by Rafael Hines
John looked down at the heavy metal plates on the deck that covered the cargo bay. He saw that they had been carefully welded in place.
“We’re going to need a torch to cut through these welds,” he said.
“I saw one behind the main door in the tower,” Bear said.
“We can get in from below to take a look at the weapons before we start cutting,” Able said.
“Roger that,” said Bear.
They carried Bobby over to a corner of the main deck away from all the bodies where Mace could watch over him from the bridge. They made a bed from a pile of life jackets and tucked him in before they all walked cautiously towards the steel door that led below decks.
“Kill the lights,” Bear ordered before he pulled opened the door and stepped inside. The four of them did a thorough search of every compartment and the engine room before they turned their attention to the hold under the main deck where the weapons were stored. Able spun the wheel to release the water tight seal then pulled down on the handle. He leaned in and then quickly jumped back to draw fire. He looked back at the team with a big grin on his face just as John recalled his mother’s warning.
When Able stepped into the doorway John’s scream of, “No!” was drowned out by the report of the large caliber rifle. The shot threw Able back against the far wall of the corridor. The bullet hit him high in the stomach and went right through his flak jacket. His hands pressed the wound while he fought to catch his breath.
Bunny dove at Able, knocking him down just as the second shot exploded into the wall where his head had been only a split second before. He pulled Able farther down the hall and checked the wound. It was bad and they both knew it. Able looked up at him with resignation.
“Don’t give me that look, Mex. I was hit way worse and we just went sky diving,” Bunny said, his hands already slick with Able’s blood.
“I guess we’ll be bartending together,” Able said. He tried to smile, but his mouth was clenched in a tight line.
“Bartender? That’s skilled labor. You’ll be washin’ dishes for a few years before you ever see the front of the house, amigo.”
“Asshole.” Able grabbed Bunny’s arm, fighting the pain and trying to remain conscious. “Bun, I saw the muzzle flash. It came from pretty far back and high up. Unless this was a lucky shot he’s got a night scope.”
Everyone was still mic’d so they all heard Able’s report.
“You ready Mace?” Bear said.
“Ready.”
“Lights on in three, two, one, go!”
The second Maceo turned the lights on from the bridge John dove low through the door with Bear right behind him. Just as planned, the sniper in the cargo bay had been blinded by the lights. The two shots that came a second after John and Bear were already inside were off target, hitting high on the wall above them.
John and Bear crawled forward and found cover behind some unmarked crates. They gave each other a here-we-go-again look when the familiar sound of AK’s fired on full auto sprayed the open doorway.
“Looks like we’ve got a sniper in the back and at least two more shooters, one on either side of the room,” John whispered. “Mace, lights out again on three.”
“Roger.”
The cargo hold once again became a dark steel cave. John went left and Bear right to go after the two fighters that were blindly firing away, revealing their positions in the process. Moving along the wall and below the sniper’s line of sight John spotted his target five feet away. His man was out in the open standing straight up and shooting from his hip one handed like Stallone in a Rambo movie. John aimed through a small space between crates and put him down with a single head shot.
“Mine’s down,” he said, keeping Bear and the team updated.
Two more loud shots came at him from the open side of a large crate stacked high near the ceiling along the back wall. Both slugs penetrated the wooden box in front of him and then clanked loudly off of something metal stored inside.
I better not be hiding behind a box of grenades.
The second AK fell silent and Bear announced his target was off the board.
“The sniper’s in the big crate with the open face high up in the back,” John said softly.
“Let’s go,” Bear said.
John moved fast and low. He reached the corner of the far wall and started climbing. The crate was right above him when he reached up and fired a full clip into the opening. Bullets ricocheted wildly back out of the sniper’s hide that had been designed with a heavy steel plate set back from its one open side. Bear climbed up next to him and they both heard curses from inside the box.
“Fuck this,” Bear said, pulling the pin on a smoke grenade. Red smoke filled the air before he pushed it through the hole where the shooter’s rifle barrel was sticking out. Frantic screaming came from inside and then the font plate fell forward. The rifle was thrown out, followed by two terrorists who fell ten feet down to the steel floor below. They rubbed at their eyes and clawed at their throats, hacking, coughing, and trying to catch their breath.
John and Bear hopped off their perch, landing on either side of the two men who were now on their hands and knees.
“These guys are hard core Afghan fighters for sure. Can’t tell which one was the shooter,” John said, carefully looking them over.
Bear shrugged and stomped hard, first on the right hand and then on the left of the Afghan closest to him. The heavy soled jump boot easily shattered and splintered the bones beneath it, but he ground down even further to make sure the hands could never again be used for accurately aiming and firing a rifle.
The second terrorist knew what was coming and tried to protect his hands by hugging them against his body. Bear kicked him hard in the side, then knelt on his back to pin him down. He held the man’s arms out, forcing his hands palm down on the floor. John picked up the sniper rifle and repeatedly smashed each hand with the butt of the heavy weapon. Ignoring the screams, he kept pounding away until they weren’t hands anymore. Just two bloody misshapen lumps of torn flesh and crushed bone.
During the fire fight inside the cargo bay Colonel Masters had patched in the medic en route on the Special Ops ship. John and Bear had been busy taking out the four terrorists, but they still heard Bunny describing Able’s wound in detail. They all knew he was critical and needed immediate surgery.
They quickly hogtied the two Afghans, putting plastic zip cuffs around their ankles, then cuffed their ruined hands behind their backs before tying their hands and feet together. They put black sacks over each of the soldier’s heads and then ran out to help with Able.
“Get those lights back on!” Bunny shouted. When they came on it was a shock to see how pale and frail his friend was.
“Take me topside,” Able said softly. His voice was so weak Bunny had to read his lips to understand what he said. Despite Bunny’s efforts to stop the blood flow he was squatting in a wide red puddle as Able bled out.
“Medic’s on the way brotha. You hold on. Hold on Able. You hear me?! Hold on!”
Running through the doorway, John reached them first. “Bear, grab his legs! Come on Bun, pick him up! Let’s go, let’s go!”
They made their way to the stairs and carefully brought Able up on deck.
“I can taste the salt in the air,” Able whispered, slowly licking his lips. “Lay me down next to Bobby.”
“There’s the ship!” Mace said over the radio. “Medic on board in two minutes.”
John kept pressure on the wound while they laid Able down on the make-shift bed next to his best friend Bobby, who was on his back with his arms spread wide. Bobby stirred, moving his head gently from side to side. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Staring up at the night sky he said, “Man, my brains are scrambled. Where are we?”
“On a cruise,” Able said.
“Did we get hurt?”
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be fine.”
“You too?�
�
“Me? Nah, I’m gone, man.”
“But you’re my brother.”
“Always will be, partner. Gimme a squeeze.”
Bobby bent his left elbow and wrapped his arm around Able.
“I’m going back to sleep,” Bobby said.
“Adios, hermano,” Able said.
Bobby closed his eyes and fell back into unconsciousness. Able closed his eyes and died. Still on their knees in a semi-circle around the two brothers, John, Bear, and Bunny sat there in silence. Finally, John spoke softly into his mic.
“Able’s dead. Bobby needs evac for head trauma.”
They all heard Mace scream out into the night. John looked towards the tower, shook his head, and exhaled deeply. He stood up and placed his hand on Bunny’s shoulder. “Come on Bun, we still have to get the weapons and the prisoners offloaded. Let’s get the torch and start cutting these deck plates open.”
Bunny dried his eyes, gently touched his bloody hand to Able’s cheek, and then hopped up and followed after John. Bear stayed on his knees speaking quietly to Able. After a few moments he got up and walked to the rail. He stood there alone staring into the night. He never looked at the twelve Navy SEALs when they boarded and they knew instinctively to keep their distance.
In the C-130 five miles overhead General Palmer smashed his fist down over and over again onto the desk in front of him.
“How many more good men have to die before we get Aziz Khan?”
“I don’t know General… I just don’t know,” Colonel Masters said.
Chapter 35
Witness for the Prosecution
Manhattan Court District
District Attorney Joshua Fishman’s Office
Don’t let this fool get you shook. He don’t know you. Be cool BD. You just be cool and we’re home free, Brendan Donahue said to himself.
He’d been ready to answer questions, but the DA just sat there looking at him, not saying a word. Brendan gave up trying to hold his stare and kept glancing nervously over at Mike Meecham for support. Brendan and Meecham sat next to each other in matching high-backed leather chairs in front of Fishman’s huge mahogany desk. Meecham nodded, smiled easily and placed a hand on Brendan’s knee to get him to stop furiously pumping his leg up and down.
“You need a towel?” Fishman asked, still gazing upon the scrawny, scabby, cadaverous human being who was sweating so heavily that drops fell from his stringy black hair and dripped from his thin fingers down onto the grey carpet. Fishman made a mental note to have the carpet steam cleaned. Meecham handed Donahue a handkerchief and Fishman watched his star witness pat his face, neck and wrist with quick, jerky motions. Fishman finally looked away in disgust while he weighed his options.
Brendan Donahue’s life had been marked by a series of wrong turns, poor decisions and according to him, “Just a shit load of bad luck,” since his glory days at Yale almost two decades ago. He came from a wealthy New England family who tolerated his drunken playboy lifestyle until the day he’d graduated with a solid 2.0. He thought he was headed for a cushy job in the family business, but his father quickly closed that door. He told his son that if he made something of himself in the world he would find a place for him. Until then he was on his own.
Thus began the freefall. He’d been fired from every job he ever held until he was finally deemed unhireable. It was just his bad luck that every boss he’d ever worked for had been a complete asshole and every person he’d ever worked with had been a jealous backstabber.
Throughout his steady downward spiral he’d briefly taken three different Mrs. Donahue’s along for the ride. Once again, it was just his bad luck that he happened to marry “The three most cold-hearted bitches that ever lived.”
He partied hard through it all, drinking socially from noon to 4AM. He dabbled with the coke at first, gradually increasing his consumption until he became a daily, but still functional user. He stopped functioning after his father died and completely cut him out of the will. In the last five years since his old man gave him a final “fuck you” from the grave he’d become a full blown junkie, mixing crack, heroin, and anything else he could get his hands on. He’d been shacked up with an equally addicted and emaciated hooker in Atlantic City when Meecham’s men dragged him out and cleaned him up two days ago.
He had completely forgotten about the fight that left his college bud from London dead on the street in Manhattan all those years ago. Meecham himself had gone over everything. Brendan recognized his own handwriting in his signed statement, but he’d been cooking his brain for so long that large segments of his life were completely erased.
Hugh’s death had actually been far less traumatic than his father humiliating him in front of his friends and the cops by calling him a total loser unworthy of the Donahue name. As if that night was somehow all his fault.
Meecham kept reminding him about the kid he’d described in his statement and showed him some pictures. He pointed to the one guy that had a scar on his face. He remembered the kid who hit Hugh had a scar, but not much else. He worked for hours and hours with Meecham going over it time and time again until he could recite the story like it happened yesterday.
Now you’re sitting here with this asshole eyeballing you. Thinking he’s better than you? Better than you? You’re the man! You’re the king!
God damn right I am. I’m the king that’s about to get paid. Cha ching bitch. Meecham money motherfucka. That’s real chedda you broke ass DA. When I get my paper I’m gonna come back here and take a shit on your fuckin’ desk. Have you wipe my ass while your secretary’s sucking my fat dick. I’m Brendan Donahue. You’re gonna remember that name for the rest of your life you grey haired punk!
He’s scared a you.
He fuckin’ should be.
Fishman didn’t know what was going on inside Donahue’s head, but he knew from the crazy look in his eyes that it wasn’t good. He didn’t want a psychotic skeleton having a fit in his office so he reluctantly broke the silence to give Meecham the bad news.
“Mike, this just won’t work.”
“Make it work, Fish,” Meecham said venomously.
“How? John Bishop has more medals than Audie Murphy. Last week he became a national hero after what he did to those terrorists and now it seems he’s a personal friend of the president of the United States. You think we can put this skel on the stand to testify against him in open court? Come on.”
“Who you callin’ a skel?”
“I’m talking about you, junkie, and if you say another word without being asked a direct question I’ll have the two officers outside that door haul you down to the Tombs.”
Donahue was about to stand up in protest, but Fishman kept him in his seat by raising his palm like a stop sign. “Asshole, I’ve seen your sheet. Fifteen arrests and two outstanding warrants. It’ll be ninety days before you even see a judge. You sure you want to kick dope in city jail?”
Donahue slumped back down with a sigh. He pantomimed pulling a zipper across his mouth and then dramatically throwing away a key, which would have been funny if it hadn’t revealed more about the depths of his dementia.
He can’t talk to us like that! Don’t just sit there! Do something!
I’m just waiting for my moment. He’s about to get his.
That’s why you’re the king. Cause you’re smarter than everyone else. You’re right BD. Be patient. Then bam! He won’t know what hit him.
He’s gonna be on his ass lookin’ up at my dick.
Spit on him when he’s down. No, no! Piss on him, yeah piss on him!
That’s the plan.
“Come on Mike, what do you expect me to do here?”
“I expect you do what you’re told. First, we get his statement on the record. Do the deposition now and then I’ll get him straight for the Grand Jury.”
“Mike, let me state this clearly so there’s no misunderstanding here. There is no way we can depose Mr. Donahue in his current condition, so today is ou
t of the question. First we’ll get him detoxed and then we’ll determine how stable he is in a few weeks.”
“A few weeks? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re on a schedule here and Bishop’s indictment is just one component of a much broader plan. I need this to happen now.”
“What is your grand plan for Bishop and his family?”
“That’s above your pay grade Fish.”
“I’m hearing some disturbing things.”
“I have always embraced the nasty rumors that surround me and used them to my advantage. In any event, what you may have heard is irrelevant and what you think about what you heard is meaningless to me,” Meecham said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Meaningless. Hmmm. Why’s that?”
“Look at me as the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation and yourself as a low level employee in the mailroom or mopping floors.”
“Well thanks for clarifying things for me. Never realized that you had such little respect for me or this office.”
“The DA’s office I respect. You I don’t. It’s only my benevolence that lets you sit behind that desk and keeps you out of jail. And let me assure you, the moment you stop being useful to me you’ll be headline news. Neither of us wants that, so I suggest you keep me happy Little Fish.”
Josh Fishman’s eyes watered and he turned away. Meecham’s triumphant stare and condescending tone sliced him to the bone. The fact that Meecham had spoken to him like this in front of a low bottom junkie made the wound that much deeper.
“No pouting now. And it’s time you expressed some gratitude. Who would you rather have own you? Me, or the sexual predators in state prison?… Well?”
Meecham sat there waiting for the DA to compose himself while Donahue pretended to smoke a cigarette, blowing imaginary smoke rings towards the ceiling.
“You,” Fishman said.
“Say it,” Meecham said.
