Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  The elderly man who’d built a global empire and commanded one of the most secret organizations in the world lay on the floor, outlined in a pool of blood. Several holes had been punched through the Kevlar vest, and his legs had sustained multiple impacts, shattering the bones underneath. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling.

  Evan, the former Delta operator, who’d been hit in the left arm, knelt next to the man, reached up, and closed his eyes.

  A moment of empathy and sorrow filled John. It wasn’t for the man who lay dead at his feet; it was for the little boy who’d had his life torn apart by the Third Reich, propelling him on a course that would change the world but still end his. You can never leave it behind. The violence always stays with you. A life full of violence will end the same. It was the ominous implication for him, Logan, and their friends that gave him pause. At some point, it has to stop. But not right now. Now, you need to move.

  “I’m sorry about your boss, but we need to do something, or we’re going to join him,” John said. “The boat with the minigun turned and was heading to the one I disabled. It’s only a matter of minutes before they decide to board and finish us. This isn’t a capture mission for these guys: they were here to kill Constantine, which likely goes for us now, too. This is your show. Please tell me you have some kind of contingency for this. If not, we’re fucked.”

  Evan looked up at John, stood, and nodded.

  “He told me to give you this. It’s the list we took from General Taylor. He said it has everything you need,” Evan held out his left hand, in which was gripped a small, rectangular black flash drive.

  John grabbed the flash drive and inserted it into a small zippered pocket on the side of his cargo pants, hoping that whatever he was about to do next wouldn’t damage or destroy it. His mission had just changed—survive, link up with Logan, and get this flash drive to Jake and the president.

  “Come on,” Evan said, and hurried around his employer’s body and out the wheelhouse door.

  Through the windows on the upper deck, John watched as the last man of the disabled RHIB leapt over to the remaining boat with the minigun. The boat turned back toward the yacht, and John heard the increase in rpms from the outboard motor.

  Both men hit the main stairwell in the center of the yacht, and John said, “We have less than thirty seconds.”

  “Just follow me down to the lower deck,” Evan replied, already three steps down the curved stairwell. “We’ll have time. Trust me.”

  In John’s experience, anytime anyone used the T word, chaos and confusion often followed. Then again, this guy is an operator. So just shut your mouth and see where the Delta boy takes you.

  Ten seconds later, the two men were on the lower deck, which was full of thin smoke that still allowed them to breathe and see.

  “This way,” Evan said, and the two men pushed toward the stern of the yacht, through a food preparation area, past the crewmembers’ quarters, and through another door.

  “Wow,” John said as he followed past the yacht’s two enormous engines that powered the dual inboard propellers under the stern of the ship. Before they’d been struck by multiple rounds—the holes the attack had created in the hull ran the length of the engine compartment—they’d been in immaculate condition.

  “We kept her pristine,” Evan said with pride. “But wait until you see this,” he added, a sly smirk on his face as he pulled a lever up on a metal door in the back of the compartment.

  Evan disappeared into the space beyond, and John followed, estimating that this final compartment was at the very rear of the yacht. Evan moved aside, revealing to John their last line of defense—a bright-yellow three-person Triton 1650 submersible that looked like a blocky spaceship.

  The minisub sat on top of an elevated platform but was also connected to an overhead pulley system attached at numerous points. The center of the minisub was a glass sphere, inside which John could see a large seat near the curved glass on each side and another seat a step up behind them. A center console with multiple joysticks was placed between the seats. The sphere was connected to a sloping rectangular compartment that housed all the various systems that powered the vehicle. Both the sphere and body were seamlessly connected to two ballast tanks, one on each side. Multiple black encased propellers were placed in numerous nooks designed into the body, providing a level of maneuverability at which John could only guess. Finally, two shiny, articulated manipulator arms were connected to a round steel shaft that spanned the gap between the ballast tanks. From the front, the machine looked like a big, yellow, bulbous bug, waiting to attack.

  “Start disconnecting those cables. We need to hurry,” Evan said. “I’m getting in and starting her. Once you’re done, push us as far back on the rails as you can and get in. I’ll seal us up and open up the rear door, which will flood the compartment and allow us to launch backward.”

  This is crazy, even for me, John thought. But I guess it’s better than nothing. He leapt up to the platform and started unclipping the industrial carabiners from the attach points.

  * * *

  Terry Deavers was calm and methodical. While he respected the enemy’s decision to stand and fight, it would only delay the inevitable.

  In the wake of the elimination of his entire assault team, he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands. Once he’d entered the mansion and chased the two targets into the spacious office, his options had once again dwindled to one. His bullets had ricocheted off the glass doors. He would have to breach the office and keep hunting the two survivors, who had disappeared out of sight.

  Fortunately, Terry and his team had come prepared, and he’d placed an M112 explosive charge with more than a pound of C-4 at the seam of the sliding doors. No matter what happened, he was eager to see what kind of additional damage he could do to the home. From a meager upbringing, he resented the opulence of this house. He didn’t care that the man who’d built it was a Holocaust survivor and had earned every bit of his fortune through sheer will and survival. All Terry saw was arrogance, and he relished the opportunity to deliver as much humility as he could, before I end their lives, of course, Terry thought as he stood in the foyer around the corner from the office and pushed the small button on his handheld detonator.

  Boom!

  Not designed to withstand direct explosives, the two sets of doors disintegrated into thousands of tiny fragments that were sent whizzing through the air at high velocity, peppering the walls.

  Terry emerged from the foyer into the living room, pleasantly surprised at the huge chunks of wall that had been torn off, in addition to the glass doors. The thin steel frames of the doors were bent inward and twisted, but he’d succeeded: there was nothing stopping his progress.

  He stepped through the bent metal and followed the blood trail to the right, recalling from the blueprints he’d been provided what this part of the office held—a private elevator that ran directly to the third floor and master suite of the home.

  Okay, then. I’ll take the bait. He knew the two men were likely trying to lure him into a trap. He didn’t care. He relished the challenge, his twisted mind believing the harder the targets fought, the greater the honor it was for him to kill them. He stepped into the elevator—the side facing the bay a complete picture window from floor to ceiling—and pressed the top button.

  Outside, the rain and wind raged on, as does the battle for the luxury yacht, he thought. From his rising vantage point, he saw that one RHIB remained and had pulled alongside the yacht to board her. Surprisingly, the rear compartment door was raised, but he saw no other boats in sight. What the hell are they doing out there? His focus turned back to his own predicament, as the elevator let out a quiet beep, and the doors began to slide open.

  The vaulted-ceiling master suite was breathtaking. To the left was another wall of crystal clear glass, through which he noted a white stone-wall balcony and the luxury yacht beyond on the bay. An enormous four-post king bed on a raised cherry oak platfor
m lay up against the middle of the opposite wall, on which an assortment of black-and-white photos were hung, displaying images of people he didn’t recognize or care about. The master bathroom was to the right of the bed, but he couldn’t see the rest of the space from inside the elevator. To the left of the bed, he recognized the legs of General Longstreet sticking out toward the balcony, the rest of his body leaning up against the side of the bed as he appeared to stare out into the bay.

  He realized he had a choice to make—left or right. No way around it. It’s a trap. The old man is bait. The other one is waiting, either to the left . . . or right. Fifty-fifty. You get it right or likely die. Glory or death.

  He made his choice and slowly turned to the right, the MP9 up in both hands as he arced around the corner, ignoring the left side, thinking that was where his target wanted him to look. He chose wrong as he spotted a mirror mounted on the wall directly in front of him, and worse, the reflection of a ferocious-looking man holding a black pistol aimed at the back of his head. Damn, he thought as the man pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Evan slammed the pressurized hatch shut, twisted the wheel as tightly as possible, and pulled the locking lever down. The interior was relatively soundproof, shutting out the sounds of the storm and the surviving RHIB, which had seemed precariously close seconds ago. Inside the minisub, everything seemed distant and muffled, although both men knew they were in direct and immediate danger.

  “Okay, then. Here we go,” Evan said, and pressed a button on the computerized display in front of him. The rear bulkhead of the yacht suddenly lifted up, slowly revealing the dreary daylight beyond. Simultaneously, the platform the minisub rested on began to lower into the water, and the minisub began to slide backward.

  “You ever been on one of these before?” Evan asked.

  “No, but I did see something similar get dropped on someone once, right before my partner shot and killed him,” John said, recalling the research submersible Logan had used as a diversion in Alaska, unintentionally crushing a Russian gunman’s legs.

  “Actually, I saw that too,” Evan said, and grinned. “That was wild stuff, man.”

  “How’d you see it?” John asked, wondering what kind of access this operator had.

  “YouTube, brother,” Evan said, and laughed. “Everything’s on YouTube these days.”

  No kidding. How times have changed, John thought, as the minisub accelerated and crashed into the choppy Chesapeake Bay.

  “Well, since this is your virgin voyage, buckle up and enjoy the ride!” Evan shouted like a crazed cowboy and pulled the joystick backward. The minisub shot off the rails and dropped off the bottom of the platform. The next moment, John had a vertiginous sensation as he stared upward at the bottom of the yacht, which stretched out endlessly before him from his new perspective, disappearing into the murky water of the bay.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Jacques Cousteau. A little sooner would’ve been nicer,” John said, his mind trying to regain his bearings as Evan brought the minisub level.

  “And ruin the fun? No way, man,” Evan said, and changed topics. “Now that we’re here, let’s do some real damage. You ever play video games, like those flight simulators?”

  “I wasn’t much of a gamer, but I do remember the days when that crazy game Doom was popular. We actually had a bunch of them linked together at Force Recon to do some tactical training—if you can believe it—and we used joysticks for that. Because nothing says ‘tactical’ like Marines killing space demons,” John added for good measure.

  “Good,” Evan said. “Now grab those joysticks and get ready to hunt a different kind of enemy. We’re going to ruin these fuckers’ outing right now,” he said with deadly intent.

  “A man after my own heart,” John said, and reached for his new weapon.

  * * *

  Logan pulled the trigger when he saw the attacker’s eyes meet his in the mirror that hung over a dresser between windows on the front wall.

  Bang!

  While his enemy realized he’d been ambushed, he’d chosen to act rather than stand and die in place. Instead of turning toward Logan the way most men would have, ensuring their demise, he did the one thing that spared his life—he dropped to the ground.

  The .45-caliber round struck the top of the black Kevlar helmet, flinging the protective headgear up and off the man’s head but not stopping his momentum.

  The man was fast, and before Logan could pull the trigger again, his opponent had turned and raised the MP9 up in an arc, knocking the Kimber Tactical II off to the side.

  Logan dropped the Kimber and placed both hands on the strong wrists that held the MP9, realizing his only chance was to disarm his enemy. He found himself staring inches away and slightly upward into a face fixed equally in determination and hostile aggression. And then the brown eyes blinked in recognition, surprising Logan.

  “I know who you are,” the man said in a low growl. “You’re not on my list, but you are in my way.”

  The man lashed out with a low roundhouse kick to Logan’s left knee, but Logan turned to his right and lowered his body, taking the brunt of the blow with the outside of his upper thigh. He countered by driving forward with his left shoulder into the man’s Kevlar vest, his hands still firmly locked on the wrists that held the submachine gun. Continuing his momentum, he propelled himself upward and slammed his left forearm into the bearded man’s jaw, pressing his head against the wall. Logan turned into his opponent and delivered a strong knee that caught the man just below the vest. He repeated the attack, sensing the blows softening the man’s midsection. Maintaining his aggression, he pushed and dragged his opponent along the wall, toward the sliding glass doors and stone balcony, his forearm grinding against the man’s bearded jaw.

  The man grimaced in pain, trying to yank his wrists out of Logan’s grasp, to no avail.

  “Let me put him down,” Jack said from behind him.

  “No!” Logan shouted in defiance. “This bastard’s mine.” He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into the man’s face. He could feel him flinch, as if realizing for the first time the fight might be more than he could handle. “I don’t know how you know me,” Logan snarled, “and I don’t care, but this ends now.”

  Logan slammed the man’s head against the wall one more time, dropped his right hand to his hip, and withdrew the black Mark II knife from its sheath. Before his enemy could react, he plunged the blade into the man’s unprotected left armpit above the vest. The man howled in agony, reflexively releasing his grip on the MP9 and jolting upright in pain.

  Logan kept the blade in place with his right hand and grabbed the pistol grip of the MP9 with his left, crossing his left arm over the hand that held the knife, aiming toward the balcony. He found the trigger and pulled, and a burst of gunfire shattered the sliding doors and window. He flung the MP9 away and pulled his wounded prey backward toward the balcony, his right hand never leaving the handle of the black blade.

  Logan felt his foot strike the casing of the windows, and he said, “You should never have come here.”

  The man’s brown eyes had turned glossy, and his breathing was labored. Might have nicked a lung. Good.

  Without another word, Logan yanked the blade out of the man’s flesh, warm blood rushing over his right hand. He pivoted to his right, his left hand gripping the weaving of the Kevlar vest, and flung the man at the balcony, pushing off his back leg to add momentum.

  Had Terry Deavers not been so tall, his death might have lasted longer, as he would have collapsed and bled out on the white stone balcony. Unfortunately, due to his height, the shock from the knife wound, and the loss of blood, he struck the wall waist-high. The impact stopped his lower body, but his upper torso kept moving from the force of Logan’s throw. His upper half disappeared below the railing, and his legs followed, as if he’d chosen to dive to the stone patio below.

  The distinctive thud of the body hitting the ground reached their ears, and Jack looked at Loga
n, whose final position after hurling his attacker made him look like a rock star, left arm extended, back leg straight, and right arm curled up.

  “Nice move, Elvis,” Jack said sincerely, a black pistol held in his right hand. “Let’s get down to the pier and see if there’s anything we can do to help our friends.”

  As the two men moved to the private elevator, a new sound joined the battle. Logan ran over to the balcony and stepped outside. About damn time. The rain had turned to a hard drizzle, and the view afforded him a clear picture of the events unfolding on the water. No fucking way. “Hold on a second. I need to make a call.”

  * * *

  John fought a sensation of claustrophobia as he looked up and around. The Chesapeake Bay was notorious for its continuously opaque condition, muddied by miles of beach and shoreline erosion, as well as the storms that drove pollutants into its waters.

  Evan pressed a virtual button on the touch-screen control panel, and a holographic underwater image in several shades of sharp blue appeared on the middle-left section of the glass bubble. The luxury yacht was clearly defined in front and above them, even though its hull was only partially visible. The screen also pinpointed the remaining RHIB, which had pulled alongside the yacht and was dwarfed in size by comparison.

  “It’s high-resolution three-D scanning and imaging,” Evan said.

  “That’s pretty cool, and I’ve seen some pretty cool things,” John said.

  “Sometimes it’s just the small technological advances that make the most impact,” Evan replied. “Get ready. We’re going to hit her hard, and then latch on with the mechanical arm to whatever you can.”