Reflexive Fire - 01

by Jack Murphy

  Inside were three Mk174 tactical nuclear weapons of the type that had become almost legendary in intelligence circles. The United States and Russia were the only two nations to have successfully miniaturized nuclear weapons to the extent that they could be carried in a suitcase. They were the prized possession of both countries' nuclear arsenals.

  Such weapons could be smuggled into an enemy country via commercial air travel or even strapped to a military free-fall parachutist to deliver to a key target. These three were the latest models, with a yield of twelve kilotons apiece.

  A military base run by mercenaries. Black project spy planes. Suitcase nuclear weapons. The old men at the Grove that owned a controlling interest in Samruk, and in Deckard, also owned the United States Government, National Security Council and all.

  Their cargo boat bobbed and dipped in the ocean as heavy lines were thrown down to them from the stern of the super-liner. Samruk's mercenaries grabbed the ropes and secured them to hard points along the side of the ship, mooring the two vessels together.

  As this was done, Deckard ordered the nukes rolled off the side of the ship.

  They had been his best shot at using a Trojan Horse to get close to the super-liner, and since he wasn't coming under fire from the two destroyers, it appeared to have worked. The nukes themselves were in hard cases with multiple redundant systems. They would be safest at the bottom of the ocean until the US Navy could recover them at a later date. There was no way he was going to risk having them fall back into enemy hands.

  Deckard watched the three metal cases splash and disappear beneath the dark waters.

  His men fired several stunted, suppressed gunshots, killing members of the super-liner's receiving party.

  It was time to go to work.

  Thirty Two

  Charlie Company stalked the shadows, moving deeper into the artificial valley created by a dozen decks stretching straight up on each side of the boardwalk. With the reception party eliminated, there was nothing standing in their way as they made their infiltration.

  The steel canyon was a novelty of nautical engineering. Both sides of the ship were packed with luxury cabins for guests and crew alike, the center left open for attractions and commercial shopping. The area near the stern of the ship was designed to look like an old-fashioned boardwalk, wooden planks artificially aged, metal rusted over with fresh paint. In the center, a vintage merry-go-round spun, lights flashing across their faces in the night.

  The Kazakh walking point fired, VSS rifle coughing sub-sonic rounds. Another Serbian contractor and a couple out for a late night stroll were drilled with SP-9 bullets. Deckard's orders were clear. Both men and women were here for a specific reason, to lie in the lap of luxury while they perpetrated a global genocide. Children who had been brought along would be spared, but the wives were guilty by association. It only would have taken one of them to blow the whistle, and the curtains would have fallen on any notion of a planned global extinction.

  Somewhere inside the cabin areas to his flanks, Deckard could hear muffled gunfire. Alpha and Bravo Companies were moving up the sides through the living quarters of the ship. They would be tasked with clearing the cabins, room by room, deck by deck. Take care of business and move on.

  Meanwhile they would move straight up the middle, searching for the enemy's operations center. It wasn't the best plan, but a well laid plan could not wait until tomorrow.

  The two surviving platoons from Charlie Company weaved their way between the various park rides and concession stands, headed towards the bow of the ship. At half a kilometer, they were in for a walk.

  There was no warning when the inevitable happened.

  An explosion rocked the boardwalk, knocking over a food stand, spilling popcorn that crunched under Deckard's feet as he moved to cover.

  Gunfire erupted from the dozens of balconies that looked down on the boardwalk, as well as from the top deck. The mercenaries were immediately and effectively caught in a U-shaped near ambush. Both rifle fire and grenades rained down on them, shredding wooden facades into splinters and shattering glass.

  Taking fire from three sides, there was nowhere for the Samruk mercenaries to take effective cover, even as they desperately tried to duck behind the carnival rides, only to be shot at from an opposing angle. Taking a knee behind what was left of the popcorn stand, Deckard shouldered his AK and let loose a burst at the first balcony he had seen a muzzle flash from.

  At this point the mercenaries could fire in almost any direction. Sweeping his muzzle laterally, Deckard shot bursts into balcony after balcony, not pausing to confirm that any of his shots had met their mark. They needed fire superiority and fast.

  A burst of return fire answered back, stitching across the wooden planks to his side. Tucking his shoulder in, Deckard rolled to his right, just out of the cone of fire that smashed into his former position.

  Bouncing back to his feet, the former soldier expected a second burst to tear apart his torso, when the ship vibrated under his feet. Just several seconds after the enemy initiated, the platoon assessed the situation, Mk14 gunners firing with reckless abandon into the balconies. The HEDP grenades shattered through the glass doors and reached deep into the suites behind the balconies, detonating with a thump somewhere inside.

  A severed hand flopped down next to Deckard. Looking down at it for a fraction of a second, he then noticed his empty magazines. Strangely, he could not remember reloading despite the two magazines that lay between his feet.

  The grenadiers laid it on heavy, the cylinders on the oversized revolvers spinning as they exhausted their weapons of ammunition, devastating the enemy in the process. With the enemy occupying an elevated and covered position, Deckard knew that the counter fire would buy them a few seconds at most.

  “Move,” he yelled, his voice nearly drowned out by gunfire. “We need to move!”

  A Kazakh rifleman to his side leveled his rifle and fired several rapid shots into one of the balconies. His efforts were rewarded, an M4 rifle fell from lifeless hands, spinning through the air and crashing through an umbrella stuck through the center of a table at the dining area.

  Moving to the next target, the mercenary fired again, just as an enemy somewhere above put a well-placed round at the base of his spine. The Kazakh sprawled out on the ground, crippled. Deckard slung his rifle, reaching for him as the injured trooper attempted to sit up with a severed spinal chord.

  Another burst stitched him across his chest, killing him.

  Out of options, Deckard leaped over the corpse and sprinted for the glass doors at the end of the boardwalk.

  Somewhere a grenade exploded, the overpressure washing over the mercenary commander and toppling him over. Deckard rolled into a plastic garbage can, knocking it over and covering him in refuse.

  A squad's worth of mercenaries had taken cover behind one of the carnival rides and were able to lay down a suppressive fire. From their position, they delivered accurate point shots on the multitude of places where the enemy presented himself from. It was a giant game of whack a mole, the moles seeming to multiply by the second.

  The plastic trash can was plucked away by enemy shots that searched out Deckard as he rolled away and staggered to his feet, coughing and gagging on the sulfur smell that hung in the air.

  Then a Samruk merc got a machine gun back on line, quickly joined by a second.

  Grabbing several stunned and disoriented platoon members, Deckard pushed them towards the exit, his hoarse words falling on ears deafened by gunfire and explosions. They found their own cover in a wooden stand constructed for one of the carnival games. Seeing their comrades, more survivors quickly joined them.

  Looking across the boardwalk back toward the stern of the ship, all he could see was camouflage-clad bodies.

  “Move to the doors,” he said, keying up his radio.

  The other group of mercenaries firing from behind the tilt-a-whirl were oblivious to his transmission.

  “Anyone on this
net, respond,” Deckard said frustrated.

  Their communications were being jammed.

  One of the grenadiers pushed him aside as the carnival lights flashed in a moment too surreal to comprehend. With his weapon reloaded, the Samruk trooper got back on target, whacking more moles as the muzzle flashes appeared on the balconies to both sides.

  Looking towards the source of the grenade fire, the other group of mercenaries spotted Deckard and saw him pointing towards the doors. Finally someone took charge of the group, and they ran towards the exit while Deckard's group went heavy with rifle, machine gun, and grenade fire to cover their movement.

  No one bothered to actually open the doors. The pane glass was shattered all around them, leaving only empty frames for the Kazakhs to lunge through. As they neared the doors, Deckard started grabbing shoulders and pushing troops in their comrades' direction. They were so fixated on targets that they were losing situational awareness.

  In a firefight, with adrenaline pumping, body sweating, your vision was constricted down into a small periscope.

  Pushing the last few Kazakhs towards the shattered doors, they ran at full speed across the open area with enemy fire nipping at their feet. Ducking through the exit, they met up with the second group, already barricaded behind a concrete container filled with small trees and exotic plants.

  They were trading fire with more enemies now to their immediate front.

  Regardless of the threat, there was nowhere for them to maneuver to but straight ahead. The enemy had the high ground, occupied their flanks, had them channelized, and would no doubt soon encircle them by coming up on their rear from the boardwalk in seconds.

  The park area of the ship resembled the boardwalk area as it was an open air attraction in the center of the ship with cabin decks stretching up on both sides with the addition of hanging gardens. The difference was that this area was a mock-up of a city park with elaborate landscaped gardens. Cafes and restaurants lined the sides. It was a natural enclave in the middle of a steel ship.

  Joining the other group, the former soldier saw that C/co was now reduced to platoon strength or less.

  They wouldn't last much longer.

  Peeking from between two palm trees, he saw the opposition bounding through the vegetation and across the walkways, closing on them. In the severely restricted confines of the ship, flanking maneuvers were out of the question.

  Deckard flinched as the concrete planter chipped away next to his face, the opposition drawing a bead on him.

  The flash of movement he had seen confirmed his fears.

  They were wearing a mix of military fatigues and civilian clothing, plate carriers strapped across their chests, tattoos covering forearms, M4 rifles with shortened barrels for ease of movement. They weren't Serbs but Americans. Ex-Special Forces working for the highest bidder.

  Having sized up the situation, he knew they needed to take the initiative. It was now or never.

  “Half of you go right,” he said to his group. “The rest of you follow me to the left. Bound forward until we clear the park. Don't stop for anything,” he instructed them in Russian.

  To his side, Jean-Francoise nodded his understanding, the Frenchman picking up what he was laying down. Checking the load left in his magazine, the former legionnaire rocked it back into place in the Kalashnikov's receiver. It looked like some shattered glass had sliced up the side of his face, a half mask of blood coating the skin, but otherwise he seemed to be holding up well.

  Without another word spoken, the group of Kazakhs moved around the planter and engaged the enemy. While the team flipped over tables and chairs, moving through one of the outdoor cafes, Deckard led his group down the left-hand side.

  Coming under fire the moment they stepped from behind cover, Deckard knew they were in trouble. One Kazakh was struck down, his screams ignored amid the confusion of the firefight.

  Moving a half dozen strides, Deckard dove to the ground behind a circular metal kiosk situated between a cobblestone path and a copse of tropical plants. 5.56 bullets were blasting apart the displayed advertisements inside the display case as JF came up alongside him. Two Kazakhs took cover behind the concrete lip created around the winding path, while two more knelt next to some palm trees.

  The enemy shooters were drawn from the ranks of American Special Operations units, battle-hardened veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. They came on aggressive, placing accurate fire on the mercenaries. These weren't Third World tribesmen or some opium militia.

  Looking down his sights, Deckard spied one of the enemy gunmen pop up, bounding forward on the path ahead. Stroking the trigger, Deckard dropped the gunman, arms flailing in the air as he dropped his rifle. He had once been one of them, but Deckard knew that when you play big boy games, you play by big boy rules.

  They had decided to stand with the enemy.

  JF ripped a burst of fire across the park, missing his mark, but keeping the enemies' heads down for a moment. On their right, they could hear the other group fighting and dying. Seizing the moment, the mercenary commander leaped to his feet, staying low as he stalked off the path and slipped into the foliage ahead.

  The others came in behind him; the dense jungle in the center of the park had been allowed to grow freely. Even if it was only a narrow patch of vegetation, they would take every inch of cover and concealment that they could get.

  With the firefight continuing to rage on the other side of the park, Deckard was able to cheat his group farther forward, taking advantage of the overgrown area. He had to shake off the unreality of it. Recorded bird calls sounded from a speaker system, mimicking a real jungle. Stepping carefully between tentacle-like tree roots and oversized ferns, he waited until the first enemy came into view before shouldering his rifle.

  The Hispanic looking ex-soldier wore jeans and a sleeveless shirt under his body armor. A ball cap was perched on the top of his head as he swiveled back and forth, scanning for targets. Stepping across the artificial stream that gushed across the center of the park, he must have detected something and turned, looking in Deckard's direction.

  Deckard shot first. The double-tap punched him in the face, penetrating the cranial vault. The Special Operations veteran was dead before he hit the ground.

  That was when hell broke loose all over again.

  Deckard's team went prone as a hailstorm of gunfire chopped through the foliage above their heads. Crawling forward, the entire element got parallel with each other and began selecting targets. Deckard fired on a big guy with slicked-back hair who was running down one of the paths, attempting to advance over easy terrain.

  His first shot slammed into his plate carrier, the body armor easily absorbing the impact but staggering him back a few steps. Deckard's follow-up shots were better placed, striking him in the chin and cleaving away half of his jaw bone.

  A grenade exploded to his side, peppering one of the Kazakhs with debris as blazing hot shrapnel tore through the leafy growth just inches above them. On his other side, JF shifted toward an enemy who was kneeling behind another concrete planter. The mercenary was sweeping his muzzle through the forested area, making bold corrections to seek out their positions with a flurry of 5.56 tungsten penetrators.

  The Frenchman milked the AK's trigger and the merc collapsed, the side of his skull emptying its contents across the cobblestone in a crimson smear.

  The lull in fire lasted for scant seconds but was enough time for Deckard to roll forward. Dropping into the rocky depression that the artificial stream flowed through, he came up on a knee.

  A flash caught his attention, another grenade exploding, this time inside one of the restaurants.

  More American mercenaries poured into the park from multiple entrances. Carbines and light machine guns were tucked into their shoulders, trigger fingers curled and ready.

  Using the depression as cover, he popped up and delivered a double-tap, his reflex sight centered on an enemy's face, before ducking back down. He did s
o in the nick of time as automatic weapons fire crisscrossed the space he had previously occupied. Staying low he changed positions, moving laterally, sloshing his way upstream.

  The Kazakhs slithering into the stream behind him, Deckard tore a fragmentation grenade off his chest rig. Pulling the pin, he hurled the bomb into a circular area created by manicured hedges with park benches inset under them. The grenade bounced and rolled into the sitting area where a mercenary with a Ranger scroll tattooed on his forearm and a heavily muscled man holding a belt-fed machine gun were firing from sporadically.

  The grenade blasted the two freelancers. The former Ranger was blown backwards into a wrought iron gate outside a restaurant, killed instantly by the impact. The machine gunner was actually thrown into the air, both arms cleaved off his torso and sent flopping into the stream.

  Glancing down, the Kazakhs grimaced as the clear water flowed around their shins, now tinged with red.

  “Bound!” Deckard ordered.

  Stepping out onto the path, he pivoted at the hips, changing his direction mid-stride.

  His muzzle was already creeping upwards as he felt as much as he saw something in his peripheral vision. Squeezing the trigger, a two round burst crashed into a Serb standing in one of the balconies overlooking the park.

  Both shots shattered through the glass banister, taking the Serb low in the pelvis. Pitching forward, the Eastern European fell through the shattered glass. Flailing through the air, his body screamed through the wooden latticework over the dining area of a bistro, toppling tables and chairs underneath with a wet thwack.

  Shifting again, Deckard pointed his rifle at a camo-clad shooter farther down the path.

  The buzzcut American brought his M4 into play almost simultaneously with him. Pulling the trigger, the hammer in Deckard's AK-103 struck on an empty chamber. All out of quarters in that video game, he thought. No way would he be able to snatch his side arm out of its holster in time.

  With a snarl, buzzcut pulled his weapon in tight, trigger finger flexing, when he suddenly fell to his knees. A half dozen AK rounds pounded into his unprotected side, the exposed area under the armpit.