Dead Six (41 page)

Project Heartbreaker was falling apart around us. I didn’t know how Gordon and his people would handle doing damage control and cleanup. There was the possibility that it might involve Mr. Anders just murdering us. One way or the other, I really didn’t want to wait around to find out.

Despite all this, the missions didn’t stop coming, and they seemed to get more and more ridiculous as time went on. Our casualties had been severe. We were losing guys left and right, and yet they kept asking more and more of us.

We had just gotten briefed by Gordon on our next operation. Our chalk, plus Cromwell, Holbrook, Animal, and another new replacement named Fillmore, were all present. Our assignment was, to be blunt,
fucking ridiculous.

Seems there was this Spanish billionaire-aristocrat-industrialist named Rafael Miguel Felipe Montalban who was the head of the Montalban Exchange, one of the largest and wealthiest corporations in the world. According to Gordon, this guy was using his money to fund General Al Sabah in Zubara and had his hands in other things as well. Conveniently, he was sailing up the Persian Gulf on his insanely luxurious yacht, the
Santa Maria.

No problem, right? We’ll just blow up the yacht, take this guy out, and be home before beer-thirty. But no, Gordon says, that won’t work. Instead we were to be inserted onto the yacht via helicopter, storm the ship, and capture Rafael Montalban alive. We were then to retrieve him and his personal laptop computer and bring them back to base.

Basically, Gordon was asking us to risk our lives to capture a guy when it was completely unnecessary. They were tracking Montalban’s yacht by satellite. They had an armed UAV ready to drop a pair of guided bombs onto it at a moment’s notice. If they wanted this guy out of the picture, all they had to do was say the word and he’d be on the bottom of the Gulf.

Except Gordon wanted him
alive.
He wouldn’t even explain why. Eight of us were going to board two of Gordon’s stealth helicopters, fly out over the ocean, and board Montalban’s yacht in force. Just like last time, he was only sending in eight guys when dozens would be preferable. He assured us that Montalban’s security detail, though highly trained, would be caught completely off guard and that we’d have the initiative the entire time.

I thought Tailor was going to blow a gasket. Holbrook and Cromwell didn’t really get vocal until Gordon explained that Anders was coming along to provide support. Gordon probably very nearly avoided getting
decked.

I explained that I’d never been trained on rappelling from a helicopter, much less onto the back of a moving ship at night. Gordon said rappelling wouldn’t be necessary. The yacht was big enough that it had not one but two helipads, one on top and one on the stern.

We’d been given a lot of information on the
Santa Maria.
Photos taken from the UAV stalking it. Plans from the builder, reports on Montalban’s security people. The plan was simple enough. Chalk 1 would touch down on the helipad at the top of the ship’s superstructure. They would then proceed in and take control of the bridge. Chalk 2 would land at the stern, enter the ship, disable the engines, then begin hunting for Rafael Montalban. Once we captured him, the choppers would pick us up. We’d fly off, and the UAV would prang the
Santa Maria
, sending it to the bottom and killing everyone still alive on board.

The two helicopters would orbit the area for as long as fuel permitted. One would have a machine gun to provide fire support. Anders would be riding in the other, armed with a sniper rifle, to pick off targets of opportunity on the deck. Anders was going to be riding in Holbrook and Cromwell’s chopper. I imagined what a fun ride
that
was going to be.

Chapter 16:
Surface Tension

VALENTINE

Somewhere over the Persian Gulf

May 9

0155

Dark water flashed below us as the strange black helicopter skimmed the deck at speed. Inside, we were bathed in red light as we made final checks on our equipment and communications.

Tailor, Byrne, Hudson, and I huddled together, going over the plan one last time. Just inside the starboard-side door sat a crewman manning a machine gun. The stealth helicopter flew with its doors closed to maintain its small radar cross-section. When the door opened, the entire gun mount swung out, allowing the chopper to lay down suppressive fire.

“We have the target on FLIR,” the copilot said. “Stand by. Touchdown in three minutes.”

“Going dark,” the pilot said, and the internal red lights switched off. My active hearing protection minimized the noise of the chopper, but I could hear the pounding of my heart. It was that last-minute adrenaline spike that you get right before showtime. With the onset of that adrenaline, my pulse slowed and my thoughts coalesced as
the Calm
washed over me. Tailor reached over and slapped me on the shoulder.

“Thirty seconds!” My grip on the cut-down Benelli M4 shotgun tightened. The side doors quietly slid open, and the chopper was filled with the roar of rushing air. The door gunner slid his weapon mount into position. Below us, I could clearly see the
Santa Maria,
well-lit and steadily cruising though calm seas.

My stomach felt the sudden drop as our helicopter rapidly descended upon the
Santa Maria
’s aft helipad. The yacht rushed up toward us, and with a heavy
thud
we were on the deck.

Tailor was out the door first, his carbine up and ready. I was right behind him. Following me was Hudson with the SAW, and then Byrne with another carbine. As soon as we were clear, the chopper dusted off. The door gunner opened up as the chopper ascended, raking the foredeck with a stream of tracer fire. We moved together in a tight line, rushing for the superstructure, trying to cover as many angles as possible. Shouting could be heard. An alarm sounded.

The aft superstructure served as a hangar for a small helicopter. We kicked in a personnel door and entered as our second chopper landed above us. The ship’s interior lights were on. A door at the opposite end of the hangar opened as we passed by the
Santa Maria
’s helicopter. Two men in suits, armed with MP7 submachine guns, burst into the room. They hesitated for a brief moment when they saw us. We’d caught them completely off guard. Tailor cut down one while I put a magnum buckshot load through the other. Both men were dead before they hit the floor.

“Clear!” Tailor said.

“Clear! Reloading!” I repeated, thumbing another shell into my shotgun.

“Clear!” Hudson and Byrne repeated.

“Alpha Team, this is Bravo Team,” Tailor said. “We’re in the hangar. What’s your status?”

“
Bravo Team, Alpha
,” Holbrook replied. “
We’re crossing the sundeck, heading for the bridge. We—shit!
” A long burst of automatic weapons fire rattled over the radio. “
Encountering stiff resistance.
”

“Roger that.” Tailor looked back at us. “Engine room. Let’s go!” We followed Tailor into the bowels of the
Santa Maria,
encountering terrified crewmembers as we went. The engine room was on the lowest deck, in the aft of the yacht.

We cleared a tight, spiraling staircase and immediately came under fire from down the passageway. Tailor jumped back in the stairwell, stumbling backwards and crashing into me.

“Shit,” he snarled. “That was close.”

“What?” I asked.

“I think they’ve got guys at both ends of the passageway. The hatch to the engine room is sealed.”

“Frag?” I asked, mind racing.

“Frag,” Tailor concurred. We each pulled a hand grenade from our vests. Squeezing side by side, we moved as close to the doorway at the bottom of the stairwell as we could and pulled the pins. At the same time, we reached around the doorway and threw our grenades. Mine went aft, Tailor’s went forward. They went bouncing down the passageway. We withdrew into the stairwell and crouched down. Men were shouting in the corridor. The
Santa Maria
was rocked by two deafening blasts a second later as the grenades detonated.

“Move, move, move!” Tailor shouted. We spilled into the passageway as rapidly as we could, weapons leading us around the corners. Tailor angled to the left, while I angled to the right. The two men that had been guarding the hatch to the engine room were dead.

I dove to the deck as a burst of automatic weapons fire roared behind me. Bullets zipped over my head and pocked the hatch to the engine room. Tailor fired off several short bursts in response. I rolled over onto my back, leveling my shotgun down the passageway just in time to see Hudson crouch in front of me, SAW shouldered. He ripped off a long burst while Tailor reloaded.

“Byrne!” Tailor shouted. “We’ll hold ‘em off. Get that fucking hatch open!”

“Moving!” Byrne replied. He was carrying on his back a compact Broco cutting torch. The three of us provided him with covering fire as he set his equipment up. Without hesitating, he pulled welder’s goggles down over his eyes and ignited the torch.

Byrne first cut a small hole in the hatch and punched out the circular piece of hot metal in the center. I warned my teammates and tossed in another grenade. The blast slammed the narrow corridor. Byrne fired the torch up again and resumed cutting.

Minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace as our teammate cut his way through the watertight hatch. We were vulnerable in the narrow passageway, and the ship’s security complement knew right where we were.

“I’m through!” Byrne shouted as he extinguished the torch. Tailor and Hudson covered forward while Byrne and I went aft to clear the engine room. A couple of full-force kicks and the cut-through hatch slammed to the deck in a deafening clatter. The engine room was dark and filled with smoke from my grenade. We switched on our weapon lights, sending bright columns of light piercing into the hazy darkness.

A crewmember was lying on the floor by the hatch with blood leaking out of his ears. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or dead.

“Damn,” Byrne said, looking down. “Do you—”
BRRRRRRRP!
One of Rafael Montalban’s security men appeared from behind a fixture. His MP7 was extended in one hand, like a pistol, while he covered his bleeding ear with the other.

Snapping the shotgun up, I fired. Two loads of buckshot tore into the bodyguard in a splash of blood. As he hit the deck, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I swung my weapon around, firing twice again, dropping another crewmember that was running toward me. I quickly scanned the engine room for any more threats. Then I noticed Byrne lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his right eye wide open. What was left of his left eye was hidden under a puddle of blood. A bullet had punched right through his safety glasses and into his head.

Enveloped in
the Calm,
I didn’t feel anything as I looked down at his lifeless body. No, that would come later.

“Clear!” I shouted. “Man down!” Tailor and Hudson came in a second later. I was crouched by Byrne’s body, thumbing more shells into my shotgun.

“Goddamn it!” Hudson cursed, punching the wall so hard I thought he’d break his hand. He looked down at me. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking the torch,” I said. “We might need it again.”

Tailor quietly swore to himself. He then squeezed his throat mic. “Alpha Team, this is Bravo, engine room secured, what’s your status?”

“
This is Alpha!
” Holbrook replied, sounding shaken up. “
We’ve got the bridge secured. Commo equipment is trashed. They’re trying to retake it, but we’ll hold ‘em off. Animal is down, KIA
.”

“Roger that,” Tailor said flatly. “We’re down one, too. Disabling the engine now. We’re then going after the target.”

“Good luck,” Holbrook said, and the radio went silent.

Our first objective was complete. The
Santa Maria
was dead in the water. The engine was disabled, the radio was smashed, and the bridge was controlled by Holbrook’s chalk. It was now up to the three of us to find Rafael Montalban and capture him.

The two choppers circling were watching for lifeboats or swimmers. No one had left the yacht. Rafael Montalban was on board somewhere. Tailor figured that he’d be holed up in the security office. It was at the end of a passageway on one of the lower decks, and was defensible. If we didn’t find him there, we were going to head to his stateroom next. If he wasn’t there either it was going to be a room-by-room, deck-by-deck search until we found the son of a bitch.

We encountered almost no resistance as we crossed the yacht. Sporadic gunfire could be heard coming from above us. Holbrook reported that Montalban’s security force made their attempt to retake the bridge, and failed. We expected the remainder of the security contingent to be protecting the man himself.

We were right. We came under fire as soon as we set foot in the passageway that led to the security office. Instead of a few disorganized guys in suits with machine pistols, we were now encountering guards in body armor, armed with G36C carbines and Benelli shotguns. To make matters worse, we were outnumbered.

But
they
were out
gunned
. The
Santa Maria
shuddered with another concussion after Tailor sent a grenade rolling down the passageway. As soon as it detonated, Hudson leaned around the corner and laid down suppressive fire. Tailor and I quickly advanced up the corridor. There were several compartments on either side of the passageway, with a few of Montalban’s remaining bodyguards using the doorways as cover. We were sitting ducks as we moved down the hall. We had to use overwhelming firepower to keep their heads down.

My shotgun wouldn’t penetrate their vests, but a shotgun with a holographic sight on top of it makes for comparatively easy head shots. We brutally cut down the rest of Montalban’s security force in that passageway. When the shooting stopped, six men lay dead on the deck in a mix of spent brass and spilled blood. The air stunk of smoke and burnt powder. Only the three of us remained standing.

I used the brief lull to pull more shells from the bandolier across my chest and thumb them into my shotgun. The weapon was hot to the touch. My cheek was sore from the pounding the stock gave it. Even an autoloader could be rough with three-inch Magnum buckshot.