Fury in the Gulf (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 1)

by Peter Nealen

  He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form the words, the final battlecry of a warrior of Allah. But he tried, though it came out as a ghastly, gurgling hiss, and his first attempt to lift his rifle resulted in little more than a twitch.

  The figures were coming closer, moving slowly and carefully. He didn’t know why the machinegunners on the boats hadn’t killed them yet. He concentrated on putting every last ounce of strength he had into lifting his rifle. He would die a martyr, die killing the infidels, as was pleasing to Allah…

  ***

  Brannigan, with Curtis beside him, was moving slowly and carefully toward the beach, his rifle in his shoulder and trained on the spot where the second boat should be. He knew he’d gotten lucky, killing that first machinegunner with the first shot. He didn’t intend to give the second one the time that the first one had gotten.

  The wave of attacking Iranians were down on the sand, a few still moving feebly, groaning as the blood pumped out of them and into the dirt. They had been mangled and pulped by blast and fragments. None of them had long to live. And Brannigan wasn’t going to risk any of his men trying to care for them.

  The boat came into view. It was a good deal farther away than he’d expected. And its stern was to them, motoring away to the west. The assault broken, the last survivors must have decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

  Brannigan’s aching eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected that of Qods Force. He’d expected them to die fighting. But he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

  As he neared the beach, he saw a man lying on the sand, apparently knocked off the lip of rock by the grenade blasts. He’d taken a fragment to the head; his face was a mask of blood, and one eye was simply gone, a mass of gore. From the slowly spreading crimson blots on his khakis, he’d taken frag in a few other places, too.

  He spat blood, and struggled to bring his rifle up. Brannigan put the red dot on the man’s forehead, but hesitated, unwilling to simply shoot a man so badly wounded and obviously helpless.

  In that moment, he thought he recognized the face, even through all the blood and gore. The beard, the hawk-like nose, the feverish gleam in the one remaining eye, which was now fixed on him with a burning hatred that would have scorched him to ash if a look was capable of doing so. This was the commander, the Iranian who had ordered the execution of Trevor Ulrich.

  Brannigan thought he understood why the last boat had run away.

  Suddenly, with a scream, the Iranian wrenched the rifle up off the strand, pointing it with one shaking hand.

  And Brannigan shot him through the bridge of the nose from twenty feet away. The Type 03 barked, the Iranian’s head snapped back as the 5.56 round blasted a hole through his brain, and his own rifle clattered to the ground.

  CHAPTER 20

  The first patrol boat was starting to back water, pulling away from the shore, the engine chugging as the water of the Gulf churned around its stern. Brannigan turned from the Iranian commander’s corpse, his rifle pointed at the fleeing boat.

  The idea came suddenly. “Get to the boats and get ‘em in the water!” he snapped.

  “We haven’t got the fuel to go very far,” Hancock said, as he ran past Brannigan to jump into one of the boats. Fortunately, they all appeared to have been sufficiently sheltered from the grenade blasts that they were all still inflated.

  “No, we don’t,” Brannigan answered with a grunt, as he started to push the boat off the beach. “But I bet that one does.” He pointed at the patrol boat, that was starting to swing around. “And I’d be willing to bet that there are only a couple of ‘em still aboard.”

  It was going to be tight; the patrol boat was almost pointed back north again, and it was starting to pick up speed by the time the mercenaries were all aboard the boats and setting out to try to intercept it. The patrol boat’s diesels were considerably more powerful than the outboards, even if they’d had plenty of fuel. If it got any kind of a serious lead on them, they’d never catch it.

  But the man at the helm was either inexperienced or panicking. Or both. He overcorrected, almost ran the boat aground again, and lost most of his speed trying to turn back and avoid the rocks. In that time, the rubber boats, by then running on fumes, raced to catch up.

  Brannigan stayed crouched in the bow, his rifle trained on the retreating patrol craft as best he could, fighting the bouncing of the bow slapping against the waves. So far, no one had tried to get at the M2 on the bow mount, but he wanted to at least get some fire on them as soon as anyone popped out of the cabin.

  Then Hancock was pulling them alongside the nearly-stalled patrol boat, using the thrust from the outboard to press the gunwale against the hull. They had scant seconds; the growl of the patrol boat’s diesels was growing louder as the helmsman tried to escape.

  Brannigan stood up, carefully balancing against the rocking of the boat and the head rush that threatened to make him black out. He hadn’t realized just how dehydrated he’d gotten from the night’s fighting. He shook it off; he could pass out later.

  Slinging the Type 03 on his back, he drew his Makarov, reached up, and grabbed the patrol boat’s rail with one hand, hooking his gun hand over with his wrist. The wet metal threatened to slide through his palm as the engines surged, but he clamped down and pulled himself up. His sodden boots slipped and skittered on the hull for a moment, and then he was up, one boot on the gunwale, the other already swinging over the rail and onto the deck.

  Childress and Flanagan were boarding on the other side, similarly armed with pistols. They were all nearly out of rifle ammunition, and the Makarovs would be easier to manipulate in the close quarters of the boat, anyway.

  Flanagan had beaten Brannigan onto the deck by a split second, and was already moving to the hatch on the starboard side of the pilothouse. Through the portholes, the Iranian helmsman could be clearly seen, trying not to look at the armed men swarming aboard his boat, shoving at throttles already pushed to the stops.

  Flanagan wrenched the hatch open, and pointed his Makarov at the Iranian’s head. Over the rumble of the engines, Brannigan could just hear him demand the man put his hands in the air.

  Getting no response, Flanagan stepped into the pilothouse and screwed the pistol’s muzzle into the Iranian’s ear.

  The Iranian moved quickly, ducking his head back and slapping at the hand holding the pistol. He’d had some hand-to-hand training, and though it might be a surprise to some, it is actually possible to slap a pistol away from your head before the trigger can be pulled. The pistol went wide, barking out a shot that punched through the Plexiglas porthole just before the Iranian tried to grab it with both hands.

  Flanagan moved faster, though. A knee came up and slammed the Iranian against the side of the console, driving the wind out of him. As the man folded, Flanagan aimed an elbow at his head. He ducked under most of the blow, which skipped off the back of his skull. From there, the Iranian lunged at Flanagan, trying to take him down in a tackle. But even as they crashed backward, hitting the edge of the open hatch, Flanagan brought the Makarov crashing down on the base of his opponent’s skull.

  The Iranian went out like a light, and crumpled to the deck.

  All of that had happened in mere seconds. Brannigan, seeing that the pilothouse was under control, turned toward the rear hatch that led down into the hull, where the engine spaces and what meager crew quarters there were on the fifty-foot boat were located.

  He yanked the hatch open, even as Childress joined him and Aziz swung over the rail. Pointing his pistol down the short ladderwell, he peered into the relative darkness of the hull, even as he bladed off from the hatchway, staying out of the line of fire.

  But no gunfire roared out of the lower spaces, and he saw no movement. If there was anyone down there, they were keeping their heads down. He’d have to go in after them.

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged down the steps.

  There was a small crew lounge and sleeping area at the
base of the steps. As was to be expected from a fifty-foot patrol boat, it was Spartan, at best. It was also empty. There were no signs of any extended crew residence; Brannigan suspected that the boats had been tied up in the harbor for most of the Iranian occupation.

  That left the engine spaces, aft. And even as small as that boat was, clearing a holdout down there could be tricky. He hooked around the base of the ladderwell, ducking his head down to avoid peeling the top of his skull off on the overhead, and leveled the Makarov back toward the diesels.

  The engine compartment was empty. The diesels were running, but no one was tending them. The helmsman had been the last man on the boat.

  It made sense, if he thought about it. The Iranian commander wouldn’t have taken the time to round up an actual crew for the patrol boats; he would have piled his own men aboard them, for the sole purpose of hunting down the mercenaries and the hostages. Most of the soldiers had died on the beach.

  He started back up the ladder, and had to wait for Childress to get out of the way. Once he was back up on deck, he went to the rail. The rubber boats had fallen back, but were catching up again since Flanagan had throttled back. “Well, we’ve got a boat,” he said to Hancock. “Start bringing the hostages and the prisoners aboard. It’ll be cramped, but we can tow the dinghies if we have to.”

  Hancock gave him a quick thumbs-up, and turned back toward shore.

  ***

  “It’s not going to be comfortable,” Brannigan told Ortiz, “but it’ll get us farther than the rubber boats, since our ‘partners’ bugged out on us.” He rubbed eyes gone gritty and sore. “I don’t know if we’ve got the legs to get all the way to Abu Dhabi, though, not overloaded as we are.” The compartment below was jam-packed, and the upper deck was just as covered with bodies. The dead Iranian who had still been lying beneath the .50 in the bow had been heaved overboard, along with the man who had been on the wheel, and Santelli was now manning the heavy gun. Curtis had protested, but Santelli had overruled him.

  Flanagan had just smirked, which had sent the shorter man into another tirade.

  Brannigan had been glad to hear it. As long as the men, particularly those two, were still bickering, they still had it together enough to survive. And after what they’d already been through, why wouldn’t they?

  He knew the answer to that question. Even as they continued their verbal sparring, there was a brittleness to the high spirits. The sun was up, it was getting hot, they were almost out of ammo, and they were still in Khadarkhi waters. They were not out of the woods yet.

  “This thing doesn’t have to get us to Abu Dhabi,” Ortiz said, his voice hoarse with pain. “It just has to get us to the harbor.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Captain,” Brannigan said.

  “My ship should still be docked,” Ortiz argued. “And I’m pretty sure they were more interested in us than in the ship. Any authorities are either dead or scattered; the Iranians killed everyone in the Khadarkhi Army when they took over, and the Army was the police force. With the Iranians all or mostly dead, we should be able to sail out without anyone even trying to stop us.”

  Brannigan grimaced. “I’m not entirely sure it’s going to be that easy, but you’ve got a point,” he conceded. He looked Ortiz in the eye. “Are you going to be up to it? You’ve got an extra hole in you.”

  Ortiz winced. “I don’t have to do that much. Most of my crew’s still able-bodied enough. That’s what a ship’s got a crew for, anyway.”

  Brannigan nodded. “Well, I’ll admit I don’t have any better ideas at the moment,” he admitted. He rapped on the hatch to the wheelhouse. “Head for the harbor.”

  ***

  The harbor seemed dead. Gulls circled overhead, but there was no activity on or near any of the ships at anchor or docked to the piers. It was as if the island was in shock after the events of the previous night. The pall of smoke from the destroyed missiles was still hanging over the city and the Citadel, blotting out a good fraction of the sunlight. It was still getting miserably hot despite it.

  “How the hell are we going to board?” Curtis asked. “I don’t see any ladders on the side of the ship.” The Oceana Metropolis was looming above their heads, its red and blue hull looking like a steel cliff. An unclimbable steel cliff, without handholds or footholds.

  Ortiz pointed. “Simple. We go to the quays where the smaller ships and boats are docked, and get off there, then walk to the gangplank.”

  “Easy day,” Flanagan called from the wheel. “It’s only a few hundred yards, so even your short legs shouldn’t have a problem, Kev.”

  “Shut up,” Curtis replied.

  It didn’t take long to get the boat snugged up to a quay and tied up. The long, concrete pier was empty, but Childress, Curtis, and Santelli stayed on security, Santelli keeping the M2 pointed down the length of the pier. Their approach had, apparently, gone unnoticed, but none of them expected that state of affairs to continue indefinitely. Even if the Iranians were beaten or dead, none of them knew just how many Al Qaeda fighters might still be prowling about in the city.

  “Flanagan and I will take point,” Brannigan said. “Santelli and Childress in the rear. Hostages to the ship-side, Aziz, Villareal, and Curtis on the landward side. Move fast but don’t run. Make it look like we belong here, at least from a distance.” He looked at Ortiz. “How long are you going to need to get ready to depart?”

  “Ideally?” Ortiz replied. “Twenty-four hours. I think I can cut some corners, and get us out of here in six, though.”

  “Six hours?” Curtis exploded. “Do you have any idea what can happen in six hours?’

  “After what I’ve seen in the last couple of days, I’ve got some idea, yeah,” Ortiz replied. “But it’s the best we can do. This isn’t a car, that you can just turn the key and start. Ship engines are big, complicated, and they have to have time to warm up.”

  “We should have just taken the patrol boat,” Childress muttered. “We’re going to get murdered sitting here waiting.”

  A few of the hostages apparently heard him, because a scared murmur went through the crowd. “We’re going to hold security on the gangplank until it’s time to get underway,” Brannigan announced, raising his voice just a little. “We’ll protect you. Now, let’s go.”

  With Flanagan by his side, Brannigan started down the pier at a brisk walk, his Type 03 down at his side. He was really wishing that he’d been able to grab some extra magazines from the dead Iranians back on the beach, but time had been pressing. Of course, he hadn’t known at the time that they’d have to wait a quarter of a day to get moving, either.

  The gangplank wasn’t really a plank. It was more of a steep stair, with pipes and hoses for transferring oil on one side, leading up to the gunwale from the pier. Brannigan reached the base of the stair and stationed himself just past it, near a cluster of equipment. “Get aboard,” he said over his shoulder. “All of you. Curtis, you and Aziz take charge of the Saudis and make sure they get aboard and stay out of trouble.”

  He heard some grumbling from both men, but soon there were boots and shoes clattering on the steps behind him, as the hostages, the prisoners, and the two designated guards climbed aboard the ship. Brannigan and the rest of the mercenaries held their positions. They tried to stay casual, keeping the rifles down and somewhat out of sight, though their salt-encrusted, still-soggy battle fatigues and load bearing vests were going to identify them as soldiers quickly enough to anyone who was paying attention.

  It was getting hotter by the minute, especially as their clothes and gear dried. Brannigan realized again just how painfully thirsty he was. They weren’t going to be able to stay there on the docks, under the sun, for six hours.

  After another thirty minutes or so had passed, and the thirst was truly becoming excruciating, Brannigan made a decision. There was still no sign of enemies on the docks; in fact, it seemed as if all of Khadarkh had gone to ground in the aftermath of the explosions in the Citadel.
“All right,” he croaked. “We’re going aboard; we’ll hold overwatch on the gangway from the deck. At least we should be able to find some shade and get some water up there, and we’ll have better fields of fire.”

  None of the other three objected. “Joe, Roger, you go first,” Brannigan instructed. “Carlo and I will follow once you’re set.” Extract was always the most dangerous part of a mission, and he was acutely aware of just how far out in the wind they really were. He was determined not to get slack and start taking chances.

  Hancock and Flanagan climbed the gangway behind him, their boots clanging heavily on the metal steps. The gulls cried overhead. Sweat trickled down his neck and into his eyes. The smoke stung his nostrils.

  “Set!” Hancock called. Brannigan started to turn toward the gangway, pausing to let Santelli go ahead of him. He glanced back as he did so, and stopped. He squinted against the orange-tinted light of the sun.

  There was a vehicle sitting at the far end of the pier, near the container yard that sat at the north side of the harbor. He didn’t think that it had been there before.

  The heat, the discomfort, and his own exhaustion were abruptly forgotten. His gaze sharpened as he watched the HiLux. He was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of just how few rounds remained in the Chinese rifle in his hands.

  “Quickly, Carlo,” he said, keeping his eyes on the truck. “I think we’ve got company.”

  He waited until Santelli was partway up the gangway before turning and following. At first, he tried to maintain eyes on the vehicle, but soon found that, as dehydrated and worn out as he was, he had to concentrate on getting up the steps. His legs were burning and everything ached by the time he reached the deck.

  When he looked again, the HiLux was gone.

  ***

  Contrary to the mercenaries’ hopes, there was little shade to be found on the tanker’s deck. It was a ship designed to carry petroleum, not passengers, and it wasn’t set up for sentries to be posted on the gangway, either. Fortunately, there was water aboard, and Villareal set to hauling as much of it as he could up to the men with rifles, helped by a couple of the hostages who weren’t needed to get the ship ready to get underway.