft of us.
Mia now leads the stack toward the stairs curving up to the top level, followed by me, then Cope, and Murph covering our egress.
But when we reach it, there’s a half dozen bodies littering this upper level, the vessel’s elaborate and spacious cockpit, packed with glowing screens, buttons, and switches. Plus, there’s a large stainless steel wheel next to four throttle levers.
The men are all uniformed, presumably the vessel’s crew, and all dead from head shots.
Standing tall amidst the haze by the doors leading to the helipad aft of the cockpit is no other than Commander John Casey, who looks at me through his night-vision goggles, and says, “What the fuck took you so long?”
And that’s when I realize why there are rules preventing guys like me from returning to SEAL duty. My ragtag band might have performed above average, given what we just did. But still, it’s nowhere near the level of qualified SEAL Team Six operators, as I once was. In the ninety seconds it took us to clear two levels and secure the weapons and the HVT, Casey and his operators cleared the levels below us and also the cockpit.
But the SEAL Team Six commander doesn’t wait for a reply. He pivots on his left leg and heads back outside, where his team is already firing at the incoming boats with their suppressed weapons, slowing their approach.
Before I leave, I point at the large control panel of Blue Topaz and tell Cope, “Keep it moving but kill everything else.”
The large sniper wearing the heavy rucksack opens up the Barrett on the control panel of the mega yacht, blasting through screens, but not the propulsion system by the steering wheel. The thought is to keep Blue Topaz cruising to make it difficult for the vessels around us to board it, but disabling any antiaircraft or antiship defenses. Last thing we need is a damn SAM taking out our ride home.
I leave him to the deafening and blinding chaos he makes of the ship’s brain and step outside, breathing a lungful of fresh and salty air mixed with the wonderful stench of gunpowder. The SEALs have split up to cover the stern, starboard, and port sides of the helipad as Blue Topaz continues cruising at eighteen knots apparently on autopilot. Casey is on starboard duty. Two of his guys cover the port side, and one the stern.
Lowering my NVGs, I join Casey on starboard along with Mia while Murph scrambles to the port side.
The SEAL commander does a double take on me as I drop Sokolov’s hooded bulk by our feet.
“I hope he’s worth all of this!” he shouts, blasting away, before swapping magazines, tearing into an approaching speedboat as waves slap the hull, exploding in clouds of surf and mist.
I take aim at what was just lights in the dark a moment ago, now resolving into greenish boats—at least a dozen of them—packed with armed men, their small arms fire popping in the night like firecrackers.
I quickly work the numbers through my head, and they don’t add up.
We need to get the hell out of here.
Now.
Or risk getting overrun.
“Hook One, Sierra Echo One ready for exfil,” I speak into my throat mike.
“Roger, Echo One. ETA three mikes.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me!” I shout back while Casey shakes his head. “This thing will be over in half that time!”
“I knew that!” Casey shouts while blasting away. “Goddammit!”
He’s right, of course, but we’re also taught to improvise and overcome, which is what we’re doing as the men on the boats continue returning fire, their rounds striking the metal hull. But their smaller boats bounce too much in the waves, throwing their aim, giving us the upper hand. Plus, they’re made of fiberglass, which dissolves like butter from the energy of our repeated volleys.
Then, above the noise of the wind, the ocean and the reports from the surrounding enemy, the deafening racket of a fifty-caliber rifle rips through the night.
Casey, Mia, and I turn to see Cope opening the Barrett on the closest boat on our starboard side. It is an impressive display of semiautomatic violence as he fires three rounds in rapid sequence.
The boat explodes a moment later. Men jump into the ocean as he adjusts the heavy-caliber beast onto another target, a large cigar boat with three outboards and a dozen figures clearly visible on its large open bow. He achieves similar results in another few seconds, focusing his rounds on the outboard engines, which burst into flames. And once more he shifts targets, taking out a third threat in less than twenty seconds, impressing even me with his marksmanship.
But more boats replace them, a whole flotilla of them. We’re in cartel country, and we’ve just pissed in their pond. And Mia is now pointing toward the narrow catwalk running the length of this level between the panoramic windows of the large cockpit and the side railing.
Men are racing toward us, Uzis in hand, trying to flank us. I’m guessing that either a boat somehow managed to board the ship from the bow—the only angle we don’t have covered—or Casey missed some guards during his sweep.
Fortunately, the catwalk acts as a choke point, preventing more than two of them running side by side.
I take a knee with Mia, while Cope and Casey keep approaching boats at bay.
We fire in unison just as rounds buzz overhead. The lead two
men drop face first on the catwalk, their Uzis skittering away. But two more take their place, firing away.
We also put them down with well-placed shots to the midsection. Then Mia removes a fragmentation grenade from her utility vest, pulls the safety pin, counts to three, and tosses it at the next wave of guards leaping over the bodies of their fallen associates.
The two in front realize what’s coming and choose to jump overboard, but the other four behind them keep their momentum, disappearing a moment later in a blinding explosion that briefly shuts off my NVGs.
By the time we stand and rejoin Casey and Cope, there are twice as many boats approaching us.
“This isn’t going to work!” Mia shouts, reading my mind while emptying her magazine and reloading.
But we have no choice. We need to hold the line, even if it means running dangerously low on ammunition.
My MP7SD also goes dry, so I drop the spent magazine and insert a fresh one, before focusing my fire on two speed boats cruising up the side of the yacht from the stern.
I look over there to see why they got through the SEAL guarding the rear of the mega yacht, but the operator is down on the deck slapping a patch of Quick Clot on his bleeding shoulder.
I turn to check the port side and notice only one SEAL firing his weapon alongside Murph. The other is already running to cover the stern.
“Hook One! Need exfil now!”
“One minute out!” comes the reply just as I see its greenish shape over the railing from the stern. But the problem is that the bastards in all those boats surrounding us are going to shift their attention to the incoming helo.
We need to protect it.
“Hook One, approach from starboard!” I shout. “Only from starboard!”
“Roger. Starboard approach. Coming around. Thirty seconds.”
“Everyone on me!” I order. “Need full covering fire on starboard!”
Without waiting for a response, I set my MP7SD to full automatic fire and unload on the closest boat, forcing it to speed away. I glance at the sky. The Chinook, its massive twin blades biting the night air, makes a sweeping turn from stern to starboard.
By then Murph and the SEALs are on our side, including the wounded operator. He’s leaning on his buddy but still very much in business, holding his weapon and leveling it at the ocean beyond the railing.
“Covering fire!” I shout, and we blast away from starboard with mix caliber, cutting a trench for the Chinook, its double downwash swirling the water.
I lean down and pick up Sokolov, who’s still out of it.
The big Chinook swoops down toward us like a bird of prey, swiftly, smoothly, and deadly, reaching Blue Topaz while its side gunners blast away with their 50-caliber M2 Brownings. Those big guns, which fire the same round as Cope’s Barrett, but at the rate of seven hundred per minute, have a devastating effect on the boats within their range.
Then just as quickly, the Chinook pivots in place while lowering its rear platform, expertly setting it on the starboard railing while the Brownings hammer a pair of yachts, ripping through their fiberglass hulls, nearly slicing them in half.
“Take him!” I shout at the pair of helmeted crewmen appearing at the edge of the ramp.
I hoist Sokolov up, and they pull him and carry him to the front while the SEALs get their wounded man aboard before leaping onto the platform.
The fire intensifies outside as the gunners keep the boats at bay, assisted by Cope, and now me, firing at the threat.
We’re making one hell of a mess.
Boats are either on fire or sinking all around us, as the haze from thousands of stroboscopic discharges, including those deafening Brownings, form a dense gunpowder fog at this end of the mega yacht.
I help Murph get aboard next, before I push Mia up and then Cope and his heavy load.
“Time!” Murph shouts over the noise of the rotors, offering a hand, which I take and use it to swing onto the ramp, sitting on the edge while unloading my second-to-last magazine onto approaching speed boats.
Jesus. These characters are relentless.
The rear platform closes, and I run past two helmeted crewmen assisting the wounded SEAL and to the middle of the cabin, where I join one of the side gunners, as do the rest of the operators, raining a mixed-caliber hell to cover our egress.
Boats of all sizes are everywhere now, many on fire, the rest trying to navigate around the smoking and sinking wrecks while firing back.
The Chinook takes a number of hits, rounds hammering the armored underside as it soars through the haze, leaving the mess of our own creation behind and turning toward the dark northeastern skies.
“Take out the bridge!” I shout to the side gunner, who immediately swings the Browning toward the bridge and unloads a few dozen of rounds into it while we’re still in range.
The volley has the desired effect.
The bridge explodes in a column of flames licking the sky. But it also causes Blue Topaz to come to a stop.
Last thing I wanted was for that damn mega yacht to continue on autopilot and crash into some resort in Cancun.
So, we leave it floating in the turbulent waters, surrounded by its convoy of broken vessels.
Unbridled power indeed.
And just like that, the firing stops, the racket replaced by the twin rotors cutting through the night air.
Somewhere beyond the horizon a pair of U.S. Navy cutters head our way.
I look around at the still figures of Mia, Murph, and Cope standing by the side gunners, as is Case and two of his operators, their weapons still pointed at the dark ocean.
Ready.
Always ready.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
Life seldom turns out the way you expect.
The mission south of the border made me realize a number of things. First and foremost, that my special ops days were truly over. Working side by side with operators like John Casey was an eye opener, showing me just how far I had regressed in the eight months since the mountainside attack. And while some might still consider me a formidable warrior, I’m certainly no longer at the level of the teams.
Not anymore.
And neither is Murph or Cope.
Plus, there was Casey’s official report indicating just how damn slow we had been during the search and rescue phase on that yacht. The realization led Granite to discharge us from his special team, allowing us to return to our new lives.
But unlike Murph, whose return was greeted by the girl of his dreams, mine was not.
When I finally made it to Newport News a few days later, I learned from Ledet that Franky had declined Dix’s spot at Arlington National Cemetery and had taken his remains home to Pemberton Township, New Jersey.
He also handed me a letter, basically a very nice Dear John, explaining how she could not live here anymore, how she respected my choices, asked that I respected hers, and finally wishing me well.
Basically, the same thing Kate told me.
My first instinct had been to drop everything and go after her. After all, I had made a promise to Dix. But then again, I also wanted to respect her wishes. Irrespective of whatever feelings she had for me, I had no business trying to win her back, especially since I was the one who made the choice to go on that op.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t crushed.
Still am.
Life seldom turns the way you expect, indeed.
I once met an old Vietnam-era SEAL, probably like ten years ago, shortly after I had made the transition from SEAL Team Two to the elite SEAL Team Six. I caught sight of the old veteran hanging out on a bench in Virginia Beach wearing a vintage Navy SEAL cap. It was during the middle of one of my beach runs, and I decided to stop and say hi. He was appreciative of my gesture to give an old man a little attention and also let him reminisce a
bout “the good old days.” But during our conversation, he told me something I will never forget:
You can get the man out of the SEALs, but you can never get the SEAL out of the man.
Once a SEAL, you’re always a SEAL, just like in the Marines, even if you can no longer handle the physical requirements of the teams. In your mind, you will always think like a frogman. And part of that mentality is overcoming adversity. Combat swimmers do not just survive, they thrive, in any scenario.
And that’s what I chose to do in the wake of losing Franky for the second time in my life: find a way to move on and eventually also thrive.
So, I’ve settled into a routine. I spend my days working with Mia at the NCIS office in Norfolk and weekends hanging out with my friends, which include Murph, Case, and a few other frogmen. Plus, Cope, the new sniper of the Norfolk PD SWAT.
I’ve also transitioned from CQB trainer to a full-fledged NCIS agent, having just returned from a six-week training course at Quantico, which I crushed.
So tonight, we’re celebrating my newly-acquired crime-scene investigative skills at no other place than the damn Star Bar.
Murph, Adanna, Mia, Ledet, and also Rossi and Beatriz—both of whom fully recovered from their wounds—sit around me. Even Cope decided to join us, though in classic Cope fashion, he sits at one end of the table and has not said a word all night.
Ledet makes a toast to my final scores, especially the shooting phase. I not only beat every NCIS agent candidate, but also those candidates from the FBI and the DEA who take the same qualification course.
But then Ledet reminds me of the NCIS tradition of having the new graduate buy the last round of drinks.
So, I make my way across the large club, past the packed dance floor where I once danced with Franky, and finally reach the long bar, where I wedge myself between uniformed patrons drinking heavily while watching the movie-star impersonators do their juggling act.
It takes me a little while, but I finally manage to flag down the bartender, a pretty brunette that I think is supposed to resemble Natalie Portman, or maybe Keira Knightley. I’m not quite sure. But all I can think of is the night I met Franky what seems like a lifetime ago.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 33