Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  Bear had wanted to go with Creed, but the Tango chief wouldn’t permit that, demanding that Bear and Mary Lou stay aboard the pontoon boat—hostages to who knows what. Failure? Maybe success. Once the bomb was secured, he and Mary Lou could be fish food.

  Maybe not. Roy Creed and the other guys would still be out there. They were tougher customers than any of the Tangos. And Bear had a pistol in his belt as well. It was part of the plan. A shot from it was supposed to be the signal to execute the ambush.

  “We’ve got to move closer,” Bear said.

  “They will see us,” said the alleged Skouras.

  “By the time they do it will be too late.” Bear put the boat once again into forward gear and let the near-idle carry it forward.

  Cat and Westman positioned themselves at either side of the truck as Burt raised its bed to clear the ground, then walked backward with the huge vehicle as he proceeded in reverse, ready to call out if the wheels looked to slip into unmanageable terrain. Schilling inched the vehicle rearward, halting twice without their warning.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Just being careful.”

  He ground it into gear again, and crept on. The tires were digging channels in the earth, but the truck kept moving. Westman called out to Burt to stop.

  “We’re there?”

  “Close enough for government work.”

  Cat stiffened. “I hear boat engines again.”

  “Then let’s be quick.”

  The end of the truck bed came down, settling on the moist earth a foot from the bomb’s tail assembly. Westman placed the hook, holding the line taut until Burt had descended from the truck’s cab and activated the winch. It clanked and clattered. The line became taut, and then the bomb began to move, still digging into the ground, but then rising up onto the steel plating of the truck bed. With scrapes and screeches, it continued up the incline. Westman feared it might roll off to the side, but the line and cable held it straight.

  There’d be no such stability rounding highway curves.

  “We’ve got to tie it down,” Westman said.

  “Wait till I lift the truck bed into position.” Burt worked another lever. The truck bed began to straighten.

  Westman glanced over his shoulder in the direction Cat was looking. Of a sudden, out of the darkness, another pontoon boat emerged, heading straight for the stern of the one they’d stolen. Before either of them could move, there was the flash and bark of a gunshot. Then over to the right, the fireworks display of an automatic weapon. Then more.

  Chapter 35

  Cat flung herself to the ground at the first shot, pulling out her pistol as she pressed her head against the cool grass. Westman had done the same, but now raised his head and aimed his automatic to the right, where gunfire was coming in bursts. She could hear the bullets striking the truck. A slightly different sound indicated they were also hitting the bomb.

  Westman fired one round just as the gunfire on the right ceased. Cat thought she heard a sort of scream. Then there was yet more shooting, coming from farther down the shore. One bullet sang by just above her head.

  She’d spent time at rifle and pistol ranges going through officers’ boot camp, and she’d undergone a survival course that included a few sessions on the use of side arms in situations like this. But she was in no way prepared for this gun-fight. She was an F-14 shooter, firing air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles and precision-guided bombs. She had little idea what to do in this fix, except to keep low. One thing she had learned is that most people—especially nonmilitary—fired high. And with automatic weapons, the continuous recoils tended to throw the aim high and to the side.

  That Westman may have hit one of the intruders with a single shot at a gun flash utterly mystified her. She fired off one round into the darkness herself, but she might as well have thrown a rose petal. There was no muffled scream in response to her shot—only more shooting coming their way. Sparks were flying everywhere from the strikes against the truck and bomb. She was stung on her leg by a piece of hot metal as flying bits of dirt sprayed against her arm and cheek. Life had been reduced to seconds. With a painful turn of the neck, she looked back to Burt, and saw him climbing into the cab of the truck.

  “Go with him!” Westman said. “I’ll give you covering fire!”

  “What about you?”

  “Give me your gun. I haven’t enough ammo. But get in the truck. You and Burt, get out of here! Get the bomb away from them!”

  “Erik …”

  “I’ll get scarce—real soon. Now go, Cat, please. Now!”

  He might as well have said those were “orders.” You don’t question orders under fire. Warrant officer or no, he was tactical commander in the field. Still, she hesitated.

  “Erik, where will I find you?”

  “If you make it, go to your house. I’ll meet you. Now go! Damn it, he’s waiting for you!”

  She slid Westman her pistol, then rolled and rolled again, finally crawling to the other side of the truck and making a lunge for the passenger-side door, opening it with a wild, banging swing. Burt reached to take her arm and pull her in.

  With that door still hanging open, Schilling shoved the truck into gear and churned away, throwing up a spray of mud clots. The wheels spun helplessly, then found purchase. The truck lurched forward with a jerk, and began rolling.

  Despite the continuing fire, Cat raised her head enough to look for Westman through the rear window. He had disappeared.

  Erik crawled onto the ruined bow of the pontoon boat they had used, moving to where he was shielded by the seats and then on to the stern, satisfied at least that Schilling had gotten the truck away. Westman assumed Cat had gotten aboard unharmed. He would not allow himself to think anything else.

  He turned his attention to the pontoon boat that had come up behind theirs, using the outboard engine cowling for cover. He found an argument in progress on the other craft. A burly, bearded figure he recognized as the salvage-tug captain had risen from the control console to face a smaller, thinner man who was shouting at him in some strange language. Another man, stockier, rose as well. A woman, in one of the side seats, ducked down.

  Turko realized the moment of termination had come. He would not have an opportunity like this again. Pec could not be allowed to proceed any further. Whatever his instructions, Turko now had to act upon his instinct. And he had to do what was right.

  The big tugboat captain’s eyes were fully on Pec, but Turko could see that they were taking in much more as he lifted his own pistol and aimed it at Pec’s head just behind his ear, the angle one that would send the exiting bullet into clear air.

  Erik heard two gunshots. He was amazed to realize they were not fired at him. The smaller man went down, much like a marionette with its strings cut. Then, to Westman’s further surprise, the two other men and the girl leapt into the water, heading for the darker marsh shore.

  Westman swung himself onto the second boat, hoping to find more weapons. The small man, now dead, had dropped an automatic pistol. There was also what looked to be an AK-47 on the deck behind him. Sticking the handgun in his belt next to the one Cat had left him, Westman picked up the automatic rifle, moved to the rear of the boat, and waited. In short time, a PWC came sputtering up through shallow water, a large man in the seat.

  In La Perla, in Puerto Rico, mindful of children playing in the street, Westman had hesitated too long when a druggie had charged his partner with an automatic weapon. The officer probably would have been killed if another task force member hadn’t dropped the man with a burst from her own CQB automatic pistol.

  Her name was Joan dePayse. Her fusillade killed the attacker.

  Westman fired two quick shots at the man on the PWC. One hit the handlebars of the craft. The second hit the miscreant in the chest. He fell backward, the waterborne motorcycle spinning to the left and capsizing.

  Erik heard another of the infernal machines coming, and one behind that. His training guided his movements. He quickly c
rawled back to the bow of the boat, taking the AK-47 with him.

  The new intruder took one look at the capsized PWC and began firing, starting at the stern of the pontoon boat. Westman dropped him with a burst from the AK-47, then rolled off the deck into the water, wondering how much he had improved his odds.

  The other PWC stopped. Westman heard a splash. This new adversary was smart, and not about to make himself an easy target. Westman kept his eyes fixed in that direction, but turned slightly to the side to pick up any movement with the periphery of his retina—the seat of night vision.

  More automatic-weapons fire came from behind Erik, aimed too high but taking him by surprise. He plunged forward, diving into the underwater marsh grass. Another burst followed, better directed. A third firearm joined this chorus, three single shots fired in quick succession—these coming from his side. He was caught in a triangle of enemies.

  Westman raised his head for a quick breath, then went underwater again, this time heading back in the direction from which he had come.

  Schilling swerved the truck right, onto the airport access road.

  “Careful, Burt! The damn bomb almost rolled off the truck!” She was kneeling on the seat, looking out the rear window. Schilling had given her his gun and she gripped it tightly.

  “Careful later. We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “They don’t have a vehicle, Burt. They came by boat.”

  “They might steal one of those in the parking lot. We’ve got to move.”

  He drove bent low over the wheel. He’d not turned on the headlights, and was having trouble making out the road. Approaching the ninety-degree turn toward the highway, the truck slid off onto the grass, skidding, the bomb rolling this time to the right.

  “Careful, damn it!”

  All at once the shadowy tree line ahead was illuminated with flashes of gunfire. There were at least two shooters. Bullets thumped against the hood. Then the windshield exploded into a million pieces, several of them slashing across Cat’s bare leg and arm.

  She shoved herself down onto the floorboard, ignoring the stabs of pain. Head down, Burt spun the wheel, bouncing the truck across the roadway and onto the grass on the other side. Insanely, Cat leaned out the side window and fired two shots at their attackers.

  “The damn bastards are everywhere!” she said.

  Burt yanked the wheel again, trying to zigzag. It was pointless. The truck was too slow.

  The rear window vanished. A shard cut Cat’s arm again. She put her hand to the wound and it came away sticky with blood.

  “Where are you going?!!” she screamed.

  “Other side of the airport. Maybe there’s another way out to the highway.”

  “There isn’t. There’s a golf course, but there’s a creek in the way. And a fence. These sons of bitches may be there too.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “It’s not okay. We’re going to have to ditch this fucking rig and run for it.”

  “No. Then they’ll get the bomb.”

  There were loud sprangs of bullets hitting the truck frame.

  “They’ll get it fast enough if we get killed,” she said. “Where the hell are the cops? All this noise. They ought to be here.”

  “I’m going to head for those C-130’s. There have to be guards. Maybe they can help us.”

  “More likely they’ll shoot us.”

  “Our only chance, Cat.”

  Her mind went to Westman, all alone in the muck, an untold number of bad guys trying to kill him. She wanted to scream. How had she let this happen? She felt as out of control as she had been careening in a Tomcat toward a ramp strike on the stern of the Lincoln.

  The truck bumped up onto asphalt again. Schilling shifted into higher gear, heading for an opening between two hangars.

  Westman plunged on underwater, swimming for the protection of the pontoon boats, maddened by the illogic of his pursuers’ acute awareness of his location. Perhaps they were guessing, but all their bullets were coming close. Increasingly close. He was barely able to put his head above water.

  Reaching the boat with a touch of hand against steel pontoon, he rose to take a quick breath of air. A moment later, there was more gunfire. It then became incessant, from several directions, tearing apart the boat’s canopy and shattering a length of rail. Westman tried for the stern, but someone on the shore sent two rounds that way.

  Underwater again. Abandoning the AK-47, he clung to the bottom muck, propelling himself forward with hands and feet, squeezing under the pontoon and proceeding to the next. His lungs were hurting but he willed himself to keep on, once again pressing his body between the steel and the mud. His belt caught as he started to emerge on the other side and he almost panicked, which would have meant taking in mouthfuls of water and drowning just a few inches from air.

  Concentrating hard on survival, he reached back and pulled his belt off the obstruction. Another push and he was free. His head came up into the cool air. He gasped loudly several times, then calmed himself and turned toward his foe.

  Roaring along the taxiway, with the airport buildings screening them from gunfire, Burt turned on the truck’s headlights, wanting better to see what lay ahead of them. The two big cargo planes at the far end were sideways to him, the one mostly masking the other. There was movement beneath one wing—doubtless a guard. Burt could only hope he wasn’t lining up a shot.

  In case that was what the National Guardsman had in mind, Burt began swerving the truck from one side of the taxiway to the other. He could hear the bomb rolling on the steel bed behind him, but took to turning to the other side just as it sounded about to fall off.

  The soldier had gotten behind some equipment piled on the tarmac. Burt realized now that his speed and evasive action must seem threatening. He slowed, and ceased his frantic lurching from side to side.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Can’t believe what?”

  “The back end of that 130 is open. They’ve got the ramp down.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “This truck’ll fit in there. You can put a Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle in one of those.”

  Cat stared through the shattered windshield. “You want to hide the bomb inside that plane? Those bastards will be all over us in a few minutes. They know where we went.”

  “Not hide it. Fly it.”

  She looked at him hard. “You’re crazy.”

  “No other way out, Cat. Your friend bought us some time. We’ve got to use it.”

  They were almost to the planes. The National Guardsman was standing up behind the equipment pile, an M-16 aimed at them.

  “He isn’t going to let us,” she said.

  Burt stopped the truck. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “No. I will.” She snapped open the door and jumped out, landing painfully. There was blood all over her leg.

  Putting her pistol into the back of her shorts, she came around the truck and approached the soldier with arms held away from her sides.

  “Halt!” The voice was strangely high.

  “Lieutenant Catherine McGrath, U.S. Navy. This airport is under terrorist attack. We need your help.”

  “U.S. Navy?”

  “I have identification.” They had asked her to turn in her military ID when she was discharged, but she’d lied and said she’d lost it. Giving it up would have seemed a final surrender. She reached slowly for her wallet and pulled the laminated card from it. The Guardsman did not shoot.

  “Come closer,” the Guardsman commanded.

  Cat did so, slowly, holding up the ID card as she advanced like some magic talisman.

  “Stop there.” Cat halted. “Set it down on the ground and step back.” Cat obeyed.

  The Guardsman came around the pile of equipment and into the lights of the truck, revealing herself to be female. Holding the M-16 with her right hand, she knelt to pick up the card, examining it as carefully as the poor illumination and her pronounced nervou
sness permitted.

  Cat realized that, then and there, she had just thrown away whatever chance she might have had for a resumption of her Naval career. The National Guard lady had it all—name, rank, and serial number.

  There was still gunfire coming from the bay, sounding louder—and maybe nearer.

  “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  “Are you alone?” Cat asked.

  The question spooked the young woman. Still clutching the ID card, she moved backward, glancing from Cat to the flashes of light along the shore. Cat took the continued shooting as a hopeful sign. Westman might still be alive, though she could not imagine how that could be.

  “Got another airman with me. He went over to see what the gunfire was about. He told me to stay here.”

  “He won’t like what he finds,” Cat said. “Do you have a two-way?”

  “I just called him, but he won’t answer.” Her nervousness was very evident now.

  “What about your CP? Your relief? Your chain of command?”

  “We’re set up in Bethany Beach—at a National Guard compound.”

  Cat was running out of patience. “Didn’t you call them?”

  “My buddy did. He said they were on the way.”

  Cat calculated the time it would take for them to reach this place—tempted by the possibility that they might hold off these fiends until rescued by the cavalry in the form of a bunch of Air National Guardsmen.

  It was far more time than she figured they were going to have. Now Burt, apparently run dry on patience, complicated matters by shifting into first and driving the flatbed past them, turning to go around the rear of the first Hercules.

  “Where’s he going?” the female airman asked, really afraid now.

  “To get the truck out of sight. I told you. This is what the terrorists are after.”

  “What kind of terrorists?”

  “The kind with guns—as you can plainly hear.”

  They both watched the shoreline. Cat then heard shouting back among the airport buildings. She could only hope it was the good guys.