Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  “You see what I see?” John asked. Logan nodded. “If they’re still here,” John went on, “they’ve got a clear line of sight in all directions. They’ll see us coming.”

  “Which is why we approach as casually as possible, as if we belong there. The more obvious, the better, and I have just the idea how,” Logan said, smiling at John.

  “Logan,” John said, shaking his head, “I really, really hate it when you get ideas. People seem to die and things usually explode, often right next to me.”

  “There might be a bit of truth to that, but usually they’re bad guys,” Logan responded wryly.

  “Exactly!” John almost shouted. “Usually . . .”

  Tough Tim sat quietly at the table and listened to the exchange. Who the hell are these guys?

  ———

  Logan and John left the bar. The afternoon was growing colder, seemingly by the minute. The skies had darkened to a dull gray. “Looks like snow,” Logan said.

  “I agree. But hey! We’re cold-weather warriors, hombre. We can put all that cold-weather survival training from MWTC to good use,” John said, referring to the Marine Corps’s Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, California. “We like this shit.”

  Logan pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the police chief’s personal number. When Captain Phoenix answered the call, he said, “Chief, we think our boat is the Arctic Glide. It’s docked in the main part of the bay in the last slip at the edge of that thin peninsula.”

  John heard a voice reply, and Logan nodded.

  “I understand. No worries. We should be able to handle this ourselves. Just meet us there when you can. Hopefully, we’ll know more by the time you get there. Hope everything turns out okay on your end. See you in a bit.”

  John looked at Logan quizzically. “What’s up with our local law enforcement?”

  “There was an accident at one of the World War Two bunkers on the main island a few miles south of here. They’re evacuating a man who fell from the top of the bunker. Spinal injury. It’s going to take some time to get him out due to the rocky terrain. He said he’d get there as soon as he could.”

  “Great,” John exclaimed. “So once again, we’re on our own.”

  “Would you have it any other way?” Logan asked.

  “Actually, no,” John answered.

  “That’s what I thought. So let’s get moving before these assholes get a chance to leave. We’re burning daylight,” Logan said, and hopped into the driver’s side of the pickup truck.

  “Always in a hurry,” John said, as he opened the passenger door. “You know you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack one of these days. You’re getting old. You need to slow down.”

  Logan looked at John grinning at him through the cab of the truck. “Just get the fuck in the truck.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Arctic Glide

  The Wolverine was in a hurry to leave. He stood on the deck near the stern and surveyed the harbor and its surrounding terrain. A man unaccustomed to sentiment, he felt a fleeting emotion, a brief nostalgia for his homeland.

  The terrain was rugged and severe, forged by unforgiving elements. He related to the transformative and relentless powers of Mother Nature. Getting soft in your middle years? he asked himself. He shrugged off the thought and concentrated on the task at hand—preparing the ship to depart in the next few minutes.

  Even though they were the only ship on the peninsula, he’d felt exposed for the last two days, a floating target. Of course he’d chosen this precise location because it afforded him the luxury of a clear field of view in all directions.

  What he’d told the inquisitive young fisherman was true—the Arctic Glide had sustained a broken propeller, and he’d had to wait for one to be flown in from Anchorage. Once it arrived, his team had used the diving equipment on board and replaced the part earlier in the day.

  While waiting in plain sight for two days had not been part of the plan, the delay had provided a plausible cover story for his men to ship their newly acquired equipment from a local carrier to Anchorage. The Pelican cases containing “research equipment” had arrived safely in Anchorage, where they’d been transferred to a commercial carrier to be flown across the United States and beyond. He’d checked the tracking number provided by the carrier, and the current status was “in transit.” The freight was currently over the Atlantic Ocean. Unless the plane crashed, its cargo would reach Europe shortly, and then it would be someone else’s problem. His mission was almost over. It was time to clean up.

  Once they left the harbor, the plan was simple—take the Arctic Glide to an isolated location near one of the other islands, send her to the bottom of the Bering Sea with her crew on board, and head to the offshore rendezvous point, where a stealth submarine awaited their return.

  He untied the line from the port side of the boat and stepped onto the dock, dragging the heavy rope and coiling it on the ground for the next vessel. Finished, he started walking toward the other dock line when he heard someone shouting from behind.

  He turned and spotted a man in a dark blue coat and khaki cargo pants running toward him, waving his arms wildly. Approximately fifty yards behind the running figure was a blue-and-white Chevy pickup truck with Al’s Marina Repairs & Services painted on the side. Another figure waited in the driver’s seat. “Hey, mister! Hold on a second! I need to talk to you about the propeller! Hold on a sec!”

  The engine shop where we purchased the propeller? What now? The Wolverine’s senses immediately transitioned into a heightened state of alertness, and he stared hard at the approaching figure, mentally evaluating the man for any threat. Obviously athletic, moves quickly and with ease . . .

  The man reached him and bent over at the knees, breathing hard and looking up into the Wolverine’s face. The Wolverine noticed a scar down the left side of his face, partially concealed by a short beard. Intelligent green eyes met his gaze.

  “Thank God! I thought you guys were going to take off, and then I’d have to deal with my asshole boss back there in the pickup truck,” he said sheepishly, glancing over his shoulder. “Sorry about the dramatic entry. Just didn’t want to miss you.” He paused and seemed to catch his breath again. He stuck out his hand, “I’m Tom Mackey from Al’s Marina where you guys bought the prop.” He motioned over his shoulder with one hand. “And I hate to tell you this, but there’s a problem with the credit card your man used.”

  The Wolverine shook the man’s hand. Firm, confident . . . “Problem? What kind of problem?” he asked in perfect, unaccented English.

  “We thought that the card went through initially when you guys picked it up and paid, but it turns out that due to the storm, all transactions weren’t actually getting processed. They got stuck in transit somewhere and never made it to the credit card company. I’m not surprised, really. Those companies know how to fleece a man to death. Anyhow, they called us less than an hour ago and told us they need to rerun the card. I hate to do this to you—and I completely apologize—but is there any way I can get that card again? I even brought the reader with me,” Tom said, smiling and holding up an iPhone with an attached credit card reader.

  The Wolverine’s mind raced through the probabilities. Tom seemed sincere. Other than his physical fitness and alert eyes, his story was plausible. He realized he had two options—kill Tom on the spot and try to stop the man in the pickup from fleeing; or play along, provide the credit card, and leave as soon as Tom and his friend left. He made his choice.

  “Tom, I’m Martin. Please come aboard. We’ll head up to the wheelhouse, and I’ll get you the card. And then when we’re done—and I don’t mean to be rude—we need to get back out. That storm put us behind schedule by a couple of days.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll get out of your hair as quickly as possible,” the man said as he stepped aboard the Arctic Glide.

  The two men crossed the flat deck, and Tom studied a submersible submarine suspended by a crane over the middle of the
deck. It was painted a bright yellow in the tradition of deep-sea exploratory vehicles.

  “Nice sub,” Tom said. “What are you guys using it for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  The Wolverine glanced back, saw genuine interest on Tom’s face, and said, “Not at all. And honestly, I couldn’t tell you all the details. The oil guys have been using it for underwater research. They’ve got so much gear on this boat it makes my head hurt thinking about it. I’m just hired help,” he added, smiling at Tom.

  “I hear you,” Tom said, and continued to look around the deck at the other pieces of machinery and equipment. “You sure do have a lot of gear,” he agreed, spotting three Quadcon industrial containers near the stern of the boat.

  The two men reached the entrance to the wheelhouse. The Wolverine lifted the handle up and opened the heavy door. He walked through the entrance and began to climb the metal stairs. Tom trailed close behind him.

  A loud clang resounded through the tight, enclosed space. The Wolverine whipped his head around and looked down at the man on the steps below.

  Tom still held the iPhone in front of him. It wasn’t that device that had made the sound. And then the Wolverine saw it. A bulge on the right hip, concealed by the dark blue Al’s Marina jacket. Gun, his mind screamed at him. He examined the man’s face and saw something even more alarming in the green eyes that now stared back at him. Predatory alertness, cold and calculating.

  Without hesitation, he acted, and the desolate landscape of Dutch Harbor, Alaska, quickly turned into a battleground, an eventuality for which the islands had prepared during World War II but had never experienced—until today.

  CHAPTER 6

  After what felt like a lifetime in this business, Logan West had seen the man for what he was—a trained operator that stood over him in the stairwell, ready to react. Murphy, ever the saboteur, Logan thought, the image of a wall-mounted poster of Murphy’s Law flashing in his head.

  The stairwell was tight, and he’d turned too quickly. The butt of his Kimber Tactical II .45-caliber pistol had struck the steel bulkhead.

  Logan watched Martin’s face for his reaction to the sound. The man’s blue eyes skittered to Logan’s hip, then back to his face. Recognition dawned as the true threat was revealed.

  Logan sprang into action first. His right hand shot under the blue jacket and grasped the handle of the Kimber. He was fast—Wild West gunslinger fast—but the man above him reacted almost as quickly.

  As Logan pulled the pistol from its holster, the man he’d just met as “Martin” moved into action and screamed something in Russian. He lashed out with a kick that connected squarely with Logan’s chest. The impact sent Logan sprawling down the two steps behind him, and he crashed to the floor. He pulled the trigger of the Kimber, which was now aimed up the stairwell.

  Bam! Bam!

  The shots were deafening in the confined space. Sparks flew off the ceiling inches above his enemy’s head. Martin retreated to the safety of the wheelhouse above as Logan cursed to himself. He’d just lost all tactical advantage. Great . . .

  Things grew worse as Logan heard the sound of running footsteps from the twenty-foot passageway to his right. Three men appeared at the end and moved toward him with military precision. The man in the lead held a short, black submachine gun in front of him, aimed toward Logan.

  Logan rolled to his left toward the open hatch as the point man opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the floor and metal frame, showering him with sparks and steel fragments.

  Christ! Move! Move! Move! He finished his combat roll and dove through the opening. He landed on the rough nonskid surface of the deck and scrambled to his feet. He searched for cover in the few seconds he had before the gunmen reached him.

  In addition to the submersible suspended above the deck, a crane operator’s station was to his immediate right. Several small wooden crates were to his left. No good—bullets will go right through those. He needed something solid. He sprinted across the deck and never looked back.

  As he ran, outgunned and outmanned, he prayed, Please, God, just give me a fighting chance.

  ———

  John had observed Logan through the windshield of Al’s pickup truck. Al had been in the shop, and as a veteran of Operation Desert Storm, he’d been more than happy to help them in any way possible. He was a realist and understood that evil still existed in the world, posing a serious threat. He even threw in these snazzy jackets, John thought.

  When Logan reached the man untying the Arctic Glide, John had grown uneasy. He recognized the way the man carried himself, self-assured and physically powerful. There was no doubt in John’s mind the man was a practitioner in the deadly profession with which he and Logan were intimately acquainted.

  Following his instincts, he’d called Captain Phoenix and told him that they’d found the Glide but would know more in a few minutes. He knew they’d need backup, and he’d told him to hurry.

  So it was no surprise to John that moments after Logan disappeared, he heard the distinctive sounds of gunfire from inside the wheelhouse. Even as Logan tumbled out the opening and scrambled to his feet, John leapt out of the pickup truck and sprinted for the boat. His M1911 .45-caliber pistol was in his right hand as he ran across the gravel road.

  John had reached the halfway point to the boat when three men holding PP-2000 submachine guns exited the main structure and fanned out across the deck. They fired and moved as a cohesive unit. Only years of training could produce that kind of synchronicity, he thought.

  He saw Logan slide behind two all-steel Quadcon containers near the stern.

  John knew he only had a few more seconds before the men saw him. He had two choices—try and get closer to get a better shot at the small assault team or take a shot now. As the team closed in on Logan, he realized the clock had run out.

  He slid to a stop on the loose gravel and dropped to one knee, his right leg extended behind him. He heard shouts in Russian and glanced at the wheelhouse. The man Logan had approached, the one who had to be the leader, was screaming and pointing at him. A little too late for at least one of your guys, asshole . . .

  He sighted on the man closest to him just as the other two attackers turned and pointed their weapons at him. John pulled the trigger quickly but smoothly as the two men opened fire. His first shot struck the man in the side of the neck, but John didn’t wait to see the results of his handiwork. Instead, he dove for cover behind a stack of thousand-pound crab pots.

  Enemy bullets ricocheted off the enormous cages and careened into the Alaskan air or impacted the ground on either side of John’s crouched figure.

  At least I got one . . . I think. And then more bullets forced him further down.

  ———

  Logan hid behind the eight-foot, dark-green Quadcon container. Even as he assessed the full gravity of his situation, he couldn’t help but wonder what an oil exploration vessel was doing with military-grade cargo containers.

  As grateful as he was for the temporary protection, the Quadcon containers were the only cover near the stern. There was no place left to hide, and the assault team now had him boxed in. If he tried to run for the dock, he’d be torn apart by automatic gunfire. He thought about jumping overboard, but the frigid water temperatures would immobilize him in minutes without a wet suit on under his clothes. He didn’t feel like dying cold and wet. That left one option—fight until he ran out of bullets and then reassess his options. If you’re still alive, that is.

  He peered around the corner of the Quadcon just in time to see two of the gunmen point their weapons toward the dock. The third man still had his weapon trained on Logan’s location, and Logan saw he was about to pull the trigger. I looked too soon. Rookie mistake, he thought, and realized the tactical error might be his last.

  The left side of the man’s neck suddenly spurted blood as a bullet tore through his throat and carotid artery. The man staggered, but he managed to pull the trigger of the PP-2000. His body seemed su
spended for a moment, a dying dancing puppet, surrounded by an explosion of sparks as the rounds struck the deck all around him. But then the magazine emptied, the gun out of ammunition, and he fell forward, dead.

  Logan focused on the other two gunmen, who now concentrated their fire toward John’s position, which Logan saw was approximately fifty yards away behind a stack of crab pots. At least now it’s a fair fight, unless their leader joins in on the fun.

  Logan heard more screams in Russian and more gunfire directed at John. Then—to Logan’s horror—the boat’s engines started.

  Logan glanced at the wheelhouse as the Russian commander slid open the window and pointed a PP-2000 in Logan’s direction. He barked short instructions to his men and opened fire.

  Bullet holes appeared above Logan’s head in the Quadcon’s surface. He’s got armor-piercing rounds. Fantastic.

  Logan flattened himself on the deck and out of sight, hoping to remain unscathed from the intense attack. John would have to fend for himself. He had bigger issues to worry about, especially if the remaining two men flanked him from both sides.

  An image flashed through his head—a memory of a soccer stadium in Haditha. He’d subdued Cain Frost, the CEO of the largest private security company in the world turned international terrorist, only to have two insurgents surround him as he used Cain’s body as a human shield. Had it not been for John’s timely arrival, Logan would have died. The difference now—thank God—was that John was already here, and both sides were relatively matched in manpower, if not in weapons.

  Logan’s face was inches from the deck. The gunfire from the wheelhouse stopped, and Logan briefly peeked around the corner.

  The man in the middle was no longer focused on Logan. Instead, he ran across the deck, and Logan watched as he leapt over the widening gap between the boat and the dock. He landed on his feet and kept moving, never losing stride. He’s going for John.