In Every Clime and Place (12 page)

After we suited up, Lt Mitchell gave a quick briefing. “OK Marines, listen up. We have to board that ship, overcome all resistance, catalog the cargo and crew and bring back some intel. McCray’s and Hernandez’s squads will take shuttle number one and assault the main crew area near the stern, then work forward. Pilsudski’s squad plus the headquarters elements will assault the bow and seize the bridge in the second shuttle. We will meet up near the center of the ship.

“We have no good estimate on enemy strength. A freighter that size only requires a crew of twenty, but it’s big enough for a hundred. If they planned to board ships, they probably have a good supply of small arms and some trained infantry. Be ready for resistance. Don’t fuck around, if they have a weapon, kill ’em.

“We carry buckshot for the 20mm ammo and soft tips on the 5mm. No high explosive rounds, hand grenades only. If we breach the hull, everybody dies. We don’t know what the cargo is, so watch the fire discipline.

“The Navy will launch some chaff projectiles and a few drone missiles. If the enemy have any defense guns left, they should concentrate on the rockets, not us.

“We don’t have a hell of a lot of information about this vessel, so just keep your eyes open, stay alert and watch your asses. Any questions?”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Is it too late to request a transfer to the Coast Guard, sir?” I asked.

It wasn’t original, or particularly witty, but it was the tension breaker we needed. The platoon laughed, joked and barked battle cries as we piled into the shuttles. Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children headed out for another ad hoc mission, underpaid, under-equipped, and without the information we needed, because we were convenient and ready.

ASSAULT SHUTTLE/
CRNAZASTAVA

I felt the tightness in my throat and the drop in my stomach as the adrenaline started to pump. I looked at the nervous grins of my squadmates, saw the determination behind them and felt the confidence we had in one another. Johnson had shed his jitters from his first deployment and looked ready and eager. Sabatini flashed me a cold smile and fluttered her eyelashes as she checked the sling on her rifle, looking like a sexy, flirtatious angel of death. O’Rourke smirked sourly, here we go again etched on his features. Sgt McCray tried to look disgusted, but a little pride shone through.

“Try not to fuck this one up too bad, OK?” he asked.

“Fuckin’ A, boss,” someone acknowledged.

Most of my fear drained away, replaced by a feeling of closeness to this band of roughnecks. I was honored to be counted with these people. This was why we bitched about it, but never actually requested that transfer to the Coast Guard.

I reserved my pity for the poor dumb bastards who were going against us.

The assault craft shuddered as it docked with the raider. As we became part of the ship’s rotating mass, its artificial gravity took over and we once again had weight, rotation making us “fall” away from the center of the pirate. The docking bay sealed with the hull of the enemy ship, and automatic torches began to cut through the vessel’s outer skin.

“Mask up, Marines!” ordered Sgt McCray.

I released a shaky breath and pulled up my mouthpiece, then slid down the transparent visor of my helmet. I checked my team’s radios and chambered a round in my ACR. I folded the scope over to the side and flipped up the old-fashioned iron sights. Any Marine worth his salt doesn’t need a scope in a close quarters shipboard action, and I don’t like the way it cuts down your field of vision. You can scan the area over open sights a lot easier, and in a close-up battle, that counts for a lot.

Once the hull was cut, explosive charges blew the segment into the enemy ship. A second later, a handful of concussion grenades followed, the flash and noise intended to disorient any pirates who might be watching the breach, waiting for us to come pouring through.

“Go!”

My team scrambled up the ladders to the hatches, hit the releases and sprang through. We emerged into a passageway filled with smoke. I heard the report of Sabatini’s and O’Rourke’s rifles and a quick burst from Johnson’s TAR. I swept the area with the muzzle of my weapon. A pirate lurched to his feet, still unsteady from the effects of the flash-bangs as he tried to raise his weapon. I lined him up and shot him center mass. He staggered back against the bulkhead, but he was taking his time falling, so I drilled him again. He dropped his weapon and slid down the bulkhead, leaving a smear of blood.

“O’Rourke!” Sabatini’s urgent shout cut across the radio channel. I whipped my head around to see what was the problem.

Terry ducked instinctively. The glare of a newfangled antipersonnel laser flashed inches over his head, blackening the bulkhead behind him.

Before I could line up on the source of the attack, Sabatini’s ACR roared, firing both barrels, 5mm and buckshot. A pirate reeled back, dropping his high-tech weapon, his throat and chest a tattered, spurting ruin.

“Thanks,” O’Rourke said.

“You get killed, who am I gonna rob at poker?”

A quick scan showed no more active enemy in my sector. “Clear on the left!”

“Clear on the right!” Sabatini called.

“Center clear,” O’Rourke said calmly.

I quickly looked around the area. We had entered a good sized room, either a chow hall or an exercise area. Half a dozen bodies littered the deck, small streamlets from the pools of blood on the deck slowly making trails to starboard in reaction to the ship’s rotation. Petty Officer Thomas had been right: the hull was self-sealing. Irregular patches of sealant foam dotted the deck, presumably covering holes made by our Navy’s machine guns. The entry holes cut by our docking vessel hadn’t caused the system to react as much, because the pressure drop was a lot less than opening a gap into space.

The rest of the squad climbed up as we proceeded toward the bow. My team had point. Sabatini led off, moving down the right side of the corridor. O’Rourke was five paces behind, moving along the left wall. I followed, then Johnson. Sgt McCray and Chan’s team moved along behind us and Hernandez’s squad provided rear security.

We had proceeded along the featureless passage for thirty meters or so, when O’Rourke sounded the alarm.

“Hatch right!” he shouted, spinning to bring his weapon to bear on the opening. As the segment of wall slid up into the overhead, he snapped off a few quick rounds. Sabatini lunged forward away from the opening, flattening herself against the bulkhead beyond the hatch. I rushed to the near side, driven to distraction that I couldn’t see O’Rourke’s targets. The fact that nobody was able to return his fire meant that he dominated the situation.

“What the fuck you got down there?” I demanded.

“One... two corpses and half a dozen live ones cowering behind the stanchions,” he replied, steadily pumping lead down the passageway.

“Grenade coming,” Sabatini said, activating the fuse. She waited two seconds then whipped it through the hatchway. “Fire in the hole!”

I turned away from the opening, bracing for the blast. Terry ceased fire and darted across the corridor, sliding into the bulkhead beside me. A second later, the roar of an explosion swept down the passage. I spun and went around the corner at a crouch, pointing my ACR down the side passage. Sabatini and O’Rourke were there an instant later. The passage looked like a Jackson Pollock painting of a butcher shop. We shot two raiders who were still writhing, but that was mercy as much as security.

“Hatchway secure,” I mumbled into my mic.

“Hold your position,” said Sgt McCray. “Chan, move your team through.”

“Johnson, set up that TAR over here,” I said.

The young Marine rushed to obey. “Oh, shit,” he breathed as he saw the carnage. He handled it, though. He flicked a bit of meat out of the way with his foot to make a spot for the bipod legs on the TAR. He’d be fine.

“Hey, Paddy!” Sabatini called to Terry. “Nice job spotting that hatchway,” she said in a much mellower voice.

“Remember that next time we play poker,” he smirked.

I was thrilled. They were never that civil. Maybe we could get the old routine disharmony back. Assuming we lived through this boarding.

We went through the challenging duty of securing the flank from attack by the quivering hunks of torn flesh in the passageway. Shortly after the other teams moved past, I motioned my Marines on.

“About time,” O’Rourke muttered. “These guys were shitty conversationalists.”

“Terry,” I observed, “you are one sick fuck.”

We walked backwards, guarding against any enemy pursuit. There wasn’t any. We didn’t hear any more firing up ahead either. Soon we passed Chan’s team guarding another side passage.

“Good job, Collins,” Chan told me as I walked by him. “You got a good team.”

“Thanks.” I knew that, but it wasnice to hear. “Your turn to play tail-end Charlie.”

“Ooh-fucking-rah,” he griped.

We leapfrogged teams for a while, encountering no more resistance until we came to the hatch to the cargo area. Sgt McCray stopped us there.

“OK, Marines, this is a narrow opening into a large, cluttered area. It’s textbook fucking perfect for an ambush. Now, when that hatch opens, I want Hernandez’s squad to open up with everything they got. Collins’ team goes in like a bat out of hell, then Chan’s. After they establish fire superiority, Hernandez’s squad will assault through. Any questions?”

“What if the enemy don’t show, Sarge?” asked O’Rourke.

“Then we’ll look pretty fucking stupid wasting ammo, Lance Corporal. Any serious questions?”

There were none. After Terry’s wiseass query I didn’t want to ask if we could just pass on this one. I had a bad feeling about this, and a real bad feeling about being first team in. This was a standard Marine Corps assault. Hey-diddle-diddle, straight up the middle. No room to maneuver, just gain fire superiority then swarm over the bastards and wipe ’em out.

Hernandez’s two TAR gunners took up positions flanking the hatch. Other members of his squad stood by to heave in smoke and flash-bang grenades. Obscuring the enemy’s aim would do us some good, but they would know where the hatchway was, so if they just concentrated fire on it, it could still suck to be us.

Sabatini crouched in position to bolt through the door. “Wish me luck, chief.”

I shook my head. “I’m first.”

“Bullshit. I’m point for this team. You stay back like the old geezer NCO you are.”

“Look,” I whispered, selecting her channel only, “you’re always first. I got a bad feeling about this one. I’m a little too attached to you to see you get cut up.”

Her eyes flickered briefly with some emotion, but the visor and breathing mask hid so much of her face I couldn’t interpret it.

“Suck up and deal, Mick. I’m a Marine, I can take it.”

“You’re also gonna take orders,” I growled. “I’m first.”

She grumbled, but yielded without further argument.

I don’t know why I was so worried about this doorway. I had been through this more times than I cared to remember. I just had the unshakable conviction that this would be a bad one, and the thought of seeing one of my Marines blown to pieces was too much to bear. Sabatini was too much fun, too full of life to throw into the meatgrinder I feared this would be.

Part of me knew that this was bullshit logic. It was her job. My gut, however, wouldn’t be overruled. I got ready to run, then nodded to Sgt Hernandez.

He looked to McCray, got a nod, then snapped the order to his squad. The hatch slid up, grenades sailed through and detonated. The pair of automatic riflemen poured fire through the opening. I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach as I tensed to spring.

“Go!” Sgt McCray’s voice boomed in my headset.

I exploded from my crouch and whipped through the hatchway. I was aware of the vastness of the cargo area as I entered. I bolted through the smoke, headed for a large metal shipping container for cover. As I swerved toward it, flashes of enemy muzzles flickered in the staging on the other side of the cargo bay. I heard the air snap as bullets whipped past my head.

A hammerlike force smashed into my helmet, wrenching my head around. I could hardly see through the visor. I slid into the container like it was home plate in the seventh game of the world series. Under the protective cover, I blinked and steadied myself. A round had missed me by a hair’s breadth, grazing my visor. The plastic was cracked and the fissures obscured my vision.

“Collins! Report!”

Well, my headset still worked.

“I’m good to go, Sarge!” I shouted. “There’s heavy incoming. This place is a frigging spiderweb of staging. The enemy are above and in front. Estimated fifty meters to the nearest, a hundred to the opposite hatch. Gimme a sec to get in a position to give covering fire.”

I hesitated for an instant, then flipped up my visor. I was dead if I couldn’t see, so I hoped the internal atmosphere was alright.

It was. The container rang as enemy rounds struck it, whining as they ricocheted off the steel. I wormed my way around the far edge of the cargo box and sighted in on one of the muzzle flashes.

“OK, I’m set!” I fired three quick rounds at the shadowy form behind the flicker. He dropped out of sight, but I don’t know if I hit him or just scared the bejesus out of him.

I fired at more flashes and half-seen enemy while the rest of my team entered the room. I was not taking my time to get sure hits, I just wanted to keep the enemy fire suppressed. I was getting pretty near them, though. I think I winged one of the bastards. A few turned their attention to me and a number of them cowered behind cover and stopped firing altogether.

After a few more seconds, my team was in position around me. I changed magazines before giving Chan’s team the word to proceed. My Marines provided cover fire while his team and Sgt McCray leapfrogged to a point slightly ahead and to our right.

“All in position!” Chan announced.

“OK, Marines,” I ordered, “slow up on the firing. Take your time and nail these pricks.”

I scanned the shadows, searching for a viable target. The place was a sprawling nightmare of steel risers, ladders, cargo boxes and piping. I hoped nothing in here was real explosive. I saw a figure dart from one stack of containers to another. I fired and had the satisfaction of seeing him jerk and stagger. I shot him two more times before he finally fell.

The pirates were not a disciplined unit. Most of them were firing wildly, full automatic, rock and roll. This is only good if you want to intimidate people. It isn’t real accurate and calls attention to your position. We were lining them up and firing single shots and tight bursts. I know a few enemy were hit within the first minute.

I could see Chan’s team ahead. Sgt McCray ducked suddenly, then shook his head a few times. Angrily, he slapped the side of his helmet, then sprinted towards my position.

“Johnson!” I yelled, “Suppress these bastards!”

The young black Marine sent a rain of lead at the enemy. I saw one figure tumble from the overhead staging.

Sgt McCray threw himself behind my position. He tore off his breathing mask. Good thing the atmosphere was OK.

“What’s wrong, boss?”

“Some dickhead shot my antenna off!” He sounded genuinely offended. I looked at the side of the helmet. A deep gouge was plowed in the Kevlar.

“Shit. I think they got one good marksman over there.” I indicated my cracked visor.

“Hmmph. OK, what we got here is—arrgh! Motherfucker!” He arched his back and fell against me, coughing. A hole was blown in the back of his armor, just inside his right shoulder blade. I dragged him fully behind cover and bellowed for the corpsman.

Doc Roy hauled ass over to us before I had Sarge’s vest off, and took over.

I spoke clearly into my mic. “Listen up, Marines! They got a sniper over there. Sarge is hit. They picked him out and targeted him twice. Stay low and don’t waste ammo. Don’t get the prick’s attention with automatic fire.”