Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  Mitchell peered into the building through a window frame that had lost its glass decades ago. He held his breath when he saw the silhouettes of two men less than three meters away, checking out the room directly across from him. His heart began to race. He took a breath to steady himself. Counting back from five in his head, Mitchell stood straight up, brought his pistol up and quickly fired four rounds into the men. The flash from the muzzle lit up the darkened room. Mitchell saw the closest man stagger back on his feet. He was not sure if had delivered a killing shot to the other man. Not waiting to find out, Mitchell sprinted straight back and dove for cover behind a couple of rusted-out forty-five-gallon drums. He landed hard, and a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth. Mitchell had injured his right shoulder during a mission in Colombia a while back, and by the pain emanating from the joint, he knew that he had injured it once more.

  Jackson heard the shots and ducked down. He turned his head and prayed that Mitchell was all right. A second later, he watched as Mitchell ran for cover. Round one to the good guys, Jackson thought to himself. He heard yelling in German. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked over the rock he was hiding behind. The men he had been stalking were all down on one knee, looking around, trying to see where the shots had come from. Jackson could tell that he was on a slight rise.

  A plan quickly formed in his mind. He got up on all fours and slipped in behind a row of old barrels stacked like a small pyramid. He pivoted on his rear and brought up his legs until the soles of his boots were resting on the middle barrel of the lowest row. He tensed and then with all his might he pushed on the casks. Slowly at first, the barrels began to move. With one last hard shove, the casks tumbled over and rolled down the hill towards the men kneeling out in the open.

  Jackson rolled over and came up on one knee with his arms resting on an old wooden box. He took deliberate aim at one man who had stood to move away from the onrushing barrels. A split-second later, he pulled the trigger. Jackson saw the man pitch back. Quickly switching targets, he laid his weapon’s sights on another man and opened fire.

  “What the hell is going on?” muttered Beck. In less than thirty seconds, his carefully laid-out plan had fallen apart. He was furious at himself for seriously underestimating the men he was up against.

  “Lang, report,” said Beck into his headset mic.

  “Sir, Lang is down with a bullet in the chest,” replied Zimmer, one of Lang’s men. “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

  “Anyone else hit?”

  “No, sir. There’s a man in the rocks near the cemetery. He’s got us pinned out here in the open.”

  Beck could feel his blood begin to boil. “Use fire and movement and get the hell out of there. He’s only one man. Remember, I want him alive.”

  Swiftly turning about, Beck ran over to Woll, who was helping a wounded man out of the building. “What happened?”

  “One of the Americans surprised my men,” answered Woll. “Roder is dead and Langen was hit in the arm.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  Woll shook his head.

  “Leave Langen where he is. I want you to take up a defensive position here and keep a sharp eye out for your assailant. He may try sneaking back around us.”

  “If we see him?”

  Beck paused for a moment, then said, “Kill him. I’m going to try and capture the other one.” With that, he left Woll to sort things out while he went in search of his target.

  Mitchell cursed his bad luck. The last thing he needed right now, was an injury. He took a deep breath through clenched teeth as he got up on his knees to look around. He looked between two of the barrels back at the building where he had surprised the Germans. It was too dark. Mitchell couldn’t see a thing. The gunfire from the cemetery told Mitchell that Jackson was still in the fight.

  A flare shot up into the dark night sky. A second later it opened, flooding the ground below it with bright, white light.

  Mitchell tried to adjust his position to get a better look back towards the old settlement, when the old metal barrels he was hiding behind were struck by dozens of rounds. He had been spotted. Mitchell ducked down and crawled back, seeking cover. The sound of the bullets hitting the forty-five-gallon drums sounded like hail from a summer storm crashing down on a tin roof. He looked around and saw that there wasn’t any decent cover near to him. He was stuck where he was for now.

  Jackson ejected the spent magazine and swiftly loaded a fresh one into his pistol. He edged along behind the row of rocks he was using for concealment. Above him, the flare burnt out, plunging the ground back into darkness. Jackson stuck his head up and swore; the Germans had vanished from sight. He ducked back down and looked behind. There was another rocky outcropping about twenty meters away. Staying where he as was wasn’t an option anymore. His opponents knew where he was. It was only a matter of time before they came for him.

  He carefully got up onto his feet and chose a route to his next hiding spot. As quietly as he could, Jackson used a rusting pile of old machinery to mask his movement. When he was less than a couple of meters from the rock pile, something in the back of his mind told him to wary. He dropped to one knee and brought his pistol up. He looked all around, trying to see if there was anyone out there in the rain. Nothing. After a couple of seconds, he lowered his weapon and got back up. It was then that he heard the sound of men moving around behind him. He turned his head and looked back. He could not see a thing; however, he knew they were out there…somewhere.

  He had to go. Now.

  Jackson was about to make a run for the rocks, when out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. He pivoted on his heel and brought his pistol up to fire. He was a fraction of a second too late.

  With a loud thud, Beck brought the butt of his weapon down onto Jackson’s head. Any normal man would have been knocked unconscious by the savage blow; however, Jackson still stood. With a loud grunt, Beck swung his submachine gun around and smashed it into Jackson’s head, sending him back, reeling on his feet. A second later, Nate tripped over a piece of wood and fell straight back. His head hit a rock hard, knocking him out cold.

  Beck moved over and stood over Jackson. He pressed the mic on his headset. “Woll, is the American near you still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Woll replied. “We fired on him a couple of minutes ago and haven't seen him since.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  A couple of his men ran over to him. “Tie him up,” ordered Beck.

  Mitchell was becoming cold. His damp clothes sucked the heat from his body. He had waited where he was long enough. He had hoped the Germans would come looking for him so he could pick them off one by one, but, for whatever reason, they had not ventured out of the settlement. Warily, he got up to his feet and looked over his shoulder towards an old shed. He turned to dash his way over to the shelter when a voice called out. “Herr Mitchell, I suggest you throw down your weapon and stand up.”

  Mitchell wasn’t going to reply. It was an old trick to get you to give your position away. Instead, he hunched over and ran back towards the hut.

  The soldier yelled, “Herr Mitchell, if you value your friend’s life, I suggest that you do as I say.”

  Mitchell froze in his tracks and turned to look back to where the voice was coming from. Another flare rocketed skyward. A second later, the area around the cemetery lit up. Mitchell’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Jackson being held up by two men. Another man stood behind him with a pistol aimed at his head.

  “I give you three seconds before I kill Herr Jackson. One— Two—”

  “Stop, I surrender!” hollered Mitchell. He threw his pistol down and moved out into the open where he could be seen with his hands up in the air. Within seconds, he was grabbed and cuffed by Woll and one of his men. His shoulder burned with pain.

  Mitchell was manhandled over to the soldier. Jackson was dragged over and dropped onto the cold ground at the man’s feet. Ev
en in the dark, Mitchell could tell that his opponent was a man to be reckoned with.

  “Herr Mitchell, you and your colleague have given my men and me far too much trouble. If I did not have orders to deliver you two alive to my superior for questions, I would happily blow your brains out and leave your corpses to rot here on this godforsaken rock.”

  “Sorry to spoil your fun,” replied Mitchell.

  The cold-eyed soldier stepped close. “Trust me, Herr Mitchell, this is only a temporary reprieve. Once my master has the answers he wants, I will get another chance to finish you off.”

  “Why don’t you take the cuffs off right now and we can settle this like men?”

  The man shook his head. “In a few days, perhaps.”

  Before Mitchell could say another word, one of the other men stuck a needle into his arm. Instantly, his vision blurred as his world closed in on itself. His knees buckled. He passed out and fell to the ground, landing beside Jackson.

  Beck said, “Woll, make sure these two men are loaded aboard the boats without delay. Once you have done that, you and your men sanitize the area. There can be no sign that we or the Americans were ever here. I suggest you hurry; you have fifteen minutes, and not a second more.”

  Woll nodded and rushed to give the orders.

  Beck grinned. His first assignment working for the new Greater German Reich had been a success. He hoped that this was the first of many missions to come. Their enemies needed to know that to tangle with them was to invite death.

  24

  Polaris Headquarters

  Albany, New York

  Mike Donaldson wrapped up his call to General O’Reilly and hung up the phone. He was not surprised to hear that Jack and his wife, Diane, would be staying out in Seattle for a few more days than originally planned. From his own experiences, he knew that funerals and sorting out of an estate always took more time than people expected.

  He turned to open up his computer when there was a knock on the door. It was Fahimah. “Come in,” said Donaldson, always happy to see her. The serious look on her face told him something was wrong.

  Fahimah took a seat in front of Donaldson’s desk. “Mike, I just got a call from our Internet provider. It would appear that someone hacked our secure account.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I spoke with the manager herself and she confirmed that over the past couple of days, our account was accessed on several occasions.”

  “So much for their guarantee of impenetrability. Did she what exactly was looked at?”

  Fahimah nodded her head. “Our files on General Alexander and Elena Milos were both opened.”

  Donaldson frowned, a lead weight forming in his gut. “Fahimah, please call Sam and Gordon immediately and let them know that they should move Mrs. Milos right away to another secure location.”

  “Of course. What about Ryan and Nate?”

  “I’ll call them myself and warn them.”

  After Fahimah had left, Donaldson picked up his phone and called Mitchell’s satphone number. After twenty rings, Donaldson put the phone down. It wasn’t like Mitchell to not answer the phone when called. He rummaged for another number on his desk. When he found it, he grabbed his phone and dialed.

  “Da,” said Yuri, after the fifth ring.

  “Yuri, this is Mike Donaldson. I think something has happened to Ryan and Nate. They’re not answering their phone, and I need you to check on them for me. How soon can you be ready to fly over to them?”

  “Mister Donaldson, I can get helicopter prepared to go in no time,” replied Yuri. “The problem is the weather. There’s major storm raging out in the South Atlantic. I am sorry, but I am grounded for the next eighteen to twenty-four hours.”

  Donaldson knew there was nothing he or Yuri could do now but wait. “Thanks, Yuri. If you could, please call them every hour on the hour. It is possible that they are just away from the camp right now and forgot to take their phone with them.”

  “No problem. I will call them until they answer, or until I get flight clearance to fly over to island.”

  “Thanks,” said Donaldson, before hanging up. The next twenty-four hours were going to be among the longest in his life. He had no idea how Jack O’Reilly did his job so calmly. Truth be told, Donaldson was counting down the days until he could hand back the keys to the office.

  25

  Container Ship - Patricio

  South Pacific Ocean

  The unsettling feeling of riding a rollercoaster was back. Through the haze in Mitchell’s mind, he could feel his stomach rising and falling. It didn’t make any sense to him. He could not recall going to an amusement park. Surely, he had to be dreaming. He willed himself to open his eyes. A dim light filled his vision. He blinked them a couple of times to clear the fog. In front of him was a closed steel door.

  He wracked his brain for a moment, until suddenly, the events on the island rushed back to him. The last thing he remembered was being injected with something. He took a deep breath to help clear his aching head, then looked around. He saw that he was in a small storeroom. Between the noise and the rocking motion, he guessed that he was being held deep in the bowels of a ship, somewhere near the engine room. He tried to stand, but found that his feet had been shackled to a thick steel pipe. Mitchell reached down and attempted to pull his feet from their restraints. Whoever had secured him had done a good job; he was going nowhere.

  “At least you can stand up,” said Jackson.

  Mitchell turned his head and saw Jackson handcuffed to a couple of metal rings on the floor of the room. He was relieved to see his friend alive. “What happened to you?”

  “I was jumped by one of the Germans,” replied Jackson. “He was a big SOB, too.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Aside from that, I wish they’d stop the ship from moving up and down. It’s making me nauseous.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Mitchell, as the ship once again dropped down. “By the way this vessel is rocking, I’d say we’re sailing through a nasty storm. How come you’re cuffed to the floor and I’m not?”

  Jackson grinned. “I wasn’t, at first. You weren’t in here when I woke up. I think they took you to sick bay to make sure you were all right. When they finally brought you in here, I cold-cocked the first Nazi I saw. The next bastards Tasered me. While I was out, they handcuffed me to the floor.”

  “Has anyone been around to check on us?”

  Jackson shook his head. “Nah, it’s been quiet for the past couple of hours.”

  “I guess we’ve really pissed someone off this time.”

  The sound of a key being inserted into the door’s lock made both men turn their heads. A second later, the door swung open. A tall, muscular man stepped inside with a 9mm pistol in his right hand. He stood by the entrance to the room and aimed his weapon at Mitchell. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans with a white pullover sweater, and Mitchell took note of his ice-blue eyes, short blonde hair, and weathered face—the epitome of an Aryan Nazi.

  “Ah, good afternoon, gentlemen. It is good to see you both awake,” said the stranger. “Please, let me introduce myself. My name is Karl Beck. There is no need for you to introduce yourselves. I know all about you. I suspect that you have questions, yes?”

  Mitchell said, “Sure. How about we start with why you’ve kidnaped us, and where you’re taking us.”

  Beck smiled. “You were kidnaped because you found something that you were not supposed to. As for where you are going, as it will be the last place you will ever go, I don’t see the harm in telling you that we are on our way to Chile.”

  “Now why would we want to go to Chile?” Jackson asked.

  “Whether you want to go or not is immaterial.”

  “Why Chile?” Mitchell demanded.

  “My master wishes to speak with you,” replied Beck.

  “What if we don’t want to talk with him?” asked Jackson.
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br />   “I suggest that you lose any thoughts of defiance, Mister Jackson. You will answer his questions, or you will be tortured for the information. The choice is yours to make.”

  “When will we be docking in Chile?” Mitchell asked.

  “We won’t be,” said Beck. “When this storm abates in the next few hours, we will be flying ashore via the ship’s helicopter.”

  “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because my master wanted me to tell you so there would be no misunderstanding when you met. If I had my way, I’d torture you now and then dump your bodies over the side of the ship for the sharks to eat. You killed two of my men and wounded two others back on the island. I can’t wait to make you pay for your impertinence.”

  “Good for us that you’re not in charge,” said Mitchell.

  In an instant, Beck’s demeanor changed. With a snarl on his lips, he stepped forward and smashed his pistol into Mitchell’s stomach.

  Mitchell doubled over in pain. It felt like someone had thrust a red-hot poker into his guts.

  Beck grabbed Mitchell’s head and turned it so he could look down at him. “No one said that I couldn’t teach you some manners.”

  “Leave him alone, you bastard!” Jackson said with a growl.

  The big German turned his pistol towards Jackson.

  “You’re a tough man when you have a gun,” said Jackson. “Let me out of these handcuffs and we can settle this man-to-man.”

  Beck snickered. “So much bravado for a couple of men who will soon be dead.” He stepped back and closed the door. A second later, the lock engaged with a soft click.