Last Op

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant and Adler scooted closer to the edge of the cargo bay opening, watching for the green “go” light.

  Below them, waves crashed against huge offshore rocks and beat against the coastline. Their DZ was in between the two sets of rocks. White water swirled from the wash of chopper blades, increasing as the chopper descended. Finally, the green light lit up.

  With both hands pressing against his mask, Grant slid out of the doorway. Three seconds later, Adler hit the water.

  Popping up to the surface and bobbing around on the swells, they signaled Taylor who was standing at the open door. He gave a quick salute, then pulled the door closed.

  Keeping the chopper low, Norris circled around and flew to the west side of the island, getting ready to land at the designated site.

  Grant adjusted his mask, then gave an “okay” sign to Adler. With powerful kicks and arm strokes, the two started swimming side by side to the Cat’s location.

  Swells were no more than four feet. Staying a safe distance off shore, their arms sliced through the water, propelling them closer to their target.

  Pulling up, Grant checked his wrist compass, then motioned with his arm. “Straight ahead. Should be around that point.”

  Slowing their strokes, they came up to the rocky point, treading water as they floated closer to the cove. Finally, they spotted the Cat anchored fifty yards in front of them. Two men were sitting on the port side atop the gunnel near the stern, with the hoods of their black jackets pulled up. They were sheltered by a canvas canopy.

  Grant pointed. Adler knew they’d be swimming parallel to the Cat, heading toward the ass end. Diving below the surface, they stroked hard, judging the distance they had to swim.

  Easing up on their strokes until they were barely moving, they looked up and slowly started toward the surface. Silently, the top of their heads broke the surface as if in slow motion. Finally, they were able to see through their masks. With one more swim underwater, they’d be in between the two hulls.

  The water grew rougher the closer they got to shore, but they were able to see their target clearly. Using only the power of their legs to propel themselves, they swam below the stern, then quietly broke the surface. Above them the Zodiac swayed in its “harness” as the Cat rolled on the swells.

  Holding on at the stern, Adler stretched as far as he could trying to see down the port side. A ladder was attached at midships. He signaled Grant. Their first objective was to put the two men on deck out of commission, by any means.

  The men were sitting on the gunnel, carrying on a conversation about football (soccer). There were other voices coming from inside the cabin, but determining how many there were was impossible.

  Grant surmised this had to be all of them, otherwise, the Zodiac wouldn’t be here. The Cat wasn’t close enough to the beach for anyone to walk ashore.

  Swimming under the Cat, they held onto the bottom of the ladder, then drew their K-bars from the leg straps.

  Taking their positions, and giving each other a nod, they propelled themselves upwards, grabbed the two men, and jerked them backwards. The two were dead by the time they hit the water.

  With no hesitation, they dragged the bodies under the Cat, then shoved them toward the bow. It was imperative to keep them out of sight for as long as possible. Waves slapping against the hull should disguise sounds if the bodies bumped against it. There wasn’t anything they could do about blood oozing from the wounds. They removed their swim fins and released them close to the bodies.

  With just a couple of strokes, they were at the ladder. Coming up for air, they confirmed it was safe before sliding the knives back in the leg straps. Raising the barrels of their weapons just above the water, they removed the condoms and tucked the “rubbers” under their belts.

  Grant motioned for Adler to take the lead while he kept watch, just in case someone else was on shore. Adler grabbed hold of the ladder. Cautiously, he climbed one step at a time until he was finally able to see over the gunnel. No one was on deck...bow or stern. Curtains around the cabin were drawn. An occasional shadow moved behind them.

  He stepped onto the deck. His wetsuit booties exuded water with each step. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he kept his eyes on the cabin.

  Grant came aboard next to him as he looked around the deck, seeing the det cord and at least two boxes of C4 under the tarp. He nudged Adler, motioning with his head toward the explosives. They didn’t see any IEDs yet.

  Still hearing voices and sounds coming from the cabin, they started edging their way closer. In the back of their minds they knew at least one of these men had to be kept alive for questioning. Whether it worked out that way was a whole other ballgame.

  Grant gave himself a wide berth by staying as far away from the cabin as he could. Ducking low, he took slow, careful steps and went to the starboard side. Taking up a position to the right of the door, he stayed out of view from the windows. Adler posted himself on the port side, taking up the same position as Grant. They were ready. Suddenly, the door flung open. They froze.

  Callum Quinn came out, shouting, “Padraig! Flynn! Where the fuck are you two?!”

  Quinn took two steps farther onto the deck, when in a split second, Grant’s arm was pressing against his throat. He jerked him closer, immediately holding the .45 against Quinn’s temple.

  Quinn stiffened as Grant whispered, “Quiet.” He kept pulling Quinn farther away from the door. Pressing the .45 harder into the side of Quinn’s head, he whispered, “How many inside?”

  Unable to speak, Quinn held up four fingers.

  Grant asked, “Armed?” Quinn was barely able to give a quick nod. Grant shot a look at Adler, mouthed the word “four” and jerked his head toward the cabin. Adler acknowledged.

  Voices inside the cabin suddenly went quiet. Someone shouted, “Callum!” Quiet again.

  Then, there was a sound of clips being rammed into weapons. Out of pure instinct, Adler backed up, then hit the deck.

  With one swift motion, Grant’s .45 collided with the side of Quinn’s head, collapsing him in a heap. With Quinn possibly being the only one alive for a G2 after what was bound to happen next, Grant had no choice. He had to try and protect him.

  Keeping low, he dragged Quinn’s body farther from the cabin. He got down on one knee, partially blocking Quinn’s body. Again grasping his weapon with both hands, and ducking low, he aimed it at the cabin, just as a burst of gunfire erupted, blowing out cabin windows. Glass sprayed in every direction. Small, jagged pieces flew over the three men. Then, there was silence.

  Adler and Grant didn’t return fire. They held back and waited, not knowing where the men inside were positioned, or what weapons they had. But now Grant had a better idea of the men they were dealing with. None of them were running around with “full seabags.” The idiots fired blindly, not thinking Quinn could’ve been in the line of fire.

  Adler kept his eyes on Grant who pointed to the ladder. Immediately, Adler understood. Staying low, he crept backwards then went down the ladder. He stood on the bottom step, wrapping his left arm around it. His eyes barely showed over the gunnel. Now, it was a waiting game.

  Inside the cabin, the four remaining men were backed up against the forward section of the cabin, holding Berettas and AR-18 rifles. The AR-18 was small in size, had a folding stock that made it easy to conceal and was capable of rapid fire.

  Shouting louder this time, Aidan Logan called, “Callum!” He pressed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder.

  Grant was going to lay on the guilt trip and make the idiots wonder. “You’ve just eliminated three of your own men! I’d advise you to lay down your weapons then come out with your hands up!” He looked at Adler, who was steadying the barrel of his .45 on the gunnel. Neither one of them expected the fight to be over so easily, especially after hearing the sound of weapons being reloaded.

  Inside the cabin, Logan glanced at the other three men, mouthing the word “Yank.” He motioned for one of the men to
take up a position closer to the door, near where their ammo blew out cabin windows and shredded the curtains.

  The Irishman who had been selected for the task eased himself closer to the blown out windows. Stretching his arm forward, he aimed his weapon at the doorway.

  A second later a bullet from Adler’s .45 took him out. He collapsed on the deck, just as another round of bullets were fired by the remaining three men. Again, it went quiet.

  Now those men had to make a decision. Quinn was the only one who Labeaux expected to meet with before the assault.

  They could fire up the engines, then try to make a run for it. But the odds were against them in reaching Northern Ireland before the RAF or Navy blew them out of the water. Even though they only heard one Yank, they had no idea how many more were either onboard or waiting on the beach.

  Defeated but not yet finished, Logan made that decision. If they had to die, the Yank--or Yanks--would die with them. He pointed to each man, then to the starboard side, toward the boxes and IEDs inside the cabin. The other two men snapped their heads up, stared at him, then nodded.

  Staying close to Quinn, Grant decided to give it one more try. “You’ve got thirty seconds, gentlemen!”

  Loud sounds started emanating from the cabin, some as if boxes were being pulled across the deck. Whatever was happening, it didn’t sound like the men inside were going to give up.

  Grant shot a glance at Adler. They both had a really bad feeling. Grant looked at Quinn’s crumpled body. There wasn’t any way he could take Quinn over the side then try and swim pulling dead weight. No. He and Adler had to save themselves, swim their asses off, and get as far away as possible from what they they were expecting--an imminent explosion.

  He started taking slow steps backwards, easing his way down the starboard side, motioning for Adler to hit the water. He stayed alert, watching the cabin, prepared to fire his weapon.

  Adler swam under the boat then popped up to the surface. Seeing Grant waiting above, he whispered, “Skipper!”

  Shoving his weapon in his belt, Grant dove for the water. Immediately, Adler went under, catching up to him. They were trying desperately to distance themselves from the Cat, expecting the worst. The two Americans weren’t about to take the time to look back. They stayed at least fifteen feet underwater, stroking and kicking like hell.

  Suddenly, there was a bright flash inside the cabin. A microsecond later a huge, booming explosion rocked the shoreline, sending a fireball hundreds of feet into the air, lighting up the coastline. Another explosion went off, then another, sending shockwaves through the water. IEDs, det cord, C4, exploded in what seemed like organized chaos.

  Rolling over, Grant and Adler backstroked as they looked above, seeing bits and pieces of the Cat raining down, some still on fire. Finally, they surfaced, spitting out sea water, then taking in gulps of air.

  “You okay?” Grant asked, as he wiped his face.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “All body parts are functioning.” Treading water, they both looked back. “Christ!” Grant said between clenched teeth, seeing the mass of destruction.

  “Why the fuck does this keep happening to us?” Adler shouted angrily as he pounded his fist into the water. Any chance at a G2 had been blown all to hell.

  Catamaran debris, pieces of bodies, clothing, fuel, floated near them as they bobbed around in the water. “Let’s get the hell away from this shit,” Grant said, pushing the debris aside.

  Once they swam clear of the debris field, Grant undid his utility pouch, held it above the water, and took out the flare. Just as he lit it, the sound of a chopper made him and Adler look overhead. Norris and Taylor, after hearing the explosion, and seeing the smoke and fireball, headed to the extraction site, hoping Grant and Adler were waiting.

  Taylor was on his knees, leaning out the cargo bay. He finally spotted the two officers signaling and waving their arms. “They’re okay!” he said into the mouthpiece.

  Norris guided the chopper down to the designated height, then held it steady. Taylor shoved the rope ladder over the edge. He held onto a safety line, keeping an eye on the two swimmers, ready to give instructions to Norris.

  The bottom of the ladder touched the water, then disappeared just under the surface. Backwash from the chopper’s blades caused the ladder to slowly gyrate.

  Adler reached for it, grabbed hold of a rung, and started climbing. He was half way up when Grant started his climb.

  Adler scrambled aboard, knelt down near the edge, and reached for Grant’s hand, as he shouted, “Okay! Get us outta here!”

  Chapter 18

  EOD

  The wheels of the chopper barely touched earth, when Grant and Adler jumped out. Running at full speed toward EOD, they didn’t give a shit they were still in their wetsuits.

  Bursting into the office, Grant pushed his hood off his head and shouted, “Has anyone heard from the commander?”

  Petty Officer Weaver spun around, spraying coffee across a wall and desk. “Captain Stevens! No, sir. We haven’t had any contact with the commander. No, sir!”

  “Where’s Chief Becker?” Grant asked between clenched teeth, but trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. No response from Weaver. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two other petty officers behind the main door. As soon as his eyes focused on them, they jumped to attention.

  Grant turned and stepped directly in front of one and then the other. He glanced at the name tag sewn to the petty officer’s green fatigue shirt. “Do you know where Chief Becker is, Petty Officer Jarrett?”

  “Sir, I believe the chief went to talk with Gunny Baranski, sir!”

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? As you were.” Grant turned to Adler and winked.

  He started walking to Henley’s office. “Marty, get Chief Inspector Townsend from CID on the phone. We’ll be in the commander’s office.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Adler closed the door and leaned against it. “Now what?”

  Grant pulled the zipper of his wetsuit down a few inches. “I’d like to get outta this damn wetsuit!”

  “Totally in agreement!” Adler laughed.

  “Captain Stevens?” Weaver called from behind the door, with no intention of entering the room. “Chief Inspector Townsend’s on line one, sir.”

  Grant put his hand on the receiver. “Joe, give Gunny Baranski a call. Get Becker back here, and have him bring Gunny with him. Oh, and Joe, have somebody get a couple of towels.” Adler nodded and left.

  Grant picked up the receiver. “Chief Inspector Townsend?”

  “Yes, Captain Stevens.”

  “Sir, before you give me the report on the rental houses, I’ve got some important news.” Grant proceeded to tell Townsend about the catamaran, where they found it, and the number of men on board.

  Townsend scribbled on his notepad, trying to keep up with Grant’s description, finally asking, “When did this happen?”

  “Just past noon, sir.”

  “Do you have any idea who those men were? Why the explosives?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t authorized to tell you earlier, sir, but I think they were IRA.”

  That bit of information was something Townsend wasn’t expecting. “IRA?!”

  “Yes, sir. We heard a couple names called out, but one in particular was ‘Callum.’ Do you recognize it, sir?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Townsend said, throwing his pen on the table. “Callum Quinn. And you’re right, Captain. IRA. You don’t think there were any survivors?”

  “Highly unlikely, sir. There was a shitload of explosives on board. And with the explosion, so went any possibility of an interrogation. That was our only hope to get more info on the bastard Labeaux, sir.”

  “I sure would have liked to get ahold of one of them myself, Captain.”

  “You might have the Coast Guard check out Lundy for debris and body parts, sir. I doubt there’s much left that would give us any more clues. Maybe
contact the officials on Lundy. There might be civilians that need to be kept away.”

  “I’ll do that straightaway, but with an explosion like you described, I have a feeling they were already notified. Now, putting that aside for a moment, would you like to know what I found out about the rentals?”

  Grant sat up straighter. “Affirmative, sir!”

  “We made visits to the first two houses. One was in Quintrell Downs, the other in Trevemper.”

  “Which means you didn’t have any luck at those two. Tell me you found something or someone at the third, sir.”

  “In the village of St. Newlyn East there’s an old home, ‘Tafton Manor.’ The home is set well back off a country road. My men noticed a wide set of tire tracks. They looked to be fairly fresh. So, they decided it best to stay back.”

  Grant interrupted. “They didn’t want to take the chance of possibly being surprised.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then do you have a name for me, sir? Who rented that house?”

  “Were you expecting the name ‘Victor Labeaux’ by any chance, Captain?”

  “Just tell me, sir.”

  “The rental contract was signed by a Mr. Virgil Lawrence, paid in advance for three months, and in British pounds.”

  Grant’s heartbeat flew off the chart. “Jesus Christ! Sir, don’t you see? Virgil Lawrence. ‘V. L.’ That’s Victor Labeaux!” Grant swung around, hearing the door open. He waved Adler closer.

  “Are you sure?” Townsend asked, already suspecting it was Labeaux. He so enjoyed screwing around with Yanks.

  “Too much of a coincidence with the names, sir.”

  Townsend finally responded, “I agree, that’s why I posted one of my men at the drive entrance. You want to come with us when we go investigate?”

  “Damn right we would, sir!”

  “Anything else I can do for you before that?” Townsend asked.

  “Nothing I can think of, sir.”

  “All right. And if I hear from my man at the house, I’ll call you; otherwise, you show up here at my office in one hour. Can you make it?”