Skystorm (Ryan Decker)

by Steven Konkoly

  “I think it’s fair to say they’re loading it onto whichever ship is tied up on the western end of the pier,” said Pierce.

  “I guess the only question left is how do we disable the ship and create enough fireworks to bring every federal and local law enforcement agent within fifty miles to the terminal?”

  Bernie cleared his throat intentionally.

  “Yes?” said Decker.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Bernie.

  Decker shrugged.

  “Damn ground pounders. How do you plan to magically get off the ship after creating that much noise? I assume you don’t plan to drive a very visible boat up to the ship.”

  He gave it a quick back-and-forth in his head. Bernie was absolutely correct. Whatever stealthy method they used to board the ship wasn’t going to be of much value on the way out. The Coast Guard would be there in minutes, along with the Houston Port Authority. They needed a way to put as much distance between themselves and the ship as possible in the shortest amount of time. Easy enough.

  “Can you fly a helicopter like you fly this beauty?” asked Decker.

  “No. I can’t fly a helicopter at all,” said Bernie.

  “Shit. There goes that idea,” said Decker.

  “But Quincy flew SH-60s off carriers and small-deck warships. Did a few stints inserting and extracting SEALs during the Iraq War,” said Bernie, before taking a sip of his drink. “And I can guarantee you she’d love the opportunity for some payback.”

  “Then the real question is, How do we get our hands on a helicopter?” said Decker.

  Quincy poked her head through the cockpit door.

  “We buy one. Aviation leasing companies tend to frown when you return aircraft with bullet holes.”

  “How quickly can we make that happen?”

  “If we pay asking price in cash,” said Bernie, “I’d say we’d be the proud owners of a ready-to-fly helicopter by noon tomorrow.”

  “Price range?” said Decker.

  “One-point-two million will get you a Bell 206 JetRanger that can carry five. Nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done.”

  Decker looked to Quincy for a final approval.

  “I’ve logged hundreds of hours in the 206,” said Quincy.

  “Then I’ll call the senator,” said Decker.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Decker kicked methodically to keep up with Pierce, his fins propelling him forward at an agonizingly slow rate for the effort exerted. He had still been exhausted from a long, but fairly straightforward, surface swim when they’d pushed off on the final leg of their infiltration, a one-thousand-foot, near-pitch-dark underwater route to their target ship. Now he remembered why he hadn’t been keen on pursuing a career in Naval Special Warfare out of the Academy. Swimming in open water at night scared the shit out of him. Kind of a deal breaker for a SEAL.

  Putting aside every shark movie he’d ever watched, Decker followed the blue glow stick taped to the bottom of Pierce’s left fin, never letting it pull farther than a few feet from his mask. He was fairly convinced that the visibility in this murky harbor water wasn’t much more than that right now. He’d already experienced a few bursts of panic when the blue light inexplicably faded.

  He checked his watch, noting that they had been underwater for thirteen minutes. Pierce had guessed the trip across the channel would take them fifteen minutes at a reasonable pace that wouldn’t render them combat ineffective on the other side. Decker kept kicking, his mind a constant battle between focusing on the blue light and imagining what lurked in the darkness. He couldn’t wait to get onto the ship and into what his mind irrationally determined to be a much safer situation.

  The blue light unexpectedly drifted toward his mask, the bottom edge of Pierce’s fin suddenly hitting his mask and breaking the seal. The mask filled halfway before he sealed it again, the salt water just below his eyes. Great. Now he was stuck like this. Pierce had expressly warned him against clearing his mask after the halfway point. An alert sentry could possibly see or hear the bubbles.

  Pierce remained still in the water for several seconds, then continued at a much slower pace. They kicked leisurely for another few minutes before Pierce came to an abrupt stop, the blue light drifting down. Decker joined him, locking arms to stay together. It was almost impossible to tell, but he felt like the water was darker here.

  They slowly ascended, Pierce kicking to set the pace, until their heads gently bumped the hull. A brief moment of panic seized Decker as he realized they had gone too far and now sat underneath a fourteen-thousand-ton hunk of buoyancy-defying metal. He got his breathing back to normal after Pierce held an oversize, illuminated wrist compass to his face and winked, indicating everything was under control.

  He oriented them north, and they crept along the hull as it curved upward—until they broke the surface on the port side, about a hundred feet from the ship’s stern. Decker was surprised by how much light the ship and pier cast across the water. Someone looking over the side would spot them immediately. Pierce pointed down, and they submerged a few feet to swim aft, where they could hide under the stern overhang and prepare for the next phase.

  Once safely hidden underneath the stern, Pierce activated an autoinflatable raft, which sprang to life, creating an uncomfortable amount of noise. They floated motionless until they were satisfied that the raft commotion hadn’t attracted any attention.

  Decker lifted his mask, rubbing his eyes, while Pierce started off-loading the gear bags attached to his suit into the one-person emergency life raft. This was the tricky part. Getting the gear into the raft without sending any of it to the bottom of the harbor. He waited for Pierce to finish instead of starting on his own bags, so he could enlist some help.

  One near drowning later, Decker and Pierce had successfully transferred Decker’s waterproof bags to the raft and removed his scuba gear. He clung to the side of the raft as Pierce prepped the magnetically attachable C-4 charges that would hopefully punch a few holes in the hull and cripple the rudder.

  “What can I do?” whispered Decker.

  “Don’t drown?” said Pierce.

  Pierce powered the cell phones attached to each two-and-a-half-pound charge and resealed their waterproof pouches before zipping them up inside one of the smaller waterproof bags. All he had to do was place each charge against the hull. They each carried a cell phone with the numbers on speed dial, with a backup cell phone on the helicopter.

  “Be back in a few minutes,” said Pierce, lifting the bag out of the raft.

  He swam quietly along the portside hull, attaching the three charges just below the waterline at twenty-foot intervals. When he got back to the stern, he lowered his mask and pushed the regulator into his mouth before sinking below the surface. Decker took in the sounds of the harbor while he was alone, the mechanical grinding of the massive container crane dominant at one in the morning. APEX was working twenty-four hours a day to get SKYSTORM out of the United States.

  Pierce surfaced less than a minute after he disappeared, ditching his scuba gear on the way back to the raft. Decker had forgotten just how comfortable Pierce was in the water.

  “I attached the charges to the top of the rudder,” said Pierce. “I’m a little worried, because they’re about four to five feet below the surface. Getting a cell phone signal that deep might be an issue. The ship is sitting a little lower than I expected.”

  “APEX is loading it up fast,” said Decker. “Either way, I can’t imagine this ship will be going anywhere with a few holes punched through the side. Knocking out the rudder was the icing on the cake.”

  “I hope so,” said Pierce, sifting through the bags in the raft. “You ready to get this over with?”

  “I suppose we shouldn’t keep everyone waiting,” said Decker.

  He unsealed the long bag and removed several three-foot lengths of one-inch-diameter PVC pipe, fitting them together by the connectors they’d already attached to each piece. Next he d
uct-taped a crude, oversize grappling hook to the top of the long makeshift pole, making sure the thick, knotted climbing rope coiled in the bag was tied securely to the hook.

  “You sure this is long enough?” said Decker.

  “We’ll have to swim past the superstructure, where the hull dips closest to the waterline. Worst-case scenario, we have to kind of launch the pole up.”

  They slung the remaining two bags over their shoulders and swam with the raft to the lowest point along the side of the hull. Eyeballing the distance, Decker guessed they’d be fine. He nodded at Pierce, and they lifted the wobbly pole, placing it high against the hull. They slid it up slowly, the hook scraping against the painted metal before it finally plunked over the top edge, just under the lowest guardrail beam.

  Before continuing, they waited a full minute and listened for any signs that the hook had drawn attention. Pierce tugged on the rope, gradually increasing the amount of weight until he could lift himself mostly out of the water.

  “I think we’re good,” he said, before struggling up the rope.

  If a sentry spotted them at this point, they were as good as dead. Shooting directly down at them, the APEX security team couldn’t possibly miss. Pierce made it over the side faster than Decker thought possible, reappearing a few moments later to give him a thumbs-up. He grabbed the highest point within reach and heaved his body up, snagging the knot just above the waterline between his feet. He pressed up with his thighs and lifted his body out of the water, shifting his hands up the knots until he was ready to heave again.

  His arms and legs burned by the time he reached the top, the combined weight of the water and gear making the climb far more difficult than it looked. Pierce leaned over the guardrail and helped him over, the two of them scurrying under the container stack structure.

  “Now for the fun part,” said Decker, before unsealing his bag.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Brad Pierce hit the slide-release button on his suppressed, heavy-barrel HK416 rifle, chambering a round from the sixty-round drum he’d just inserted. Three more sat in the bulky pouch attached to the left side of his tactical vest. Once again, he’d play the machine-gunner role. He checked his gear one more time, making sure everything was snug.

  They looked kind of ridiculous, wearing coyote tan combat boots, drop holsters, and unarmored tactical rigs over black full-body wet suits. Beggars couldn’t be choosers when sifting through Bernie’s bunker. The last thing he tightened was the strap holding a pair of PRIZM shooting glasses tightly against his face.

  “Ready?” said Decker.

  “Yep,” said Pierce. “I suggest we take the external stairs as far up the superstructure as possible. Avoid contact until it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Sounds good,” said Decker, pulling the hood of his balaclava mask over the top of his head.

  Pierce did the same before following Decker out from under the thick metal platform. APEX would undoubtedly guess who did this, but there was no reason to further complicate their lives with a federal investigation. They walked swiftly toward the five-story superstructure, Decker covering the front of their approach and Pierce watching the rear. To maintain the fast pace and keep his rifle focused on the deck behind them, Pierce employed a side step that allowed him to switch his view with minimal effort.

  They’d made it most of the way when Decker’s rifle cracked twice, the combination of subsonic bullets and a hefty suppressor reducing the gunshots to handclaps. Still noticeable if you knew what to listen for. He glanced past his right shoulder at Decker, seeing a figure slumped against the guardrail about twenty feet ahead.

  Another figure stepped into view close to where they had climbed over the side, kneeling to examine the deck. He’d likely noticed the water they’d dragged on board. Pierce dropped to one knee and centered his holographic site reticle on the man’s head, pressing the trigger twice in rapid succession. The shell casings rattled off the steel container next to him as the man pitched forward into the railing. His head went through the top two bars, suspending him from the guardrail when his body gave out.

  He didn’t need to look at Decker to know he’d taken off. Four suppressed shots would not go unnoticed. Radio checks would be going out to all sentries. They had a minute at most before the deck swarmed with security. He sprinted aft while Decker heaved the dead guard over the guardrail. Pierce reached him as the man’s body hit the water. The splash almost sounded as loud as one of the gunshots.

  Decker moved quickly but quietly up the exterior stairs leading to the first platform, while Pierce crouched at the foot of the stairwell, covering the deck.

  “Clear,” said Decker, and Pierce joined him.

  They repeated the process again, reaching the second of four platforms, before the voices echoed from below. A quick look over the railing confirmed that security had seen the body in the water. Decker hadn’t skipped a beat, continuing up the stairs to the next level. Pierce barely rounded the flight of stairs in time to catch a glimpse of Decker—headed for the final platform.

  “Clear,” said Decker, and Pierce barreled up the metal stairs in pursuit.

  When he reached the platform Decker had just departed, the hatch swung open without warning, catching Pierce by surprise. Fortunately, he appeared to be the last person the body armor–clad security guard expected, providing Pierce with ample opportunity to drill a bullet hole through his unprotected face. A discordance of yelling inside the hatch convinced him they needed to take advantage of the confusion.

  “On me. Flash bang,” he said to Decker, before kneeling next to the hatch.

  Decker mumbled on the way back down the stairs, but ultimately trusted his judgment, tossing a flash bang grenade inside the superstructure a few seconds later. The moment the grenade detonated, Pierce was on the move through the haze, firing short bursts at anything that didn’t match the white bulkheads.

  The security team inside never stood a chance. The one-million-candela “flash” combined with a one-hundred-and-eighty-decibel “bang” not only stunned them in place but also rendered them almost entirely blind and deaf. When he stopped shooting, the formerly pristine compartment looked like a Lubyanka execution chamber. Six bodies lay slumped on the deck below thick, bright-red splotches.

  “Looks like the quick-reaction force,” said Decker, passing him by on the way to the stairs.

  Pierce kept staring at the gruesome massacre. What the hell is all of this?

  “Keep moving. They’ll be all over us in thirty seconds,” said Decker, tugging at his vest.

  He felt bizarrely stuck here for some reason. As though he’d finally crossed some kind of line.

  “Hey!” said Decker, grabbing his arm and getting his attention. “This is the only way we keep our people safe. We didn’t start this. They did. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “I know. I know,” said Pierce, the mental fog lifting. “I just—this is fucking brutal.”

  “Brutal but necessary,” said Decker. “You good?”

  He was far from good, but he had to push through it. Decker was right. This was the only way they got their lives back. And kept their families from the same ghastly fate.

  “Yep. All good,” said Pierce.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Decker edged up the white-painted metal stairs, keeping the barrel of his rifle pointed at the closed hatch on the bridge landing. Anyone on the other side of that door was well aware at this point that all hell had broken loose a few decks below. He waited for Pierce to take his place watching the door before starting his ascent to the bridge, where they had spotted at least one guard from the other side of the channel.

  He signaled for Pierce to join him next to the windowless door leading onto the bridge, where they removed the suppressors attached to their rifles. They wanted to make as much noise as possible from this point onward.

  “This is going to be tricky,” said Decker.

  “Yep. Two flash bangs? One in each direction?”
said Pierce.

  The door opened almost directly into the center of the bridge.

  “After clearing the area immediately around the door from cover,” said Decker, “we’re giving up any element of surprise, but I think that ship has sailed already.”

  “The guard will be on one of the bridge wings, just outside of the bridge,” said Pierce. “That’s where I’d be. The flash bangs won’t do much for us.”

  “They get us on the bridge,” said Decker.

  “I have a better idea,” said Pierce. “Toss them in without pulling the pins. Buys us an extra second or two.”

  Yelling echoed up the stairwell. It was now or never.

  “We’ll need it,” said Decker, grabbing the door lever and waiting for Pierce to get into position with his rifle.

  When Pierce nodded, he yanked the door open most of the way and braced his rifle against the edge, scanning his limited view of the right side of the brightly lit bridge. Pierce remained in place, his rifle aiming left. Nothing. The guard on the bridge had played it smart, forcing them to move into his preplanned kill zone. Or so he thought.

  “Guess we do this the hard way,” said Decker.

  Pierce removed two flash bang grenades from his bag, one in each hand, and simultaneously tossed them onto the bridge. When they clattered against the steel deck, Decker rushed inside, centering his red dot sight on the open starboard-side bridge wing door. Pierce slid past him to cover the portside door. A short burst of suppressed fire from Pierce’s rifle solved their problem.

  “Target down,” said Pierce. “I’ll secure the door.”

  Decker moved forward through the starboard side of the bridge in case another sentry joined the first after they had set off to cross the channel. He reached the opening that led to the exterior bridge wing and checked outside.

  “Clear,” said Decker. “How are we doing on the door?”