Gray Matter Splatter (A Deckard Novel Book 4)

by Jack Murphy

  His boots came down hard on the floor and he spilled onto the ground, his Kalashnikov clattering on the ice. In the haze created by the cratering charges and falling ice, he could not see what was going on, but knew he needed to get out of the way before the next mercenary came down behind him. Unclipping the rope from his carabiner, gunshots nearly deafened him inside the chamber.

  Rolling left, Deckard brought the butt of the AK into his shoulder and scanned for muzzle flashes. Staccato bursts of fire echoed off the chamber walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Seeing a muzzle flash in the corner of one eye and a stack of wooden crates in the corner of the other, he dashed for cover. His men came pouring down through the smoke behind him, landing in the chamber and detaching from the ropes.

  Taking a knee, Deckard aimed at the location of a muzzle blast and fired beneath it. Hot brass bounced off the crates and ricocheted back at him, one of them burning his neck.

  Voices screamed in Russian, some of them belonging to Oculus. Others were his own men. It was impossible to tell who was who. Deckard palmed a frag grenade, pulled the pin, and overhanded it through the haze toward another two muzzle blasts he had spotted.

  “Frag out!”

  The resulting explosion collapsed a large chunk of ice, which fell from the ceiling and shattered into a million pieces. Samruk troopers moved to Deckard, taking cover with him behind the crates as they returned fire, snuffing out the enemy even as the smoke cleared.

  “On me, let’s go!” Deckard ordered.

  “Go where?” one of the Kazakhs asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. We can’t lose the initiative.”

  Deckard broke cover and dove into the haze, running toward where the frag had gone off in hopes that the immediate area had been cleared by the explosion. A half-dozen Kazakhs followed after him. They found themselves at a T-intersection, the white walls that had been cut into the snow rising up around them. It was the most dangerous place they could possibly be because of the multiple angles of fire they were exposed to.

  Grabbing the nearest Kazakh, Deckard pushed him forward into the adjacent corridor. Now it was apparent that they had breached right into the main corridor. Wide enough to drive a couple tanks through side by side, it probably ran the length of the ice base. Off of that main artery, it appeared that a series of smaller corridors broke off to the sides. Whatever the case, they needed to flood the compound with men as quickly as possible to clear it and locate the weapon before it could be used.

  Several more mercenaries joined them, catching up with the lead element as Deckard pushed deeper into the facility. Two white-clad gunmen spilled out through a doorway toward the end of the corridor. Deckard got his front sight post lined up center mass on the first and stroked the trigger. The gunman squeezed the trigger as well, even as he dropped to the ground. The Israeli bullpup coughed yellow, and chunks of ice were blasted off of the wall. The second gunman met a similar fate as the mercenary next to Deckard put a double tap in his chest.

  Priming another frag, Deckard pitched it through the doorway and counted off the seconds as it cooked off. The air went thick, washing over the mercenaries as the explosion increased the air pressure, burping out a gust of wind from the door. Flowing inside, the men cleared their corners and searched for targets. An Iranian-looking dude lay on the ground filled with shrapnel. He only had one boot on, and had probably been in the process of putting on the other. Deckard put a round through his forehead just to make sure.

  Becoming more aware of the details of his surrounding, the American looked around in confusion.

  “What the hell?”

  The walls were hardwood and the floor was covered in carpet. Tables and chairs were spread around the room between couches and overstuffed chairs. Fake windows displayed typical countryside outdoor scenes. There was even a billiards table. It was a recreation room for Danish soldiers who might be stationed underground for long periods of time.

  “Dead end. We need to get back out there.”

  In the side corridor, the mercenaries could hear a raging firefight in the main chamber. Three Samruk mercenaries were at the corner of the side corridor and the chamber, using the angle for cover as they returned fire. Deckard could see some of the boys taking cover around the chamber, but others looked like they had already moved on to clear the rest of the base.

  Worse, three or four snow-camouflaged bodies lay face-down on the ice. Another was motionless, hanging above them, tangled up in one of the rappel ropes.

  * * *

  “Now!” Jiahao ordered. “Fire!”

  The walls shook as another explosion reverberated from deeper in the ice base. They were under attack.

  “I can’t! It doesn’t have enough of a charge since the last test shot,” the technician’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard as he lost his composure and shrieked like a schoolgirl.

  Jiahao picked up his assault rifle, then turned and drop-kicked the Russian. The Chinese commando could have caved in his chest, but frankly, he needed a moderately useful pawn to finish the job. Looking at the touchscreen that controlled the device, he could see the power bar recharging quickly, but not fast enough for his liking.

  “I’ll deal with the American myself. If you don’t cause the Canary Island collapse before they get here, you’d better surrender to the mercenaries before I get back, because it will be your only chance at surviving,” he warned, even as the last words were drowned out by the sound of gunfire.

  * * *

  Rochenoire ducked as a trio of rounds chiseled into the ice above his head.

  A group of Oculus shooters had retreated to another chamber, taking cover as Samruk quickly gained the tactical inertia. Now they had found refuge inside the ice base motor pool, taking cover behind the massive tractors and sleds that served as the base’s logistical line of resupply.

  The former SEAL sent a return volley from his Kalashnikov, which sent a shower of orange sparks washing over the enemy soldiers behind the tractors. One of the Kazakhs came up behind him with a PKM and began firing rapid bursts of suppressive fire. Now Fedorchenko and Sergeant Major Korgan were on the scene, directing the troops and shaking them out into a haphazard assault line.

  Firing on an empty chamber, Rochenoire pulled a fresh magazine from his kit. Using the loaded magazine, he pressed it against the magazine-release lever on his AK. When the empty mag dropped, he quickly rocked the loaded one into position and racked the bolt. Suddenly, his head felt like it had exploded inside. He slammed his eyes shut trying to shake the debilitating burning he felt.

  “It’s the damn lasers,” he heard an Italian-accented voice say. “They are bouncing the lasers right off the ice on the walls.”

  The PKM machine gun fell silent as the enemy gunfire picked up. Slightly opening one eye, Rochenoire saw that the gunner was face-down on the floor. It was unclear if he was blinded by the lasers or had been shot.

  “This is motherfuckin’ bullshit, man.”

  Reaching down, he grabbed the machine gun, pointed it toward the enemy, and depressed the trigger. The metal-link belt cycled through the feeding mechanism, dropping hot brass at his feet. At least it kept the enemy’s heads down for a few seconds.

  To his flank, a half-dozen Samruk mercenaries collapsed to the ground as something flashed at their feet. They were going into convulsions, shaking as if they were having some kind of epileptic fit. Another one of those damn seizure grenades like the one they had encountered in Alaska.

  Amidst all of the gunfire, he could hear one of the enemy commanding his men in English.

  “Advance! Get up!”

  For a split second, Rochenoire saw him as he walked behind one of the giant sleds. It was one of the big Chinese dudes. Maybe the one who had killed some of his men in their sleep. Maybe the one who took down Pat in Canada.

  Another flash.

  Rochenoire shuffled back behind cover, slamming his eyes shut once more. He had been looking in the wrong direction, but upon hearing
bodies around him crumpling to the ground, he knew they had nailed the mercs with another seizure grenade. The non-lethals were the perfect weapon to cut their balls off. Incapacitate the mercenaries, and then Oculus could just casually stroll around, putting a bullet between their eyes.

  Opening his eyes, he ignored the fact that Fedorchenko was doing the clucking chicken right next to him and reloaded the PKM with another belt of ammo from the dead or unconscious machine gunner. It was a last-ditch effort, but Rochenoire knew that he had to at least keep the enemy preoccupied in the motor pool so they would be unable to mount a counterattack against Deckard and the other men as they attempted to take control of the weapon.

  He was about the open fire as the enemy advanced toward him when he noticed something on the ceiling of the chamber. The black giant took a few steps away from his cover while making sure he remained unexposed to the Oculus commandos. It was time for some indirect fire.

  Shooting from the hip, he raked 7.62x54R autofire across the stalactites, some of them four or six feet long and hanging above the motor pool like massive daggers. One by the one, the giant icicles broke away from the ceiling and fell free toward the Oculus troops below. Then, they all came tumbling down like a Jacob’s Ladder, landing with a crash.

  Rochenoire dropped the smoking PKM and transitioned back to his Kalashnikov. The Samruk men were groaning and trying to stagger to their feet. Several of them had vomited on themselves. They had their bell rung, but they were alive.

  The same could not be said for the Oculus troops. They lay sprawled out in the empty space between the line of sleds and tractors they had broken cover from, assaulting toward the other line of vehicles that Samruk hid behind. Their broken bodies were heaped around shattered shards of white and blue ice. Rochenoire walked between the still bodies, plugging them with insurance rounds.

  That was when he came across the big Chinese one. A stalactite had caught him on the shoulder, nearly taking his arm off. His breaths were rapid, his eyes searching. He was scared. Rochenoire placed a boot on his chest and smiled.

  “Welcome to the Thunderdome, bitch.”

  * * *

  Deckard moved with Shatayeva’s platoon, Nate and Dag backing up his play as they drove deeper into the compound. The volume of enemy gunfire was increasing, leading him to believe they were closing in on the earthquake weapon. Now they were back under the breach, the interior illuminated only by the florescent bulbs that hadn’t been blown out in the explosion. From the main chamber, the enemy had barricaded themselves down a side corridor in a prepared position constructed from refuse and packed snow.

  Two of the Kazakhs lobbed grenades, which detonated ineffectively in front of the barricade. Deckard reached into his parka and gripped a party favor he had been saving. Clicking a button on the metallic egg, he threw it as far and as high as he could, rocketing it like a baseball pitcher down the corridor. It gained both depth and height before cutting loose a flash of light. The seizure grenade that had taken down Deckard in Alaska worked just as well against the enemy. Their limp bodies hit the ground, their guns falling silent.

  The mercenaries ran down the corridor, firing bursts of gunfire into the barricade. Clearing around it, they hosed the Oculus commandos down with lead as they kicked and twitched in the throes of their collective seizure.

  Deeper down the corridor, a few shots rang toward the mercenaries. The mercs returned fire toward doorways and muzzle flashes. Deckard leveled his rifle. Suddenly, he felt like he’d hit a brick wall. Stumbling forward, his vision exploded, whiting out. Oculus was lazing them again, the beams bouncing all around the corridor of ice.

  Attempting to keep his rifle pointed ahead, he squeezed off a couple of rounds before the world spun so much around him that he fell to his knees. Around him, the Kazakhs were cursing in Russian. Nate was down beside Deckard, his fingers limply gripping his rifle, his dexterity deteriorated.

  Oculus gunmen burst out into the corridor from one of the doorways, their shifting forms dancing in front of what was left of Deckard’s vision.

  They had him dead to rights.

  Chapter 34

  At the ASX mine, Nikita’s HK417 cracked, the shot taking the farthest gunman down with a round that carved through his lungs at an oblique angle.

  Upon hearing Nikita’s shot initiating the attack, David and Evan opened fire on a second Oculus member who had been patrolling down a small embankment, out of the sniper’s view. The two Sirius Patrol men took him down with precision fire, and the Tavor rifle slipped from his grasp as he collapsed to the ground.

  The Danes entered and cleared the first structure, barreling their way through the door. A Chinese man wearing overwhites hunched over a small stove. He looked up at them. He had been warming a flask of tea. Evan stared slack-jawed at the bloodied bodies of two of the mine’s engineers who lay in a bloody mess off to the side of the shack. The Oculus commando saw a small opening as they were momentarily distracted and reached for a pistol on his hip. David swung his M-10 rifle toward the interloper and fired, the round coring a hole through the would-be killer’s skull. The exit wound splattered the walls red with brain matter.

  “Holy shit,” Evan gasped.

  Sirius Patrol had been in existence for over 50 years, but this was the first time the unit had ever killed anyone in the line of duty.

  “Come on,” David said. Opening the door, he instantly rocked back and fell over as bullets slammed into the side of the hut and punctured holes through the door. The Danes instinctive reaction saved his life. Outside, another gun joined the barrage, quickly turning the small structure into a sieve.

  * * *

  Kurt Jager ducked as one of the Chinese commandos picked up and hurled Ivan, their mortar sergeant, toward him. The Kazakh spun through the air and crashed into a wall. After clearing the armory inside the ice base, Kurt and a dozen other men who had rapelled into the icy depths found themselves in another open room. The Chinese super soldier had fled here after his men had been killed. Cornered, he had attacked with superhuman strength, the likes of which the German had never seen before.

  Out of ammunition, the commando had ambushed the mercs, taking several down with a knife before it got stuck in a collarbone. That didn’t slow him down much, as he simply took the fight hand to hand. Kurt leveled his AK, only to have the barrel swatted away with a kind of speed that no one should possess.

  Next, the commando yanked the barrel, making Kurt lose his footing. Grabbing him by the neck, the Oculus killer yanked Kurt right off his feet as the other mercenaries surrounded him.

  “Back away or I will kill him,” the genetically modified assassin said, his words spoken in near-perfect english.

  The Kazakhs held their ground, rifles trained on the enemy as he backed away with his hostage.

  Kurt looked out of the corner of his eyes, spotting the reason why this particular chamber existed. There was a well in the center of the room with a black cable running down inside it. He understood at once that this was the base’s aquifer. The Danes had run an electrical heating component down into the well they had drilled out. Once heated, the ice would melt and become their source of drinking water.

  “Lay your arms down. This fight is already over. You are too late.”

  The Kazakhs held their ground. Dropping their weapons was just a bridge too far, hostage or no hostage. Kurt couldn’t say he blamed them. This man was clearly hard to kill. He knew he would have to time his move carefully, because he was only going to have one shot. The hand around his throat was like a vise. The Chinese commando wasn’t actually trying to choke him to death though, not yet.

  Reaching down, Kurt grabbed the hilt of his Randall fighting knife. In one smooth motion, he drew the knife from its sheath, twisted his abdomen away, and plunged the eight-inch steel blade into his attacker’s stomach.

  The commando howled, releasing Kurt from his grip. Just as he reached for the knife stuck in his midsection, Kurt body checked him as hard as he coul
d, putting every ounce of his weight into it. With his hands still around the hilt of the blade, the commando bucked backwards and toppled over, going head-first down the well.

  His screams were cut off as he splashed into the ice-cold water below.

  The Kazakhs rushed up, ready to empty their magazines down the well.

  “Hold on,” Kurt said. “I’ve got this one.”

  Pulling the pin on a fragmentation grenade, he let the spoon fly and dropped it down the well.

  “Gwai lo!” a shout came from the bottom of the well.

  The mercenaries backed away as the grenade blew and collapsed the well in a gust of freezing air.

  * * *

  “I don’t have them!” Nikita said over the radio, unable to acquire the two Oculus troops firing on the Sirius Patrol.

  But Aghassi did. The two gunmen were walking toward the hut the Sirius Patrol currently occupied, firing on automatic as their streams of autofire crisscrossed each other. From his vantage point high up in the opening of the mine, Aghassi looked down the iron sights of his Kalashnikov and aimed center mass. One Oculus member flinched as he was hit, Aghassi following up with another two quick shots that put him down for good.

  The second gunman spun around, not knowing where the shots were coming from. Aghassi helped him out with a burst of fire that stitched him up from groin to chest.

  With the shooting over, the two Danes came walking outside in a daze, both holding their weapons at the low ready.

  “Nice job!” Aghassi called down to them, giving the team a thumbs-up.