Skystorm (Ryan Decker)

by Steven Konkoly

  “Locked. It’s a pretty solid pirate-deterrent door,” he said. “But this won’t hold up forever.”

  “Set the Claymore facing the door, wired to blow if they open it,” said Decker. “That’ll buy us the time we need if they breach.”

  “As long as we’re not on the bridge when they set it off,” said Pierce.

  “Swap rifles,” said Decker. “I’m going to start the show. And get the helicopter moving. This won’t last very long.”

  “Bossy tonight,” said Pierce, digging through his bag.

  Decker took the modified light machine gun, modeled off the Marine Corps Infantry Automatic Rifle, and leaned his lighter version against the bulkhead next to Pierce.

  “Trade back when you’re done,” said Decker, taking off.

  He drew fire the moment he stepped onto the exposed bridge wing, bullets sparking off the steel wall next to him and punching small holes through the thick glass windows. Decker dropped prone and crawled to the end of the platform before carefully scanning the ship and pier below him. A few guards fired from positions along the starboard side of the ship, concealed among and below the stacks.

  Bursts of gunfire from a lone shooter crouched on top of a portside container snapped overhead, some of the bullets striking the guardrail posts and ricocheting close. A little too close. Decker steadied the rifle on the thick metal lip of the platform and sighted in on the guy, sending a sustained volley back at him. The man tumbled off the container and disappeared.

  Tires squealed on the pier, a convoy of three large SUVs racing toward the ship. APEX reinforcements most likely. He slid his body north to face the approaching threat and centered the green illuminated reticle on the hood of the first SUV. Two long bursts sent the vehicle careening toward a tall stack of containers, ending with a sickening crunch.

  He repeated the drill against the second SUV, which slowed to a steady roll after several bullets peppered the windshield. The guards in the back seat bailed out and made a run for it. Decker’s next two bursts dropped one of them to the concrete. The third SUV abruptly turned and vanished behind a sea of shipping containers. He searched for the surviving shooter, unable to locate him. The guy had probably seen enough.

  Pierce slid into position next to him. “What did I miss?”

  “All the fun. Three SUVs just tried to deliver reinforcements. I took two of them out. The third ducked out of sight behind the stacks,” said Decker, swapping rifles.

  Pierce reloaded the rifle while a concentrated barrage of bullets pinged off the thick steel around them and cracked by their heads.

  “Time to make some real noise,” said Pierce, pulling the pin on a grenade and tossing it over the side.

  Decker removed a grenade from one of the pouches on his vest and did the same, the first grenade detonating as soon as he heaved it. The two successive explosions quieted the gunfire long enough for the two of them to start picking out targets.

  Pierce didn’t hold back, sweeping the deck with automatic fire, pausing only long enough to pick out a specific target for a concentrated burst. Decker focused on the guards sniping away at them from concealed positions among the semitrailers parked in a long row on the pier. He could have used more magnification at these distances than the 4X ACOG rifle scope provided, but he was still able to get the job done.

  One by one over the next several seconds, he either permanently silenced or temporarily suppressed the half dozen shooters who had been sending bullets their way. The cell phone he’d crammed into the wet suit’s thigh pocket buzzed. It was time to wrap this up. He elbowed Pierce.

  “The helicopter should be one minute out,” said Decker, rising into a crouch and taking off.

  A small explosion tore through the stairwell door inside the bridge, and Decker veered left, away from the opening.

  “Fire in the hole!” he yelled back at Pierce, who had already hit the deck and rolled to the side.

  A devastating explosion ripped through the bridge, instantly blowing out its windows and ejecting debris through the open doorway. Decker lay covered in glass, taking a few moments to regain his senses from the detonation. He could barely hear the bullets chasing him as he dashed onto the smoke-filled, blast-charred bridge.

  Once inside, he tossed a high-explosive grenade through the missing stairwell door and backed into Pierce, nearly knocking them both over. The smaller explosion felt like a firecracker compared to the antipersonnel mine. He risked a peek, seeing nothing but body parts and gore.

  They moved to the port bridge wing, staying low and as far back from the front edge as possible to keep from being spotted. Decker nestled into a location next to the bridge wing door, where he could watch the bridge interior, just in case the carnage didn’t serve as enough of a deterrent for the next round of security that showed up.

  Decker removed the cell phone from the suit’s stash pocket and dialed Harlow, who picked up immediately. With his ears still ringing, he could barely hear her over the helicopter’s rotor noise.

  “We’re in position!” she said.

  “Start your run now!” said Decker. “Tell Quincy and Pam that this is a hot pickup.”

  “We’re moving! Coming up the channel!”

  He ended the call and stashed the phone in his bag, where he could get to it quickly in the helicopter. A quick glance east toward the entrance to the Bayport Terminal channel revealed a fast-moving, darkened object superimposed against the Port of Houston’s industrial yellow-orange glow.

  “They’re on final approach!” said Decker.

  Pierce crawled forward into a position where he could mark targets for the helicopter gunner and provide suppressive fire while Quincy maneuvered to pick them up. No matter how much gunfire they unleashed beforehand, the helicopter would be vulnerable alongside the bridge wing. There was simply no way around that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Harlow took a deep breath and exhaled. She checked the safety line connecting the back of her flight harness to the thick metal ring bolted to the floor for the fiftieth time since the helicopter had taken off and hesitantly moved into the leather seat next to the open door. She’d tested the rig over and over again before takeoff and found that she could securely stand on the skids at its full extension, putting her entire weight forward safely.

  Quincy had insisted that she do this until she had convinced herself logically that the rig would hold her. The theory being that, with enough repetition, Harlow’s logical brain and fear-based brain should balance each other out enough to get her out on the skid—if the gap between the bridge wing and skids was too far for Decker and Pierce to negotiate without help. Quincy obviously had no idea how paralyzing fear worked.

  Even on the ground, the mere thought of what might be required of her during the mission induced a near panic attack. Up here? Harlow had no idea how she was still functional. Unfortunately, there had been no other option.

  Mazzie seemed unfazed by fast-moving aircraft, but her thin, five-foot-three frame and spindly arms didn’t inspire confidence in her ability to pull two hundred pounds of muscle and gear into the helicopter. Pam could toss them inside without breaking a sweat, but she’d proven a hundred times more adept at the other critical job necessary to complete the mission. And Joshua? His name never came up. The job fell on Harlow’s shoulders, whether she liked it or not.

  Pam sat directly across from her, turned halfway in her seat to face out of the helicopter. She held some kind of Serbian-made light machine gun with a wooden stock across her lap. A large, rigid canvas bag had been attached to the side of the machine gun facing Harlow, its purpose to catch the ejected brass that would otherwise fly into Harlow’s face and over her shoulder into the cockpit. Gunfire mixed in with the mechanical whine of the helicopter’s engine. As if the experience weren’t already bad enough.

  “Pam. Stand by to engage,” said Quincy over her headset. “Ten seconds out.”

  Pam lowered her night-vision goggles, which allowed her to see
the IR lasers Pierce and Decker would use to point out priority targets. Pam shouldered the machine gun and aimed it at a shallow downward angle out of the helicopter door, bracing it on top of her closed knees. She’d already charged the weapon a few minutes ago over Galveston Bay.

  “Engaging targets,” said Pam, the machine gun thundering a moment later.

  No wonder Decker had been so happy. The thing sounded like a cannon compared to their rifles. Pam fired a longer burst, the gunfire rattling Harlow’s headset. She’d reluctantly turned in her seat to prepare for her role in the extraction when Pam sent another downpour of bullets toward the ship. Harlow followed the stream of green tracers to the bottom of a container stack, where they ricocheted off the deck and upper hull, some flying skyward as from a roman candle. The pyrotechnic show somewhat distracted her from the terror at hand.

  “Five seconds,” said Quincy.

  It was almost time. Quincy’s announcement was immediately followed by a series of sharp thunks that rattled through the cabin.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit,” she muttered.

  “Taking fire. Taking fire. Multiple targets. Two platforms up on superstructure,” said Quincy.

  “On it!” said Pam, shifting the machine gun in her lap and firing three short bursts.

  The tracers raced toward the superstructure in three distinctly separate, slightly arcing lines before they struck the platform and bounced in every direction. Harlow caught a glimpse of Decker and Pierce three levels higher and even with the helicopter. Pam fired again, hammering the platform with what felt like an excessive number of bullets.

  “Pam. Cease fire. Cease fire. Cover the bridge wing door,” said Quincy. “Harlow. You’re up.”

  The helicopter slowed significantly as Quincy finessed their approach. Harlow continued muttering expletives as she willed herself to stand up. Once out of the seat, she locked her hands in a death grip around the horizontal bar next to the door and leaned her head out of the helicopter. Decker and Pierce crouched at the end of the bridge, their rifles already slung across their chests. Quincy eased the left skid into position next to the top of the guardrail, and Harlow stretched her hand out to grab Pierce. With a firm grip on both his hand and the safety bar, she pulled him into the helicopter. That wasn’t so bad.

  Decker was already perched on the bridge wing guardrail by the time Harlow got back in position at the door. She’d reached for his hand, which was just inches away, when a string of bullets punched through the aircraft, one of them slicing her left forearm and thudding into the ceiling above her. She instantly retracted her arm, and the helicopter shifted a few feet away from Decker’s outstretched hand. Another burst of gunfire pounded the fuselage.

  “It’s now or never!” said Quincy. “We can’t stay here much longer!”

  Harlow looked to Decker, who winked at her before stretching his hand as far as possible without falling off the railing. Without thinking, she let go of the handle and stepped onto the skid with both feet. Putting all of her trust in the harness, she leaned forward and grabbed Decker’s wrist using both hands.

  He leaped for the helicopter, landing one foot on the skid, which gave Harlow enough leverage to yank him up and into Pam’s waiting hands. She tossed Decker deep inside the cabin before snagging Harlow by the vest and pulling her inside. She landed next to Decker, who held her tight.

  “All souls on board,” said Pam.

  The helicopter dropped from the sky—at least that was how it felt. As they picked up speed, Harlow understood that Quincy had ducked behind the ship’s stern to keep them from taking any additional fire. The helicopter raced across the harbor for a few seconds before banking right and gaining altitude.

  “I’m bringing us back around, outside of small-arms range,” said Quincy. “So we can enjoy the show.”

  When the flight leveled off, Pam reached and pulled the left-side door shut, quieting the cabin. They removed their balaclava masks and gathered along the right side, staring out of the Bell 206 JetRanger’s expansive window at the terminal complex as it moved into view.

  “Cell phones,” said Decker. “We’ll take out the rudder first. Pierce on speed dial number five. Harlow number four. Like we rehearsed.”

  “Ready,” said Pierce.

  It took Harlow a little longer with the phone shaking in her hand.

  “Ready.”

  “Stand by to detonate charges four and five,” said Decker, then started the countdown. “Three. Two. One. Boom.”

  She hit “Send” and turned to look out the window. Two near-simultaneous underwater flashes threw a massive geyser of water over the stern, erasing it from sight.

  “Set up for the hull charges. Harlow number one. Pierce number two. I got three.”

  A few seconds later, Decker started his countdown again. Three flashes lit up the channel, sending up separate columns of water higher than the top of the superstructure.

  “I’d say your underwater demolition training certainly didn’t go to waste,” said Decker. “Looks like the Battle of Midway down there.”

  “It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” said Pierce.

  Harlow swayed, suddenly feeling very nauseated. Decker grabbed her before she hit the deck, moving her onto one of the seats.

  “You okay?” he said, immediately seeing the bullet wound. “I need the med kit. Harlow’s hit.”

  A flurry of activity erupted in the cabin as everyone jumped in response to Decker’s vague injury declaration.

  “It’s not that,” said Harlow, hugging him tightly. “I’m afraid of flying, in case you forgot.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he said. “I thought you were out of your mind stepping out on the skid.”

  “That wasn’t a very smart thing to do.”

  “Not at all. But it sure beat having to swim back,” said Decker, before kissing her.

  She held on to him for a few more seconds before letting go.

  “Time to call Senator Steele and give her the good news,” said Harlow.

  “Let’s get you patched up first,” said Decker.

  “It’s really not that bad,” she said.

  “That’s my Harlow!” said Pam. “Took her a few years, but she’s finally an official member of the I got shot because of Decker, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt club.”

  “Is there an actual T-shirt?” said Harlow, weakly, her hands clutching the seat and handle again.

  “There will be when we get back.”

  Decker smirked. “Can I have the sat phone. Please.”

  “You said the magic word,” said Pam, digging the phone out of one of the seat compartments.

  He dialed the senator and put the call on speakerphone. Steele answered almost immediately.

  “Is everyone safe?” asked Steele.

  “Everyone is safe, and you’re on speakerphone,” said Decker. “We’re flying toward the Gulf. Mission accomplished. That ship isn’t going anywhere.”

  “That’s fantastic news. On both accounts,” said Steele. “I’ll make a bunch of calls first thing in the morning, pressing every law enforcement and investigative agency to take a close look at the ship’s cargo. I’m so glad everyone is okay. This didn’t sound like an easy job.”

  “It wasn’t, but Brad made it look easy,” said Decker. “Bernie should be on the ground in an hour to pick us up. We’re about forty minutes from the airfield. We can be in the DC area seven to eight hours after that.”

  “Don’t you people ever rest?” she said, getting a laugh out of everyone.

  “We can sleep on the plane,” said Decker.

  Steele’s long pause told Harlow that something had changed. Her instinct was validated a moment later.

  “As much as we could use your help here, I need you somewhere else. Two places, actually. First at the SKYSTORM airfield. I managed to pull a few strings and pique some law enforcement interest up there. It’s an opportunity we can’t pass up,” said Steele. “I’ll explain the second mission when you’
re airborne on Bernie’s plane. It’s a little more complicated.”

  “I’ll let him know our plans have changed,” said Decker.

  “He knows,” said Steele. “I’ve already sent him the information. I didn’t want to distract any of you from the mission at hand.”

  Decker looked disappointed. Or possibly slighted? She couldn’t tell, but he definitely didn’t look happy about the news. He’d clammed up, which was a tell that he was frustrated.

  “Okay. We’ll review the missions when we get on board and coordinate from there,” said Decker.

  Steele must have sensed it, too.

  “Ryan. You’re not being sidelined,” said Steele. “Rich warned me you might feel this way. We think we’ve figured out an endgame for all of this. It’s a bit of a long shot, and we might be wrong—but we have to give it a try. The mission is almost tailor-made for you and Brad. You’ll see what I mean when you read through the packet. If we’re right, tomorrow’s events should put an end to APEX.”

  Harlow hijacked the conversation, turning the lights off on Decker’s pity party.

  “We’re ready to bury APEX,” said Harlow. “You should have seen the charges go up on that ship. Sweet justice. And I lost my fear of flying for about a minute. But it all came back, so I’m hoping our next flight is shorter than seven hours. Two would be nice.”

  Steele laughed. “I wish I had better news, but you’re looking at about nine to ten hours.”

  “Can’t catch a break,” said Harlow.

  She nudged Decker, who took her hint. He needed to pick himself up off the ground and end this on a positive note.

  “Do we at least get to do something cool?” asked Decker.

  “Rich just nodded yes,” said Steele, “if that helps. I think everything you guys do is cool.”

  Decker laughed. “It does.”

  “And Harlow, it’s much lower risk than what we have planned in DC,” said Steele.

  “Sold,” said Harlow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ezra Dalton jolted out of a deep slumber, momentarily unsure where she was or what had woken her. A persistent, repetitive chime from her nightstand brought it all back. She was in her Mason Neck home. It was the middle of the night. And the specific ringtone meant nothing but bad news. She’d assigned it to a single number on her contact list—Samuel Quinn. Dalton reached over and grabbed the phone, steeling herself for whatever report he felt necessary to pass along at three in the morning.