“Wait until I give the signal,” I yelled to Trace and Yong Shin Jong inside. Then I ran down the narrow cat-walk toward the stern, figuring that the man who’d been firing at me earlier had retreated outside and taken cover around the corner. I threw myself down as I reached the turn, landing on my shoulder in a skid. I meant to stop, but the deck was slipperier than I’d thought, and I slid out past the edge of the cabin area, just barely stopping myself by hooking my foot around one of the wire guardrails. I had my submachine gun ready, but there was no one there.
By the time I got back to my feet and retreated, Trace and Yong Shin Jong were out on the catwalk. Yong Shin Jong started over the rail, intending to climb down a ladder that ran down to the deck. I looked over at the lifeboat and realized that it was no longer tied down to the deck as it had been earlier—the davits had been pushed out so that it now hung over the water.
“Wait,” I yelled, grabbing Yong.
A flare shot up from the area of the bridge.
“You’re screwed, Marcinko,” said a voice over the loudspeakers. “Time to give your ass up.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Ike,” yelled Trace. “When I catch you I’m going to cut your balls off and feed them to you.”
Good thing she wasn’t letting her emotions do the talking.
[ III ]
THE SITUATION WAS this: Polorski’s men had pushed the lifeboat out, either thinking that we would head for it or intending to use it to follow us if we got away. They had then taken positions near the stern and the forward base of the superstructure behind the machinery and gear boxes, covering the routes to the boat. They were also inside the cabins behind us. We couldn’t get to the deck, let alone the lifeboat, without getting shot. And unless we grew wings, there was no way to go over the side from where we were. Trace and I might have been able to jump it—emphasis on the word might—but pudgy Yong Shin Jong would go plop on the deck.
What we had was an old-fashioned stalemate—one which favored Polorski.
Temporarily. Because sooner or later, Doc and the SEALs would be heading in our direction, looking for us.
“Give me Yong Shin Jong, and I’ll let you go,” said Polorski. “I have nothing against you, Dick.”
“I have something against you, Ike,” yelled Trace.
Polorski clearly heard her.
“We had a great time, Trace. Too bad it couldn’t last. Another time, maybe.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“We can try that.”
Trace answered with a string of expletives notable in their creativity. As she and Tall, Dark, and Polack traded insults, I examined our position. We were a deck below bridge level; another catwalk ran back from the bridge above our heads.
The best defense is a good offense, and being naturally offensive, I decided our best bet was to take the initiative. Pointing at Yong Shin Jong to stay put, I hopped up on the railing and leaped for one of the stanchions above. I caught it and threw my legs to the right, hauling myself upward. My acrobatics did not go unnoticed—someone below shouted, and as I rolled onto the narrow gangway a burst of gunfire punctuated the metal just above me. This was followed by more shouts to cease fire, and the bullets soon stopped.
Polorski obviously didn’t want Yong Shin Jong hit, which explained why he was wasting time haranguing us instead of pressing his advantage. I guessed that he was also undermanned—if he’d had more people, he would have posted some above us.
I moved toward the bridge. There was a curve in the outer passageway around the superstructure, an extension out toward the water that provided a clear view of the ship’s forward machinery. As I rounded it, the door to the bridge flew open, and two Russians came charging out. They paused momentarily to look over the side in a vain attempt to see Trace and Yong Shin Jong, then started aft.
One of the things cranky NCOs emphasize when leading a group through small unit combat training is the importance of separation. A lot of times this is emphasized in the context of a mortar strike—one good shot can take out the guy next to you and the guy next to him if you’re too close. But it has a general application, as frick and frack here found out. Tailgate your point man, and when he trips, so do you.
Point man had a little help tripping—a burst of bullets through the kneecap as he came around the bend set him right down. The tailgater flew over him so quickly I barely had time to adjust my aim.
With these two baboons out of the way, I thought the bridge would be undefended. But I thought wrong. I no sooner took a step forward than people started pouring out. I ran through the clip on my submachine gun, my finger glued to the trigger until I saw the flare of a tracer sparking against the darkened silhouettes, warning me I was about to empty the box. I retreated, dumping the magazine and reloading as I went.
Or rather, reaching for a fresh magazine to reload, and not finding it in the waterproof tac vest I was wearing. My various adventures had used up more ammunition than I’d thought. I wasn’t out of ammo entirely. There were still four mags in the ruck, but this wasn’t a convenient time to grab them. I reached to my belt and grabbed the Glock I’d taken off the sailor earlier. A pair of shots convinced the people following me to rethink their strategy.
Going up had worked once; I decided I’d try it again. I jumped up and grabbed the life raft, hoping to climb over it to the top of the superstructure. But the raft must have been held on by Velcro or something similarly lightweight—it pulled away as soon as I put my weight on it, and both it and I tumbled to the catwalk. Cursing, I threw the damn thing in the direction of the water and jumped on top of the rail, looking for something else to grab. A hail of bullets from above convinced me that wasn’t going to work; I half jumped, half slipped, trying to swing down to the level where I’d started.
More slipped than jumped. More plummeted than fell.
The bullets didn’t hit me, but as they tore through the railing, the metal, weakened by years of neglect, gave way. I fell almost straight downward, bouncing off one of the catwalk stanchions below and knocking the last rocks in my head loose as I hit the deck.
I got to my feet, battered and dazed. Trace and Yong Shin Jong were a few yards away to my left.
“What’s our next move?” Trace asked.
We had two choices—try to continue our war of attrition, or get down in the water and swim for it. I didn’t mind being outnumbered, but we were running low on ammunition; to keep up the battle we’d have to start using their weapons. And more importantly, they’d win if Yong Shin Jong got killed. He was a vulnerable target, whom I didn’t quite trust with a gun.
“We’ll go over the side,” I told Trace. “Swim for the life raft.”
“We’re not going to get Polorski?”
“This isn’t the time, Trace.”
Her eyes were like two green disks of jade in the night. She wanted to get him; I’m sure that was the only reason she’d come aboard.
“Dick.”
“We’ll get him, Trace. You have my word. But right now, Yong Shin Jong is our priority.”
Someone fired at us from the bow. Trace emptied her gun, then turned to me calmly.
“All right,” she said. “It’s a long jump from here. We’ll have a better chance if we get down to the main deck.”
“You have any more grenades?”
“Just one smoke grenade.” “Use it when I give the signal,” I told her. I opened the ruck and took out the MP5 ammo, giving her two and stuffing the spares box in my vest. “I’ll create a diversion. Take Yong Shin Jong down and get in the water. Yell when you’re jumping. I’ll follow.”
Polorski was most likely marshaling his forces, possibly looking for the rest of the army they thought we’d brought with us. The ship’s engines were still clanking away, but the gunfire had stopped, and the place was relatively quiet—the calm before the storm.
I moved toward the stern, leaning cautiously over the side as I tried to see where the gunner or gunners were. The ship’s interior
lighting had been shut off, and even the shadows had shadows. I saw one of them moving ahead and stopped, dropping to a knee, waiting.
I almost gave Trace the signal to go. But as the shadow fluttered back, something in the way it moved made me realize it wasn’t a person—it was the shadow of a flag above.
Once more I started ahead. The outer passageway I was on ended at a bulkhead aft of the fantail. The superstructure cut off the view below, where I guessed one of the men who’d shot at us earlier must be holed up. If there hadn’t been a corner there, the solution would have been easy—I could look down and shoot the son of a bitch.
Flanking him remained an option, but to do so I had to climb up again to the top of the superstructure. Even though my last try in that direction had ended badly, I decided to give it a chance. The men who’d chased me off the deck above had seen me fall, and the last thing they’d expect would be that I’d climb back up. No one’s foolish enough to go back into a place they just escaped from—it’d be like breaking out of jail, only to go around and knock on the front door.
External piping gave me plenty of hand and footholds. I climbed as quickly as I could, then held my breath as I pulled up onto the top deck. The men who’d confronted me earlier were nowhere in sight. I moved to the stern and began climbing down slowly. I aimed to get close enough to whoever was at the corner that I’d have an easy time surprising him, but I didn’t want to get so close that I was the one who was surprised.
The problem was, I couldn’t see or hear anyone. It almost seemed as if everyone aboard had left the ship. I finally had to lower myself down to the main deck, sucking wind as slowly and silently as possible. Tiptoeing forward, I finally spotted a cluster of shadows ahead that looked humanlike. I pushed back against the bulkhead, and whispered to Trace that I was just about to start.
“Good. Copy,” she said.
Polorski chose that moment to come back on the loudspeaker.
“Dick, listen, you’ve caused me a lot of trouble here,” he said. He was calm, but you could hear his anger through his accent. “This is unnecessary. Let’s make a deal. We can work together.”
The only thing better than a commie who’s turned into a capitalist is one who wants to become your business partner. A Russian mobster who already double-crossed me and played one of my best friends and employees—sure, there’s someone I would trust as a partner.
I took out the radio I’d grabbed from the sailor earlier and cupped my hand over the microphone.
“Bow,” I whispered in Russian. “Forward.”
Someone responded immediately, probably demanding more of an explanation or asking who had transmitted. But as limited as my Russian was, I wasn’t up to giving out clear directions. Besides, I had other priorities. I checked my weapon, then sprang out of my hiding place. A shot to the back of the head took out the first man, but as I turned the gun to get the second I saw that he had left his position. I walked quickly, not sure where he could have gone.
“Bystryey!” hissed a voice from around the corner. “Hurry up.”
“Ya zdyes!” I answered. “Here I am.”
As I turned the corner I put a bullet into the side of his head. He never knew what hit him.
“Trace, smoke!” I yelled over the radio.
I heard the pitter-patter of little feet behind me. But it wasn’t the feet so much as the gunfire that got my attention.
“Go!” I told Trace.
I spun around and fired a pair of bursts to give whoever was coming up something to think about. When I turned the corner, Yong Shin Jong was hanging off the railing above.
“Jump!” I told him.
He hit the deck so hard my leg bones shuddered in sympathy. As I started toward him, the deck in front of me bubbled with automatic weapons fire, fired from the deck above. I threw myself against the bulkhead and continued crawling forward. The wind whipped the smoke from Trace’s grenade downward, and within seconds I found myself in the middle of a black cloud so thick I couldn’t see my own hands or the bulkhead they were feeling along.
“Dick!” yelled Trace over the radio. “Where are you?”
“I’m on the deck.”
“Do you have Yong Shin Jong?”
“No. I can’t see in this smoke.”
I pushed along farther. There was more gunfire than you’d hear on a Miami street after curfew. Finally I felt a leg that didn’t belong to me.
I pulled at the leg and heard a groan. The smoke was so thick I couldn’t see the rest of his body, but I grappled him over my shoulder. I knew I was only a few feet from the rail, and that I had a straight path to the water.
I pushed myself to my feet. He was a heavy son of a bitch.
“I got him, Trace. Go! Go! Jump now. And that is a fucking order!”
I leaped across the deck to the rail, threw my left foot on the railing, and with Yong Shin Jong on my back tumbled inelegantly toward the water.
23 It turned out that there was a collapsible raft lashed to the superstructure, but we didn’t see it at the time.
24 One of my wise-ass editors just pointed out I should have called Doc around here somewhere. “Always communicate with your team,” he said. “They should know where you are at all times.”
Great advice. Fuck you very much.
PART THREE
FUBAR
“I want to apologize and it will never happen again.”
—KIM JONG IL
9
[ I ]
THE OCEAN CAME up before I had time to do anything more than get my feet together. The cold water sent an electric shock through me. I pushed to the surface and bent forward, slightly disoriented from the smoke and the fall. My “passenger” weighed me down, but at least he wasn’t flailing against me or resisting. I slipped around in the water, hooking my arm around him and starting to scissor kick away.
The only progress I made at first was downward. I un-hooked my rucksack and let it sink, but what was really weighing me down was Yong, and I couldn’t let him go.
I tried not thinking about those giant sucking screws at the stern. If they were shooting at us—and I expect that they were—I couldn’t tell. I kicked and paddled with my free arm, willing myself away. An illumination flare shot overhead. I kept kicking, finally pulling away from the ship, either by brute determination or opportune currents.
Back aboard the vessel, Trace waited for the Russians to come down from their hiding places. She’d come aboard to get Polorski, and orders or not, she was damned if she was going to leave without taking a shot at revenge. She guessed that he would come down to check on things himself, and so waited as two sailors rushed by, spraying their weapons in my general direction. Trace was right about Polorski—he was a few yards behind the two men—but she hadn’t counted on the fact that Mr. Murphy was even closer.
The smoke from the grenade started to dissipate as Polorski came down, barking at the men. Trace caught a glimpse of him walking toward her to her left; she brought her MP5 up to fire, then lost him momentarily. Stepping away from the bulkhead where she’d hidden, she saw a figure looming in the smoke.
“You son of a bitch,” she said, pressing the trigger. She laced the man with bullets, heard a scream, and stepped forward—probably to kick him in the face and maybe to knife out his balls, though she didn’t mention either when she told what happened later on. As she did, she heard a voice shouting an alert in Russian. She didn’t know the words, but she instantly recognized the voice. It belonged to Polorski, who had stayed back behind his other men and was now urging them to fire. She saw him, took a step to the right to get better aim, and fired—and simultaneously fell off the ship. Murphy—you can blame it on the earlier gunfire if you want—had removed the lifelines from the section of the deck where she was, something she couldn’t tell in the smoke.
She smacked against the side of the ship going down and lost her gun. Hitting the water sideways, she was stunned momentarily, but as she flailed, her hand hit something sof
t. It was the raft that had fallen when I’d pulled against it earlier.
Meanwhile, I was pulling Yong Shin Jong in the general direction of the cabin cruiser. At least five minutes passed before I heard her yelling to me.
“Dick!”
I altered course toward Trace’s shouts. With every stroke, my arms felt heavier and heavier. Back in my salad days as a UDT25 wannabe, I went through hell week with a severe case of the runs. There have been many times in my life when I’ve been glad for that experience—it gave me a benchmark to measure my misery by. I thought about it now, and memories of having cold water poured on me just as I was ready to collapse comatose cheered me up. No way this was worse than that. Not even close. My arms were falling out of their sockets, but this was a joke compared to So-Solly Day and the swim I’d had to do, not just kitted up, but with a full pot helmet.
Shit, if I could do that, I could do anything. Which was the idea.
I grabbed on to the raft and pulled myself half up, taking my “passenger” with me.
“God, is he alive?” asked Trace.
“I think he broke his leg when he fell,” I told her. “See if there’s a medical kit in the raft. He’s probably in shock.”
I pushed Yong Shin Jong over to check on him.
The only thing was, it wasn’t Yong Shin Jong.
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