The Sea Rats

by David Leadbeater

  “North is right,” Kenzie said.

  Dahl knew and nodded. They were seconds from the assumed HQ of Salene. Dahl could hear harsh shouts coming from somewhere ahead, shouts that were increasing in volume and number. Whatever element of surprise they had gained with the HAHO jump was quickly evaporating.

  He pushed out of the door into a flow of human traffic. Oddly, he was in a wide corridor, still covered by the metal sheeting. People hurried in both directions, women carrying their children, men lugging supplies and looking harassed, youths running both north and south. None carried weapons and all looked tired, scared and stressed.

  When they saw the soldiers, they cowered away.

  “Watch my back,” Dahl said, knowing enemy soldiers might be among them. “Once we pass, they might open fire.”

  They all knew the odds were good that at least one of these people was either carrying weapons or were Salene’s soldiers, pretending to be civilians. Dahl started to run up a long slope, heading for the top of the hill’s incline, an exposed block wall to both sides, eight feet apart.

  More people crowded toward him. Doors stood to both sides of the passage, just five or six feet apart. Those he glanced through revealed living quarters in various states of disarray. The air smelled of sweat and sewage. Dahl couldn’t imagine spending an hour here, let alone years. He reached the top of the corridor, coming to a junction with offshoots to right and left. The ground was uneven, comprised of dirt and rock. He breathed easily, feeling sweat dripping down his face.

  Without hesitation, Dahl darted right. More people were up ahead, shrinking away or falling to their knees. Less than two minutes had passed since they gained entry. Still no guards had been encountered.

  Dahl saw the potential for total mayhem and slaughter down here. There were so many civilians, so many people dependent on whatever industries this tin-shack town provided. Dahl imagined there were many. He’d seen boats at the dock proving some were legal fishermen, but the rest . . .?

  People flooded down the slope ahead. They were blocking the corridor. Dahl guessed they had been sent down purposely to slow the soldiers. He waved his arms at them, parting them as they came at him, putting the gun barrel first.

  It worked. They flowed around him like the parting of the red sea. Hayden and Kinimaka, at the back, reported that all was well. Dahl saw no weapons in the hands of the runners; to be fair most of them were women and children.

  He wondered if they were packing drugs somewhere up ahead.

  The crowd of people began to thin out.

  And then Dahl saw what awaited them.

  “Spread out!” he cried, “and get down!”

  Their war had begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Dahl found himself faced by a row of heavily armed, dark-skinned young men wearing old T-shirts and shorts. They all carried guns. Some squinted down their sights; others held their weapons at varying angles. Most had fixed sneers on their faces.

  “You fucked up!” one cried.

  “You all gonna die!” another mocked.

  Dahl didn’t wait for them. He loosed the HK, spraying bullets into the line of men. Behind him, Molokai dropped and fired too, adding his firepower. The men buckled, some of them shooting bullets as they fell. Lead stitched a path across the ceiling, shedding the corrugated metal. Legs collapsed and bones broke. Blood flew everywhere. Dahl and his team were on their knees and stomachs, firing on auto but shooting with precision, every quick burst making casualties of their enemies.

  It didn’t take long to exterminate the entire ragged line of men. Dahl was soon up and running, keeping the HK trained on the dying men. If one reached for a weapon, Dahl or Molokai shot him through the head. When they reached the groaning men, they kicked the discarded weapons out of reach.

  “Where’s Salene?” Kinimaka asked.

  The pirate spat at him.

  Hayden shot him through the head.

  Kinimaka turned to the next man. “Where’s Salene?”

  More discord. Hayden pressed her Glock to the man’s temple. “Three seconds.”

  It only took one. The bloodied pirate waved a hand down the corridor, pointing to the third door they could see. Dahl was already moving. In five strides he was at the door. A quick peek in revealed a large, rectangular room, almost a warehouse, packed out with long tables that held small, see-through packets and weighing scales. This was where the drugs were packed. All the tables were in disarray, packets and bowls of white powder scattered everywhere.

  Dahl saw men and women stripped to their underwear cowering at the sides of the room and under the tables. He saw a group of men standing near the center, weapons drawn.

  When they saw him they started shouting and opened fire.

  Dahl flung himself to the floor as bullets flew through the open door, smashing into the blockwork that was the walls, tearing chunks off all around. He was sprayed by rubble. The sound of gunfire was deafening.

  “Grenade?” Kinimaka asked.

  Dahl waved him away. “Flash-bang,” he said, reaching around inside his Kevlar vest for the correct weapon.

  The Swede unclipped the grenade, an M84 disorientation weapon, for use in hostage rescue and crowd control situations. Dahl gripped the perforated tube and pulled the safety pin, then launched it into the center of the room. Instantly, he pressed his hands over his ears. There was a loud bang followed by screaming.

  Dahl peered into the room. It was chaos. The civilians were either lying on the floor or sitting on their knees. The pirates were crawling with their hands held over their ears, most still clutching their guns. Dahl leapt inside, knowing it was merely a drug-packing room, but always aware of what might happen.

  “We can’t leave them at our backs,” he said.

  “No, and we can’t risk them hurting the civilians,” Hayden agreed.

  Dahl fired without mercy, Molokai at his side. This was a kill or die mission, with the lives of almost 200 ship passengers at stake, not to mention the civilians in this place who may or may not have been coerced.

  Once through the room, another door opened into another corridor. This one was shorter and narrower. They started up, sensing by the angle of the slope that they were nearing the top of the hill. Doors to left and right burst open. Men carrying knives and HKs burst out. Some firing, some slashing.

  Dahl let go of his gun in the close-quarters, letting it hang loose by the strap attached to his wrist. He grabbed a man under the arms, twisted and heaved him into the far block wall. The man hit with the back of his neck, cracking it and falling limply. Dahl wasn’t done, swiping up with the butt of his gun, using it like a club on the next man’s face. He broke a cheekbone and bloodied an eye, saw men fall screaming, and kneed another in the face. Behind, he could hear his teammates doing the same.

  Ahead, more opponents burst into the corridor. Many looked disheveled and surprised, as if they’d just woken up. Dahl hit them hard, and before they could react, knocking men this way and that against the wall like bowling pins. Molokai followed him up. Kenzie fired at the fallen men, every bullet a shot to the head, ending their pain quickly. Most of these men, Dahl saw, had dried blood on their hands and filthy skin. They led a hard, hopeless life down here. Being sent out onto the high seas to seize a ship was probably seen as a vacation to them.

  He moved on. Men still crowded ahead, too close to shoot without the chance of hitting civilians cowering close to the walls. Dahl grabbed the gun arm of one man and forced it downward, breaking it before hauling him aside. He stepped into the next attack, making crucial but limited progress along the corridor.

  “Designed to slow us down,” Hayden said.

  “Salene’s legging it,” Dahl agreed.

  Once more, they burst out of the crowd into an empty passage. This one led across the top of the hill, since it was on level ground. Dahl burst through door after door, coming finally to a room which surely belonged to Salene.

  The floor was level and carpet
ed, appearing to have a concrete foundation. The walls were boarded and then plastered. Paintings and photographs hung in rows, bearing the all manner of images, from old fashioned sailing ships to shotguns, movie stars and landscapes. The room was about thirty by thirty feet, the far side curtained off. A bed could be seen on the other side of the curtain.

  And an air conditioner churned a beautiful, cool breeze straight into Dahl’s sweat-covered face.

  “Salene treats himself well,” Kenzie said.

  “I’m disliking this man more and more,” Molokai said, removing a scarf from around his neck to mop his brow.

  Hayden ran ahead now. “Look for a bolthole.”

  Dahl hurried over to a desk that dominated the entire room. It was dark oak with brass ornamental edging. There was no laptop but there was a space, amid clutter, where one would have fitted nicely. He pushed sheets of paper and notepads aside and then thought better, folding and wrapping it up and shoving the whole lot into his pack. There might be a wealth of information here.

  There was a noise at the door. Dahl looked up, finger poised on the trigger. A woman popped her head into the room and then ran screaming. Dahl continued checking out the desk. Opening drawers, he found two handguns, spare mags, a knife, a thick holiday brochure for cruises around the Bahamas, a box of burner cellphones and dozens of other unrelated items. He shuffled them around with a gloved hand.

  “I think he took everything that might be current,” the Swede reported. “Doesn’t appear to be anything relating to the Rabot or Volkov here.”

  “Get after him.” For the first time, they received a communication from the USS Bainbridge. “We have the drones up. Garfield and his Strike Force team are holding an outer perimeter. The drones are seeing men running on the roofs and between buildings. Dozens. You’re wasting time in there.”

  Dahl cursed. Salene was making good his escape. Whilst they searched for a hidden tunnel, he was bolting along a far more direct route.

  “Heading?” Hayden asked.

  “The dock.”

  Dahl gave a shout and turned, angling for the door. He checked his compass. They needed to find a passage that led due south, or downhill at any rate, to catch their quarry. Once out of Salene’s room they headed east, moving at a quick but careful pace. There were no more civilians now, just empty passages illuminated by a chain of lights attached to the corrugated ceiling. It wasn’t pretty but it served a purpose.

  Dahl ran, switching between passageways, pausing to check rooms they passed by. Most were empty. Some, incredibly, held sleeping civilians or pirates. Men and women hid or cowered in others. Two rooms yielded attacks—one man came at Dahl with a machete, the sight of him stunning the Swede at first. Within a second, though, he swung the HK around and fired into his attacker’s gut. The figure collapsed into Dahl, pulling the Swede down with him. Molokai dragged him off.

  Then they were heading down at a sharp angle. Dahl spotted a tripwire tied to a hand grenade and let Molokai defuse it. At the same time Hayden felled two men who attacked from a nearby room, her shots sending them sprawling, broken and bloodied across the passage.

  Dahl paused at the next junction, looking downhill and then upward at the ceiling. “I think it’s time to part ways,” he said.

  “I’m with you,” Kenzie said.

  “We’ll take the high road.” He nodded at Hayden.

  “See you at the other end.” She ejected a mag, reloaded and ran.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Drake approached the glaring, sweating pirates, arms spread as wide as they would go. He moved carefully, wanting to remain as unthreatening as possible until he got up close to the nearest wanker.

  All the way he was counting down the minutes.

  There were seven pirates now, all staring at him. Three had been hurting passengers in different ways. One had an older couple trapped against the big windows and was kicking them in the side and stomach, having a great time judging by the wide, sick grin plastered across his evil-looking face. A second was strangling a fellow with gray hair, whilst a third was smashing the butt of his rifle across the head of a young, now-bloodied man who had risen up in protest. The four remaining pirates were all grinning but with a manic glare in their eyes.

  They needed Volkov. The tension in the air, in their bodies, attested that they really needed him. But that didn’t get in the way of their good time.

  Time was up for the pirates, which meant it was up for the passengers too. Drake was calm, knowing that his friends would be tracking his movements and moving into their positions.

  “Volkov!” the pirate strangling the man by the window screamed. “Where are you? Come forward, now!”

  When nobody rose or spoke, the pirate flung his captive against a window and watched him slump to the ground.

  “I will beat him to death,” the pirate growled and sneered. “And you will all watch. And then you will give me Volkov!”

  “Who the fuck is Volkov?” a man cried out, desperation in his voice. “Nobody here knows what you mean.”

  Drake saw the passengers shifting with anxiety, the mood changing. He wasn’t helping it, confronting the madmen with the guns. There was a terrible despair in the air now as the hostages realized what was going to happen to them. That kind of anguish affected different people in different ways and Drake guessed at least 20 percent of these men and women were about to risk it all.

  “Hey,” he said to the pirate kicking his captive. “Stop hurting those OAPs and come kick me instead.”

  The man glared. Drake nicknamed him Gogh because it appeared that at least one of his ears had been chewed off. The remaining flesh was a ragged, fleshy stump. Gogh pulled away from the old couple and stepped toward Drake, gun raised.

  “On your knees.”

  Drake still had his arms spread wide. Two pirates were closing in on him. That left five more scattered around the room. A quick glance showed Luther shuffling toward one, Alicia behind two more and Mai waiting behind another. That left a lone pirate in the bar area with nobody close to him. It would take speed and proficiency to take him out before he opened fire.

  It was risky.

  But what wasn’t in a hostage situation? No one could predict every outcome. Much of what happened was down to chance and varying reactions. The last thing he wanted was passenger casualties, but if they didn’t act now, these men were ready to kill. The couple who’d been subject to the beating hadn’t moved since Gogh stopped hitting them.

  “I think you should calm down,” Drake said, close to his target pirates. “I think nobody except this Volkov character knows who he is.”

  Instantly, a light entered their eyes. “You know?”

  Drake sighed and shrugged. “That’s not what I said.” He strove to remember he was dealing with men that lacked much of the concept of reason. “I don’t know him.”

  “I think he knows,” Gogh said.

  “Beat it out of him,” the other—a man Drake named Olive because he was as thin as a rake and reminded him of Olive Oyl—grunted with a hateful leer.

  Drake stood there as both men appraised him. He tried hard not to look like a soldier, not to give them a hard stare, but where these men lacked reason and humanity, they had been around fighting men their entire lives. They saw something in him.

  Gogh leveled his gun and stepped back. “Get down on your knees.”

  Drake was buying time, buying it by the bucketload, but he was backing himself into a corner with no way out. And when he was dead the pirates would just switch their attention back to the passengers.

  Gogh fired. The bullet passed two inches above Drake’s right shoulder and through a glass display cabinet behind him, shattering it. The noise brought screams from men, women and children alike. Drake remained still as he felt the cabinet crash to the deck, making it shudder.

  “You’re no civilian.” Gogh squinted at him. “You didn’t even flinch.”

  It was clear, and Drake berated himself. But, when
you were a Yorkshireman, it was hard to fold into a quivering heap at the sight of danger. He spotted two more pirates shifting position, easing around behind him. They weren’t particularly subtle around it, but they were putting Luther and Mai out of position.

  Four weapons were trained on him.

  “He a cop?” a pirate ventured.

  “Cop on vacation,” another sneered. “Thinks he can take us all. Let’s take him for a dive.”

  Drake hadn’t moved. “I’m not a cop, just a concerned citizen trying to help. This Volkov you keep shouting about—you have to see that 99 percent of the people aboard this boat couldn’t possibly know him.”

  “Shut your mouth, cop.” Gogh grinned at his friends. “You guys up for a bit of well-deserved fun?”

  “I’m not a cop,” Drake reiterated.

  “Army?” The one Alicia named Pigswill came dangerously close. “Here with your bitch?”

  He gazed around Drake, clearly looking for and hoping to find a female partner of some sort, somebody he could further terrorize.

  “I am just a man, but a Yorkshireman.”

  That made them squint in confusion. Gogh and Olive glanced at each other. Drake heard the shuffle of feet close to his back.

  “What’s a Yorkshireman?” Pigswill asked.

  Drake shrugged. “Take Captain America. Mix him with the Hulk and a bit of Danny Ocean, the guy George Clooney played. Add a glaze of the best of Sean Bean and there you have it.”

  Pigswill shook his head, clearly stumped, and turned to his colleagues. “Let’s blow the fucker’s head off.”

  “Here?” Gogh asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, over all the hostages. That should loosen their tongues a bit.”

  “I have a better idea.” Olive stepped forward, his long legs and arms reminding Drake of a praying mantis, especially when he came close and craned his neck down to glare into Drake’s face. “Grab him.”