by John Ringo
The stream of yellow liquid hit the right guard square in the face then tracked across to the left guard. Assad was wearing a sidearm in a fancy buckle-down holster and was trying to draw it as Mike pivoted to him and hit him in the face.
The tall terrorist had ducked to the side and was heading for the guards, who had fallen to the ground, clutching at their throats and gurgling as the gas reached their lungs and began burning them. Mike stepped around the desk and tripped him, then stamped on his lungs to get him to exhale and sprayed a puddle on the floor in front of his face. Then he stepped back, set the can on the desk and donned the gas mask. First he pressed it down to get a seal, then breathed out. Then he covered the inlet and inhaled, slightly. The mask pressed in indicating a good seal and he released the inlet and took a cautious breath. No scent of sulfur, no burning. Thank God.
As soon as he had it clear, he stepped over to check on the terrorist. The tall man was rolling back and forth, red froth bubbling out of his mouth, trying to scream, the frantic inhalations causing his lungs to melt faster.
"Dulce et decorum est," Mike murmured, looking the man in the eye as he died, "pro patria mori. You motherfucker."
Two guards in the corridor, by the door. The door had been soundproofed and the nice thing about mustard was people couldn't really shout when they'd been hit by it. So the guards probably weren't even aware that anything had happened.
Mike picked up one of the dropped AKs and checked the magazine. Full. He visualized the two guards, aware of the screams that were continuing in the other room, flicked off the safety and opened the door.
The officer guide had, fortunately, left. And there were no additional guards. So he simply placed the barrel in the side of the left-hand guard, fired twice and then turned to the right-hand guard and did the same. Neither guard had time to do more than register surprise at the sight of a gas-mask-clad figure stepping out of the room.
Mike wasn't too sure at what level mustard was lethal. He had vague recollections of people talking about "a touch of mustard" from WWI, so apparently you could get some in your lungs and not automatically die. But he didn't want any of the girls dying from his mustard contamination. On the other hand . . . short time.
He hadn't gotten a good look in the torture room, but he was pretty sure he'd seen at least one guard and a group of unarmed soldiers. So he picked up a spare magazine and stuffed it in his back pocket. Then he stepped to the door to the torture room and opened it.
Amy was surprised that she'd almost gotten inured to the screams. Clarissa had taken two hours to die and, from what she could tell, Rachel was getting pretty close to the end. She'd learned to figure the time from the pattern of the torture. Clarissa had been raped by two of the soldiers, then tortured with electricity and had her skin stripped off in spots, then two more soldiers raped her in the mouth and ass, then she was tortured again and so on. Towards the end they had burned off her nipples with a blowtorch and after that they'd just beaten her with clubs to break her bones. Then they'd killed her by cutting her throat. Amy knew that Rachel was going to die, soon, in terrible agony, because while the soldiers were still raping her, one of the men in the aprons had started up the blowtorch.
She had her head down, just praying. She'd started off praying that somebody would come rescue them all. Now she was just praying that somebody would come before it was her turn. She'd done the math. Depending on what pattern they used, she had either forty-six or fifty-two hours to live. And the last two hours would be really bad. Bad enough she'd rather just die beforehand and get it over with. The one thing she had going for her was that the guards were pretty lax with the girls. When they got to her, assuming none of the others were any good at self defense, she'd have a trick or two for them. With any luck she'd be enough of a problem they'd just kill her. Assuming she could stay sane that long.
She looked up, though, at a scream from the front of the girls and the shot by the door.
"What's the situation with SpecOps, Don?" the President asked. He'd dropped just about everything to cover this situation and he was starting to get a little ragged at the edges. "Do we have a mission plan to get these girls out?"
"Yes, Mr. President," the secretary said. "We have the alert Ranger battalion at Fort Bragg rigged and in the air. Delta is on the way and performing mission planning enroute. However, it'll take time for Delta to get there. We're going to lose hostages if we wait. So. The best compromise between time to target and available forces is in theater SpecOps units. We've got a SEAL platoon staged out of Baghdad International looking at all the intel that we have. They're the closest, and best trained, team we have for this. Delta is as good as they come and I'd rather use them. But given the time constraints, I'd say go with the SEALs. It's going to be a high risk mission, though, even for the SEAL team."
"Why?" the President asked.
"I've brought in someone to brief on that," the secretary said, clearing his throat and gesturing at the major by his side. "Major Andreyev is an expert in advanced HALO, a special forces officer. It was his suggestion on insertion which is being implemented. It is . . . somewhat unusual . . ."
"It's insane, sir," the major said, in a soft-spoken voice. "But it's the only thing that might work."
"Go ahead, Major," the President said, leaning back.
"Sir," the major replied, getting up and going to the briefing stand. "The problem is that Syrian Integrated Air Defense System is as advanced as that of most first-world countries. They were defeated by the Israelis in 1978 but it took four days for the Israelis to fully suppress them. The Syrians have been playing against the varsity for a long time, and were positioned to learn all about our air operations during the previous fracas to the south. We don't have the time to roll back the air defense system prior to inserting the assault team. The need was to place a team on site, before the enemy was fully aware that they were under attack. There is only one way to do so: stealthily."
"You mean 'stealth,' don't you, major?" the NSA said, wonderingly. "As in inserting them by, what? Stealth bombers? We don't have enough B-2's to lift a large assault team! And where would you place the parachutists?"
"Yes, ma'am, I mean stealth," the major replied, bringing up a Top-Secret schematic of a bomb-bay rack. "Special Forces HALO did a very secret test with the Spirits last year at Nellis. The bomb-rack ejector mechanisms were modified, and an O2 distribution hookah was improvised. In addition, the B-2s are required to modify their climb profile for decompression. On the plus side, it is possible to eject a full SEAL platoon from a bomber, stealthily. Their insertion will be from forty thousand feet, twice normal height and about the maximum a person can handle without specialized equipment that can't be made available in time. We have already begun the necessary modification on a B-2 that was rotating through Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi, and the SEALs will marry up with their transport there. The down side is that the bomber is visible to the enemy radar as long as the bomb bay is open, discharging the team. It has to offload the entire platoon in a hurry, which won't be pleasant for the SEALs, in order to avoid missile fire, which is more unpleasant. Given Syrian air defenses, we may lose a Spirit."
"Authorized," the President said, coldly. "How soon are they going to be on the ground?"
"The team is supposed to be being briefed about now, Mr. President."
"You have got to be shitting me!"
Petty Officer First Class Roy Simmons was the Leading Petty Officer of Charlie Platoon, SEAL Team Three. He had had been at Team Three his whole career. He'd gone through the predictable stages. The new meat that thought being a SEAL was just the coolest damned thing in the world but wasn't quite sure they were up to it. Then when he was "made" in the teams and promoted to PO Third he knew he could lick the whole world because he was a God Damned Frog. Then came the wife, then the kids, then the regular deployments and the advanced training, and now he knew it was just a job. One of the toughest jobs in the world, one that occasionally threw you a da
mned curve. But at the end of the deployment it was good to get back to the mamasan and forget the blood and the screams and just play with the kids. And he'd thought he'd heard it all until he heard this damned Air Force major lay out this shit in a calm and matter of fact voice.
"Oh, dude!" Roman snorted. "This is going to be so cool!"
"We're going to be SEAL legends!" Sherman said, raising his arms in victory. "Live or die, we're going to be fucking legend!"
"This ain't happening," Simmons said, looking over at the new meats. The poor guys' eyes were as round as saucers and they were looking at Roman and Sherman as if they were fucking insane. Which, of course, they were. That was the job of the PO3s on the teams and Roman and Sherman were already legends.
"We're inserting from a B-2?" Vahn asked. "I want to be clear about that. We're going to be loaded in the god damned bomb bay? Hooked in a rotating bomb release system and, what? Automatically ejected?"
"Yes," the Air Force officer replied. "It has been . . . successfully tested."
"How many times?" Simmons snapped. "And who in the fuck was crazy enough to try even once?"
"I'll go, daddy!" Roman said. "Me! Me!"
"Me, too!" Sherman said, grinning.
"Height?" Chief Adams asked, calmly.
"Forty thousand feet."
That shut Roman and Sherman up. Roman was left frozen with his mouth open and one hand raised in a "number one" sign. Sherman was just openmouthed.
"That's unsurvivable!" Vahn snapped. "Damn it, I was in Dev Group. You don't go over thirty thousand!"
"At thirty thousand the Spirit, especially with personnel and equipment in the bomb bay, is marginally detectable, given the radar signal strength that we are expecting over the target," the Air Force major said. "Again, forty thousand has been tested."
"Successfully?" Vahn snapped.
"Successfully," the major replied calmly.
"This ain't happening," Simmons said, his head in his hands and shaking back and forth. "This just ain't happening."
"In addition, it is anticipated that there may be significant aerial combat in the area of operations," the major continued with his briefing. "Your position will be noted and AWACs support will attempt to steer such combat into other areas of operation, however, the reason that the Spirit is being used is due to the conditions."
"You're talking about a dogfight going on," Vahn said, with the voice of calm terror. "While we're in the drop."
"Yes," the major said. "Time is of the essence, gentlemen. I would suggest you begin rigging up."
"Well, with all due respect, Major!" Simmons snapped. "Fu—"
"Wait," the chief said, holding up a finger. And everyone turned to look at him.
That's what Simmons remembered. The OIC had just been sitting there the whole time, trying to look frosty and doing a pretty good job even though Simmons knew he was probably on cloud nine with fear. The whacko E-5s were high-fiving. The new meats were terrified. Vahn and he were both really terrified because they'd done enough to know how just completely fucked they were. The mission was shit, no idea where the hostages were, maybe somebody on the inside but no name except "Ghost" and no idea who you're dealing with, no plan for the building for God's sake; ground penetrating radar hadn't been able to get anything more than ghost images. But everybody stopped and everybody turned to look at the chief, even the damned AF major.
"We're good," the chief said, nodding. "Let's get it on."
"Chief," Simmons said, quietly. "You sure?"
"Sure," the chief said, standing up. "I've done weirder things."
"Really?" the OIC asked, standing up as well as the chief headed for the door.
"Yeah," the chief said, pausing in the doorway. "I was in Class 201."
"No shit?" Roman asked, his eyes wide. "Jesus, Chief!"
"No shit," the chief said, his demeanor suddenly cracking slightly and a shiver shuddered through his body. "After that, being shot out of a B-2 at twice the recommended altitude into a dogfight and a mission with no damned plan or even a damned map . . . well . . . it ain't much."
"What in the hell is Class 201?" Meat Two whispered as the team quietly got up and started to file out.
"Meat, you're too young to know," Roman said, his head twitching in horror. "You're just too young. Maybe if you're drunk enough to take the horror. God. I knew Chief was tough but, God!" He shuddered again and walked out, shaking his head.
"Normally, Meat," Simmons said, gently putting his hand on the newbie's shoulder, "I'd tell you that Roman was as full of shit as a Christmas turkey. But . . . in this case, he's right. Sometimes, when you're a SEAL, you have to be harder than stone. When you're with a survivor of Class 201, well, you know that they're not going to quit unless they're dead."
Chapter Nine
Mike stepped through the door, kicked it closed and drove the barrel of his weapon into the guard on the left of the door. Then he turned and fired two rounds into the guard on the right, turned and fired two into the guard that was bent over and retching.
The group of soldiers lined up to rape the girl on the table stepped backwards, towards the wall, holding up their hands in placation but he didn't really care. He just started servicing them.
One of the men in aprons had pulled out a knife and held it to the girl's throat by the time Mike had killed all the soldiers.
"Put down the gun," the man said, calmly. He was wearing a suit under the apron and it had gotten spotted by blood. "Put it down or the girl dies."
Mike looked him in the eye and dropped the magazine out of the AK then reached into his back pocket to pull out the spare. Mike kept looking him in the eye as he raised the weapon to his shoulder and sighted on his forehead.
"Put down the knife, and I'll leave you the use of your upper body," Mike said mildly.
One of the other aproned torturers was shuffling around the one holding the girl hostage, knife in hand, clearly headed for another hostage. Mike kept the weapon on the one with the girl until the other had almost reached the line of girls and then swung to the left, putting one round through the bastard's head and splattering the two girls on that end of the front rank in blood and brains.
He ignored the screams from the girls as he pivoted back and killed the two video technicians and the third torturer who was cowering behind the table, then pivoted back to target the hostage holder.
"I'll give you this. I won't put you on that table, I won't turn you over to the girls and I won't do more than break your back in the lumbar region. But you don't get the use of your dick. Take it or leave it."
"I will kill her," the man said, angrily. "You don't understand that?"
"You are one lousy negotiator," Mike said and put a round through his forehead. The knife nicked the girl's neck and that was about it. The body slumped backwards. "Never bluff if you're not even holding cards."
He walked over to the girl on the table, who even as fucked as she was looked pretty damned good, and looked her in the eye.
"You probably don't want to see guys at the moment or have them near you, so I'll get one of the girls to let you go," he said, nodding, then turned to the room. "Which one's got the keys?"
"The one that was holding Rachel hostage," one of the girls in the front rank said, gesturing with her chin. "Who are you?"
"A very bad man," Mike said, stooping down and going through the guy's pockets. "Who, in this one case, is willing to be a good guy for a while. But if I don't get at least a blowjob out of this, I'm going to be mighty pissed."
One of the girls in the front rank, dropped her head and shook it.
"How can you say something like that?" she shrieked. "You're as bad as them!"
"Yep, sure am," Mike said, standing up and holding the keys. "I was in Class 201, you weak-kneed pussies! But if you want to get out of this fucking place alive, and not end up back where you are right now, you'd all better get really damned frosty, really damned quick. Quit fucking crying, quit bitching, quit quitting on
me and get GOD DAMNED FROSTY. Because right now it's just me. And I'm not going to be able to hold this damned place by myself. I'm going to need help. Even nekkid female help will do. And I'm not going to use these damned keys until I get a big 'HOOWAH' out of y'all. Because if I can't get a big hoowah, then you're totally fucking useless to me, and I'll just god damned leave you to be raped. Am I CLEAR HERE? Now let me hear you give me a big HOOYAH!"
"What?" "What's hooyah?" "Who? Us?"
"HOO-YAH!"
"Ah, now there was one solid hooyah out there. You all heard it. Now, all of you, give me one great big fucking hooyah, or I'm walking out the door!"
"HOO-YAH!"
"There were some wimpy ones in there," Mike admitted. "But, overall, I'll give you a sixty, with the curve that comes up to eighty." He stepped off the dais and applied the key to the first rank on both sides and then stepped down the aisle.
"Where was that solid hooyah?" he asked, looking at the girls.
"Here," Amy said, lifting her chin. "What are you, Ranger?"
"Bite your tongue," Mike said. He unchained that rank and looked at the girl on the far end. "Pull it through, honey. I needs this girl. I wants her and I needs her.
"Okay," he said, stepping back up on the dais. "Get this girl loose, do what you can for her. I have some errands I need to run. I'd like most of you to stay in your seats or sitting down at least. Do not open that door until I tell you. Some of you bigger girls, drag the bodies over by the door, we might need them later. Waste not, want not."
"What are you going to need bodies for?" a short-coupled blonde who had sidled past him to get to the girl on the table asked.
"Barricades," Mike said. "Other than sandbags, there's not much better than a fresh dead body to use as cover."
"That is gross," another girl snapped. "Could you quit being so . . ."
"Mean?" Mike asked, angrily. "Hard? Macho? Male? Conservative? Overbearing? I just tracked you god damned wenches from the States by getting the bends in the unpressurized nose wheel of an airplane, getting busted up holding onto the underside of a damned truck, getting stuck in holes and getting touched by mustard gas! Not to mention killing about twenty of the fuckers that kidnapped you and were torturing you! Do NOT give me any of your whining PC liberal bullshit! This is why guys like me hate you fucking whiners! We don't have time for you to go all weepy! Do you understand me?"
