The lieutenant made a big show of getting his fire team into position. That meant, not only getting the SEALs at the fore and aft .50 cals to ready themselves to open fire, but also getting the rest of the 8-man squad to drop to a knee-steady position and take aim with their ARX 160s.
“Better rethink the enemy,” Scott shot back. “We’ve got a very different situation here than you realize.” While he talked he pivoted, so he faced the wheelhouse. Close-chested, he balled his right hand into a fist, then displayed his open hand palm out before inverting his hand and wiggling his fingers.
Three quick movements, three hand signals. Freeze, meaning stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. Alert, meaning we have a situation. Obstacles, meaning trouble coming.
Scott was raising his index finger into the air and turning it in a circle when it happened. Edie, following Scott’s signs, signaled a full-throttle reverse of the engines. The Shepherd lurched backward just as a resonant whoosh sounded. Scott leapt aside as the shoulder-launched RPG swept across the Shepherd’s deck, clipping a corner of the upper deck below the wheelhouse and exploding in a massive fireball.
“Told you,” Scott shouted as he rolled to a ready position with his AK-47.
Chapter 3
The shooter was on the one fishing boat of the remaining three that didn’t have its net in the water. The boat had been drifting away from the others and closer to the Sea Shepherd. Scott thought this was because its net wasn’t in the water. Now he knew better.
Scott opened fire on the shooter even before the RIBs’ forward .50 cal swung around and started ripping open the drifting fishing boat. Though a killing machine, the AK-47 wasn’t built for range or accuracy. Scott emptied one 48-round magazine, slapped in another and emptied it before he paused to assess.
A long-standing question he had about the armament the SEALs carried was answered by the resonant thumps of MK19 grenade launchers and the resulting fiery explosions. What was left of the shredded fishing boat, started sinking into the sea at that point, allowing Scott to turn his thoughts to the Shepherd’s crew and his men.
Garet was down. The riot shield on top of him made it difficult to determine his status. The starboard side of the upper deck below the wheelhouse was ripped open. Smoke billowed from the hole, making it impossible to get a clear view of the wheelhouse.
Scott made his way quickly to midships, lifting the riot shield off Garet and turning over the scruffy bear of a man. Garet didn’t have any outward wounds, other than being somewhat singed. “You dead yet?” Scott asked, pulling Garet to a sitting position.
“It’d take more than that,” Garet muttered.
Scott gripped the chief’s shoulder, before moving through the central hatch into the smoky interior. Sam, among the confused, incensed crew in the hall, was visibly shaking, though his embrace was meant to calm blue-eyed Tara. Tara was shrieking, something about her 8-year-old daughter and ex back in the states.
“Sam, Tara,” Scott shouted, pulling the two apart. “Sam, damage control. Get two others; get on it. Tara, take Willow. Ventilate this passageway; assess the damage. Report.”
He pushed his way through to the narrow, nearly vertical stairs that led to the wheelhouse. As he climbed, he heard Edie’s voice in his ears correcting him. “Real ships don’t have stairs. They have ladders.” Her way of reminding him of how long it’d been since he’d last lived on a ship and one of the reasons he’d picked her for the job.
Edie wasn’t one for big shows of emotion, but her eyes showed relief when Scott entered the wheelhouse. A few quick steps took him to her side, and only then did she unball her fists to let color return to her knuckles.
“Damned mess,” Captain Pendleton quipped. “What good’s security if you can’t protect this ship?”
Edie took a step back, cocked her head. Scott had no doubt this particular you’re-dead-to-me stare had flatly crushed many men. The captain didn’t even seem to notice.
“Damage control under way. Sam’s leading the detail,” Scott reported. “Willow and Tara to assess.” Since they were ventilating below more smoke was making its way into the enclosed space. Scott moved to open the port door, pulling Edie away from the captain.
“Not here, not now,” Scott started to say. He cut short, his eyes widening. He shouted, “Incoming, take cover!” His instincts took over. He pulled Edie with him, out the port door and over the side. The long fall into the tepid waters of the Mediterranean seemed an eternity, and the incoming projectile roaring at him was all he could see the whole time.
He pulled Edie down, down into the dark waters, a vise-like grip on her as he tried to avoid the expanding shockwave of the blast. His mind worked as they dove for their lives. One of the two boats that had slunk off must have come back around. It’s the only thing that explained the second shooter. If so, what the hell was going on?
He and Edie paused their frenzied dive, righted themselves. Ditching boots and unneeded gear, they treaded lightly so they could look up toward the surface. Edie reached out, squeezed him in a fierce embrace as something large sank to the depths close by, and he squeezed back with the same intensity. In that moment, he had no thoughts of Cynthia or little James — only thoughts of Edie and how if he’d walked to the port door a few seconds later there wouldn’t have been much left of him and her for the Navy SEALs to zip into plastic body bags.
She was trembling, he realized. Whether from cold or anger, he didn’t know, but he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t from fear. They floated there, submerged, looking to the glow above that pointed the way while the oxygen in their lungs worked its dwindling magic. On his signal, they worked their way to the surface, and to a fresher hell than he imagined possible.
Smoke and flames were everywhere. Scott turned a tight circle, signaled for Edie to do the same. Immediate threats were first priority. Someone out there wanted them dead. It didn’t matter who right now — only that they were determined and dedicated enough to martyr themselves because this was a mission you didn’t come back from and whoever planned it knew that.
They’d waited for the Navy SEALs, though they’d plenty of opportunity beforehand. They’d attacked after the SEALs had attempted to board the Sea Shepherd and turned their guns. No accident, deliberate. They’d been watching, studying. There was no other explanation, but it still didn’t account for the carnage he was seeing.
Four fishing boats shredded, in flames, sinking or all the above. The Shepherd trailed plumes of smoke. He saw flames too, but he was too low to the water to assess the ship’s status. One of the NSW RIBs must’ve attempted a ramming. Its .50 cals were silent though and there was no movement aboard, only bodies. Who or what took out a SEAL team, he wondered.
Something bright caught his attention. He turned himself in the water, swung his head around. The bobbing speck of white trailing smoke was the fifth fisher — it had to be. Edie’s words pulled his thoughts back. “Where’s the second RIB?” she said quietly.
Scott had assumed it was on the far side of the Shepherd, blocked from view. “I don’t—” Scott cut himself short, pointed. Something large, black was out there, chasing after the crippled fishing boat. “The RIB?”
“What’s that then?” Edie said. The Shepherd was adrift, and her position had shifted. Scott and Edie were about to start swimming for the RIB when his dive watch started beeping. Instinct brought his finger to the off button, but it was Edie who pulled him under just as a heavy-caliber machine gun let loose.