The second soldier turned and fired a wild, desperate spray of rounds.
O’Neil gritted his jaw and fired.
He sent three rounds spearing through the man’s chest and shoulder. The soldier sprawled backward. His weapon clattered to the floor. When he hit the ground, he started to crawl back toward his weapon, reaching for it.
Loeb pushed up from behind a crate and sent a round through the man’s forehead, ending his struggle.
“Bravo, you have more attention on your position,” the drone operator said. “We can’t cover on the southside of the warehouses, but if you come out the north side, we’ll provide overwatch.”
“Copy that,” O’Neil said, gesturing for his team to make it to the front of the warehouse. They passed by the bodies of the dead Moroccan prisoner and the first two soldiers they had killed.
“Bravo, hostile outside the north entrance,” the drone operator said. “We’ll secure your route. Stand clear of the door and wait for our signal.”
O’Neil gestured for his people to stand far from the door. He waited, pulse racing, listening to the sounds of footsteps clattering just outside the warehouse, sifting in under the door. The Russians had definitely heard those suppressed shots. It wouldn’t be long before every soldier in this base was hunting for the SEALs.
“Make ready, Bravo,” the drone operator said. “Charlie’s providing cover now.”
O’Neil heard a thump as if a body had fallen into the door of the warehouse. Then another.
“Four more hostiles mobilizing near the warehouse,” the drone operator said.
Four more wet thumps.
“Clear.”
-23-
O’Neil and his men rushed back into the salty air of the port. The echoes of footsteps and urgent voices sounded between the persistent groans and clicks and snaps of the Skulls imprisoned in the nearby warehouse.
Toward the left, eastward, were the office buildings and the tower—B-One—with the half-built radio antenna. Just beyond the tower next to the parking lot where the drone operator had identified the Russian military vehicles.
A quick glance toward the south, O’Neil could see the wall coming alive with soldiers, sweeping their rifles back down toward the warehouse.
“More hostiles headed to A-Three,” the drone operator said. “I’m seeing activity from C-One and C-Two. At least eight hostiles coming to investigate. Bravo, better get moving.”
O’Neil started between the rows of shipping containers that would take him toward Alpha. His team walked at a hunch, staying low, their rifles shouldered.
Two soldiers suddenly ran between the shipping containers, turning toward O’Neil. But before either could get a shot off, the first soldier’s head whipped back. The second fell to his knees. He dropped his rifle and pressed his hands over his chest as if trying to pull out an invisible arrow that had punctured his lung. Another muffled crack of gunfire echoed between the shipping containers as his head flicked back and he collapsed.
More suppressed shots rang out over the shipping yard. Charlie and Delta were providing cover fire as promised, like angels of death hovering where the shipping yard met the pier.
The handheld drone operator continued to call out enemy positions, guiding O’Neil’s team through the yard toward Alpha’s position. As the snipers took down more of the approaching soldiers, spotlights raked the port, coursing from the walls and the tower with the half-built antenna.
Gunfire rattled into the night, echoing over the shipyard. The shots from Charlie and Delta grew to a steady staccato. Malicious flashes of red lights erupted from the buildings between the spotlights. The thrum of low alarms spread over the base. Those alarms weren’t quite like the shriek of a blaring klaxon, likely adapted so they didn’t evoke the aggression of every Skull in the city.
But they were more than enough to call the base’s defensive forces to action.
O’Neil heard the clamor of footsteps headed their way from another row of shipping containers. He held a fist up. His team dropped into shooting positions just as a group of Russian soldiers rushed past.
“Take them down,” he said.
Bravo opened fire, cutting a swathe through the men.
Those that survived the first salvo turned toward O’Neil and his men. They managed a few shots before Delta and Charlie’s covering fire cut into their ranks, the last of them collapsing in heaps.
“Bravo, more headed your way,” the drone operator said.
“Go, go, go,” O’Neil said.
He hurtled past the fallen soldiers. One reached out toward him, his fingers covered in blood from his sucking chest wound. O’Neil considered shooting the guy to put him out of his misery. But after what he had witnessed so far in this den of nightmares, he didn’t think a soul in this place deserved a mote of mercy and he wasn’t about to waste any precious bullets on these bastards just to ease their pain.
They made it to the end of the shipping yard. O’Neil had a clear view of the building where Alpha was. Only a couple of lights glowed from inside.
From the sounds of gunfire and the voices, the Russians were mostly concentrated around the warehouses. The spotlights only occasionally traced over the area in front of building C-Two.
If Alpha had proceeded as planned, they would have entered the southern entrance to the building, slipping in through one of the windows near the fortified walls. Wouldn’t have been a problem before the alarms went off.
But now, with every eye on the wall turned toward the inside of the base, O’Neil’s team would have to somehow avoid the aim of at least six or so soldiers.
The next best entry point was the front of the building. They would face four guards and would still have the benefit of Charlie and Delta’s cover fire.
“Going into main entrance of C-Two,” O’Neil said.
“Copy that,” an operator on Charlie called back.
Four more sniper shots cut into the night. Three of the guards in front of the building fell into a jumble of tangled limbs and dropped weapons. The fourth dropped his weapon, but was holding his shoulder, looking around confused.
O’Neil took the shot that ended the man, then rushed toward the door with his team. They lined up outside. Tate tested the door handle. Locked.
“I’ll breach,” Tate said, reaching into his vest for a breaching charge.
Suddenly gunfire exploded from inside, hammering through the door and the window just above them. Glass shards sprayed across them. Tate fell back, dropping the breaching charge.
O’Neil and the team had long since learned to stay low when trying to breach an entrance like this. Fighters back in Afghanistan usually fired wild shots at where they judged the center mass of a person would be, aiming at about chest level.
So while the shots screamed overhead, O’Neil reached for Tate, holding him down.
“You hit?” he yelled over the gunfire.
Tate shook his head, but O’Neil felt his fingers growing wet with blood. Something had hit Tate’s shoulder. Just enough to cut through his uniform and tear his flesh. Maybe a bullet fragment from the rounds that had burst overhead. It didn’t look like a direct hit, but O’Neil didn’t have the time or cover to check for sure.
“I’m good, man,” Tate said, scrambling to recover the breaching charge. He placed it on the locked door handle. “Fire in the hole.”
The team all turned, ducking their chins into their necks, leaning away from the blast. The charge exploded with a flash of light and puff of gray smoke. The twisted handle clanged to the ground and the door swung inward.