The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  JJ slammed the brakes, killed the engine, and we went into a controlled sideways slide. Momentum slowed, we both jumped off, and the scooter slid another ten feet. It bounced off the rear bumper of a parked vehicle. The scooter's slide brought unwanted attention. Sparks flew as the scooter met concrete, and the rear bumper collision ensured our position known. Couldn't blame JJ—I’d have done the same thing. But bullets whined past our heads and skipped off concrete at our feet. And explained why passengers hadn't departed via the gangway.

  We dashed behind a group of parked vehicles and caught sight of a dead body sprawled at the foot of the gangway. Beyond the gangway shooter, echoed explosive reports from an onboard firefight. The Delta operator, engaged with the enemy.

  "What's the plan?" JJ asked, pistol drawn and peering over the vehicle’s hood. Her voice was tight, committed.

  "You stay here. Herd escapees away from the ship. Engage shooters if they come your way."

  The shots toward us stopped once we'd left the area of the downed scooter. The terrorist lost his target in the night and now sought our position.

  JJ slapped a hand across my forearm, gripping hard. "What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice a tight explosive whisper.

  "Run toward the sound of battle. Attack."

  It was what Delta did. I ejected the assault rifle's half-empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. Muffled screams and cries poured from the ship's interior. JJ wouldn't release her grip. Sufficient moonlight provided a view of her face.

  "No." Puffed cheeks, an emphatic exhale, and tight head shake. "No. I'm going in. With you."

  No time. No time for arguments or discussions. Gotta move, gotta go. Inside, every second, passengers were slaughtered.

  "Look. I need your help for this maneuver. You got an extra pistol magazine?"

  She nodded.

  "Use it. Now."

  While she exchanged her used ammo mag for a fresh one, I said, "Give me seven seconds. Count them off. Then rise up and pop a few shots toward the shooter’s position. Draw his fire. Got it?"

  "Yeah, yeah, got it. Then what?"

  "I head up the gangway to take the shooter. So draw his fire and stay here, do what I asked." I shot a quick fist bump against her thigh. "Stay low, be safe, shoot to kill."

  I made a quick dash past several parked vehicles and crouched at a front bumper. JJ fired several rounds, the pistol's blasts, huge and sharp, rolled across the nearby bay. The shooter keyed on her shots and ripped bullets toward her position. I took off, hitting the bottom of the gangway at a sprint, seeking the shooter. He hid behind a life-boat and fired through a seam in the boat's rigging. Protected by the craft and surrounding equipment.

  The gangway held railings and canvas sides. The killer keyed on my pounding footsteps as the gangway rattled. Hot fire poured my way, and holes ripped through canvas siding as I ascended. Near the top, he adjusted his position for a better shot. Big mistake. I slowed where gangway met boat deck and leapt over two more dead bodies. He stepped from behind the life-boat. And died. Two rapid successive chest shots. His AK dropped, clattered. The deck lights illuminated another man who could have passed for a Caribbean islander. It made no sense, none. New footfalls thumped the gangway, behind me, coming my way. I whipped around and sighted, prepared to squeeze a terminal shot. It was JJ. Running toward me.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  She skidded on the deck’s pooled blood, crouched with pistol ready. She lowered a hand and checked for a pulse on one of the splayed victims. "Headed toward the sound of battle."

  No time, gotta move. Screams and gunfire continued from the ship's interior. If JJ committed to joining the battle, so be it. A quick eye-lock, a questioning look shot her way.

  "I've got your six,” she said. “Move!"

  I did, JJ close behind. We ran toward a nearby interior opening. Hand on hatch handle, I addressed her a final time before we entered the killing floor.

  "One other good guy on board. Delta. Anyone else with a weapon goes down. No warnings, no arrests. Shoot the bastards."

  A tight nod of acknowledgement and we stepped into the breach. Five freakin' levels on the ship. We sought stairs and firefights. The scale of this entire terrorist attack boggled the mind. It was huge. At least forty men, maybe more. Perhaps a half-dozen on the cruise ship alone. It was a coordinated, well-armed attack and hell-bent on carnage.

  Shouts and screams and commands came from one flight up. The rattle of enclosed automatic gunfire deafened. I sensed it represented a warning, a do-what-I-say signifier. The yelled commands were simple. "Get out! Get out of your rooms! Now!" A Caribbean accent. Insane.

  A quick glance toward JJ, a head point toward the steep ship’s stairs. I dashed, JJ on my heels, two stairs at a time. Hit the stairs landing and turned for the final flight of steps. I kept low and saw heads. Dozens of passenger heads bobbed, panicked, as I climbed. There were more screamed commands.

  "Go to the dining area! Now!" Followed with the rip of a half-dozen bullet blasts.

  I crested the stairway. The hall was filled with passengers, all ages and sizes. Abject terror across faces, eyes frantic with fear. Piercing cries, wails.

  "Move!" The command came from a tall man in their midst. His AK was displayed, ready for another rip of automatic gunfire as an attention-getter or to kill. Doors flung open, people streamed, stumbled, toward large double doors leading to the ship's interior. No clean shot. My target was surrounded, covered, with sobbing and screaming passengers. Absolute mayhem.

  "Hit the ground! Everyone down!" I called and waited for a split-second opening. The weapon's site sought the terrorist's head as he sought the source of the yelled order. Opportunities flashed, too quick, as people milled, yelled, and cried with confusion.

  JJ's pistol boomed twice in succession, a full second pause, and a third time. I couldn't look, couldn't take my aim off a possible shot. But the cacophonous pistol blasts resounded within the enclosed space and prompted more passengers to drop and hit the floor. My terrorist slammed an elbow into an elderly passenger’s head, clearing his aim. His aim toward me. Too late, asshole. A head shot ended this life. Blood and brain matter flew, more screams and yells.

  "Back in your cabins!" I called. A quick glance behind me. A terrorist lay sprawled on the lower set of stairs. He'd approached from another area of the ship to help with the round-up. JJ's shots put an end to his plan. "Back in your cabins! Lock the doors!"

  People scrambled, crawled, and clawed their way into cabins on both sides of the hallway. Cries and shrieks continued. Blood from the terrorist spread across the parquet floor. Automatic gunfire from multiple sources rang above us. The next deck up. Answered with tight two-shot taps. A Delta brother, alone.

  Two choices. Head for the massive dining area and assess the situation. Or sprint toward the firefight above us. An easy choice.

  A foot on the second step upward and a back-check on JJ. A seconds-long respite, loins girded, before the next battle. She was on fire, a hyper-adrenaline state. She maintained a two-handed pistol grip, internalizing the scene. Passengers continued mad dashes into rooms as doors slammed on sobs and wailing.

  "You all right?" I asked.

  "Fine." She absorbed the scene of carnage and death and terror, then glanced down the stairs at her expired target and back at me. "What's your name? Your real name."

  Legit and not unexpected. We were engaged in a life or death firefight with multiple innocents dead. More to come, guaranteed. Sealed in combat, a strong pull for a personal tie.

  "Case Lee.”

  A head dip of acknowledgement and a hard exhale. An emphatic hand wave toward the few stragglers—shocked, rattled—who still hadn’t ducked into a room. “Get in the rooms,” she said, and ejected her pistol’s magazine, checking the bullet supply. “I’m low.”

  Gotta move, gotta go. Firing continued overhead. I jerked the pistol from my waistband and tossed it her way. “Firefight up one deck."

&n
bsp; She caught my weapon, holstered her almost-empty one, and gave a last glance toward her pistol’s handiwork lying dead below her. "Let's do this, Case Lee."

  We did. Another upstairs dash, stopping before cresting to captured the immediate situation. At the end of the hall was a corner room, the lone Delta’s Alamo. He returned fire along both hallways to his left and right. Action on his left was beyond our sight, but before us three terrorists leveraged the protection of doorways on both sides of the hall. They rained short bursts toward the corner room. The faux-wood paneling around the operator exploded with impacts. The gun blasts reverberated and deafened.

  Enough of this crap. I knelt two steps below the floor level and played a brief lethal game of whack-a-mole. As each target exposed themselves through their sanctuary doorways, two lightning bullets ripped into them. Over and done.

  The corner operator realized that one assault direction was terminated and, with half the hail of fire removed, focused on the hallway to his left. Two quick shots, two second pause, two more shots. Repeated several times. Threat eliminated.

  I sprinted his way, one palm toward him. A tight nod returned. JJ on my heels. My ears rang, tinny, a high frequency buzz. The operator stepped from the room’s entrance. He’d been hit. Blood poured down the side of his face. The left leg of his jeans clung, soaked with blood. A thigh wound.

  “Reeves.”

  “Lee.”

  He nodded toward JJ, recognition. They’d met.

  “Situation?” I asked and pulled a pocket knife.

  “Think it’s focused on the dining area, now. Cleared most activity elsewhere.” He’d taken on all of them, worked his way through the vessel. Attacked and pushed and swept decks with absolute efficiency. Numbers caught up with him, overwhelmed, and forced him into a corner.

  “Gotta patch you, bud,” I said and sliced off a section of his tourist shirt, a bright print of surfacing dolphins. The floor was littered with empty bullet casings. The ear ringing diminished.

  “Head’s not bad. Leg stings a bit.” He wiped blood from one eye. The wound continued to leak. Crimson trails slid down a cheek.

  I checked the head wound. A furrow plowed through the scalp. Close, close call. Head wounds bleed bad, but he’d survive it. The leg was another story. A single shot fired from the deck below, muted. As were the horrific howls that followed.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and began movement toward the nearest set of stairs. His wounded leg dragged.

  “Gimme one.” One minute or less. I cut the jeans near the entrance hole. Clean entry and exit. Not a mortal wound. Debilitating, with howling pain. For normal people.

  “Heard you and your partner were around,” Reeves said. His radio earpiece dripped scalp wound blood. “Cavalry arrives soon. The town is locked down.”

  The other Delta operators would arrive in minutes. Charlotte Amalie and its immediate environs were covered, terrorists eliminated. I took no umbrage at his reference to the soon-to-arrive operators as the cavalry, setting JJ and me aside. Reeves and his fellow operators trained seventy hours a week. Physical, mental, tactical. I’d left their world a while ago.

  “We can’t wait.”

  “Understood,” he said. “You’ll have to take lead.”

  I worked fast. Two quick wraps with the shirt section around his leg, tied tight. It would stanch the bleeding. He grunted when I jerked the knot closed.

  “Who are these people?” I asked.

  “ISIS.”

  “They’re Caribbean.”

  He returned a quick shrug and minor grimace as he fought back pain.

  “I’ll explain later, Case,” JJ said. “So what’s the plan? We have to do something.”

  “They’re herding passengers toward a large dining room. Three to six bogeys there,” Reeves said.

  “Number of innocents?” Gotta move, but this situation morphed in the blink of an eye from an assault on terrorist forces to a hostage situation.

  “Several hundred, best guess.”

  The Delta Force methodology for hostage situations—concurrent head shots for the hostage takers. No negotiations, no mercy. Position for the shots, execute. Tough to pull off with two of us. And JJ’s pistol lacked the required accuracy to help with blowing away three or more terrorists across a large dining area.

  Firing stopped. Whimpers and cries, low, from hallways. And a louder voice yelled, one deck below. It pronounced, preached, spewed jihadi gibberish. Had to be the dining area. I cocked my head and listened. JJ held up a finger. Reeves’s jawline tightened at the booming voice. Then it began. A single shot. Wails drifted from the below deck. Another single shot. Screams and cries rose.

  No time, gotta move. I turned and dashed. Reeves would follow, but lag behind. JJ likely on my heels, but I didn’t check. Gotta go, gotta fly. Get to the dining hall. And kill the bastards.

  Chapter 22

  I flew. Three stairs at a time. Pulled and loaded a fresh ammo magazine in the process. Through a door at the bottom of the flight. Another single shot and another. Screams rose, more cries, prayers. I dashed toward the sound. Another door opened on a lounge area. Fifty feet ahead and behind double swinging doors the shrieks and howls and pleas rose. Another shot. JJ pressed against my back, peeking inside with me.

  Four of them. The preaching terrorist delivered a single shot to the back of a prostrate passenger’s head. He continued his proclamations. An execution shot from another. Howls and pleas crescendoed. Death stalked within their midst and touched one at a time. A sharp crack and another back-of-the-head murder. Enough.

  “Stay here, JJ.”

  Before another shot fired and before Reeves could position, I stepped through the swinging door. Took quick aim and drove a bullet into the side of the closest one’s head. I swung on the next. He took a half-second and flicked his AK to full automatic fire. It cost him his life as I delivered a double tap to his chest. I moved, stalked, aimed toward the next.

  The third one also switched the selector lever on the AK to full automatic and now ripped shots at me. I blocked it all out—the angry high-whine of bullets zipping past me, the cries of passengers. I kept absolute focus as pumping blood rushed in my ears. Aim, squeeze twice. Double tap. Seek the next target.

  Fire continued toward me from the fourth and farthest one. I stopped my movement, acquired the target. He might hit me first as his AK spat a chain of hot lead. But the bastard was going down. At his back, across the cavernous room, a swinging door blew open. Reese’s weapon spoke twice and the final terrorist collapsed. As he fell and the AK clattered to the floor I put one through his head. To be sure.

  Reese and I scanned the immediate area, weapons shouldered. How he arrived there so fast, wounded, was beyond amazing.

  “Clear,” Reese said.

  “Clear.”

  And a third “clear” behind me. JJ.

  The passenger’s pleas and wails reduced volume. They were replaced with frantic murmurs, low crying, sobs. Heartbreaking looks as wild eyes questioned. I held no answers.

  “We’re the good guys,” Reese called across the room. “It’s okay. Everyone stay low until we’ve cleared the ship.”

  It was over. No gunshots, the ship now filled with eerie lamentations, echoing. I lowered my weapon.

  “Case.” JJ stood behind me. Both hands gripped the pistol. Concern and horror and a hard jaw-set painted her face. “We have to help the wounded.”

  “No wounded here. Dead or alive.” Brutal truth.

  She absorbed that reality. “Then other parts of the ship. We have to triage what we can.”

  The door behind her swung open. Three more operators—the cavalry—poured through, fingers on triggers. I lifted a chin their direction. They spread out.

  “Yeah. Yeah, good idea. Let’s go,” I said to JJ, then addressed a nearby operator. “We’ll go help the wounded.”

  “Wait five. Confirming this vessel secure.” The other operators would scour every inch of the ship, weapons ready. />
  “Roger that. You see my friend downtown? Former Delta, wild red hair?”

  “Not me. Heard you two were around. Check with the others.” He focused on communications coming through his earpiece and wandered off.

  “Unreal,” JJ said. She remained near me. Her body language said the adrenaline pump throttled back. “So, so unreal.”

  “You okay?”

  She scanned the room. The murdered passengers’ blood formed irregular patterns across the floor. Survivors sat, some stood, most cried and hugged with wild eyes toward the horrific scene surrounding them.

  “I’ll never be the same.”

  I could only nod back. Each warrior internalized carnage, dealt with it in their own way. I couldn’t shake the unreal element. Caribbean terrorists. ISIS. The largest attack on US soil since 9/11. Crazy. Absolute insanity. Answers lacked form, definition. Soul-ripping stuff, and now wasn’t time for contemplation. But the ache, the heart-rending pain for those who suffered and lost loved ones stacked the emotional deck and wouldn’t leave. I was unsure if I wanted it to. A marker sure and real—evil among us.

  Bo. Last I’d seen him he’d dashed toward a bistro filled with gunfire. I left the dining area to capture a cell signal. Through three sets of doors and onto the deck’s outdoor area. Below, vehicles poured into the parking area. Emergency personnel, volunteers, tourists who might lend a hand. The flip side of the coin. Good folks who stepped up and delivered compassion with the same acuity the terrorists delivered death. Oh man. The big universal “why” surfaced again and remained present, a backdrop painted large.

  My phone showed three texts and three missed calls from Jordan Pettis. All within the last thirty minutes. I called Bo. Nothing. Texted him. It irritated the fire out of me. He’d answer in his own sweet and peculiar time. If he was okay. I worried, and couldn’t help it. My blood brother.

  I checked the Pettis text messages. Pleas for my arrival at his place. An address in the first message, more urgent pleas in the two subsequent ones. As I checked the final text message the phone rang. Pettis. He weighed insignificant given my surroundings. I considered letting the call drop to voice mail but answered with the goal of putting a period at the end of our relationship.