Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  Only this one was driven by a guard. Riding shotgun was another guard. He aimed his rifle and squeezed off a short burst. The bullets impacted the grass some distance in front of Peter, no doubt his aim disrupted by the motion of the electric cart as it bounced over the uneven lawn.

  With his eye on the fountain, Peter pumped his legs harder, trying to ignore the pain from the bullet wound as the flesh opened anew. More rifle shots, this time striking the earth closer. He reasoned that as the distance decreased, the gunman would inevitably find his mark. It was a race to the fountain, where Peter hoped he could gain momentary protection. If he was lucky, the golf cart would pass by and offer two or three seconds of exposure during which Peter would have seventeen bullets to fire at the guards. Hopefully, only two or three would be needed.

  Unexpectedly, the sound of gunfire from the golf cart ceased. Still running, Peter turned his head. The gunman was dropping the spent magazine and pushing a new one in place. The cart was still closing. Peter swung his Glock toward the cart and squeezed off a shot. In that moment, Diesel launched at the electric vehicle and its occupants. The pit bull was running all out—his head down and tail laid flat. A streamlined, seventy-pound missile of teeth, muscle, and sinew.

  Peter slowed and faced toward the threat. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He saw the gunman raise his rifle and aim—not at Peter, but at the dog. The gunman seemed to shout something, and the driver came to a stop. From the stationary vehicle, the guard raised and braced his weapon against one of the steel tubular supports for the sunshade.

  “No!” Peter shouted. Diesel stayed locked on, running fast. The gunman took aim and fired.

  Diesel closed the distance.

  Peter raised the Glock and began shooting, his stance solid, two hands firmly supporting the pistol. On the third shot, he landed a bullet in the guard’s shoulder, throwing off his aim. Peter fired again, this time hitting his chest. He fell backwards, bounced off the seatback, and rolled to the grass.

  Diesel sprang into the air, clearing the wounded guard and slamming full on into the side of the driver. The shear momentum of the canine moving at thirty miles per hour carried the driver out of the golf cart. He landed hard, head slamming into the turf. Diesel was on top of him, lacerating his arm amid screams of terror and pain.

  Peter sprinted to the scene. The rifle was laying not far from the prostrate body of the gunman. Peter grabbed it and came around the golf cart, his pistol aiming forward. Diesel had the driver pinned to the ground, his jaws locked on the man’s right forearm and wrist. The man had his left arm over his face. Any movement from him, no matter how subtle, and Diesel would shake his head and bite down harder, generating more screams.

  “Diesel, enough!” Peter commanded, the Glock pointed at the driver. Diesel relaxed his jaws and backed away three steps. Peter reached down and removed the guard’s pistol and ammunition magazines. Just then, Robert arrived.

  “Heard the gunshots, thought you were at the fountain!”

  “I got us a ride,” Peter said. Diesel jumped in and Robert took the wheel, pressing down on the accelerator just as Peter hopped into the passenger seat, holding onto the steel support for added security as they crossed the rolling lawn at the maximum speed the cart would deliver. It wasn’t a racer, but still twice as fast as they could run. Quickly they left the other palace guards far behind.

  “Where’s the gate?” Peter shouted, his ears ringing from the gunfire.

  Robert pointed. “Up there. Not too far.”

  Peter saw a paved road; the one they’d entered on. It crossed at an angle to their current direction of travel. Robert slowed and turned onto the pavement, and the ride became much smoother. The road followed a gentle curve to the right where it entered a broad belt of dense greenery—a wide variety of trees, shrubs, and flowering bushes—all planted with the goal of providing visual and acoustical privacy from the bustling city just beyond the palace grounds.

  “Get ready,” Robert said. “When we pass around this bend, the guard station will come into view. I don’t know what to expect, but the guard must have been alerted by now.”

  Peter nodded. He shifted the rifle in his hand—a U.S.-made M4 military weapon—making sure the safety was off. The electric drive was practically silent, and Peter assumed the guard at the gate would not hear them coming.

  As the greenery gave way, the guard station, a small windowed building just big enough for one man, came into view. The door was closed, no doubt to assist the air conditioner in keeping the interior temperature comfortable—a tall order given that all four sides were almost completely glazed. Thankfully, the gate was open.

  Upon seeing the golf cart, the guard opened the door and raised his hand, signaling for them to stop. Instead, Robert mashed his foot down on the accelerator and the golf cart sped up. Peter pointed the muzzle at the building and fired, sending bullets into the windows. The gunfire combined with the shattering of glass had the desired effect, and the guard ducked and threw his body back into the meager safety of the building as the golf cart raced by.

  Robert turned the wheel and merged the electric cart into the street traffic. After traveling a short block, he turned the corner, repeating this maneuver many times until he felt they had enough distance from the palace grounds and were not being followed.

  He steered into a narrow alley between two buildings and parked the golf cart next to a refuse bin. “Toss the rifle in the dumpster,” Robert said.

  “Why? It could come in handy.”

  “Trust me, okay? It’s too conspicuous. And you don’t want to get caught with an automatic rifle that will be easily traced back to the shootout at the palace. Remember—Sharia law here.”

  “Fine,” Peter grumbled. He looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was watching, then heaved the rifle into the dumpster with bags of smelly garbage and rotten food scraps.

  “How’s your bandage holding up?”

  Peter looked down and raised his shirt. The gauze pad was nearly soaked through but was still in place. “Hurts like hell.”

  “I’ve got a decent first aid kit at my apartment. I can close that up and replace the bandage. Plus, I’ve got antibiotics to knock the bugs back.”

  Peter lowered his shirt, pulling it over the Glock, which was back in his waistband. “Come on, Diesel.”

  Out on the main street it wasn’t long before Robert hailed a taxi. He gave the driver directions, rather than an address, as an added precaution. After many more turns over an unnecessarily circuitous route, the car pulled to the curb. After paying the driver, Robert, Peter, and Diesel exited the taxi and stood on the sidewalk until the cab was lost in the distance.

  “Now what?” Peter asked.

  “This way.” Robert led the way past several shops and restaurants. He turned into an alley no wider than a car. On either side the buildings rose to a height of three floors. Weaving around bags of garbage, he stopped and pulled down an old-fashioned steel fire escape. It was more staircase than ladder—but very steep, like a ladder onboard a ship. Looking up, Peter saw that the steps stopped at a landing at each floor. With Diesel between Robert and Peter, they climbed to the first landing. Robert inserted a key into the deadbolt, turned the latch, and opened the door. It squeaked, the hinges in obvious need of lubrication. “This way.”

  A narrow hall extended into the building. Robert stopped at the first door. “My apartment.” He motioned with his hand. “Not much, but serves my purpose.” He turned a key and opened the door onto a large, dark room. He flipped the light switch.

  Diesel sauntered from scent to scent, checking out every corner and along the base of the wall. “Hey, he won’t pee in here, will he?”

  “Relax,” Peter replied, and called his dog over. Diesel clung to Peter’s leg. The room was sparsely furnished: A wooden rocking chair, two canvas director’s chairs, and a rickety folding table in the center of the space. There was no kitchen, but a partially-open door revealed the existence
of a bathroom. A rolled sleeping bag and a small refrigerator completed the furnishings.

  “Have a seat,” Robert said. “There’s water in the fridge.” He disappeared into the bathroom, but left the door open.

  Peter retrieved a bottle of cold water and sat in the rocking chair. He placed the bottle against his neck and felt the cool blood flow into his head. He had a good angle into the bathroom and watched as Robert opened the medicine cabinet and then, using a screwdriver, removed four screws. Next, he pulled the cabinet forward exposing a secret compartment. He grabbed a white box with a red cross on the lid.

  “Let’s take a look at that wound,” he said.

  Peter stood and raised his shirt, then in a quick motion pulled off the tape and blood-soaked bandage.

  Robert squeezed an antibiotic ointment onto the ragged edges of flesh. “Rub that in. It’s not as bad as I thought.” He pulled the tear together, pinching the edges of flesh. Next, he squeezed several dabs of a cyanoacrylate wound-closing glue to hold the cut closed. He finished the dressing with a sterile gauze pad and more tape. “Here, take these. Three a day for five days. It’ll knock down any infection before it gets out of control.”

  “Thank you.” Peter looked around again, as if seeing the room for the first time. A cardboard box of dried-noodle packages was in a corner. And next to that was a single-burner camp stove and a gallon jug of water, the cap still sealed. “So this is your safe house?”

  Robert left the first aid kit on the table. “That’s right. In my line of business, a space like this is part of the planning. Like an insurance policy. You hope you’ll never need it, but if you do…” He returned to the secret storage space and retrieved a large navy-blue duffle bag. He lifted the bag onto the table with both hands. “My bug-out bag.”

  He peeled the zipper back. Inside was an assortment of weaponry. Robert stuck his hand into a side pouch and pulled out a cell phone and powered it on. “They might be tracing calls from my number,” he explained.

  Peter’s impression of the bodyguard had just changed significantly. Whereas he’d originally thought of Robert as merely hired muscle, he now realized the ex-Navy man had a good sense of tactical planning and execution. This safe house was well provisioned, but not flashy. There was nothing about the non-descript apartment to attract attention. And it seemed to be in a relatively quiet neighborhood. Whoever his neighbors were—if he even had any—kept to themselves.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s right.” Peter assumed Robert was speaking with Eu-meh. They needed a new plan. It was still a high priority to get onboard the Royal Seeker. Initially, they’d planned to fly in a Hua Ho Holdings corporate helicopter and land on the helipad of the ship. Under the current circumstances, that might be hard to pull off.

  Why were palace guards involved in kidnapping Jade from London? Peter was still mulling over the question when Robert completed his call. “Well?” Peter asked.

  “Not much to do until nightfall.”

  “And then?”

  “We take a taxi to the International Airport, just like we were going to catch a flight. Instead, we take the shuttle bus to the P2 Car Park. It’s the farthest from the terminal. From there, it’s a short walk to the RBA Golf Club.” Robert unfolded a map and laid it on the table. “Here’s the car park and here’s the golf course. This hole is right off the access road,” he pointed at the edge of the golf course closest to the airport parking and terminal. A circular green was visible with a water hazard and sand trap on one side. “That’s where the helicopter will pick us up. The pilot will set down on the green. Should be easy—there’s ample clearance from the palm trees on this side of the green.”

  Peter considered the plan. It was bold, for sure. But, the approach of the helicopter would not seem out of place next to an airport. And access to the green by foot should be easy. A quick dash from the road, hop on the aircraft, and take off again.

  “Okay, makes sense,” Peter said. “What about Eu-meh? Is she safe?”

  “She doesn’t think any rogue members of the palace guard will go after her, given that she is the Sultan’s sister. Still, she agreed to go for a long drive to stay on the move. She’ll instruct her most senior pilot to fly the helicopter tonight.”

  “Can she trust the pilot?”

  “He’s not a member of the palace guard. He works for Hua Ho Holdings, and has been in Eu-meh’s employ for longer than I have. On her personal security detail for fifteen years.”

  Peter nodded. “I suppose that will have to be good enough.”

  “My thought too,” Robert shrugged. “Now, let me show you what we have.”

  He emptied the contents of his duffle bag on the table. There were pistols, ammunition magazines, and a block of white material wrapped in clear plastic. “Is that what I think it is?” Peter asked.

  “C4. It’s a great problem solver.”

  “As in, it makes the problem go away?”

  “Yep,” Robert replied. “We have time-delay detonators and remotely-triggered detonators. Plus a short length of primacord.” He held up a yellow rope, coiled and the ends and fastened with a twisted wire.

  Peter reached into the pile and pulled out a black disc. It looked like a hockey puck. “Careful. That’s a flash-bang. There are three more in here.”

  “Looks like you’re ready for a zombie apocalypse,” Peter observed.

  “Hey, I was a boy scout and I take their motto, ‘Be Prepared,’ seriously. Better safe than sorry and all that.”

  Peter gently set the black flash-bang down with the others. “No argument from me.”

  Chapter 22

  Air Space Over the Pacific Ocean

  August 25

  Cruising at 34,000 feet, the four turboprop engines whipped the thin air behind the six-bladed propellers, pushing the large aircraft along at 350 knots. Inside the cavernous cargo bay of the specially-modified HC-130J Combat King aircraft, the SGIT operators were busy planning the mission, although authorization from the President still had not been received.

  Jim was pointing to a photograph of the Panda Star; his team of operators were circled around the table, listening intently. “Like most oil exploration ships, the Panda Star has a helipad for ferrying crew on and off the ship through normal rotations. That will be our drop zone.”

  Ghost raised his eyebrows. “Not a very large target to land on, especially if the ship is underway.”

  “Once we are within range, our aircraft will be tracking the radio beacon from the ship. The location of the Panda Star will be continuously updated, in real time, and fed to our jump computers.” Each operator wore a small but powerful computer on his wrist that calculated the glide path to a pre-determined GPS coordinate. Each man would steer his parachute to follow the glide path. Only this time, the drop coordinate would be moving.

  “Relax. Oil exploration ships are not known for their speed,” Jim added.

  “And if we miss?” Iceberg asked the question, knowing it was on everyone’s mind.

  “Don’t,” Jim said.

  “Let me get this straight, sir. Night jump, high altitude opening, gliding to a moving target only a little larger than my first apartment.”

  “That’s right, Iceberg. You got a problem with it?”

  “Would it make any difference if I said yes?”

  “Look,” Jim said, “if it was easy, someone else would have been given the job. None of you earned your position in SGIT by being second best. We’re going to be gliding down from in front of the ship. At the last moment, flare your chute, circle, and drop onto the helipad.”

  “Piece of cake,” Bull said.

  After a long moment with no further questions, Jim continued, “Our mission call sign is “Swordfish.” Once on board, we’ll secure the deck. Homer and Ghost, you two cover the forward half of the ship. Iceberg and Magnum, you cover the aft. Bull, you will come with me as we search; first the vicinity of the crane for evidence and then move our way to the moon pool. If there are other rocket m
otors, fueling equipment, warheads—anything that might be military in nature—we are to take the ship and all personnel under our control, and call in the Marines.”

  “What about the crew?” Iceberg asked.

  “We expect most of the crew to be asleep in their cabins. We will not take the bridge unless we find just cause. We are to maintain a very low profile. If all goes well, the crew will never know they were visited in the middle of the night. If you run into a crewmember out for an evening stroll, avoid him or her if possible. If that is not possible, use your Taser. Use lethal force only as a last resort. Understood?”

  A chorus of “Yes, sir!” gave Commander Nicolaou the answer he expected. His team was exceptionally well disciplined, and they had performed admirably through dozens of missions, each of them equally dangerous and challenging.

  “Remember, this is a Chinese-flagged vessel. Expect it to be crewed by Chinese nationals. It will not go over well with the State Department if you have to explain why you killed an unarmed civilian.”

  “How long to complete your inspection?” This question from Magnum.

  Jim pointed to a schematic of the ship. It showed the decks in a cross section of the vessel, running from bow to stern. “Bull and I will focus on the main deck. This is where the moon pool is located, and it’s where the base of the towers are anchored. I figure ten minutes, tops. We’re collecting photographic data mostly, but also paint samples—especially if it looks freshly applied or scorched.”

  “Exfiltration?” Bull asked.

  “You’re gonna get wet. On my signal, everyone will converge on the moon pool. Your load-out includes a compact rebreather, good for about five minutes underwater, and a one-man sled. Developed with funding from DARPA, it’s small but powerful. It’s still in limited testing, so consider yourselves privileged to be the first to use this kit outside of training. Shed your BDUs prior to entering the water to reduce drag.” Each operator was clothed in a neoprene wet suit underneath standard Chinese-made fatigues issued to the PLA, or Peoples Liberation Army.