Thunder Run (Maelstrom Rising Book 6)

by Peter Nealen

  I traded glances with Hartrick, who just looked as sardonically, cynically amused as ever. Hartrick probably thought it was a bad idea, would make his opinion of the stupidity of the whole thing more than obvious, but we’d all put in the work, hoping that we could accomplish the mission without getting killed in the process.

  “Like it or not,” Gutierrez continued, looking from one Grex Luporum team leader to the next, “we are the main effort.”

  Chapter 21

  I rubbed my temple with two fingers as I stared at the sand table. My headache was getting worse, and from the looks around the table, I wasn’t the only one having that problem.

  “This all depends on the local security forces being unable to respond before we have the building secured and a perimeter put out.” I pointed to the model of the glass-and-steel monstrosity that was the Council building. “Which depends on sixty of us clearing that place, securing the targets and the entrances, within less than an hour.”

  The MEU wouldn’t be able to get the heavy ground forces—as heavy as they could be, since the Marine Corps had decided some time ago to ditch tanks, so there was no heavy armor coming—in via air. Right now, the plan was for the Triarii, NSW, GROM, and Recon force to insert directly onto the target by air, take it, and hold it until the MEU’s Ground Combat Element could advance from the shore near Zeebrugge.

  It looked more than a little overly optimistic from where I was sitting. Brussels lies a hundred five kilometers from the coast, as the crow flies. If the crow walks, it’s a little bit farther. The plan called for a straight thunder run from Zeebrugge to Bruges, past Ghent, to Brussels. They should be there within six hours.

  Six hours is an eternity in a defensive action, especially when the most important people in Europe are screaming for help. And getting an entire MEU’s GCE ashore and a hundred klicks inland, after all hell has already broken loose, is not a minor exercise.

  And while I might be the one voicing the concerns, I could tell I wasn’t the only one thinking about them.

  Tucker and Burkhart, quite obviously, were on the same page. Tucker’s lean, angular face had been set in a scowl since we’d started planning. Bobby just looked worried. He was a bit more baby-faced than either Shane or I, which could be a little deceptive.

  Major Gomułka, the GROM B Squadron commander, was stony-faced as Arkadiusz translated what I’d said. Gomułka spoke some English, but not a lot, and he’d welcomed Arkadiusz’ offer to act as a terp and liaison. I was getting the distinct impression that the wiry officer with the pointed features and faint epicanthic fold around his eyes intended to go right in along with his teams. Which I could certainly respect.

  Lieutenants Bealer and Ohlberg, the SEAL platoon commanders, looked every bit as pensive as the rest of us. Both men had clearly seen some action. But their team chiefs, standing behind them, looked positively thunderous.

  I’d never had a very high opinion of SEALs. As a Marine, I think that was kind of bred into us. They had a reputation for glory-hounding and having a far higher opinion of their capabilities than was justified by their performance. A number of high-profile bloodbaths going back to the early ‘00s, created by bad planning and worse decision making, didn’t help their rep among professional shooters. Persistent rumors of a certain lack of target discrimination on some teams didn’t help anything, either.

  These guys seemed professional enough. I knew that there had been some efforts made to clean house in the NSW world. But time—and the stark reality of combat on the ground—would tell.

  The Marines were kind of keeping to themselves, but the two platoon sergeants looked like they weren’t happy to be sharing this op with anyone, much less the SEALs. Their respective platoon commanders were trying to contribute, but I could tell that the Gunnies were about ready to shove them aside and take over. But even they were scowling at the sand table.

  Because the fact of the matter was, the plan as it stood was a long shot.

  “We’ll have air support off the Dwight D. Eisenhower.” Lieutenant Bealer was pointing to the surrounding area. “If we coordinate things well enough, they should be able to keep any heavy forces off of us.”

  “That doesn’t solve the problem of securing the building, though.” Tucker had his arms folded as he glowered at the sand table. He pointed to the hasty, 3D-printed model of the Council building, where it overshadowed the Belgian national cathedral. “By the time we’ve swept every floor—even assuming minimal to no resistance, which I’m not banking on—the bad guys will have plenty of time to squirt out the exits. Unless we land outside and clear from ground to roof, which is going to be a bitch in its own right.”

  “And that’s assuming that there are no underground escape tunnels.” I got a couple of pained glances at that, but it was a factor that had to be taken into consideration. Every government building in DC had tunnels leading to secure areas. If we assumed there weren’t any, we could very well be turning a blind eye to an escape route that would leave us holding a worthless building while our targets slipped away.

  Without the Council itself, this would be a pointless exercise. If they relocated before we could secure them, then even if the plan to replace them was shelved, we’d have to hunt them all down, one at a time. There’d be no way they’d meet all in one place again after a raid like this.

  I might not particularly believe that this was the right way to go, but the mission was the mission. Without the Council, we’d be fighting for a useless bit of real estate, and we’d probably get overrun and captured or killed in short order.

  “We’ve got three infantry sections.” Bradshaw and the other Triarii infantry leaders had held their peace since this had started, but while they got some odd looks from the SEALs and the Marine officers, all three of us Grex Luporum team leads turned to listen. We might have had more training in certain things, but I knew I owed Bradshaw my life more than a few times over. The Triarii infantry were our partners, not our inferiors or errand boys.

  He pointed to the six known entrances. “We can break up by squads, land on the grounds outside the building while you guys land on the roof. We’ll throw a cordon around the building on the ground level, securing the entrances in the first few minutes, while you start to clear from the top down. We’ve got machineguns and we can bring Claymores.” He tilted his head as he studied the terrain. “I bet we can have that place locked down in ten minutes flat, if not less, provided the birds can put us down close enough.” He pointed. “We’d have to split the insert. Here, here, and… here. That could get us close enough to the entrances to get in and cordon them off fast.”

  “You’ll be exposed as fuck out there, man.” Burkhart gestured to the open parkland around the building. “And if they try to force their way out?”

  “We’ll bring e-tools.” Bradshaw grinned like a death’s head. “We can be dug in in five minutes. They’ll be Ranger graves, but better than nothing. And we can use these concrete security barriers, too.” He pointed to a couple other spots. “We’ll have the Mk 48s covering these avenues, with rifles on the doors. We can seal the doors off while staying out of the fatal funnel, so they’d have to come out into the open to engage us.”

  “And if they bring in heavy weapons?” Tucker didn’t sound convinced. “What happens when they pull a couple of Jaguars up? Ranger graves ain’t gonna help much if they open up with a 40mm.”

  Bradshaw traded glances with Foret, one of the other infantry section leaders, and shrugged. “We’ll beg, borrow, or steal some AT-4s or Carl Gustavs from the Marines.” He glanced at the Recon guys. “Can you boys spare a few?”

  Captain Piett looked borderline horrified at the idea of handing over Marine Corps munitions to glorified contractors, but Gunny Ortiz’s eyes crinkled with what was almost a smile. “I think we can work something out.” From my own days as a Marine grunt, I could sort of imagine what would happen. The Recon teams would draw extra launchers and munitions, just in case, and then hand them off—or su
rreptitiously and “accidentally” leave them in the birds that the Triarii infantry sections would take in on insert. There would have to be some last-minute shuffling and the appearance of confusion to make it work, but there are ways.

  Eyes turned back to the weirdly-shaped inverted pyramid of the EDC building, that appeared to have been built specifically to stand one story taller than the nearby cathedral. “That still doesn’t take away the fact that we’ve got to sweep twenty-eight stories worth of building with less than a company-sized element, and keep control of however many hundred people are going to be inside during a Council session.” Ortiz hadn’t weighed in that much so far, but he had a good point.

  “Do we really need to keep all the civvies under control?” Burkhart was leaning back and looking thoughtful, tapping one finger against his lips. “I mean, the Council is the target, right? We really don’t need to hold onto all those aides and flunkies and reporters and janitors. Especially if we consider the possibility that security might have those groups infiltrated.” He shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “Why not get in fast, grab the Councilors and their security details, and force everybody else out?”

  “Aside from the possibility that they could be an intel bonanza for any rescue forces coming to free the Council?” That was MacKidd, one of the SEAL chiefs.

  Burkhart spread his hands. “Something’s got to give, somewhere. There are only so many of us, and I’m not all that keen on the idea of booby trapping the whole building and threatening to bring it down like we’re a bunch of actual terrorists, even if we could bring enough charges that big in by air.”

  That drew a few thoughtful looks from the Navy and the Marine personnel alike. The Poles ignored it, though Gomułka might have snorted in some amusement. From a few of the stories I’d heard about GROM, that option might not have been entirely off the table for them, if push came to shove.

  A couple of old SOF guys I’d gotten to know in the Grex Luporum teams had characterized GROM as, “Competent, dangerous, and shady as hell.”

  “Burkhart’s got a good point. If the Council is the target, then we shouldn’t overreach ourselves and try to control the whole building with only five platoons and three understrength GL teams.” I scratched my beard, and lifted off the top of the model, revealing the cutaway that had been built to resemble what we were facing inside. I say “resemble” because all our information on the interior layout was at a minimum two years old.

  “The Council chamber is supposed to be here.” The open space about two stories up from the main entrance was vaulted a good five stories high, and it formed a void that took up a good part of the center of the building. “If we land on the roof and shoot down the closest stairwells, get into the chamber, secure the Council, and then push back up, we can hold them somewhat securely in the offices near the roof, which means that any relief force from inside would have to fight their way up to us.” I scowled, as the obvious problem presented itself. “We’ll have to leave a team on the roof to hold it in case they send heliborne troops.” I glanced up at Gomułka. “Can your boys bring some Pioruns?” The PPZR Piorun was a 72mm MANPAD.

  Gomułka nodded when Arkadiusz translated. “Easily. We will put one team on the roof with the missiles, and the others will help conduct the clear.”

  “We shouldn’t have to hold for too long.” Captain Piett was the junior Recon platoon commander. The MEU had two Recon platoons aboard—one was Battalion Recon, the other Force. By the old model—which I’d only learned from Hartrick after joining the Grex Luporum teams—Battalion was responsible for the area ten klicks in from the FEBA—Forward Edge of Battle Area—while Force had everything from that ten-klick line and deeper. In this case, that didn’t matter so much. They were all Recon Marines, and they were going to be on the same op, because we needed hardass shooters more than we needed to worry about whose AOR was whose.

  “Never underestimate Murphy’s eagerness to stick his oar in, sir, especially on something like this.” Gunny Ortiz was the Force platoon sergeant, but Gunny Berzinji, Piett’s platoon sergeant, was nodding along. “We are going to be over a hundred klicks deep, and there’s a lot that can go wrong on our end, never mind on the GCE’s end.” He grimaced. “We need to be prepared to hold out by ourselves for at least forty-eight hours.”

  I gave the Gunny a nod. We had been thinking the same thing. Though seventy-two was probably more likely, and that was presuming that everything went right on insert and the initial attack. The rucks were going to be heavy going into this.

  The rucks were going to be another thing. We’d probably have to leave them on the roof with the GROM guys while we penetrated the building. Fighting in close quarters is bad enough—trying to do it with a 72-hour ruck full of ammo, explosives, water, chow, and batteries would be a nightmare.

  “I think that your idea is probably the right one, Matt.” Lieutenant Bealer was studying the model closely. “You’re right, the target’s just too big and the numbers involved too out of proportion to expect to be able to completely control the whole place without overextending ourselves.” He looked up and around the sandtable. “For ease of coordination, I’d suggest that each service takes a particular section. SEALs here, Marines here…” He started to point to the main stairwells that we knew about.

  I nodded as I followed along. We had a lot of planning still to do, but it was starting to come together.

  Even so, I couldn’t escape the nagging voice in the back of my mind.

  A plan is just a list of shit that ain’t gonna happen.

  ***

  We were in isolation. It’s standard for a special operations unit preparing for a mission, and this was a particularly critical one. So, there was no going out in town anymore, not until after the mission was over.

  And that could be a long time, depending on how this played out. It was vaguely possible—not probable, in my estimation, but possible—that our doom and gloom was misplaced, and that somehow decapitating the EDC really would bring the war to an end, at least this part of it. That maybe the European Defense Corps would stand down, the German, French, and Spanish governments would come to the table, the new Council would settle things down and make a peace agreement with the US and the Poles, and we could get back to worrying about the postapocalyptic hellscape that the US had become, along with the hot civil war that had been going on in the shadows for something close to a decade or more, while trying to support the Poles as the Russians kept pushing.

  I doubted it, like I said. But it was possible.

  I still probably wouldn’t get back to Gdansk anytime soon. Headquarters would more than likely move west for a while, until things were stable enough that we could relocate back to Poland to help them against the Russian threat. We’d probably have a lot to do in the meantime.

  Fortunately, though, Gutierrez had given us enough warning that I’d gotten out to see Klara before the brief and the subsequent isolation. I’d known it was coming. And it was probably going to be the last chance I’d get to see her before all hell broke loose.

  Maybe the last chance I’d get to see her at all.

  I sat on my cot and held the little antique brooch she’d given me. I could still see the tears in her eyes as she’d pressed it into my hand, the only thing at hand she’d had to give me.

  My ring had already been glittering on her finger.

  It had been a hell of a step. I’d hesitated, big time, even though I’d already had the ring on me. I’d questioned whether it was really fair in the first place, when I didn’t know where I was going or for how long, never mind if I even survived it. Hartrick had made no bones about the fact that he thought I was an idiot for even thinking about it. Jordan, too. Greg, naturally, had been the most supportive.

  But I’d had to do it. It might have been the last chance I’d get. I might be dead in a matter of days. I might be dead that night in another cruise missile strike.

  So, I’d asked her if she’d wait for me, and marry me whenever I
managed to get back to her.

  And she’d teared up and said yes.

  I put the brooch back in my pocket. There hadn’t been time to get some fancy chain or pouch for it. I’d just have to be careful, to make sure that I still had it when I got back. I knew that she’d understand if I didn’t—she’d said as much—but I still wanted to keep tabs on it.

  It was the only thing of hers that I had. And it was going to be the one reminder of her that I’d have going forward for a while.

  I knew that I had to compartmentalize her away for the next few days to weeks. Had to act like she wasn’t waiting for me, had to act like I’d forgotten her altogether. Combat requires total focus, and woolgathering about loved ones just gets men killed. I might have a quiet moment to think about her from time to time, but I’d have to keep it to those times when I could afford to let my mind stray from the necessities of combat.

  Especially since we were going into the special operations raid from hell.

  But I’d had to do it. And when we talked later, even Hartrick had admitted that I was right. The alternative would have been to leave unfinished business behind, with all the accompanying doubt, persistent wondering thoughts about whether or not she would have said yes, and regrets that I hadn’t done it when it looked like I was going to die.

  “I still think you’re an idiot.” He’d stared at me with that judging scowl of his. “But there are two kinds of men who have something to lose. Those who hang back because they’re scared of losing it, and put all their brothers at risk in the process, and those who fight all the harder to get back to their loved ones in one piece.”

  I’d looked up at him with a cocked eyebrow of my own. “And which one am I?”

  He’d snorted. “You don’t need me to tell you that. But if you’d been one of the first group, you’d never have gotten a team.” He’d stood up. “Come on. Brief’s about to start.”

  I put the brooch back in my pocket, glad that it didn’t have many points on it, and lay back on my cot. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy.