The Nazi's Engineer

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Two men rounded the corner as he feared, and he pumped two rounds into each of their chests before they could get a warning out. He rounded the corner, finding it all clear, as Niner swung over the rail. Dawson grabbed the first body and tossed it over the side as Niner advanced to cover him. He passed Dawson as the second body was flipped over the rail.

  “Zero-One, Zero-Two. You’ve got two more coming around the starboard side, over.”

  “Copy that.”

  Dawson and Niner advanced, weapons raised, hidden in the dark of an overcast sky. The two men were talking loudly in Arabic, a bit of a surprise, their intel indicating that the thieves spoke English with a Russian accent. He allowed them to round the corner so they wouldn’t be seen by anyone farther down the deck when they dropped, then fired two more rounds, Niner immediately following.

  Four down.

  “On your six,” rumbled Atlas from behind him. Dawson didn’t bother checking as he continued forward with Niner, Atlas and Jimmy now dealing with the bodies behind them, Spock leaving with the boat to get the rest of the team.

  The plan was simple. Thin out the enemy as much as possible before they even knew they were there, then take the rest of the ship by force if necessary, securing Professor Palmer, then the cargo.

  A machine gun opened up above them, changing the plan.

  Spock ducked as the rear of the boat was shredded. He dove over the side and hit the water as what sounded like an AK47 continued to fire.

  Any time now, guys.

  The firing stopped as if in answer to his prayers, and he resurfaced, cursing at the sinking boat.

  “Zero-Five, Zero-One. Status, over?”

  Spock stared at the last vestiges of their boat sinking below the surface. “I’m peachy, but the boat is gone. I’m going to need retrieval, and you’re going to need to secure a landing zone, over.”

  “Understood,” replied Dawson. “Hang tight, and we’ll try to get to you before the sharks do. Zero-One, out.”

  Spock’s eyes widened as his head swiveled.

  Sharks?

  Niner and Jimmy quickly climbed the ladder to the next level, Jimmy in the lead, Niner slowed by his M24A2 SWS Sniper Weapon System. The body of the shooter lay in a heap, a pool of blood rapidly expanding, his shooting spree lasting only seconds, but long enough to eliminate their ride, and their element of surprise.

  Gunfire pinged off metal everywhere, the hostiles firing in the blind as he knew Dawson and Atlas continued to sweep forward, taking out targets of opportunity. Unfortunately, they had no clue where Professor Palmer was being held, though it was a good chance it was the crew quarters.

  And with their boat gone, the plan had changed, and Plan Bs were always more difficult.

  He reached the bridge deck and quickly set up his weapon as Jimmy eliminated the one hostile manning the helm, before turning spotter and mapping targets. He activated his comm. “Overseer in position, over.”

  Dawson replied. “Copy that, Overseer. Get to work, out.”

  Jimmy fed him the first target, and Niner got him in his sights, taking him out and moving on to the next, the herd thinning quickly, when suddenly all the lights on the boat blazed. He jerked back from his night vision scope, momentarily blinded, and cursed at how exposed they now were.

  Gunfire from two positions poured lead at their nest, the metal deck protecting them for the moment, though judging by the amount of rust now visible, he wasn’t sure for how long.

  Red leaned out the side of the Black Hawk as Wings raced toward the target, now a bright beacon on the sea ahead. He spotted Niner and Jimmy trapped on an upper deck, several hostiles firing on their position, and he leaned out, Mickey holding him by his vest as he took aim. He pumped several controlled bursts at those firing, taking two down, leaving the rest to scatter.

  Niner and Jimmy repositioned as he continued to provide cover fire. Wings banked the massive chopper toward the ship, and Red gripped the rappelling rope, sliding down as soon as he had deck below him, his MP5 belching death in a sweeping motion, keeping the heads of the hostiles down.

  He hit the deck and rushed for cover as the rest of the team quickly followed, all on board within seconds, Wings banking away to let them get to work. Red pointed at his team, signaling for a perimeter to be established, then pushed forward as he heard the belch of Niner’s SWS once again enter the fray.

  A hatch flung open ahead of him, muzzle flashes erupting from the darkness. He dove to his right, wincing as he got bit on the shoulder by a ricochet. Prone, he fired half a dozen rounds into the darkness, silencing the hostile. He checked his left shoulder, the cloth of his uniform torn, a hint of blood seeping through.

  I’ll live.

  Dawson yanked open a hatch and tossed in a flashbang before he and Atlas entered, Dawson breaking right, Atlas covering his six. From the layout of the ship provided to them by Control, he knew crew quarters were two decks down, the stairwell twenty feet from their current position.

  He listened for footfalls, but heard none, the action still unfolding outside, and hopefully distracting anyone who might be guarding Professor Palmer. He moved forward carefully though with purpose, reaching the stairwell and peering inside.

  Clear.

  They rapidly descended the two decks, encountering no one, then Dawson inched the hatch on the crew quarters level open. The hallway was clear.

  This is too easy.

  And that usually meant something was wrong.

  Niner took out another hostile, now almost too easy with them engaged by the rest of the team. The enemy was too busy worrying about what was in front of them rather than what was above and behind. His count was nine down by his weapon, and at least another half-dozen by Red’s team. The gunfire was dwindling, so the excitement, at least topside, would soon be over.

  Wings’ voice came in over the comm. “Control says four Russian choppers are inbound, ETA eight minutes, over.”

  Niner cursed, glancing at Jimmy. “Nothing like Russians to ruin a perfectly good day.”

  Dawson cursed as the last of the crew quarters turned out to be empty. There was no sign anybody had been held prisoner here, and more concerning, was that every hostile they had encountered so far appeared North African.

  Not a Caucasian among them.

  “Control, Zero-One. Can you confirm we’re on the right ship, over?”

  Colonel Clancy’s voice replied. “Zero-One, Control Actual. Confirmed, you are definitely on the right ship, over.”

  Dawson shook his head at Atlas. “Control, are we sure that the correct ship was identified? We have no hostiles here matching the descriptions provided by Interpol, and have found no evidence of the target, over.”

  “Stand by, Zero-One.”

  Colonel Clancy was a man he trusted implicitly, and if something had been messed up on this mission, Clancy would get to the bottom of it. He had no doubt it wouldn’t have been anyone at Delta HQ that had screwed up—if there were something wrong, it would be Washington or the Europeans.

  But his money was on neither.

  They had encountered at least a couple of dozen well-armed hostiles. They just weren’t the hostiles they were expecting. The ship had been running dark, and he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  There was no way they just happened to be sent to attack a ship that was also a den of illicit activity.

  No, he expected Clancy would confirm they were on the right ship, but for the wrong reasons.

  This was feeling more like a Charlie-Foxtrot if there ever was one.

  He looked at Atlas. “Do you get the feeling that whoever provided the intel on this one had the wool pulled over their eyes?”

  Atlas grunted. “Yup. I’ve got a feeling somebody has been watching the magician’s wrong hand.”

  “We need to find out what the hell is going on.”

  They proceeded up one deck and Dawson threw open the door to the galley, a burst of gunfire greeting him, hammering harmlessly into the opposit
e wall. “Lower your weapon, or die.”

  No reply, except another spray of gunfire.

  He tossed a flashbang into the room, at least half a dozen screams responding. They rushed inside, weapons raised, finding only one armed hostile, half a dozen others crying, their senses still overwhelmed by the grenade. He put two in the armed one, deciding the planet could use one less bad guy, then grabbed the best dressed of the group, hauling him to his feet.

  “Who’s in charge?”

  The man stared at him, confused. He asked again in Arabic. A shaky finger pointed to another, cowering under a table. Atlas reached under with a massive paw and yanked the man into view, his white captain’s shirt covered in grime, the epaulets tarnished.

  “Where’s the hostage?”

  The man shook his head, waving his hands in front of him, terror in his eyes. “No hostage! Just cargo!”

  Dawson grabbed him by the throat. “Where are the other men? The white men?”

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear, and his entire body trembled. “Never here! They were never here! They delivered the cargo, then left.”

  An all-clear from Red came in over his comm as the dull thuds of the guns went silent. He tossed the man against the wall, processing this new information as he decided whether the man was telling him the truth. While he was reluctant to accept what was said at face value, it certainly fit the facts.

  His comm beeped. “Zero-One, Control Actual. I’ve reviewed the footage personally. You are definitely on the right ship, but none of the hostiles appear to have boarded after the cargo was loaded, over.”

  Dawson shook his head. “Copy that, stand by. Zero-Two, send two men to cover the galley, over.”

  “Copy that, Zero-One.”

  Dawson pointed his MP5 at the captain. “Show me the cargo.”

  The man shook out a nod, his hands up as he hugged the wall toward the door, stepping out as Niner and Jimmy arrived.

  The captain yelped.

  Niner eyed the man. “Is that any way to welcome your guests?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I’m definitely making a note of the name of this vessel and instructing my travel agent to never book travel aboard her.”

  Niner agreed. “And I think we’re in a bad neighborhood. I’m sure I heard gunshots!”

  Dawson jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the room filled with their prisoners. “If you two are done your routine, watch them.”

  Niner grinned. “Ooh, a captive audience.”

  Jimmy gave him a thumbs up. “Niiice, I see what you did there!”

  Atlas shook his head. “Those two deserve each other.”

  Dawson chuckled, pushing the captain toward the stairwell. They followed him down a series of stairs and through several corridors, before they finally reached the hold, a hold containing two dozen crates stacked in the center, and no other cargo visible.

  And the stench of human waste was almost overwhelming.

  Atlas pointed to a far corner, a stack of soiled mattresses evident. “Looks like they’re human traffickers.”

  Dawson frowned. “Remind me to sink this ship when we’re done.” He activated his comm as he eyed the crates. “One-Two, Zero-One. Get Professor Acton in here, now.”

  “Roger that.”

  Acton gulped, staring down at the heaving deck below, the waves picking up. He had done this a few times before, but never in these conditions, and always hooked to a harness. In this case, he had been told there was no need and no time, Wings the only one on board to hook him up, and he was too busy piloting the chopper.

  “Just hug it, Doc, and you’ll be fine.”

  Acton frowned. “You can’t land, can you?”

  “Not in these seas.”

  Acton sighed. “Fine.” He wrapped his arms and legs around the rope and hopped out, sliding down the thick and surprisingly steady bundle of material, thankful Wings had handed him a spare set of gloves. He controlled his descent as best he could, and was surprised when he felt hands on him so quickly.

  Maybe if you hadn’t closed your eyes the entire time.

  “Good job, Doc. We’ll make an operator out of you yet!”

  Acton laughed at Red as he let go of the rope. “I think I’ll leave it to the pros.”

  Red pointed at one of his men. “Go with him. He’ll take you to the cargo.”

  “Any sign of my wife?”

  Red shook his head, frowning. “Negative. We’re searching stem to stern right now.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Acton wasn’t surprised. From the chatter he had picked up from Wings, it looked like the men who had kidnapped him and Laura weren’t on board, which probably meant Laura was still with them. The only explanation he had been able to come up with, was that they didn’t want to be trapped on a ship in case the authorities, or Delta Force operators, dropped by. They had likely intended to pick up the cargo when it reached its destination, then give it to their buyer, using Laura to authenticate it.

  Or she’s already dead.

  He chastised himself, refusing to go where his mind so desperately wanted to.

  She’s still alive. Never doubt that.

  Reading dropped beside him, cursing the entire way down about getting too old for this shit, and needing to hit the gym.

  Acton grinned at him. “You keep saying that, but you never seem to get around to it.”

  Reading gave him a look. “I get enough exercise chasing after you two.”

  Acton laughed, then they followed the Bravo Team member to the hold as the chopper banked away. Their escort seemed confident their route was secure, but he wasn’t so sure, still holding out hope that Laura might be on board, and if she were, she was likely guarded by somebody yet to be found.

  And that meant there could be others still lurking in the darkness.

  They entered the hold to find a couple of dozen crates piled in the center, Dawson, Atlas, and another man Acton presumed was the captain of the vessel by the way he was dressed, stood next to them. His eyes narrowed as he approached the crates, all painted jet black.

  Dawson motioned toward the cargo. “I didn’t want to touch anything in case I damaged it.”

  Atlas held up his massive hands. “I offered, but he said my paws weren’t made for delicate things.”

  Acton chuckled as the man pouted. “He might be right.” He pointed at the paint job. “These weren’t black when we found them.”

  Dawson stepped closer. “Looks fresh. Maybe they painted them to try and disguise them.”

  Acton nodded. “That’s a possibility. They did have Nazi markings on them, so painting them black would cover pretty much anything in case they had been pulled over for some cursory inspection.” He spotted a crowbar and grabbed it off the floor, quickly opening the lid to the closest crate. He carefully lifted it then tossed it aside.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Wings took the opportunity to return to where Spock had taken his spill, quickly spotting him waving up from the water below.

  “Hang on buddy, just give me a second, over.”

  There was no response, Spock’s comms apparently offline. With the rope Acton and Reading had just used still in play, he positioned himself overhead as best he could, then waited a ten-count. Leaning over and shifting his craft slightly to the right, he spotted Spock waving the go-ahead. Wings gave a thumbs up then pulled up on the collective, gaining some altitude, before heading back to the ship, making sure he was high enough that he didn’t slam his friend against the hull.

  He decided he better seek a second opinion. “Somebody want to make sure I don’t pop him like a zit, over.”

  Red’s voice responded. “You’re good. Your about fifty feet off the deck. Bring him down gently.”

  Wings expertly guided the Black Hawk lower, his concern not his skills, but the heaving deck.

  “We’ve got him! You’re clear.”

  Wings breathed a sigh of relief. “Copy that.” He banked away then yanked back on his cyclic as
four sets of powerful lights filled his field of vision.

  He cursed.

  “Zero-One, One-Two. The Russians have arrived.”

  Dawson cursed at the report from Wings, then at another crate filled with nothing but stacks of newspapers. “So what are we saying, Doc? Was there ever an Amber Room?”

  Acton threw up his hands in frustration. “Yes, there definitely was. I opened the crates myself. It was definitely there. They must have switched them at some point. But when?” He cursed, kicking the crate.

  “I have to go topside and deal with the Rooskies.” Dawson turned to Atlas then pointed at the captain. “See if you can get something useful out of him.”

  Atlas slapped his paws together. “Want me to tenderize him?”

  Dawson suppressed a smile. “Do whatever it takes to make him talk.” He sprinted out of the hold then up the winding stairs and onto the deck. Wings was facing down the four Russian Mil Mi-24 Hind helicopters by himself, but the Black Hawk was no match for them. If this turned into a firefight, Wings would be blasted out of the sky, and his men would be shredded within seconds. He had to defuse the situation.

  “One-Two, Zero-One. Fall back and hold position two hundred meters off the port side.”

  “Roger that, Zero-One.” The Black Hawk banked away, repositioning as instructed, and Dawson ordered his men to lower their weapons.

  “Let’s look friendly, boys.” Dawson waved at the choppers, then pointed at the clear deck. One of the choppers dipped forward, positioning overhead, half a dozen troops rappelling down, their weapons raised as they hit the deck. Dawson left his resting by the strap, the others doing the same. He strode toward the man who appeared in charge. “Sir, welcome aboard. I’m Sergeant Major White.”

  “Major Vasiliev. We are here for our property.”

  Dawson frowned. “I’m afraid we’ve both been misinformed, Major. Your property is not aboard.”