“Shit, no, he’s firing blind,” Zipolski said.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Brodie replied.
Rounds snapped overhead while others thunked into the stacked fuel drums. Raw fuel — gasoline and diesel — gurgled out onto the beach, its pungent smell on the wind. Scott thought about hot tracers in contact with liquid fuel.
“EPA’s not going to be happy about that,” Leclerc said, keeping low.
The shooting stopped.
“Either he burned up that PK or he’s reloading,” said Caserta.
Jefferson lifted his head. “Can anybody see the shooter?”
The firing started up again, tracers zipping by overhead.
“Yeah, he’s behind that Toyota Land Cruiser parked at the end of the pier,” Leclerc said. “I saw his muzzle flash.”
“All right, when Ramos fires that flash-bang, I’ll take him out,” Jefferson said.
He gave the order; Ramos, lying on his side, lifted the weapon over his head and, judging distance and angle, fired blind. Hunkered down, Scott felt the grenade’s concussion against his back and, even through tightly closed eyes, saw night turned to day from its two-million-candlepower flash.
Van Kirk and Zipolski waited until the wild firing from the Toyota had stopped and the searchlight had swung to where smoke drifted over the weed patch, then opened fire. The light went out in a shower of sparks, glass, and metal. Except for dim illumination provided by the lights strung on the pier, the surrounding area, including the beach, was in total darkness.
“They’re all blind from that flash-bang: can’t see a damned thing,” Scott said.
As if to prove him wrong, a muzzle flash bloomed from behind the Toyota, the PK spitting out rounds until it ran dry.
“Eat this, mother!” Jefferson reared up and fired on full auto, almost emptying the M4’s 20-round magazine at the vehicle, blowing out both windshield and backlight, shredding upholstery, sheet metal, and the shooter, too. He spun out from behind the Toyota, dropped his weapon, and collapsed.
Jefferson said, “That asshole’s down for good. Okay, we’ve got a clear lane to the beach. Let’s move!”
Scott grabbed Jefferson’s arm. “Not yet. This way.” He motioned to the villa.
“Are you nuts? That’s finished. We’re out of here.”
“Not until we search the villa.”
“Search the villa?…”
“We’ll split up. I’ll take the steps, you and the others take the service road. Their attention’ll be focused on the beach and the pier. They won’t be expecting us.”
“No way. Fat’s got plenty more men up there. We’d have to take them out, plus those guard towers.”
“Then do it.”
Jefferson gave Scott a long, hard look. “You are nuts. If we break contact now, we can get out of here in one piece.”
“That’s your call, but I’ve got my orders. If you want, pull back to the mini-sub and I’ll signal when I’m done and you can pick me up.”
“What the fuck is this, a brass balls contest?”
“I’ve got a job to do. I need your help, but I’ll do it without you if I have to.” Scott turned away.
Jefferson grabbed a handful of Scott’s cammies. “Don’t pull that shit on me.”
Scott freed his arm from Jefferson’s grip. “Save it for Fat’s men.”
The SEALs looked from Jefferson to Scott. Chief Brodie hissed, “The bad guys are out there, not here.” He looked at Jefferson. “What’s it gonna be, Colonel?”
Jefferson glanced at the men. “The villa.”
“Conn, Sonar. That Kilo’s back.”
Deacon hustled into the Reno’s sonar room. The sonar supervisor said, “Sierra One, Kilo-class submarine bearing two-four-two. Turns for three knots. There’s his tone-line, Captain. Have the range for you in a minute.”
Deacon said, “Where’s the ASDS?”
“Bearing two-three-eight. Range less than four thousand yards. Still anchored.”
“Get me the range on the Kilo — pronto.” Deacon returned to the control room. “Rus.”
The exec stepped away from Fire-control Alley. “Sir?”
“Get me comms on the ASDS, tell them what we have brewing. And I want a setup on that goddamn Kilo. Just in case.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Scott’s probably got his hands full. Think we can raise him?”
“We can try, sir.”
“Do it. We may have to fuck with that Chinaman, and Scott had better know.”
Bent low, Scott sprinted up the steps cut into the bluff. A few lights still burned in the villa, but it was mostly dark. He stayed low and moved up slowly, step by step, wondering if he was a moving target for an unseen shooter looking down from the veranda. He stopped briefly to scan the bluff face looming above him through NV goggles but saw nothing alive.
He started up again but stopped cold when something alive moved, something he sensed more than saw. He dropped to his haunches and saw a man armed with an AK-47 materialize from the mounds of sharp rock and loose brush bordering the steps. Scott didn’t hesitate; he drew his silenced Sig Saur, aimed, and fired twice. Both hits sent the man reeling, crashing against the bluff’s jagged rock face, his weapon clattering into the boulders.
Scott, blood pounding in his ears, leg muscles trembling, forced himself to move now, so he wouldn’t become a target for another hidden shooter. Eyes scanning left and right, he sprinted up the narrow switchback of steps. He stopped to catch his breath each time he came to a landing, expecting any moment to feel a 7.62mm round’s white-hot punch.
He moved out again but missed a step, stumbled, crashed a shoulder against stone, got up, and, legs pumping, breath exploding from his lungs, climbed higher. As he approached the summit of the bluff just below the veranda, he heard a woman scream something unintelligible. Her scream was followed by the deafening staccato of automatic weapons fire coming from the veranda.
“Up! Move!” Scott growled. Jefferson and the SEALs were engaging Fat’s men from positions on the road behind the villa and had run into a firestorm unleashed from the veranda.
He heard long bursts of gunfire — the drug-traffickers unloading whole magazines at the SEALs, the SEALs firing back with short controlled bursts. In between he heard the thud of a heavy machine gun and distinctive crack of Russian PKs. Tracers whipped across the black sky and through palm tree tops; rounds smacked off the villa’s masonry, splintering wood door frames and piercing windows.
Scott crouched behind the wall around the veranda. He made certain his footing was solid, then peeked over the top of the wall at six black-clad figures aiming weapons over the edge of the opposite wall, slamming rounds down onto the SEALs fighting their way up the road. He felt the weapons’ heat on his face and hands as they spit bullets.
Scott ducked behind the wall and caught his breath. He felt inside a bag hung on his H-gear and palmed a fragmentation grenade. He took a deep breath, pulled the pin, and, with a roundhouse swing, hooked the grenade into the mob of shooters before he ducked down behind the wall.
An instant later he felt the concussion and felt a searing blast of heat roll over the top of the wall. He heard a muted cry, and after he confirmed that the shooters were all down he vaulted the wall, one-handing the M4.
The grenade had blown the shooters to pieces, scattering shredded gristle and white bone. He moved toward them cautiously, stepping on piles of spent brass cartridge cases and floor tiles slick with blood. The shooters, two of them women, were dead.
“You’re clear up top,” Scott said shakily over the squad line, after assessing the carnage.
A heavy whomp and another blast of heat forced Scott to duck behind the wall as a white fireball erupted behind the villa. A white phosphorus grenade fired by one of the SEALs had destroyed a guard tower from which a steady rain of machine gun fire had stalled their advance. He raised his head to look and saw screaming, burning figures trapped in the tower, silhouetted against the flare of searing phosphorus.