Thus began a wonderfully boring trip, past the point where the Atchafalaya River joined the Gulf, and into the maze of channels associated with the Atchafalaya Delta Wildlife Management area. Thanks to the boat’s three-foot draft, Myron was able to navigate the shallows without running aground, something they couldn’t afford to do, lest they be late for the rendezvous.
The sun was low in the sky by then, and based on aerial surveillance conducted the previous day, the team had been told to expect some sort of interdiction. It came in the form of a twenty-five-foot rebel patrol boat, which, given the gray-over-red paint job, had been the property of the United States Coast Guard before the war. It was armed with machine guns fore and aft, plus a police-style light bar on top of the cabin. Myron cut power the moment it began to flash. “No need to get up off your army asses,” the chief advised. “The navy will take care of this.”
Hunt had dropped her jacket by then and was standing by the rail, waving to the men on the patrol boat. “Hey there!” Hunt said loudly, as she raised a can. “Would you guys like a beer?”
The man at the wheel put it over, and all of the rebs were staring at the half-naked petty officer, when she tossed the incendiary grenade into the patrol boat’s cockpit. Myron applied power and was veering away when the device went off.
Mac saw a bright flash, followed by a BOOM, as the fire found both gas tanks. Part of the cabin soared up into the air—then fell like a rock. There was a splash as it hit dead center in among bits of still-flaming debris. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.
Mac had witnessed hundreds of deaths, but the casual, almost offhand, way in which Hunt destroyed the patrol boat and killed its three-man crew came as a shock. This was a different kind of war than what Mac was used to. One that relied on surprise, subterfuge, and sudden violence to get the job done.
What remained of the patrol boat slid below the surface of the water as the Chris Craft sped upstream. Would it be missed? Certainly. But it would take at least a day to find the wreckage and figure out what had transpired.
“It’s time to gear up,” Lyle said. “Orney, Timms, Wynn, and Yang will go below first. Our female personnel will follow.”
The Green Berets were back on deck fifteen minutes later. The casual wear had been replaced by camos, heavily loaded TAC vests, and hydration packs. Three of the four were armed with Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns, all equipped with suppressors and laser sights. Yang was carrying a Remington Model 700 sniper’s rifle with a suppressor attached.
The armament had been chosen by Lyle. “We need to standardize our weapons,” he’d said. “So we can trade stuff around as necessary.”
Mac knew that was a nice way of saying that common weaponry would allow the living to scavenge supplies from the dead. It was a logical if somewhat off-putting thought.
As for handguns, the Green Berets were carrying Ruger Mark III .22LR pistols equipped with suppressors and laser sights. They were too damned long in Mac’s opinion. But Lyle insisted. “You’ll see,” he told her. “Stealth will be extremely important. And the Rugers are very quiet.”
Mac followed Hunt below, located her bag, and went about the process of gearing up. Despite the decision to prioritize mobility over everything else, Mac knew she would be carrying fifty pounds of armor, grenades, and ammo. Not to mention a chocolate bar or two. And that didn’t include the weight of the MP7 and the Ruger.
Hunt was carrying everything that Mac was, plus a field radio, because she was the navy equivalent of an RTO. And the team’s link with Trenton. Mac followed her up on deck. Hunt took the wheel, so Myron and Lyle could go below. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Hunt said. “I’m qualified to do everything the chief does except pee standing up.”
Mac laughed. “Men have us there… How are we going to navigate? The moon is up… But the haze doesn’t let much light get through.”
“See the laptop? That’s us,” Hunt replied. “All we have to do is stay in the groove.”
The computer was positioned in front of the wheel. The display showed a representation of the spillway with the boat icon centered in the middle of it. “That’s slick,” Mac said. “Stop if you see a Starbucks.”
Lieutenant Lyle and Chief Myron returned shortly thereafter. They were carrying a cooler loaded with thick, deli-style sandwiches and a selection of cold drinks. No beer though… Not at that point. Mac selected a Coke and what turned out to be a turkey sandwich. She ate sitting in the stern, with the TAC vest and the MP7 beside her.
There was no commercial traffic on the river. And that made sense given the fighting. Mac saw lights every now and then. Some were associated with boats that were moored along both sides of the spillway.
Others were deeper in the swamp and only visible for a split second before they disappeared. Houseboats? Probably. If so, Mac envied the people who lived on them. They could spend weeks or even months safe from the war.
After forty-five minutes of travel, Myron issued a warning. “We’re coming up on a turn to port… Then a straight channel will take us west, to the point where Highway 317 crosses the canal. And that’s where Victor-Romeo should be waiting for us.”
“You heard the man,” Mac said as she put her vest on. “Gear up, turn your night-vision gear on, and give me a radio check. Over.”
Because the team was small, and their transmissions were encrypted, the operators could use their names. “Lyle,” “Yang,” “Hunt,” and so forth.
The bow fell as the boat slowed, and a spotlight came on. It speared the left bank and coasted along until a gap appeared. The light disappeared as Myron put the wheel over, and the bow swerved. Thanks to the spill from the map light in the cockpit, Mac saw that a team member was stretched out on the seat across from her. Private Ryson? Of course. The ex-thief and ace mechanic had been written up for sneaking naps on numerous occasions.
Mac turned to Corporal Marci Carter. The truck commander was chewing gum. “Roust Private Ryson, Corporal. The method is up to you.”
An evil smile appeared on Carter’s face. “Say no more, Major… I’m on it.”
Ryson spluttered as the TC poured half a bottle of water on his face. He sat up. “What the hell?”
“Get your shit together,” Mac told him. “We’re counting on you.”
Carter took a sip of water. “Yeah, shithead. We’re counting on you.”
Ryson gave her the finger, and one of the Green Berets laughed. “Cut the crap,” Lyle said. “And stand by. The rebs might be waiting for us. Lock and load.”
Five long minutes passed as the engines burbled, and Mac stared into the darkness. Then she saw it. Three long flashes, followed by a couple of blips. That was the recognition signal. Hunt answered with three blips from the spotlight. So far, so good. Assuming that Victor-Romeo was the one who was holding the flashlight.
Myron couldn’t turn the engines off without compromising their ability to make a speedy departure. But he could shift into neutral, and he did. Lyle and Wynn jumped off the boat as it coasted to a stop. They were about four feet out and had to wade ashore. Mac was relieved to see a single figure standing on the beach.
Mac went next, felt the water come up to midthigh, and made her way up out of the canal. Green Berets rushed past her and immediately spread out into a skirmish line. Lyle was talking to Victor-Romeo when Mac arrived. They were using a penlight to examine a map. The spill was sufficient to reveal that the agent was a woman. More than that, a pretty woman. “This is Bravo-Six,” Lyle said, as Mac arrived.