Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  But the key word here is before.

  Now, as I learned the hard way outside of that Russian safehouse, I’m certainly not the same warrior I once was, and neither are my compadres, Murph and Cope. That’s why there are four certified operators sitting in the rear cabin hand-picked by me from SEAL Team Six out of Virginia Beach and all dressed for violence—as Murph, Cope, and I are. And, of course, there was no talking Mia out of joining us as well. Although she has over a hundred jumps under her belt—and over half of them at night—she’s probably a little rusty since those aren’t in the NCIS repertoire of skills. So, I’m going to help her along, especially given the way I’ve seen her handle herself under pressure. I get the feeling that once we reach Blue Topaz, I’m going to need all the help I can muster to get to Sokolov and those bioweapons in time.

  The colonel’s gaze is still on me as I calmly check my G-shock Casio. It’s past ten o’clock at night, almost nine hours since we took Tupolev. In that time, Blue Topaz continued straight for Cancun. Once it gets inside Mexico’s territorial waters, which extend out 12 nautical miles from its coast, all bets are off. Sokolov, his prototypes, and his formulas to manufacture more of them would simply vanish in Mexico.

  “We’ll get it done, sir,” I say from beneath the mask I’m wearing while breathing oxygen from a portable canister secured to my rig.

  Jumpers are required to breathe 100% oxygen for at least thirty minutes in order to flush nitrogen from the bloodstream to prevent decompression sickness during the rapid descent in the HALO jump.

  “Just make sure our exfil is ready to go,” I add. “On this op, we can’t afford to hang on too long at the dance. For all practical purposes, that yacht is already in Cartel country given the number of escorting vessels surrounding it.”

  “I agree,” Mia chimes in from beneath her mask. “Bastards hold all of the cards, while we only have speed and the element of surprise.”

  “Yep,” Murph says. “And we lose the latter the moment the first shot is fired.”

  “I’m planning on being in and out of there in ninety seconds,” I say. “That helo can’t be late, Colonel.”

  “It’ll be there. Just make sure your team is ready,” Granite replies, checking his watch. “And speaking of which. We’re ten minutes away, so do what you need to do.”

  I nod at Murph, Cope, and Mia, who stand and head through a hatch to the rear of the plane.

  Ledet and Granite remain sitting at the table in the section of the aircraft that will remain pressurized during the jump. They will monitor the rescue op via the cameras mounted on our helmets while the C-17 circles the area over the target at 40,000 feet after making a quick pass to get us close enough to reach the yacht.

  Before I leave to join my team, Granite informs me that the feed will also reach the Situation Room in the White House as well as its counterpart at the Kremlin in Moscow.

  “So, no pressure, Marine,” he says.

  Having spent the better part of a decade in the SEALs, I’m not new to having my ops monitored real-time by armchair commandos. But I find it a bit disconcerting that the Russian government—which we typically consider hostile—is also going to be looking over my shoulder. And in doing so, someone there may pick up a thing or two about tactics we hold pretty damn close to our chest.

  But that’s not my call, so I just head to the rear, closing the connecting hatch behind me.

  Before looking in on Mia, who is playing with her rig near the red light above the rear ramp, I stop by to check in with the guys from SEAL Team Six. I’ve worked with all of them at some point in my years with the teams, including their leader, Lieutenant Commander John Casey.

  “All good, Case?”

  “Compared to that stint in Colombia, this is a cakewalk, Law,” he replies from behind his oxygen mask in the gruff voice that matches his physique. The man isn’t as big as Dix, may he rest in peace, but he’s still intimidating, and especially to those Colombian soldiers we coached during a three-month op in the mountains south of Bogota in support of the War on Drugs. And we just had to do it in the middle of the rainy season. When the damn mosquitoes weren’t eating us alive, those leeches were sucking us dry. So, I do get why he’d say that jumping onto a mega yacht for a ninety-second gig would qualify as a walk in the park.

  “Sorry for the short notice, Buddy,” I say. “But I appreciate you signing up.”

  “Better than sitting around at Oceana with our thumbs up our asses, right guys?” he replies while looking at his three operators all gunned up in their HALO rigs, though the only thing you really see are their eyeballs as they stare up at you. The rest is covered in dark tactical clothing, camouflage cream, or dark oxygen masks.

  “Besides,” Casey adds, “time for a little payback for Chappy and Dix. Tough break.”

  “Yeah. Lost some great warriors.”

  “Amen to that, Brother.”

  “But, Law,” he adds. “You sure about trusting those dickwads with our exfil?”

  I pause and inhale more oxygen, before exhaling slowly. SEAL teams are different than other special operations groups in that they personally handle every phase of a mission, including exfil, the extraction phase. And when we’re forced to work with another unit, it has occasionally bitten us in the ass. But there just wasn’t enough time to get that set up for this one, so we’re relying on a Chinook from a navy cutter in the area to get us out of Dodge.

  “It isn’t ideal, but we’re out of time.”

  “I know that,” he says. “But I still don’t like it.”

  We spend the next few minutes finishing our pre-breathing and checking each other’s rigs. I pay special attention to Mia since this is her first jump in a while. But to her credit, she seems to be in pretty good shape. Still, I check her rig and also make sure her MP7SD is properly secured across her chest, as well as her night-vision goggles strapped to her helmet.

  “Ready?” I ask through my oxygen mask.

  “I need a fucking smoke,” she replies, staring at me with those large brown eyes over the mask covering her mouth and nose. “Fucking patches ain’t cutting it.”

  In anticipation of this op, Mia had bought a set of nicotine patches to get her through it, especially since pure oxygen doesn’t react well to cigarettes.

  I grin, then say, “Radio check.”

  Everyone replies in sequence from two to eight. I’m number one. Mia is two. Then Murph, Cope, and the four SEAL team operators. And that’s the jump sequence as well. We all also lower our heavy-duty goggles to protect our eyeballs from the freezing weather at this altitude.

  My ears pop as the cabin slowly depressurizes over the course of a couple of minutes. Then the light at the rear of the plane goes from red to yellow, signaling one minute to go.

  The noise level goes through the roof the moment the rear ramp lowers, though it’s dampened by the noise-cancellation headsets built into our helmets.

  I signal Mia to stand next to me near the edge of the ramp. “Just like riding a bike, Marine!”

  “Oorah!” she replies.

  “Oorah!” I say just as the light turns green.

  And we jump into darkness.

  Chapter 33

  It’s been a while, but it all comes back as I exit the rear of the plane alongside Mia.

  Damn, I miss this, the adrenaline rush, my senses becoming hyperactive, in tune with my environment .

  36,000 feet.

  We settle at an easy 140 mph of vertical velocity through a night sky painted in hues of green by the NVGs built into our masks, dropping toward our objective just under two miles away. The night-vision quality of the diving masks isn’t as good as the high-dollar GPNVG-18 goggles strapped to our chests, but it’s good enough to get us to our destination.

  Murph quickly catches up to us, as do Cope and the SEAL team operators, controlling our descent while r
emaining in a formation resembling a semicircle with Mia and me in the center.

  30,000 feet.

  I inhale the metallic-smelling pure oxygen flowing very cold into my mask as I look at the jumpers around me before checking on Mia, her greenish shape floating next to me.

  To her credit, my diving partner quickly adopted the classic skydiving profile the instant we stepped off the edge of the ramp, though I had coached her to keep her arms close to her sides to steer in the direction of a target not yet visible through the atmospheric haze.

  23,000 feet.

  We all manage our energy efficiently, using the powerful wind pushing up at us to hold a three-to-one glide ratio, according to the small GPS hugging my left wrist, next to the altimeter. It means that for every three feet of sink, we move as a group horizontally one foot. Given our current altitude, it further means we will be right over the yacht, clearly marked on the GPS screen, well before we reach ten thousand feet.

  16,000 feet.

  A number of green flickering dots start to emerge through the haze below us.

  Navigation lights.

  A feeling of confidence fills me.

  Controlling my breathing and managing my limited supply of oxygen become second nature, signaling that time has not dulled my skills. There’s something to be said about the grueling and repetitive nature of the training SEALs go through, and not just during BUD/S, but also in the teams. It’s this endless drilling that forges the muscle memory that now allows me to focus on the greenish objective below while the rest of my body handles the myriad of intricacies of a HALO dive.

  12,000 feet

  The group is still on me, trained warriors rushing through the darkness as one, in silence; dark-green shapes against the night sky concentrating on the final phase as we drop below ten thousand feet.

  We start a slow, circular holding pattern around the yacht, which is cruising at an easy eighteen knots, requiring minimum adjustments.

  8000 feet.

  The ship is getting progressively larger in the rotating picture below, a long and green bullet-shape wonder that Granite says cost the good Prince close to 650 million dollars.

  Pocket change for the fat bastard, Law.

  I grin beneath the oxygen mask as we drop below 4000 feet at a terminal velocity of just over 140 mph.

  Blue Topaz resembles more a small cruise ship than a yacht. The lighter areas denominate the sections of the vessel that are illuminated versus the darker spots where we can make an unseen and silent ingress.

  Our plan is simple as plans go, especially given I’ve yet to see any elaborate plan survive the initial firefight. There are eight of us, and assuming all make it onto the ship, we’re to split into two teams of four, though three would also work if we lose a couple of operators. I’m with Mia, plus Murph and Cope. The four operators from SEAL Team Six will form the second stack.

  At 3000 feet, the two groups drift apart as I steer toward a dark area on the stern near the large round deck surrounding a circular swimming pool. Mia does a superb job in keeping up with us.

  At this altitude, we can also make out light-green figures moving about on multiple levels, presumably guards. In this op, everyone is a hostile. And that reality vastly simplifies our mission. Irrespective of our ingress and exfil plans, the thing to remember is that when shit hits the fan, as it always does, simply move toward the sound of gunfire and kill anyone not dressed like you.

  2000 feet.

  I make final adjustments to get to the darkest spot on the starboard side of the deck.

  1000 feet.

  I reach for the rip cord, and the moment we drop below 800 feet, as the stern of Blue Topaz fills my field of view, I pull it, and so does everyone in the team.

  That’s the other thing I forgot to mention about HALO insertions: we don’t carry reserve chutes. If your main fails to deploy… well, at least you reach SEAL heaven quickly.

  The rectangular-shaped parachute blossoms above me within three seconds, time in which I drop an additional four hundred feet.

  The tug is stronger than what I remember, and my bruised chest protests the jolt, but it’s manageable, and I easily steer toward my desired landing spot with minimal effort.

  As the dark-green deck comes up to meet me, I glide onto it and start a short run the instant my boots come in contact with a solid surface.

  I let out a sigh of relief when feeling my prosthetic remaining where it belongs.

  Mia slides in right next to me, just as I release the chute, letting it vanish away over the edge of the railing and into darkness, and I get ready for business.

  Mia does the same, removing her diving mask and replacing it with the tactical GPNVG-18 goggles. A moment later, her MP7SD is out and ready.

  I guess once a jarhead always a jarhead.

  I already have the fire-selection lever set in semiautomatic mode, meaning one bullet with each trigger pull. For this op, all MP7SDs are fitted with 40-round extended magazines instead of the standard 20-round magazines. And we each carry four spare mags—more than enough firepower for the very short duration of our stay aboard this fine yacht.

  Murph rushes toward us, and I’m glad to see my former SEAL brother once again in action. Cope is right behind him, also ready for violence, but with a Barrett M82 50-caliber rifle, which he brought instead of his TAC-50 because it can carry 12-round custom magazines instead of the TAC-50’s 5-round magazine. Plus, it is semiauto, so he can offload all 12 monster rounds in seconds with simple trigger pulls while the TAC-50 is bolt action, requiring him to manually eject each spent cartridge before firing the next one.

  I’m glad he decided to bring the heavy hardware along, giving us more bite, though his is not suppressed, meaning we will only use it after we lose the element of surprise.

  I lead the Close Quarter Combat stack, followed by Mia covering the right flank, Murph the left, and Cope our six.

  “Team one is a go,” I speak into my throat mike over the squadron frequency while starting the timer on my G-shock.

  “Team two is a go,” comes the reply from Case, signaling that he and his operators have reached their landing mark by the bow and are starting their sweep.

  The plan, at least for now, is to divide and conquer. There are six levels on this beast of a ship, and we have landed on the fourth one, according to the blueprints. That means we’ll cover the upper three and Case’s SEALs the lower three.

  I inspect the picture ahead, the fifty feet of decking separating our dark starboard LZ from the double glass doors leading to the main saloon—again, according to the blueprints. But as I’m about to move, a green shadow detaches itself from the opposite end of the deck, just beyond a row of lounge chairs hugging the port side of the railing next to an outdoor bar—all overlooking the large round pool.

  It’s a guard armed with an Uzi.

  I can see him clearly with the NVGs, his lighter green shape shifting in a background of darker shades of green.

  I line him up using the Elcan reflex sight mounted on the MP7SD, the foldable metallic stock pressed against my right shoulder, an easy hundred-foot shot.

  Settling on his center mass, I exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger, sending a single 4.6x30mm subsonic round. The silencer absorbs the gunpowder detonation as the FMJ slug exits the muzzle at 1080 feet per second. That means the bullet will remain below the speed of sound and not make the sonic boom associated with standard ammunition, which is all supersonic.

  Basically, all you hear is my gun’s firing mechanism followed by the dull thud of 31 grains of copper-plated steel impacting the target, in this case the guard’s sternum.

  He drops, and I scramble across the deck with the Elcan aligned with my shooting eye, scanning the greenish world in front of me. The soft scraping sound of rubber-soled boots over the deck tell me that the team behind is following in CQB fa
shion, covering all angles, allowing me to focus on the picture ahead without worrying about my flanks or my six.

  I reach the doors in ten seconds and peek inside. It’s a large saloon, probably two hundred feet long and half as wide, decorated in light colors under soft white lights.

  I raise the goggles and storm inside, quickly followed by the team, transitioning from a stack to a line. I handle the right side, Mia covers the middle, and Murph the left while Cope continues guarding our rear.

  And I almost laugh.

  We catch four guards shooting pool next to a large white-leather sectional sofa and a long bar. We’re in what looks like the party room, which even includes a dance floor under a disco ball, and surrounded by a dozen tall round tables, where I guess people can hang out and drink when not dancing. The guards stand momentarily dumbfounded just to the right of the dance floor, pool cues in their hands instead of Uzis.

  Mia handles two and Murph and I each get one in a brief volley of suppressed fire. And it’s over in less than five seconds.

  “Fourth-level clear,” I say, before rushing toward the round staircase leading to the fifth level. “Five tangos down.”

  “Roger,” replies Casey. “Third level clear. Six tangos down.”

  I check my watch as I reach the bottom of the round staircase. Eleven guards down in twenty seconds.

  Not bad.

  And just as I think that, two men come down the stairs, Uzis in hand, and they momentarily freeze when seeing me and the operators behind me.

  I fire once, taking one out with a headshot. Murph handles the other one. Unfortunately, as the guard falls back, he fires his Uzi. The reports resonate in the enclosed area as a stream of bullets carve a track in the ceiling.

  White debris rains like snow as we hear shouts above us.

  And that’s the end of our element of surprise. Now we transition from concealed ferocity to unbridled power.

  Murph reacts faster than me, leaping up the steps while pulling the safety from an MK3A2 concussion grenade and tossing it up to the level above us.