“Somebody’s down here.”
“We’re still in Security Condition One,” Allen said. “That weapon stays in its holster.”
“Do you see me drawing the damned thing?” Blandy whispered.
“Anyway, we can cock and lock if we’re threatened, even in Security Condition One.”
“I don’t see any threat,” Allen said. “And I don’t hear anything.”
“Shut up and listen!” Blandy hissed. “There it is again!”
Something thumped in the darkness, followed by a scraping sound.
Then there was silence.
Allen put his hand on the butt of his own 9mm. “I heard it that time.”
He keyed his headset mike and spoke in a low voice, “Blue One, this is Blue Two, over.”
Chief Deacon responded immediately. “This is Blue One, go ahead, over.”
“Blue One, this is Blue Two. We have somebody moving around down here, approximately ten yards forward of my position. Do you have any teams working in this part of the hold besides us? Over.”
“Negative, Blue Two. Our personnel are all accounted for. I am in route your position. Take cover and don’t do anything until I get there, over.”
“Blue Two, aye.”
Allen touched Blandy’s shoulder. “Shut off your flashlight and get down.”
The beam of Blandy’s flashlight vanished, plunging them into the yellow-tinged gloom of aging sodium-vapor lamps. The cargo hold was not completely dark, but the shadows were numerous and thick, and the feeble glow of the overhead lamps did little to penetrate them.
Both men crouched against the doors of the steel shipping container.
They were still exposed to the sides and the rear, but at least they had cover against attack from the forward end of the compartment — the direction from which the sounds had come.
They heard the noises again. They seemed to be closer this time.
“That’s it,” Blandy said. “I’m drawing down.”
“No you’re not!” Allen whispered fiercely. “Keep your weapon holstered. That’s an order.”
“This is bullshit!” Blandy hissed. “At least three of these fuckers are unaccounted for, and there could be a half dozen more who aren’t even listed on the crew manifest. You can bet your ass they don’t have to get a note from mommy to draw their fucking weapons.”
Allen held up a hand. “Shhhh …”
Something else was moving — something behind them. Allen looked over his shoulder. Damn. They had no cover in that direction. Hopefully it was the chief. But what if it wasn’t?
Allen bit his lower lip. Maybe Blandy was right. Maybe it was time to stop thinking about the rules and start thinking about self-preservation.
In the pre-mission briefings, the Combat Systems Officer was always saying, “No matter how spooked you are, it’s nearly impossible to accidentally shoot a man if your weapon is holstered.” When you were suiting up on the boat deck, that sounded like good common sense. At the moment — crouched in near darkness in this foul-smelling cargo hold with possible hostiles coming from two directions — Allen thought it sounded a little thin.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Calm down,” he said.
“And keep your weapon holstered.” He realized that he was talking to himself, more than to Blandy.
The sounds from behind them grew nearer. Someone was moving toward them rapidly. Allen was about a second and a half from throwing his safety training and Security Condition One out the window, when OSC
Deacon’s voice crackled in his earphone.
“Blue Two, this is Blue One. I’m coming up behind you, over.”
“Copy, Blue One.” Allen relaxed a fraction. At least one thing moving around out there was friendly.
A shape appeared, moving toward them in the gloom. After a few seconds, it resolved itself into OSC Deacon. He stopped at close whispering distance and crouched down. “Have you seen anything yet?”
“Negative, Chief,” Allen said softly. “But we definitely heard something.”
Chief Deacon nodded. “I’ve notified the lieutenant. He was already in the process of getting clearance to upgrade to Modified Security Condition Two. In the meantime, he’s authorized me to use my judgment in accordance with the tactical situation.” The chief paused for a second and then drew his own 9mm Beretta. “We’re going to go cocked and locked.
But, I swear to God, if either one of you shoots at anything, it had better be armed and in the process of cutting your fucking throat. Are we clear on this?”
Allen and Blandy both nodded and drew their weapons.
“All right,” the chief said. “These corridors aren’t wide enough to do right-left properly, so we’re going to have to do high-low. Blandy, you’re the shortest, so you’re low. I’ll take the high position. Make sure you keep your head down after we turn a corner so you don’t foul my field of fire. Allen, you’re jackrabbit.”
Allen frowned. In the jackrabbit position, his job would be to lag behind whenever the others turned a corner and opened themselves up to attack. Allen would only follow when the new stretch of corridor was proven to be empty of attackers, or if Blandy or the chief went down, in which case he would jackrabbit around the corner with his 9mm blazing — providing rapid and (hopefully) unexpected backup. “Chief, I’m taller than you are,” he said. “I should be high and you should be jackrabbit.”
Chief Deacon shook his head. “Negative. You’re the best shooter on the ship. I don’t want you hit by the first bullet that flies. If one of us goes down, you’re our best chance of getting out alive.”
“But …”
The chief grabbed Allen’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ve got your orders, Sailor.”
His words were gentle, but Allen knew him well enough to know that they were utterly nonnegotiable.
Allen nodded. “Aye-aye, Chief.”
The chief stood up and shifted his 9mm to a two-handed combat grip.
Allen and Blandy did likewise. The chief nodded. “Let’s go.”
Blandy went around the starboard corner of the Conex box, low and moving fast, his weapon swinging from side to side in short, precise arcs as he covered the shadowed corridor ahead. The chief swung around the corner a half-second behind him, his own Beretta carving a similar back-and-forth arc above Blandy’s head. They moved forward at a fast walk, their eyes and weapons ceaselessly scanning the gloom ahead of them.
In accordance with jackrabbit doctrine, Allen counted to three before swinging around the corner and following at the same brisk pace, his own weapon tilted up at a forty-five — degree angle so that an accidental discharge wouldn’t hit one of his teammates.
They covered the distance up the length of the first row of Conex boxes without incident. There was a five- or six-foot gap between the end of the first row of containers and the start of the second row. This space formed another makeshift corridor that intersected their corridor at a right angle, leaving short left- and right-hand passageways to investigate. They halted just short of the intersection.
OSC Deacon tapped Blandy on the shoulder and pointed to the left passageway, then he touched his own chest and pointed to the right passageway. “You check left, I’ll check right.”
Blandy nodded. Still in his low-man crouch, he swung around the corner to the left and screamed.
Allen jumped so hard that he nearly squeezed off a round before he caught himself. He flattened himself against the steel wall of the shipping container to his left, trying to see what was going on.
Blandy threw himself backward, his arms and legs flailing as he struggled to get away. Still scrambling in a sort of crazy crab-walk, he crashed into the back of OSC Deacon’s legs, bringing the chief down on top of him. Blandy screamed again.