Onslaught

by David Poyer

  Above him, fire from the sky …

  The helicopters disintegrated before his eyes. Torn apart from inside by massive detonations that turned them into flaming fireballs out of which subassemblies fell in slow motion, still-spinning rotors, tailplanes, gun pods, masses of exploding ordnance in firework cascades that bounced and burned across the dunes.

  He cowered, shielding his face. “Hellfires, from the drone,” Harch said in his ear. “Get back here, Master Chief. That won’t hold ’em for long.”

  * * *

  WHEN he half fell, half crawled into the emplacement, it was burning. The last helo pass had turned the north end of the island into an inferno. Napalm and rockets. The gunships were off the board, but the infantry, marines, were still pressing hard. They’d stayed too long, that was all, and the response had been faster than expected. What was left of the platoon lay flat or crouched in the emplacements, pulling on gear. Their single remaining 240 was firing without pause. Time to ruin the barrel; they weren’t going to be able to extract it anyway. You could always buy more gear.

  A stocky silhouette in the firelight. Harch beckoned him over. “Master Chief. This is a clusterfuck. RHIBs are offshore, coming in to extract. Where’ve you been? Need a muster, fast. Who’s missing. Where they were last seen.”

  Teddy looked around for his squad leaders. Knobby and Moogie were both hauling wounded. Moogie had reported one MIA, back at the causeway. All they could do was hope he was dead. Anyway, even if he was captured, he wouldn’t know about the O-10. Only he and Harch knew that.

  The lieutenant accepted Teddy’s verbal summary with grimly set lips. “All right, retract,” he snapped. “Into the water. One goes first. Echo Two, hold the perimeter. Than FT one covers when two withdraws. Hoo-ah?”

  “Hoo-ah,” Teddy muttered. He passed that on, and dragged himself to where he’d left his wet gear. The dirt had fallen in, or been blown in, and he started digging, with bare hands.

  The Chinese came down a gully between the dunes in a scrambling sliding charge that carried them into the midst of the SEALs before either side could react. Not just in contact, but face-to-face. A point squad, led by some glory-hungry hard charger. They hit the trench and split up, half to his end, half to the other, firing and moving. He had to admit, they were good. His SIG was in his hand. Shooter House time. He fired and moved, using what little cover the trench offered. Fired the mag out and changed it, looking over the weapon at two Chinese with rifles at close range. One had the sights on him, but seemed hesitant. He knew that feeling. First time in combat, he’d been the same. He shot the boy twice in the face, wheeled, pumped two more into the other. Head shots, since they were wearing Russian-style body armor. Which left only one more at his end of the trench. The guy kept coming, though, over his buddies’ bodies. Teddy pulled the trigger, but the chamber was empty. The Chinese pulled his too.

  Click.

  They stood face-to-face, both with empty magazines.

  The Chinese, younger than Teddy, but not much smaller, went for a knife. A quarter of a second slower, Obie went for his thin-blade. They circled, feinting, feet getting tangled in loose dirt and gear and dropped weapons at the bottom of the trench. The thin-blade wasn’t steel, it was some kind of ceramic that never got dull and never broke. He’d put in a lot of hours with it, now and then for real.

  But he wasn’t as young now. On the other hand, the other guy’s OMON vest, though decent—aramid fiber, with steel plates—was cut out under the armpits, to allow free movement. A right-hand uppercut would put the blade right in the heart.

  Before he could, the Chinese lunged. Teddy blocked, knocking the blade down and backing a step. On his bad leg, which almost buckled. Fuck! Something moved at the corner of his vision, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off his opponent’s boots. The feet signaled the next move. The trick was, react faster than the other could change his footing. But the guy was watching his feet, too. Uppercut, uppercut, wait till he sets himself for his attack, now—

  A flash, a bang, and the side of the marine’s head flew off. His eyes locked on Teddy’s for a fraction of a second. Then he buckled like a falling building. Teddy started to step over him, then stopped himself and climbed partway up the collapsed side of the trench to get around him. He blew out and sheathed his knife. “Thanks, Knobby.”

  “What swim buddies are for, asshole.”

  The firing grew to a crescendo as the remaining SEALs, spread out along the dune line, fired full auto to cover the withdrawal into the surf. Teddy picked up an M4 and joined in. The trouble was, the fire coming back was at least as intense, and growing. The whole dune line around them was one undulating line of muzzle flashes, along with the deeper bark of crew-served weapons. How had they gotten heavy MGs over the dunes? This was where they could have used a sniper weapon. Put a Barrett or a .300 Winchester Magnum out there and take the crews out one by one. But there wasn’t enough cover, really, for a sniper.

  A hand on his shoulder: Harch, kneeling beside him. “Time to boogie, Obie.”

  “You first, Lieutenant.”

  “No, Master Chief. After you.” Harch waved an exaggerated invitation, like a drunken maitre d’ ushering him toward a table. For the first time, Teddy noticed the field dressing under his arm.

  “Sir, I’m gonna bring up the rear. Like we briefed. You’re wounded. Uh, where’s the radio?”

  Harch pointed inland. “Up there, with an IM in it. First guy lifts it, gets a surprise.”

  Booby traps were another Team specialty. His regard for Harch clicked up a notch. He’d dropped out of sight during the cross-country, but apparently to coordinate the drone strike. Which had saved their bones, all right. “You go ahead, sir.”

  White teeth in a grin. “Let’s go together, Master Chief.”

  They turned as one, fired out their magazines, and rolled over the lip of the trench.

  Oberg froze, crouched low. A shape, out in the dark.

  A boat.

  Only they didn’t have any boats. Not like that. With the goggles down, he made out a profile. A patrol craft. Fifty, sixty feet long. Cruising down the beach. With some kind of gun on the stern. Automatic grenade launcher, probably. Enough firepower to saturate a beach, cut down anyone trying to make it into the surf. A starburst of brilliant green burst out. It swung like a lighthouse beam, then steadied. They were illuminating Echo with IR, as they tried to extract.

  He turned, and stumbled over Harch. “See it?” the lieutenant breathed.

  “Hoo-ah.”

  “Gonna cut us to pieces. Pin us on the beach and chum us up.”

  They were unslinging their rifles—you didn’t make much of an impression on a patrol craft with a 5.56 round, but it would at least warn the others—when Teddy thought of something better. He grabbed Harch. “Fuck, that’s my goddamned shoulder,” the lieutenant grunted.

  “Ever crew on a Dash-K?”

  A hesitation, then: “Yeah, in Iraq. Good idea, Obie.”

  It took only seconds to kick the dirt off the heavy machine gun. Teddy got under it and nearly cried out at the boiling bolt of pain in his leg. Something was tearing loose. But he got the piece hauled back up, pointing to seaward. They stamped the tripod legs into the sand. The lieutenant snapped open the lid on the feed tray and blew out the dirt. Latches clacked on an ammo box, and he hefted a belt of cartridges, each big as a Coney Island hot dog.

  The Chinese Type 54 was a modified DashK. The upper feed was the same, and it fired the same round—a 12.7mm, roughly a U.S. .50 caliber. Fuzzy as his head was getting, Teddy’s memory of the weapon was clear; he’d used these in Afghanistan. They fed from the left. Open bolt. Full auto only. Charging handle on the right. He nestled into the shoulder brace and found the sight. Harch snapped down the feed tray and clapped him on the back. Teddy racked the charger and let it fly forward. He thumbed the dual triggers—Jesus, that was a heavy pull—but got only a click.

  “Crap in the chamber,” Harch said, but Teddy was alr
eady jerking the handle all the way back. Something heavy flew down and thudded into the dirt. Harch whacked the belt feed lid hard and Teddy let the charger go. He bent into the brace again, acquired, estimated range, corrected for wind, elevated for drop, and mashed the dual triggers, hard.

  The muzzle flash was huge, blasting sand up in front of the muzzle. He fired two-second bursts, with Harch slamming the feed module open and closed whenever the belt hung up. The night lit. Bright green tracers hung like flares, then plunged over and past the boat. He aimed lower. Another burst. The MG jammed, and Harch cleared it once more. Teddy worked the charger and fired again.

  The patrol boat seemed to hesitate. Then it shortened. A roostertail spurted up. She was coming around, putting her stern to the beach. Teddy elevated and fired a long burst, four seconds, ten rounds a second, until the belt ran out, holding the crosshairs above the boat as it retreated. It felt good, felt right on. He was hitting it, all right.

  “Nice shooting, Master Chief,” Harch said. Then a shot cracked and he fell silent, slumping over the feed tray.

  Teddy had time to half turn as the Chinese surged down the dune behind them. Something punched him, hard. He tried to swing the gun around but it wouldn’t go. He went for his SIG but something punched again, even harder, and he couldn’t see who it was. Then the darkness came up, cold as the sea.

  18

  USS Savo Island

  AISHA stood by the rail as the sea rushed past. The warm wind tore at her head scarf and flapped the legs of her cargo pants. The waves were almost black. It was a long way down. She hugged herself as the mustering petty officer went down his clipboard, matching each name against the grease-penciled placard on the bulkhead.

  “Okay, all present and accounted for who’s already signed up. So who’s not? Who here’s not on the watch, quarter, and station bill?”

  She raised her hand, and so did the scientist. “Okay, names?”

  “Aisha Ar-Rahim.”

  “William Noblos.”

  The mustering officer penciled them in. “You shoulda been on here long before this, Doc.”

  “I thought I was. I mustered here before.” Past the petty officer, he winked at Aisha. Sharing the joke.

  “Then Gussy didn’t log you in. He’s the mustering PO when I can’t make it.” The petty officer raised his voice into the wind, looking around at the gaggle of bodies on the starboard side, frame fifty-five abandon-ship station. “Okay, listen up! The following will be a brief on procedures to be followed in the event of abandon ship.”

  He read from the clipboard. “‘The first indication is the general alarm, followed by the command “Now all hands, abandon ship” passed over the 1MC. If the 1MC is out of commission, word will be passed verbally. The order must come from the bridge or the senior living command authority.

  “‘When preparing to abandon ship, wear a full set of clothing including shoes and a soft cap or head covering as protection from exposure. Do not wear a helmet or plastic hard hat when going over the side. Life preservers shall be securely fastened. When distance to the surface is over thirty feet or there is burning oil on the water, throw the life preserver over the side first. Inflatable preservers shall not be inflated until wearer is in the water. The life preserver shall be inflated as soon as wearer is in the water and/or clear of flames.

  “‘Go over the side by means of a line, ladder, or debarkation net if time permits. If it is necessary to jump, look first to be sure that water below is clear of personnel or floating gear or wreckage. Do not dive! Always jump feetfirst, with feet and legs together and arms crossed over the chest holding on to the life preserver.

  “‘Abandon ship as far away from damaged areas as possible. Check the direction of the wind and go over on the windward side, if possible, to avoid flames, oil, and downwind drift of ship.

  “‘Once in the water, stay calm and avoid panic. Obey the following rules: One, conserve energy by moving as little as possible. Two, keep clear of oil slicks. Protect eyes and breathing passages by keeping head high or swimming underwater. If swimming underwater, prior to coming up, put hands above head and splash the water surface to disperse oil, debris, or flames. Three, if there is danger of underwater explosion, float or swim on the back as near the surface as possible. Four, stay with other persons in the water to reduce danger of sharks and make rescue easier. In cold water, forming close circles with others will preserve heat.

  “‘Five, if ship is sinking rapidly, swim clear promptly, and tow injured persons clear, to avoid suction effect.’” He looked up. “Any questions?”

  Aisha hoped she didn’t look as apprehensive as she felt. She raised a hand. “I have one. Where’s our lifeboat?”

  “You’re looking at it.” The petty officer nodded at the gray fiberglass barrel. “The twenty-five-man encapsulated life raft. The ship has fifteen. We also got the two RHIBs, port and starboard. Total capacity, four hundred and fifteen. So even if some don’t inflate, or get shot up, we got plenty of rafts. Get over the side, swim to a raft, hole up, wait for rescue.”

  “Now secure from abandon-ship stations, once training is complete,” said the 1MC. “Secure from abandon-ship stations, once training is complete.”

  He looked around. “Any more questions? No? Then go ahead and secure.”

  She stood there for a while after the others left, a hand on the lifeline, staring down at the passing sea. From the sound of things, it could be an all-out war out here. Was it possible that this immense ship could go down? Disappear beneath the waves forever?

  Leaving them floating, like debris, alone under the burning sky?

  * * *

  DUNK Ryan was waiting when she got to her cabin, cradling the last accordion folder to her chest. She wore the ship’s black-and-olive head scarf gathered around her neck. Aisha unlocked the door. “That’s all? All the files?”

  “The last ones. From Lieutenant Garfinkle-Henriques. Supply Department.”

  “On the table, with the rest.”

  The SCAN process was a deceptively simple but analytically powerful tool for screening a large group of suspects. She and Ryan had sat down with the questions she’d used in previous cases, and come up with ten for this one. Some were easy-peasy, just to get people writing. But buried in with them were others that she’d look at closely.

  The key was the essay. She’d asked: How did you first hear about the attack on Petty Officer Beth Terranova? Where were you the night and time she was attacked? What should happen to the person who did this?

  Working around their watches and maintenance, every man on the ship had filled one out. Though not without grumbling. Complaints that they were wasting valuable time in the middle of a war. But with the exec’s support, she’d rammed it through.

  “Printout from ship’s office?”

  “Here.” The corpsman laid it beside the stacks. Aisha had asked the exec to generate an Excel printout listing all male crew members over five feet ten inches. Based on Terranova’s height, five four, she’d guessed at that as a cutoff point for “tall.” That left thirty-three individuals. Ryan went through the last batch from the accordion file, adding them to a smaller pile separate from the others.

  “How many’s that make?”

  “Thirty-five, total. Out of the whole crew.”

  Aisha seated herself with a sharpened pencil and a lined tablet, prepared for some puzzling. Just since she’d joned the NCIS, she’d noted a marked decay in naval penmanship. A lot of her entries were hand printed, in varying degrees of neatness. A few were decently handwritten, but many were in some peculiar scrawl halfway between script and shorthand. Of course, the quality of the writing wasn’t germane. In fact, given the level of intellectual accomplishment she was gradually assigning to this perp, an illegible, nearly illiterate scrawl might even help cross a candidate off the list.

  This guy was definitely full of himself. He’d defied them, “flipped them off” as Duncanna had said, with the DNA samples. Not just in the
destroying of the only shred of hard evidence, but in the way he’d done it. Flaunting his intellectual superiority.

  But that pride was also a weakness. A flaw she planned to home in on.

  She picked up the first statement. How did you first hear about the attack on Petty Officer Beth Terranova?

  I did yes it was scuttlebutt in the shop.

  Where were you the night and time she was attacked?

  In the shop, trying to make deckplate screw because were out of them and the supply system is two years backlog. All our deckplates in Aux 2 are loose or riveted down with copper wire. Chief McMottie was there he will back me up on this.

  What should happen to the person who did this?

  Naval justice court-martial go to prison if he is gilty—but got to have fair trial as some girl will say yes and then say they say no to get back at you.

  Nothing stood out about this one except the brevity of the answers. Sometimes terseness was a sign of withholding, but in this case, from the laborious writing, she got the feeling it was simply economy of effort. A hint of misogyny in the last answer, but she couldn’t disagree with it as a statement of fact. Revenge, jealousy … occasionally a false accusation was wielded as a weapon, but usually all it took was a sit-down with the complainant and a heart-to-heart to clarify things. This response got a yellow sticky note reminding her to check with McMottie and see if the alibi held up. “Next,” she muttered, then noticed Ryan was reading ahead of her. “Don’t read those!”

  “Why not? I just want to help—”

  She explained gently but firmly that aside from the CMA, she couldn’t let ship’s company help with investigative steps. “Not that you’d knowingly do anything wrong, but an untrained assistant just doesn’t know what not to do. In your off time, who do you talk to about the case? Are you friends with any of my potential suspects? Everything we do, we might have to testify about. A defense attorney would crucify you on the stand, and we’d get hammered for allowing someone without law-enforcement training to conduct investigative steps.”