R
etro tossed me
a small
duffel when I reached the bottom of the stairs, saying, “Usual kit. I didn’t put in anything unique, so speak up if you think we want something.”
I unzipped it while we moved through the apartment, seeing a Glock 30 and an H&K UMP, both suppressed and both chambered for the .45, along with night-observation goggles and other pieces of kit.
I said, “Grab the spare Wasp,” then pulled out an innocuous Bluetooth earpiece and put it in, saying, “Commo check. Knuckles, you got me?”
“Yeah. Loud and clear.”
We hit the parking lot, and I slapped the spare Wasp’s pinecone onto our own car, asking, “Got the track?”
Jennifer came on this time. “Yeah. Got your track. Vehicle’s on Sukhumvit, about out of range. Knuckles is lining up for a dive-bomb now.”
I tossed the keys to Blood, getting into the passenger seat. “Tell him if he screws this up, he’ll spend the next ten years staring at a screen instead of going on hits.”
We maneuvered down the alleys until we reached the intersection with Sukhumvit, waiting to be told which way to go. After a full minute, I began to fear the dive-bomb mission had failed. It shouldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds.
“Koko, what’s the story?”
Jennifer, hating her call sign as much as Brett despised his, came back a little short. “Stand by. I’ll alert when we’re in motion.”
I grinned and muted the connection, saying, “She sounds a little pissed.”
Decoy said, “I sort of like that call sign. I could have called her Curious George.”
Decoy had knighted Jennifer with the call sign “Koko” on our last mission together, after the gorilla that used sign language, and she’d tried mightily ever since to get us to forget it. It worked a little bit. We only used it on the radio. I’d learned early that she wouldn’t respond to it in person, but in the middle of the mission she had no choice.
Brett said, “I’ll trade with her.
Blood
is ridiculous.”
We all started to chuckle, and I was glad to see everyone relaxed and calm. It meant we were clicking, something we would need in the coming moments. Decisions would be made in the blink of an eye, and undue stress tends to short-circuit logical thought, causing catastrophic mistakes.
Retro, in the back working a tablet, said, “Got the beacon, but it isn’t moving.”
Which could have meant one of two things: The dive-bomb had missed and the beacon was sitting in the middle of Sukhumvit Road, or the car was stopped in traffic. At least it would tell me left or right.
“Which way?”
“North. They went north on Sukhumvit.”
Blood pulled into the traffic, and we slowly marched forward.
Jennifer came on. “Pinecone is in place. Knuckles is still overhead with the Wasp, and it looks like a clean hit, dead center of the roof.”
All right
.
“Good work. Keep the Wasp up as long as possible. Any word on Kurt?”
“They’re tracking him down. I’ll let you know as soon as I make contact.”
I wondered if that was true. Would she call me if Kurt told us to stand down or let it go to rescue whoever was in the rug?
Retro said, “About a half mile in front of us, moving now.”
Which might as well have been on the other side of the world given the traffic. Eventually, we left Sukhumvit and entered the expressway, still heading north. We lost the Wasp and were on our own. The traffic opened up, and we closed the distance.
“What’s ahead of us, Retro? Where’s he going?”
“The only thing big is Don Muang, right off of 31.”
“How far?”
“About ten klicks.”
If they were headed to Don Muang Airport, we’d need to stop them before they got there. Once they were inside, there’d be way too much security to attempt any sort of a takedown. But a vehicle interdiction on the freeway was a nonstarter. No way could we do that clean.
Why would they be going to the airport? They certainly can’t put the rug through an X-ray machine. Unless they’ve already made arrangements.
“They’re off 31,” Retro said. “Now headed west on 304.”
“Distance?”
“Exit two klicks up.”
Soon enough we were behind them again, now running into traffic, but not as much as on Sukhumvit.
“What’s ahead of us here?”
“The only thing out west is the Chao Phraya River, about eight klicks away.”
We kept going, keeping about one kilometer back, me wondering if we were going to follow them to Burma. The beacon had just crossed the river, with us just behind, when Retro said, “Exit, exit, exit. One klick ahead.”
Endgame
.
“Okay, listen up. I think they’re going to another safe house. Someplace out of the city. We’ll let them settle, then pick up surveillance again. We see any indication that they’re going to smoke the guy in the rug, we intervene. Otherwise, we jump-TOC to here.”
I got the okay from my group of shooters and said, “Koko, Knuckles, you copy? Go ahead and break down the TOC. You know the beacon track. Do some research on the area, see where we can stage out here. Hotels, apartments, the usual.”
I got a roger and settled back to wait. Eventually, we were off the 304 and onto surface streets. After traveling a few more kilometers, we entered dirt roads, with little traffic, and still the target continued, now headed back east. The buildings faded away until there were only sporadic houses, then expanses of woodland.
Where the hell is he going? Farther east and he’s going to run into the river.
Which is exactly what he did.
Retro said, “Vehicle stopped. Right on the Chao Phraya.”
“Next to a house?”
“Not that I can tell from this map. Looks like the road just dead-ends into the river. He’s about five hundred meters up.”
“Blood, find a side road and pull over. Decoy, break out the Wasp.”
Within five minutes we had the UAV constructed and launched. It homed in on the target beacon and began circling, all of us crowded around the screen as Decoy maneuvered its flight.
Retro was right. There wasn’t a house around, but there was a dock, with three long-tailed Thai boats tied to it. Really nothing more than large canoes. We could see the two men struggling with the rug between them, loading it into the farthest boat, precariously wavering as they crossed from one boat to the other.
They then began going back and forth, loading the same square shapes I had seen earlier. Blocks of some type. Maybe radios or boxes of equipment.
Blood said, “What the hell are those things? Looks like cinder blocks for a building.”
And it clicked.
They’re going to dump him in the river.
I
spun away from
the video
screen, scrambling for the car door, saying, “Load up! They’re going to kill him on the river, unless we can stop them from leaving.”
Within seconds, we were throwing dirt on the road. Blood forced the vehicle as fast as he could down the track, weaving through the potholes, the bumps rattling our teeth.
“Watch where the hell you’re going!” Decoy shouted. “I can’t control the Wasp.”
Blood ignored him.
I asked, “What’re they doing?”
Decoy struggled to hold the screen still, the grainy image a blur. “They’re off the dock, but I don’t see a wake yet.”
Blood rounded a corner and immediately fishtailed around a tree that was inexplicably growing in the middle of the road, slamming us all into the right side of the car and causing Decoy to lose the video relay.
He swore, got it back in his hands, and spent precious time reorienting the Wasp. When he found the dock, he swore again.
“Boat’s on the move, and hauling ass.”
Seconds later we no longer needed the Wasp, as the dock appeared out of the gloom. Blood slammed on the brakes before we ended up launching into the Chao Phraya River, and we exited on the run.
I said, “Which way?”
“South. The boat went south.”
Straining, I could faintly make out the white foam of its wake. I threw on my night-vision goggles and could see it clearly enough to make out the two men inside, the NODs turning the boat into an eerie green apparition racing steadily out of reach.
Great. Now we’re going to chase them in a long-tail. This is turning into a comedy.
I thought about letting them go and recocking on the house. That, after all, was the mission. Sooner or later, they’d be back. I then thought about Jennifer’s words.
Shit. No way can I face her without even trying. Damn do-gooder.
“Load up. Decoy, you got the helm. Everyone else, get ready to assault.”
Decoy said, “Me? Why me? I don’t know a damn thing about these boats.”
We crossed the first boat and went into the second, both dangerously rocking. I said, “Because you’re in the Navy, damn it. It’s a boat. Surely you’ve been on one.”
“I’m a SEAL, not a paint chipper. And it’s not a boat. It’s a canoe with an engine.”
I knew he was right, but we settled into position anyway. Basically, a long-tail was a narrow sampan with a giant car engine on the back, built out of whatever the Thai owner could scrounge. The driveshaft of the engine extended out from the stern for about five or six feet before entering the water, giving the boats the nickname
long-tail
. They had become something of a Thai tradition, grafting big-block Chevys or Fords to sampans in order to churn around the river with a power plant that anyone could fix rather than using some special marine technology. Of course, it inevitably led to the usual macho “my boat can beat your boat” contests. Just like teenagers drag racing in the Deep South, but on a river with a boat that could barely float. In the end, the world was no different in Thailand than it was in rural Georgia.
While we untied the bow, Decoy pushed the shaft left and right, getting a feel for it, then fired up the engine. The propeller immediately churned the water, and the boat launched forward, throwing me onto my back.
I sat up as we weaved left and right, heading the wrong way. I saw Decoy fighting the engine and looking for a rudder.
I shouted over the engine noise, “The tail with the propeller is the rudder. Thrust vectoring. Push it left to go right and right to go left.”
He did so and we whipped around, now heading south. He shouted, “You know so much about this Thai shit, why aren’t you back here?”
I grinned. “Because I’m on the assault. An Army guy.”
I left him scowling, turning to the rest of the team. “We close on them and disable the boat. No lethal force unless they initiate. No shooting below the gunwales. That’s where the precious cargo is. Blood, you and I will focus on the engine in back. Retro, Buckshot, you cover the threats. Anything hostile, take them down.”
I looked forward and saw we were closing the distance to the other long-tail, now about seventy meters ahead. The riverbanks were dark, sporadically illuminated by small houses. From the middle of the river we had about a hundred meters on each side, so I wasn’t too concerned about anyone witnessing our actions. Without NODs they’d see nothing except the wake of our boat in the moonlight, and with our suppressed weapons, all they’d hear would be the engine of the long-tail. It might spike a bit of curiosity, since it was so late at night, but probably not much.
Decoy said, “I’m taking them down the left side.”
He gunned the engine, and the bow rose out of the water, the gap between the boats shrinking in seconds. We hunkered down, placing the barrels of our UMPs on the gunwale, trained on the other boat. We sliced forward like some twisted version of an eighteenth-century naval battle, pulling abreast of the target.
No command was given, and none was needed. Blood and I began spitting out rounds, the only noise the clanking of our bolts cycling and the dings of the bullets tearing into the engine block. At least for a second.
A crack from an unsuppressed weapon split the air, then another as both terrorists began firing wildly in our direction, hitting our boat but little else. Decoy jammed the throttle, and we skipped out of the kill zone, the four of us returning fire. A hundred meters away, Decoy cut the engine; the action had happened so quickly I didn’t even get a rise in heart rate.
“Well, I guess that answers the lethal-force question.”
I looked back and saw the boat remaining where it was. No wake, so we’d put the engine out of commission. “Anybody score a hit?”
Retro said, “One is down for sure. I couldn’t hit anything else once Decoy started running.”
Decoy bristled, about to say something, when I cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. No reason to sit trading rounds from five feet away once we disabled the boat. We can take our time now.”
I scanned the far shoreline to see if there was any activity, then noticed water around my ankles.
Blood said, “Pike, we got an issue. They hit some bolt up front, and it tore out a hole.”
“Plug it.”
“Can’t. It’s about three inches across. We’re sinking.”
Decoy gunned the engine, and the water sluiced to the back, the bow now out of the water, along with the hole.
Jesus. So much for taking our time.
Decoy kept us headed upriver while the four of us bailed out the water. Once it was fairly empty, Decoy swung the boat back around, losing speed and dipping the hole in the water again.
He picked up just enough speed to keep the hole out, shouting, “What do you want to do?”
As I bailed, I asked, “You guys think you can hit the final man on the run?”
Both Retro and Blood grinned. “Piece of cake.”
I said, “Don’t shoot below the gunwale.” I turned to Decoy. “Take ’em on the right side.”
We closed the distance in a blur, racing through the water. Through my NODs I could see the lone terrorist shifting back and forth, wondering what we were up to. I knew he could only hear the engine at this stage, our boat a dark blob closing the distance.
Just before we pulled abreast, Decoy swerved, closing the gap between the boats, now bringing to mind a medieval jousting tournament. Only this asshole with a gun could cause damage with blind luck.
Man, I’d rather stick with the naval battle. With some damn cannons at a distance.
We drew parallel, and as if on cue all four of us began tracking, our night vision, weapons, and skill giving us an unbeatable edge. The terrorist got off one round, shooting blindly into the night, the recoil from the handgun throwing his aim off as his body was punctured multiple times. I saw his head snap back from a round that wasn’t mine, then drop with the peculiar rag-doll effect of the dead I’d seen many times before. I knew he was no longer a threat.
In a flash, we were beyond him and racing away. Retro and Blood did a fist bump, not so much because of the killing, I knew, but because they’d lived through the threat. They’d made a choice few others on earth would have made, one that had absolute consequences, and they’d succeeded.
That, and because this one had been easy. Although you never knew when death would call, easy or not. No action’s success was a given, and we’d all danced on the razor one more time. Definitely worth a fist bump.
Decoy turned the boat around, bringing in another load of water. I started bailing again.
Decoy gunned the engine again and said, “What now? We can’t pull up next to it without sinking.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Who wants to get wet? We’re going to have to boat-cast.”
Retro pointed at Blood. “He’s the Marine. Make him go.”
I smiled and handed Retro the can I was using to bail. “Then you get to keep this afloat. Decoy, left side this time.”
He went as slow as he could while still keeping the hole out of the water, which was still pretty damn fast. The engine screamed, the jury-rigged propeller churning water and leaving a wake behind like he intended to start pulling an inner tube full of kids. A homemade speedboat not designed for the work we had placed upon it.
We closed the gap with Retro pulling cover, the boat leaning dangerously as Blood and I lay on the edge of the gunwale, upsetting its balance. When I saw the bow of the target appear I pointed at Blood, who crossed his arms and rolled off the side, hitting the water on his back.
I followed immediately, the speed greater than I anticipated. I skipped for a second, then sank in the fetid river. I began to swim to the boat, one hand above the surface holding my Glock.
Blood reached the stern, treading water, his own weapon out. I went to the bow. I signaled
one, two, three,
and we both rose up, pulling ourselves above the gunwale and putting our barrels inside the boat.
It was clear, both terrorists visible and leaking blood from multiple holes. The only thing moving was the carpet.
So he’s alive.