Primary Threat. Джек Марс
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here were huge, crashing over the bow. He rammed the boat through chunks of ice, making vicious ripping sounds every time he did. The wind screamed in his ears.
He was in the cockpit, behind an armored wall. A smoke grenade launcher and a big .50 caliber chain gun were mounted up in the bow, ten feet in front of him. The chain gun would rip an armored vehicle to shreds, but he had no idea if it was going to work—it was freezing out here, and salty, frozen water was spraying all over the place. Moreover, this was not a one-man boat—he’d have to ditch the cockpit to get to the gun.
The boat’s running lights were off, and he raced through absolute darkness. He wore night-vision goggles, but the green world they showed gave him nothing. Monster waves, icy black water, and white foam against black sky. He was running blind into the fury of the storm.
He slid down the face of a swell, the boat crashing into the water at the bottom as if he was on a log flume ride. Boats sometimes came down steep swells and dove straight underwater, never seen again. He knew that. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Swann!” he screamed into the darkness. “Where am I?”
This thing was outfitted with radar, depth sounder, GPS, VHF tactical radio, and a host of other sensors and processing systems, but Murphy could barely steer the boat, never mind make sense of all the data coming in. Swann was supposedly tracking him and his relationship to the oil rig.
A voice crackled in his headset.
“Swann!”
“Go north!” he heard the voice shout. “North by northeast. You’re being pushed to the south.”
Murphy checked the compass. He could barely see it. He turned the boat’s wheel to the left a bit, aligning himself more to the north. He had no idea where he was going. Something could loom up right in front of him, he could crash into it, and never see it.
He had no plan. No one knew he was coming, not even his own guys. Swann and Trudy were the only ones who knew he had taken this boat. They were the only ones who knew he had quickly shrugged into body armor, and loaded the boat with weapons and ammo. They were the only ones who knew where he was at all. He didn’t even know where he was.
And he almost didn’t care.
He didn’t care whose side he was on.
He was empty, hollowed out.
He was the Dexedrine speaking, and the adrenaline.
There were terrorists out there, bad guys, and he was the good guy. He was the cowboy and they were the Indians. He was the cop, and they were the robbers. They were the FBI, and he was John Dillinger. They were Batman and he was the Joker. He was Superman and they were… whoever.
It didn’t matter who was who and what was what.
They were the other team, and he was going to ram this boat right down their throats. If he lived, he lived. If he died, he died. This is how he had always gone into combat, and he had always come out the other side. Total confidence.
He didn’t care about life very much, his or anyone else’s.
He was dead inside.
This. These moments. This was when he was alive.
“East!” Swann shouted. “Straight east!”
Murphy gently steered to the right.
“How far?” he shouted.
“One minute!”
A strange shiver ran through Murphy. He was freezing. Hell, he was practically frozen solid. Even in coveralls, a big parka, thick gloves, a hat, and his face covered, he was frozen. His clothes were drenched. He was shivering, maybe from the cold, maybe from the newest surge of adrenaline.
This was the game. This was it.
Right here. It was coming.
He gave the boat even more throttle. He peered into the gloom. The storm surged around him. He steadied his legs and gripped the wheel as the boat got knocked from side to side.
Now, he could just see some lights out there. And he could hear something.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
It was shooting.
“Slow down!” Swann screamed. “You’re about to hit land!”
In front of Murphy, bright lights suddenly appeared.
He was moving fast. Too fast. Swann was right. The shoreline was RIGHT THERE.
But the boat was designed for beach landings.
There was no way to stop anyway. Murphy gave the throttle everything and braced for impact.
A dead man floated in the water above Luke’s head.
Luke stared at the man. He was a Navy SEAL in full gear, shot as he tried to climb out of the water. He drifted this way and that, turning over like seaweed in the surging currents. His arms and legs waved randomly, like overcooked spaghetti.
He sank toward Luke.
Blood drifted out from multiple holes in the man’s body and stained the water near him red. Luke knew the bleeding wouldn’t last long—now that the man’s dry suit was cut open and he was exposed to the cold, he was going to freeze very quickly.
Blinding white light shone down from above. A moment ago, land-based klieg lights had come on, illuminating the water. The SEALs were exposed, and it didn’t look like anyone had made it up out of the water yet.
Forget about getting the dry suits off. Forget about getting the weapons out of their weather-proof bags. Forget about getting oriented and taking the initiative. Forget about a surprise attack.
The enemy wasn’t surprised at all. They were positioned up there, firing down into the water.
They knew the SEALs were coming. They had anticipated an underwater assault. The image flashed through Luke’s mind again—that robot, with an embedded camera, glowing green in the dark water.
It was an ambush. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Luke, twenty meters below the surface, saw bullets penetrate the icy water above his head, then lose momentum as they approached.
Inside Luke’s headset, someone shrieked.
Ed was still beside him. He pushed Ed hard. Ed turned to look, and Luke pointed backwards and down. Deeper. They needed to retreat and go deeper. In a moment, those guys up top were going to notice the bullets weren’t reaching their targets, and they were going to start firing heavier, more powerful guns.
“Abort!” someone else shouted in Luke’s helmet. It was the first time a message came through clearly. “Abort!”
The boat slid up onto the island and across the icy ground.
The deceleration was instant. The sound of metal scraping rock was awful. Murphy was thrown like a rag doll. He flew over the control console and out of the cockpit. His legs caught on the console and flipped him upside down.
He went head over heels and landed on his back in the bow of the boat. His head banged off the aluminum flooring. BONG. His ears started ringing instantly. Tubular bells. His night-vision goggles were gone.
He gasped for air. The impact had knocked the wind out of him.
No time for that.
He groaned, pushed himself up and lurched like Frankenstein for the chain gun.
He stood, taking in a view of the battlefield.
At least twenty men were across from him, dressed in dark clothes and wearing black headgear and masks against the cold. Giant spotlights were shining down from ten-foot-high mounts. The men in black stood and kneeled in the freezing rain, firing guns into the water—the water where the Navy SEALs probably were.
That’s what the big spotlights were for—to give them targets in the water. The lights probably also served to blind the swimmers and deny them targets, if any of them could even get their guns out.
The