Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  The location Ling had given me was a construction site. The project, a shopping complex funded by a European firm, had been suspended indefinitely due to “security concerns,” so we’d probably have the place to ourselves.

  Hudson was driving as we pulled off of the street and into the site. The whole project was just a big hole in the ground surrounded by stacks of supplies and materials, much of which appeared to have been vandalized and looted. The gate at the front truck entrance had been left open, just as Ling said it would be.

  No one said anything as we followed the road deep into the hole that was to be the foundation of the shopping center’s underground parking lot. I was nervous. The last time I’d worked with Exodus it had cost several of my teammates their lives. They were a bunch of trigger-happy fanatics. If anything went wrong, the four of us would probably end up dead.

  We stopped about fifty feet from an abandoned crane in the very center of the site. At least we wouldn’t be visible from the road. It was about as secluded as you could get in the middle of a city. As per Ling’s instructions, Hudson blinked the headlights three times, then turned them off.

  Several floodlights snapped on. Startled, I squinted into the blinding light. I looked over at Hudson, nodded, and opened my door.

  “Be careful,” Sarah said from the backseat.

  I tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Stepping onto the ground, I closed the door behind me and moved slowly to the front of the Land Cruiser. I took off my overshirt, revealing both my holstered revolver and my body armor. Holding my right hand up in the air, I slowly drew my gun with my left hand and laid it on the hood of the truck. I then stepped forward, both hands in the air over my head.

  For a few tense moments, I walked toward the crane, almost holding my breath. I was following Ling’s very specific instructions to the letter, and they hadn’t shot me yet, but I couldn’t shake the sense of unease. I was vulnerable, helpless, and hated it. A bead of sweat trickled down my head, and it wasn’t just from the warm night air.

  Ling appeared from behind the crane, alone. She confidently strode toward me, closing the distance in a matter of seconds.

  “You can put your hands down now, Mr. Valentine. It’s fine,” she said, not quite smiling.

  Feeling silly, I slowly lowered my hands. “You’re alone?” I asked, looking around.

  “Of course not,” she said. “My men are observing you and your friends. Just a precaution. Please do not take offense.”

  “None taken,” I said, looking down into her dark eyes. “Thank you for coming. I need your help.”

  “So you insist.” She looked past me at the Land Cruiser. “You can tell your friends to come out. I won’t have them shot.” The corner of her mouth turned up in half a wry smile.

  I nodded and squeezed my throat mic. “It’s clear. C’mon up.” I looked back at Ling. “You want them to leave their weapons?”

  “No, it’s fine,” she said dismissively. “I’m not worried.”

  “You don’t have to drop your weapons,” I said into my microphone. “Bring my gun up.” I heard doors slamming behind me as my friends climbed out of the truck.

  “So, Mr. Valentine, to business,” Ling said, not wasting any time. “I apologize for dragging you out here like this, but I always prefer to deal face to face.”

  “I remember,” I said flatly.

  She didn’t bat an eye. “And frankly, I’m curious to just who it is you wish me to help smuggle out of this country.” Tailor tapped me on the shoulder and handed me my gun. I quickly holstered it. “Ah, Mr. Tailor,” Ling said, “it’s good to see you again.”

  Tailor nodded but didn’t say anything. I then introduced Ling to Hudson and Sarah. Sarah seemed to pique Ling’s interest a bit.

  “I think I understand now, Mr. Valentine,” Ling said, excessively polite as always. “Is this your girlfriend?”

  “Uh . . .” I mumbled, surprised by the question.

  “Yes,” Sarah said levelly. “I’m his girlfriend.” She gave Ling the evil eye, but the Exodus operative either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  “This makes more sense now,” Ling said thoughtfully, looking at Sarah. She smiled. “Yes. Well, this is very unorthodox, but I see no reason I can’t help you while I’m here. Like you said, Mr. Valentine, my organization owes you a great deal, and we’ve never had a proper chance to repay you.”

  “You’ll help us get out of Zubara?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ling replied. “Unfortunately, it won’t be right away. We have business in the region and aren’t ready to leave yet.”

  “How long will it be?” I asked. “I’m not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, but time is a factor. Things are rapidly going south here.”

  “I’m aware,” Ling said. “However, I still have a job to do myself. Your transportation out of Zubara is a freighter that my organization owns and operates, and it’s still at sea.”

  “You flew here, right?” Tailor asked. “Can’t we fly out on that plane?”

  “No, you can’t,” Ling replied, almond eyes narrowing slightly. “I, too, have orders I must follow. The freighter is the only method of transport I’m to make available to you four. It will arrive when it arrives and leave when we’ve finished here. You can choose to be on it or not. It was the best I could do.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Mike, I don’t know about this,” Sarah said quietly.

  “Yeah, man,” Hudson said. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Guys, please,” I said. “This is our only shot. Remember what happened to Singer? I trust these guys more than I trust Gordon Willis and his cronies.”

  “You’re right.” Hudson nodded.

  “I trust you,” Sarah said, looking up into my eyes. I smiled at her, then looked over at Tailor.

  His brow was furled unhappily. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then nodded. “Fuck it, we don’t have a choice.”

  “Okay,” I said, looking back at Ling. “We’re in. How do you want to do this?”

  Ling smiled as if oblivious to the near-argument we’d just had right in front of her. “Here,” she said, handing me something from her pocket. It was a cell phone. “This is secure. A number I can be reached at is programmed into it. Use it sparingly and keep it with you. I’ll contact you when we’re ready to leave. I’m afraid it might be short notice.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “We’ll make it work. Do you have an approximate time frame?”

  “Possibly a week. I know that’s a long time, given your circumstances, but as I said, it was the best I can do.” She looked down at her watch. “I need to be going now. We’ve been here too long, and I have a lot of work to do myself. It was good to see you again, Mr. Valentine.” Ling smiled at me. “Please be careful. I’ll be in touch.”

  VALENTINE

  Fort Saradia National Historical Site

  May 8

  0800

  It had been several days since our meeting with Ling, and there’d been no word from her since. This wasn’t unexpected, but it was nerve-wracking. The goal now was to stay alive long enough for Ling to get us out of the country. It would suck to get killed so close to being home free.

  There was another problem, too. The longer we waited, the greater the chance one of us would get second thoughts. I knew Tailor wouldn’t change his mind. Once he made a decision, he always went through with it, even if it wasn’t really a good idea. I wasn’t so sure about the rest of us.

  Especially Sarah. The idea of just leaving her friends and running away from Project Heartbreaker bothered her, a lot. Hell, it bothered me. Aside from Tailor and Hudson, there were a quite a few guys that I was friends with, and I hated to think what would happen to them after we disappeared. But I didn’t know them that well. I wasn’t sure if I could trust them. If I told them we had a way out, what would they do? Would they report it to Hunter or Gordon Willis? Would they want to come along?
If so, would Ling and her people agree to that, or would they call the whole thing off since we tried to change the deal?

  My greatest fear was that Sarah would decide she didn’t want to go. There was no way I was leaving without her, either, so that meant I had to stay as well. That thought terrified me. Not because I was worried about myself; I was worried about what would happen to Sarah. I didn’t think I could bear it if anything happened to her.

  Project Heartbreaker was falling apart around us. I didn’t know how Gordon and his people would handle doing damage control and cleanup. There was the possibility that it might involve Mr. Anders just murdering us. One way or the other, I really didn’t want to wait around to find out.

  Despite all this, the missions didn’t stop coming, and they seemed to get more and more ridiculous as time went on. Our casualties had been severe. We were losing guys left and right, and yet they kept asking more and more of us.

  We had just gotten briefed by Gordon on our next operation. Our chalk, plus Cromwell, Holbrook, Animal, and another new replacement named Fillmore, were all present. Our assignment was, to be blunt, fucking ridiculous.

  Seems there was this Spanish billionaire-aristocrat-industrialist named Rafael Miguel Felipe Montalban who was the head of the Montalban Exchange, one of the largest and wealthiest corporations in the world. According to Gordon, this guy was using his money to fund General Al Sabah in Zubara and had his hands in other things as well. Conveniently, he was sailing up the Persian Gulf on his insanely luxurious yacht, the Santa Maria.

  No problem, right? We’ll just blow up the yacht, take this guy out, and be home before beer-thirty. But no, Gordon says, that won’t work. Instead we were to be inserted onto the yacht via helicopter, storm the ship, and capture Rafael Montalban alive. We were then to retrieve him and his personal laptop computer and bring them back to base.

  Basically, Gordon was asking us to risk our lives to capture a guy when it was completely unnecessary. They were tracking Montalban’s yacht by satellite. They had an armed UAV ready to drop a pair of guided bombs onto it at a moment’s notice. If they wanted this guy out of the picture, all they had to do was say the word and he’d be on the bottom of the Gulf.

  Except Gordon wanted him alive. He wouldn’t even explain why. Eight of us were going to board two of Gordon’s stealth helicopters, fly out over the ocean, and board Montalban’s yacht in force. Just like last time, he was only sending in eight guys when dozens would be preferable. He assured us that Montalban’s security detail, though highly trained, would be caught completely off guard and that we’d have the initiative the entire time.

  I thought Tailor was going to blow a gasket. Holbrook and Cromwell didn’t really get vocal until Gordon explained that Anders was coming along to provide support. Gordon probably very nearly avoided getting decked.

  I explained that I’d never been trained on rappelling from a helicopter, much less onto the back of a moving ship at night. Gordon said rappelling wouldn’t be necessary. The yacht was big enough that it had not one but two helipads, one on top and one on the stern.

  We’d been given a lot of information on the Santa Maria. Photos taken from the UAV stalking it. Plans from the builder, reports on Montalban’s security people. The plan was simple enough. Chalk 1 would touch down on the helipad at the top of the ship’s superstructure. They would then proceed in and take control of the bridge. Chalk 2 would land at the stern, enter the ship, disable the engines, then begin hunting for Rafael Montalban. Once we captured him, the choppers would pick us up. We’d fly off, and the UAV would prang the Santa Maria, sending it to the bottom and killing everyone still alive on board.

  The two helicopters would orbit the area for as long as fuel permitted. One would have a machine gun to provide fire support. Anders would be riding in the other, armed with a sniper rifle, to pick off targets of opportunity on the deck. Anders was going to be riding in Holbrook and Cromwell’s chopper. I imagined what a fun ride that was going to be.

  Chapter 16:

  Surface Tension

  VALENTINE

  Somewhere over the Persian Gulf

  May 9

  0155

  Dark water flashed below us as the strange black helicopter skimmed the deck at speed. Inside, we were bathed in red light as we made final checks on our equipment and communications.

  Tailor, Byrne, Hudson, and I huddled together, going over the plan one last time. Just inside the starboard-side door sat a crewman manning a machine gun. The stealth helicopter flew with its doors closed to maintain its small radar cross-section. When the door opened, the entire gun mount swung out, allowing the chopper to lay down suppressive fire.

  “We have the target on FLIR,” the copilot said. “Stand by. Touchdown in three minutes.”

  “Going dark,” the pilot said, and the internal red lights switched off. My active hearing protection minimized the noise of the chopper, but I could hear the pounding of my heart. It was that last-minute adrenaline spike that you get right before showtime. With the onset of that adrenaline, my pulse slowed and my thoughts coalesced as the Calm washed over me. Tailor reached over and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Thirty seconds!” My grip on the cut-down Benelli M4 shotgun tightened. The side doors quietly slid open, and the chopper was filled with the roar of rushing air. The door gunner slid his weapon mount into position. Below us, I could clearly see the Santa Maria, well-lit and steadily cruising though calm seas.

  My stomach felt the sudden drop as our helicopter rapidly descended upon the Santa Maria’s aft helipad. The yacht rushed up toward us, and with a heavy thud we were on the deck.

  Tailor was out the door first, his carbine up and ready. I was right behind him. Following me was Hudson with the SAW, and then Byrne with another carbine. As soon as we were clear, the chopper dusted off. The door gunner opened up as the chopper ascended, raking the foredeck with a stream of tracer fire. We moved together in a tight line, rushing for the superstructure, trying to cover as many angles as possible. Shouting could be heard. An alarm sounded.

  The aft superstructure served as a hangar for a small helicopter. We kicked in a personnel door and entered as our second chopper landed above us. The ship’s interior lights were on. A door at the opposite end of the hangar opened as we passed by the Santa Maria’s helicopter. Two men in suits, armed with MP7 submachine guns, burst into the room. They hesitated for a brief moment when they saw us. We’d caught them completely off guard. Tailor cut down one while I put a magnum buckshot load through the other. Both men were dead before they hit the floor.

  “Clear!” Tailor said.

  “Clear! Reloading!” I repeated, thumbing another shell into my shotgun.

  “Clear!” Hudson and Byrne repeated.

  “Alpha Team, this is Bravo Team,” Tailor said. “We’re in the hangar. What’s your status?”

  “Bravo Team, Alpha,” Holbrook replied. “We’re crossing the sundeck, heading for the bridge. We—shit!” A long burst of automatic weapons fire rattled over the radio. “Encountering stiff resistance.”

  “Roger that.” Tailor looked back at us. “Engine room. Let’s go!” We followed Tailor into the bowels of the Santa Maria, encountering terrified crewmembers as we went. The engine room was on the lowest deck, in the aft of the yacht.

  We cleared a tight, spiraling staircase and immediately came under fire from down the passageway. Tailor jumped back in the stairwell, stumbling backwards and crashing into me.

  “Shit,” he snarled. “That was close.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think they’ve got guys at both ends of the passageway. The hatch to the engine room is sealed.”

  “Frag?” I asked, mind racing.

  “Frag,” Tailor concurred. We each pulled a hand grenade from our vests. Squeezing side by side, we moved as close to the doorway at the bottom of the stairwell as we could and pulled the pins. At the same time, we reached around the doorway and threw our grenades. Mine wen
t aft, Tailor’s went forward. They went bouncing down the passageway. We withdrew into the stairwell and crouched down. Men were shouting in the corridor. The Santa Maria was rocked by two deafening blasts a second later as the grenades detonated.

  “Move, move, move!” Tailor shouted. We spilled into the passageway as rapidly as we could, weapons leading us around the corners. Tailor angled to the left, while I angled to the right. The two men that had been guarding the hatch to the engine room were dead.

  I dove to the deck as a burst of automatic weapons fire roared behind me. Bullets zipped over my head and pocked the hatch to the engine room. Tailor fired off several short bursts in response. I rolled over onto my back, leveling my shotgun down the passageway just in time to see Hudson crouch in front of me, SAW shouldered. He ripped off a long burst while Tailor reloaded.

  “Byrne!” Tailor shouted. “We’ll hold ‘em off. Get that fucking hatch open!”

  “Moving!” Byrne replied. He was carrying on his back a compact Broco cutting torch. The three of us provided him with covering fire as he set his equipment up. Without hesitating, he pulled welder’s goggles down over his eyes and ignited the torch.

  Byrne first cut a small hole in the hatch and punched out the circular piece of hot metal in the center. I warned my teammates and tossed in another grenade. The blast slammed the narrow corridor. Byrne fired the torch up again and resumed cutting.

  Minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace as our teammate cut his way through the watertight hatch. We were vulnerable in the narrow passageway, and the ship’s security complement knew right where we were.

  “I’m through!” Byrne shouted as he extinguished the torch. Tailor and Hudson covered forward while Byrne and I went aft to clear the engine room. A couple of full-force kicks and the cut-through hatch slammed to the deck in a deafening clatter. The engine room was dark and filled with smoke from my grenade. We switched on our weapon lights, sending bright columns of light piercing into the hazy darkness.