by John Ringo
“Vanel! What happen—” Marko said as he cleared the corner and crouched by his teammate’s side. Then he looked back toward their forces and yelled, “MEDIC!”
* * *
Beads of sweat dotted Oleg’s forehead as he wrestled with the balky bus. The vehicle had been indifferently maintained, and it showed in the stiff clutch and loose transmission. Oleg had to jam the crutch down on the clutch pedal while letting up on the gas as he forced the bus into second gear. At the same time, he leaned hard on the horn to clear the sidewalk of anyone either deaf or stupid enough to still be in the area.
With a resigned groan, the bus began picking up speed. Oleg smashed the clutch down again and forced the stick shift into third gear, making the thirty-year-old vehicle lurch up to maybe forty miles an hour.
Judging by the louder gunfire, he was getting closer. Now he just needed a bit of the All Father’s luck to get him near enough to his target to make a difference.
* * *
“No go, Mike! We are fucking pinned!” Adams shouted after almost getting his ass shot off during a brief recon to see if they could somehow flank the machine gun that was keeping them under cover. “What we could really use right now is some air support!”
“What about the snipers?” Mike yelled back.
“Watch!” Jace shouted. The three men peeked around the corner of their battered cover to see a series of sparks flash off the top armor of the second APC. “They don’t have anything powerful enough to penetrate it!”
The main force of soldiers had been killed, driven to cover, or scattered by the initial attack, but the APC machine guns were causing a huge problem. Every time anyone showed even a flash of movement, the guns zeroed in and tried to shoot through their cover to get the man behind it. Three cars were on fire from rounds piercing the engines and gas tanks, and it was only luck that none of them had exploded yet.
Mike, Adams, and Jace were hunkered down about twenty meters from the second APC, which was firing at anything that moved. “We have to disable that weapon!”
“Short of getting in the first one and unloading on the one behind it, we don’t have a chance in hell of taking it out!” Adams shouted, just before his eyes widened as he looked beyond Mike’s shoulder. “What the hell—?”
Mike and Jace both turned to see the bus they’d been riding in barreling toward the stopped military convoy, picking up speed. “No way that’s the driver, which means—” Jace began.
“—Oleg’s doing a fucking suicide run!” Mike finished.
But the moment the bus lined up on the second vehicle, the door flew open and a large body tumbled out. He rolled over and over on the road as both of the turrets traversed to take out this new threat. The 7.62s shattered the windshield and began walking rounds across its front grille. But before the 30mm main gun could begin firing, the bus slammed into the side of the APC, right where the turret was—just as it shot its first shell.
Detonating right outside the muzzle, the blast rushed back down the bore as the second shell came out, making it detonate early as well. The barrel was next to go, rocking the turret as it exploded. Smoke started pouring out of the vehicle, and the side hatch flew open as the crew evacuated.
“We just got our distraction. Move in now!” Mike ran around the front of the destroyed car he’d been hiding behind and headed for the first APC. Adams and Jace followed right behind him. Seeing their leaders sweeping forward, the rest of the warriors followed, covering the three men as they reached the first BTR-3U.
Gray smoke was still billowing out of the viewport and open side hatch. Mike spotted a Keldara medic working on one of their downed men. He ran over to find Vanel lying in a spreading pool of blood. “What’s the situation?”
“Gut-shot, bleeding badly. I’ve got him stabilized, but we have to get him to a hospital right now!” the medic shouted back.
“Commandeer a car and make it happen!” Mike shouted as he pulled out a handkerchief and doused it in water from his canteen. “Adams, Jace, Himal, follow me!”
Wrapping the cloth around his head, Mike took a deep breath and held it as he climbed into the smoke-filled interior of the APC. His vision was cut to nothing, and he crouched on the floor and crawled forward, listening for the hiss of the grenade. It sounded like it was coming from the forward compartment, so he headed that way, arm outstretched to ward off any obstacles. Along the way, he was starting to think this might have been a really bad idea . . .
The hissing was louder in here, and Mike unwrapped the bandanna from his head and wrapped it around his hand. His lungs were just starting to feel tight as he groped along the floor until his hand contacted round, hot metal.
“Got one!” Hoping he remembered where the broken viewport was, he wrapped the grenade in the wet handkerchief and stood up, remaining bent over. Groping along the front until he felt a breeze from outside, Mike shoved the grenade out just as his hands started to blister from the heat. The volume of smoke lessened, but it was still thick in here. Smothering a cough, Mike put his face to the window and sucked in a relatively clean breath of air, then went back after the second grenade.
“I’ve got the other! Move move move!” Adams said. Mike sat in the driver’s seat as the master chief lunged past him and tossed the second grenade out the window. The smoke still hung over everything, but Mike slapped the air conditioning switches on the master control panel, and fans began blowing the smoke away from the driver’s compartment.
“Someone get on the thirty millimeter!” Mike said as he revved the engine. Sirens could be heard in the distance. “We’ve got to take out the other APCs and unass before reinforcements arrive!”
“Thirty mike-mike is locked and loaded!” Jace called from the turret.
“Seven point six-two ready to rock and roll!” Adams called from the machine gun.
“Fire at will!” Mike said, putting the twenty-ton vehicle into gear and pulling around in a huge U-turn, either shoving cars out of the way or running them over.
* * *
With the second APC disabled, the commander of the third BTR-3U thought the lead vehicle was repositioning itself to press the attack against the enemy soldiers on the ground. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
As soon as they had a line of sight on the enemy vehicle, Jace and Adams opened up on it with both guns while also laying down a thick cloud of smoke from the six 81mm smoke dispensers. The 30mm rounds chewed through the front of the target APC, shredding the driver. The rounds continued into its turret, finding the ammo and cooking it off.
Faced with the confusion of one of their own vehicles attacking them, the other 8x8s tried to face it down, but Mike and his crew weaved among them and the huge smoke cloud like a huge, camouflaged ghost, there one moment, and gone the next. Using the dense haze as cover, Mike swung around to the rear and attacked the rear APC next, disabling its tires and its turret. Soon smoke and soldiers were pouring out of it in equal measure.
The last APC pulled away from its dead brethren and took off down the road, smashing through cars in its way as it cleared a path away from the chaos.
“All right, we are done here,” Mike said as they evacuated the APC. “Jace, Himal, make sure everyone gets the hell out. Master Chief, you’re with me. We’ve got a team leader to recover.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ten hours later, Vanel awoke in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines. There was an IV attached to his arm, and a cool bag was strapped to his thigh as well.
Colonel Nielson stood at his bedside, along with Daria and Xatia. Vanel’s head was fuzzy and his abdomen ached dully. The Keldara tried to speak, but all that came out of his dry mouth was a wheeze. He did manage, however, to raise his hand in salute to his superior officer.
Nielson snapped off a crisp salute in return. “At ease, Vanel—you just came out of surgery an hour ago. How about some water?”
Even as Nielson spoke, Xatia was there, offering Vanel a sweating bottle with a straw
in it. He drained half of it before she removed it. “Good, but would prefer . . . beer instead.”
“That’ll have to do for now. You have to give your intestines time to heal first,” the colonel said.
“What . . . what happened? Last I remember I was trying to reach . . . second APC—”
“You did fine, Vanel. You were shot through the lower intestine, with the bullet grazing your colon before exiting your lower back. You were fortunate, an inch more to the left, and it would have hit your spine. Not a bad place to get shot, all things considered, although it does hurt like hell. Our medic stabilized you and got you here to Witoriya General Hospital, where they operated for the past six hours to patch up your insides. You’re missing about three feet of small intestine, but that’s a small price to pay, considering what could have happened. As soon as you can be moved, we’ll be transferring you to a hospital in Singapore to complete your recuperation.”
Vanel nodded. “Was the coup stopped?”
Nielson smiled. “Yes, Mike, Adams, and the rest stopped the plotters from accomplishing their goal. We lost a few men, but overall the mission was a complete success. Marko told us what you’d done during the op. They couldn’t have completed the mission without your help. Now you rest up,” The XO leaned close to Vanel’s ear. “We’ll see how you’re doing in the morning and whether you can be transferred to a real hospital.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Vanel sucked in a breath, despite how it made his stomach flare with pain, and slumped on his pillow.
“Ladies, we should let Vanel get some sleep,” Nielson said.
“Sir . . . may I have a moment with Xatia, please?” Vanel asked.
An odd look passed between the Keldara XO and the two young women, then Nielson nodded. “Yes, but keep it brief. Daria, let’s go make sure our boy gets the care he needs.” The two walked out of the room, leaving Vanel alone with the petite blonde.
“Xatia, I—” Vanel began, but was stopped by her finger on his lips. With an effort, he moved his head aside. “No, I have to . . . say this . . . After almost dying today, it has given me the courage to . . . declare my feelings for you. I—I love you . . . and I want to marry you.”
She smiled, a cute dimple appearing in one cheek. “Oh, Vanel . . . I know that you love me. I always have.”
“You . . . do?”
She leaned over and patted his cheek. “I’ve known ever since you first looked at me, back when we were children. There was never going to be another boy for me, not after I saw you. When you are better, and we are back in our homeland, we will begin the discussion between our two families regarding the bride-price.”
Vanel’s already dizzy head was spinning even faster now. “You already knew? But . . . but . . . what about your mother?”
Xatia smiled. “It is true, your family will have to bargain hard to best Mother Mahona. I believe that she is aware of how I feel—not that that will make a huge difference, I think. But I believe they will eventually come to terms.” With a quick glance at the door, Xatia leaned over and kissed Vanel on the forehead. “You should rest now. I will see you in the morning.”
“Okay . . .” Exhausted yet exhilarated, Vanel felt sleep begin to claim him. However, he did have one more question. “Xatia?”
She turned at the door. “Yes, my love?”
“Where is the Kildar and everybody else?”
She smiled again, this one as cold and hard as her previous one had been warm and soft. “They are just taking care of one last piece of business.”
* * *
Three hundred and thirty miles away, and several miles out to sea, General Cong’s superyacht, lit up like a Carnival cruise ship, floated peacefully in the Bay of Bengal.
Two miles due south, with their lights dimmed and running as quietly as they could, Mike took one last look at the boat through his night-vision binoculars, then pulled his mask down over his face. “All teams, move out.”
Slipping into the water, he made sure his rebreather readout was in the green, then grabbed the handles of his matte-gray Seabob Cayago F7 water scooter and hit the throttle, taking off at almost ten miles per hour on the surface. Nearly silent and practically invisible on the water, with a one-hour operation time, the scooters were the perfect insertion vehicle for this mission.
Behind him were Adams, Jace, and the entire Inara team, except for Vanel. Instead, they had included a very special addition to tonight’s strike force.
Five hundred yards from the Big Fish, Mike slipped ten meters beneath the surface. When submerged, the F7 slowed to a very decent 8.7 miles per hour. Mike kept the throttle on maximum as he made minor adjustments to his course.
Nine minutes later, he slowed to a crawl and ascended just enough so he could just see out of the water. His navigation had been dead-on—the stern of Cong’s yacht was twenty meters ahead.
“Firefly, this is Mal.”
“This is Firefly, go Mal.”
“Is Blue Hand in position yet?”
“Affirmative, and waiting on your word.”
“Begin insertion on my mark. Blue Hand may begin acquisition and termination immediately afterward. Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark.”
* * *
One thousand yards south, Lasko sat on the roof of an Ocean Master 336 Sport Cabin fishing boat they had found for sale in Yangon. Raising him nine feet above the water, it was the perfect platform for the Keldara sniper to do what he did best.
Being a big fan of the “if it is not broke, do not fix it” rule, he was using the M110 again, with the Leopold scope rigged for night vision. The difference this time was in his ammunition. Lasko had loaded twenty rounds of 7.62 NATO Precision Bonded Subsonic bullets from Engel Balistic Research, out of Smithville, Texas. When the Kildar and he had tested various subsonic rounds to find the one that offered the best range and penetration versus the lower velocity, the PBS rounds had won hands-down, able to penetrate eighteen inches of ballistic gelatin at one hundred yards. The effects on similar targets at longer ranges were just as devastating, and in the rifle of a sniper as good as Lasko, they defined the term “whispering death.”
When he got the go signal from Firefly, Lasko fired two shots. He compensated high on the first one, due for the tendency of the cold rifle barrel to sap energy from the first round out. However, the second shot left the barrel at its standard 1,090 feet per second.
On the yacht, the pair of guards at the rear of the boat both crumpled to the deck, their lifeblood leaking out of the new holes in their hearts. Less than five seconds later, a neoprene grappling hook arced up onto the railing and the Kildar, followed by the Inara members, began climbing aboard.
By that time, Lasko had moved on to the bow of the boat. Caressing the trigger twice more, he dropped the front pair of guards in their tracks. He kept his eye to the scope, looking for more targets as the invasion team swarmed aboard.
* * *
. . . Four-Mississippi, five-Mississippi, six-Mississippi . . .
While removing his face mask and positioning his night-vision goggles on his forehead, Mike kept a silent count going in his head as the team members came aboard. Their monitoring of the guard rotation on Cong’s ship gave them a three-minute window between check-ins. They had to get on board and take out as many of the guards as possible in the next one hundred seventy seconds.
With the Inara team aboard and spread out to cover the entire stern of the yacht, Mike checked on the last team member coming aboard. Hauling himself up hand over hand, Oleg reached the railing and swung himself over with the peculiar grace of the very large man. He was wearing his back-up leg, but the fire in his eyes as he swept the aft quarter of the boat with his suppressed 416C made it very clear what he was after tonight.
“Mal, this is Firefly. Four tangos confirmed down, repeat four down, two front, two rear.”
Fifteen-Mississippi . . . “Roger that, sweeping forward.” Mike motioned for the two Inara squads to sweep forward, one going up
the starboard side, the other going up the port side.
When they reached the door leading below, a three-man team split off and began moving to the engine room. The plan was very similar to how they had taken the pirate’s freighter. However, they were expecting much heavier and more organized resistance this time. Therefore, it was a surprise when the trio reached the engine room with relative ease, only having to take out one more bodyguard and the three crewmembers in the room itself, whom they captured rather than killed.
Twenty-eight seconds later, Mike heard: “Mal, this is Inara Leader, we are ready to cut power.”
Here’s where it gets tricky, Mike thought as he prepared to bring his goggles down. “Go.”
The yacht was instantly plunged into darkness. With the FLIR secure over his face, Mike led Oleg, Adams, and Jace along the starboard side of the boat until they reached the door leading to the main salon floor. Remembering the blueprints they had gained by hacking the shipbuilder’s computers, he led his team below, heading for Cong’s personal quarters.
* * *
From the moment she had entered the SUV as Cong’s prisoner, Soon Yi had entered a nightmarish world of pain and degradation. In the past forty-eight hours, she had endured tortures that would have broken many men.
General Cong had turned out to be a rarified sadist of the highest caliber, using physical and sexual abuse the likes of which even she had never even heard of before. He had installed her in a torture room that he had built in a space adjacent to the master bedroom suite. Electrocution, gang rape, genital mutilation, severe bondage; the list went on and on, until the entire room reeked of sweat, blood, and burned flesh.
She had thought she could withstand it.
She had been wrong.
If she had had any idea of what was going to happen to her, she would have used the poisoned needles hidden in her slippers to kill the general. But those had been taken from her, along with every other stitch of clothing, the moment she had set foot on the yacht.
