RW11 - Violence of Action (26 page)

“Blanchard, you piece of shit. Let him go and deal with me like a man. I’m the one you want.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Dick, but I don’t give a fuck about you. Believe it or not, this is bigger than either you or me. And I’ll be rewarded in the next world for all I’ve done in this one.”

“Newsflash—
you failed, asshole
. You completely and utterly failed. There’s no reward coming to you anywhere. You’re going straight to hell.”

“If that is the case, I’ll expect to see you there. After all, we’re much the same Dick. I just got tired of taking orders from men I couldn’t respect. You’re too pussy-whipped by the machine to understand.”

“Maybe we are alike, except for one big thing. I’m gonna be alive tomorrow, and you’re not.”

Another sudden lurch. I felt the
Storm
beginning to keel a bit farther over on her starboard side. I could see Paul’s jaw working madly against his gag. If Blanchard could just be distracted for a moment and take his gun away from Paul’s head, I was pretty sure I’d be able to get off a round or two without signing Paul’s death warrant. Time to use that famous Rogue charm.

“Blanchard, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I just want to be fucking certain you appreciate the fact that you and your pathetic team of lady golfers have been taken down by a gang of true, out-and-out mongrels. A Jew, a Black, and an Apache, along with Yours Truly, kicked your tender white ass. Oh, did I mention the Apache is a girl? I think your kind of inbreeding must be overrated.”

I felt his contempt as I spoke and I was sure he’d swing his gun in my direction and give me my chance to take him out. But instead he just took a deep breath and replied in an almost pitying tone, “Marcinko, I don’t blame you for what you’ve done. I understand you’re just a servant of the Satanic government that employs you. I understand that your brain isn’t big enough to fully comprehend the importance of what I’m doing here. I am a true warrior, fighting for the only things that matter—blood, homeland, destiny.”

“Cut the shit, Blanchard. Your destiny is to be the prettiest bitch in the prison yard. You’ll have a swell time.”

“Dick, I want to help you. I want to pray for your soul and see if we can’t both find some peace. Come here, let me lay my hands on you just for a moment and say a prayer for our wounded nation. Don’t deny me something you can give so easily. Then I’ll let your friend go and together we can decide what to do about the bomb.”

Before I could respond, a terrible and primal roar erupted from Paul’s throat, surprising me as much as Blanchard. Still blindfolded, he sprang upward with all the power his legs could muster and managed to throw himself right at Blanchard’s head. The colonel’s gun went off. I heard myself scream in fury as I watched the back of Paul’s head explode in a blur of blood and bone. My own gun barked to life, sending a withering hail of bullets at Blanchard’s makeshift hiding place. He’d completely disappeared behind the big wall of metal and I couldn’t know for sure whether I’d managed to hit him or not.

The sight of Paul’s blood running dark and red across the deck from his shattered skull filled me with the kind of pure, burning anger and hunger for revenge that I’ve only experienced a few times in my life. In that moment I became a machine with just one single, all-consuming thought—
Max Blanchard is a dead man
. I no longer cared a rat’s ass about Portland, about the nuke, about Karen, about anything but finding and destroying the man who had just killed my friend and teammate before my eyes. Paul had sacrificed himself to even out the equation. That final act of heroism wasn’t going to have been in vain. Blanchard was mine.

Fuck caution. Without pausing to seriously consider what I was doing, I ran directly towards the overturned table barricade. Using my shoulder like a battering ram, I slammed into it as hard as I could so that anyone behind it would be knocked over and pinned between it and the wall. The table slid a foot or two before it crashed hard against the bulkhead. I could tell by the way it struck the bulkhead that there hadn’t been anyone behind it.

What the fuck?

I grabbed the table and hurled it aside. There, behind it, a piece of the floor in the wheelhouse cabin’s corner had been neatly cut away, providing an escape route down into the lower decks. Of course Blanchard wouldn’t have allowed himself to get caught like a rat in a hole. He’d always plan an alternate way out for himself.

Given his weakened condition, that SADM had to be feeling awfully heavy by now, but even at this point I doubted he’d be willing to let it out of his hands. It was the last and most powerful card he had to play. He’d be moving pretty slowly, probably trying to get to a place on the ship where he could arm it. Even though he’d miss the heart of the city, he’d figure blowing it up here was better than not using it at all. Since his escape route was taking him to the lower decks which were filling with more and more water, he didn’t have many options left.

Not knowing what was waiting for me, I lowered myself through the hole in the floor. The ship’s emergency lighting was still turned on down here and I found myself at one end of a fairly long inner passageway that had several doors opening from it along both sides. Here, closer to its belly, the creaks and groans of the vessel were unmistakable. Probably only a few minutes remained before it would capsize. The handsome wooden doors leading to the staterooms up and down the corridor banged open and closed as the ship lurched about in agony. All except the last one on the starboard side, which remained conspicuously shut. Blanchard.

I darted down the corridor and quickly blew the doorknob and lock to bits. Crashing into the room, I saw Blanchard hunched over an all too familiar looking titanium suitcase. He was fumbling with its locks, muttering distractedly to himself. Praying or cursing, I couldn’t tell. My finger lovingly caressed the trigger of my Glock as he turned toward me—and for an instant I was stunned by the hideousness of his face. Or what used to be his face. His entire forehead and scalp were peeling away in thick, fleshy ribbons. He seemed confused by what was happening, like he wasn’t really sure if I was there or not. That’s when I realized it—he was blind. His facial wounds had oozed and bled so severely that his eyes had gradually been turned into useless sacks of fluid. Paul’s last-ditch attack had probably done the rest. Motherfucker. A blind man trying to arm a nuclear bomb.

“See you in hell, Max,” I growled and sent every last bullet I had into him. Each one had Paul’s name on it.

I walked over to his body and pushed my gloved hand into the mass of pulped and seeping flesh that was his corpse. There wasn’t any head left which kinda fucked up a down and dirty facial feature ID, but I was betting he was wearing his dog tags out of habit. I was right. I felt the steel chain with its two oval-shaped steel disks right where I knew they’d be. Jerking the ID necklace free, which is pretty fucking easy when there’s no head to deal with, I wiped bits of bone and flesh away from the stamped metal and read “Strongman, Maxwell, Col.” With a sigh, I dumped the tags into my fatigue shirt breast pocket. Then I fished out my Wor-Tech knife from its pouch on my left thigh. With two quick cuts I removed the index finger and thumb from his right hand. I wrapped these in the OD drive-on rag I was wearing around my throat and dropped my little treasures into my left drop pouch. Nothing quite says
you
like your fingerprints and I wanted incontestable proof that I’d killed Blanchard before the river rushed in and washed what was left of his body out to sea.

I felt the
Storm
lurch farther sideways and start to slide into the river’s depths. Time was not on Dickie’s side any longer. Within seconds I’d have to get out of here or risk being trapped with Max’s evil corpse as we went down to Davy Jones’ Locker
conjunto
. Not my idea of a happy ending to what had been a great party so far. Besides, I had a president and a helluva woman both waiting for me back in D.C.—and I was gonna fuck them both, although in very different ways.

Behind Blanchard’s corpse was one badly battered titanium-cased man-fucking-portable nuclear weapon. Come to papa, baby!

I holstered the Glock and grabbed the case and leaped out of the cabin just as the
Storm
gave a mighty groan of agony and began her final voyage. From my headset I could hear my teammates’ voices urging me to get clear. No shit, I thought to myself as I tripped and bumped and fell down the passageway, then heaved myself back up into the wheelhouse, relieved at least to be out of the certain deathtrap of the lower decks. I could hear the helos roaring around overhead and I figured
somebody
had to see me given all the high speed IR we’d been using with such abandon. All I had to do was keep my cool—and a firm grip on the nuke. I’m a fucking SEAL and water is my natural habitat. I just needed to get my ass clear of the suck-hole the
Storm
would create as she went down. The rest would be a piece of cake.

Unless the nuke detonated, of course.

And if
that
happened I wouldn’t give a fuck either way. At least it would be quick and I would have accomplished my mission. Well, sort of.

I made a break for it and jumped as far out and away from the doomed vessel as I could. As I hit the surface of the river and sank below I used my free hand to unclip my M4, which sank immediately. The case was weighing me down but with the rifle gone I could drag the fucker behind me while swiming my ass off and push-pulling with the one arm I had available. SEALs are trained to swim in any circumstances and I’d started my career as a frogman. Old habits die hard and old rogues die even harder. I was not going to lose the case or my life. Not now. Not after good men had died in the process of getting me to my objective. My ear would be an “easy fix” for my friend and personal plastic surgeon, Mark Zukowski. He’s now in private practice in Chicago. I keep him close at hand; he knows Rogue Manor and all of its sins well.

My shaggy, bleeding, one-eared head finally broke the surface and I sucked in as much oxygen as I could get. Reaching down I snagged my emergency strobe light from its pouch and activated the little fucker. Holding it as high out of the murk as possible I kicked for all I was worth to remain above the surface. I heard the ’47 coming in and soon great swells were washing over me from its beautiful, beautiful prop blasts. I saw the rear ramp come down and the crew chief and Trace, both tethered to the interior of the airframe by long, supple safety lines, scooted out to the ramp’s edge, now just inches above the river. I kicked with all I had left in me and felt strong hands grabbing at my uniform, and then hauling my tired ass up and into the Chinook. I kept my death grip on the case and nodded to Trace that I was okay. As the ’47 lifted off I dragged myself deeper into its hull, finally collapsing on the fully inflated Zodiac I’d ordered to be stowed there.

I’d made it.

“Get us at least twenty-five miles out to sea,” I croaked to no one in particular. “You’re gonna drop me and the case off in the Zod and wait exactly twenty-four hours before picking me up. I don’t know if this fucking thing is armed or not. Let’s roll!” With that I fell backwards into the rubber raiding craft, placing the nuke beside me on its hard-ribbed flooring.

Damn
, I reminded myself,
I am so fucking good!

There was nothing more I could do, needed to do, or wanted the fuck to do except lie in that fucking Zodiac and catch my goddamned breath. What about the nuke, you may well ask? The damn thing hadn’t gone off yet so—for the time being—life was sweet. On the other hand I could feel every fucking bump, blister, scrape, bruise, and cut my roguish body had sucked up during the last two days. Two fucking days? That was all? When this was finally over I’d be gargling down Dr. Bombay’s mighty fine Sapphire by the canteen cup and popping 800-milligram hits of Motrin (known in the Teams as “SEAL candy”) for weeks. I felt as if I’d been tossed into the world’s biggest rock polisher and tumbled for hours on end. I was not happy about Blanchard’s having blown most of one of the only two fucking ears I came into this world with clean off my fucking skull, either. I had to give it to the miserable bastard. He’d hung in there long enough to take his shot. Trouble was, he’d missed and I hadn’t. He’d gotten my ear but I’d gotten his head—and I’ll take getting head any day of the fucking week!

I pulled myself up and grabbed hold of the fucking case so many men had died for. I knew these hellish devices like the back of my callused hand. Nuclear nightmares in a convenient travel size is what they are. The damn Russians built an unknown number of SADMs and then went and lost, misplaced, or sold a shitpot of them when the Evil Empire caved in on itself. We weren’t much better at keeping track of our own, as I’d proven at Red Cell. Hell, looking at the battered thirty-pound world-ender, I remembered getting ahold of a similar device simply by kidnapping a senior naval officer who had access to such things and threatening to rape his tight little ass with a fucking banana! Funny how patriotism, loyalty, and the Honor Code of the Academy go out the window when someone you don’t know starts working a long, thick hunka something up your shitter while you’re blindfolded and bent over a nice soft piece of furniture. It hadn’t taken but two well-measured inches of yellow fruit and some graphic pillow talk to elicit the necessary access code to the storage facility where the nukes were kept. And I wonder why some of the Navy brass don’t love me like a son…

Sleep well, America. Your guardians are more concerned about the sanctity of their pinkie-tight assholes than they are about your collective buttocks when it comes to the security of the most devastating weapons on the face of the planet.

Trace squatted down in front of me. She’d stripped off her M4 and heavy aviation flak jacket after pulling my beat-to-shit hide out of the river. I had to lean in close to hear her over the racket the Chinook was making as we hauled ass for the Pacific Ocean. Her scent filled my nostrils, driving out the pungent, biting odor of burnt cordite, human flesh, and my own roguish stink. Ah, women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Just because you’ve heard it before doesn’t mean it isn’t true!

“Shouldn’t we open the case and see if he armed the device?” she asked.

I shook my soggy, aching head in the negative. “Remember what happened to George Moore. We gotta figure these bastards set anti-disturbance devices on everything, especially the fucking nuke! If it ain’t broke, we don’t fix it. As long as the pilot can get me out to sea for a twenty-four-hour solo cruise with no boom-boom, we’ll be good to go.”

Dahlgren nodded, although I could tell she didn’t really agree. She’d done a hell of a job for us tonight. Without thinking, I reached out and cupped the side of her face with my hand. For a moment she closed her eyes and nuzzled my paw, then pulled away. We looked at each other in mutual understanding and respect. “You
do
like having me around, don’t you Dick?”

I nodded once in the semidark of the goddamned noisy-ass helo. “Yeah, you’re okay, Dahlgren. For a girl.”

We both grinned as she flipped me a very professional bird.

“Where’s that asshole Kossens?” she shouted over the whine of the turbine engines. “He kicked some serious ass tonight, too!”

Fuck, I hated to tell her, but I couldn’t put it off. “Blanchard got him. He was a brave kid, right to the last. Went down fighting.”

Trace’s expression changed from mirth to a kind of blank mask that I’d seen way too many times in my career.
GODDAMN IT!
I willed myself to remain where I was seated on the Zodiac’s gunwale.

“Last I saw of him, he was coming back to check on you right before I made my first gun run,” Trace said.

The kid had been coming back to check on me when Blanchard nabbed him! I suddenly felt very old and used up. I’d not only lost a SEAL in action but I’d lost one of my kids, one of the new team.

“I’m really sorry, Dick. Paul was the best, you know I loved him too. He wanted to be right where he was tonight, in the thick of it with the rest of us.” Trace put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. She then stood up and made her way forward to talk with the crew chief. I was alone. Alone and angry. Alone with a fucking maybe hot and maybe not nuke. Alone with fresh good-bad-painful memories of a go-to-hell young SEAL who’d faced danger with me shoulder to shoulder. I shook my head like a bull who’d been skewered in the middle of the ring. Maybe I’d grieve later, but for right now I was furious! Before this was over I’d see to it Paul’s memory and family were taken care of by my government. He’d saved at least a hundred thousand lives tonight at the expense of his own. I’d not forget that, and neither would those who’d sent him into harm’s way.

The crew chief’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“We’re about ten minutes away from where we can put you down, Captain. Are you sure you have to do this? If it hasn’t blown yet…”

I looked him dead in the eye and nodded. “This shit may still be hot, no way to know but wait. Hell, I’m an old black shoe sailor. A little time on the ocean isn’t gonna hurt me one way or another. Just toss me an MRE and some water before you pull pitch. Another radio would be good, too.”

The special ops aviator nodded once and gave a thumbs-up. Twenty-five miles out at sea is one long ass way from shore for anyone to be bobbing around alone for twenty-four-hours. Especially in a rubber boat no bigger than a 1960s Volkswagen van. I didn’t want to risk the ’47’s crew any more than was necessary. I knew they’d burned a shitload of fuel already and there was no reserve bladder onboard to draw from if we went any farther out. I also knew there was a Coast Guard station at the mouth of the Columbia that could spare at least one ship to chop in my direction after the mandated twenty-four-hour waiting period was up. The fuckers had seagoing SAR aviation assets, as well. As long as Max hadn’t armed the nuke when our attack started, the most I had to worry about was one night on the open seas. For a SEAL, and especially for
moi
, one night was nothing to get fussed up about.

I felt the chopper beginning to lose altitude. Looking over at the chief I saw him say something to Trace, who nodded once and then disappeared up toward where the pilots were flying the fucking eggbeater. I grabbed the nuke’s case by its handle and clambered into the Zodiac. Swiftly and precisely, I lashed the nuke to the Zodiac using 550 para-cord I’d brought with me for that very purpose. Double-checking my knots I was satisfied the fucking Zod could do rollovers all day long and the nuke would remain secure. I then pulled a homing beacon I’d bummed off one of the PJs before leaving the PANG and taped it tightly to the case’s dinged up side with good old-fashioned hundred-mile-an-hour tape. Hey, I never leave home without 550 cord and hundred-mile-an-hour tape! Whaddaya think I am, a fucking moron? If Moby Fucking Dick gobbled my ass up before the Coast Guard found me, at least they would be able to track and recover the device… unless of course it blew the fuck up between now and then.

Satisfied with my handiwork I made my way over to a starboard side window of the helo and looked out across the vastness of the ocean. God, I love the sea! It had been years since I’d served a duty cruise. For a moment I recalled my last time on waters like these. I’d drowned two goddamned terrorists then. Now I was right back where my trials and tribulations had begun a year ago. The fucking irony was not lost on me!

But before I could start acting out the title role in
The Old Man and the Sea,
I had a few quick phone calls to make.

Digging around in my assault vest I found my cell. Mumbling a quick prayer, I punched the “
ON
” button and was rewarded with a green signal light! Somebody must have bought this shit from the highest bidder, given the beating the little phone had taken. I auto-dialed Danny first. He answered on the second ring and although I had to yell to be heard, he acknowledged my instructions and then rang off. Next I called Karen. That conversation took all of sixty seconds. I told her to keep it warm for me and I’d see her soon. It was now time to call the president of the United States.

Clay answered the Oval Office phone. I grinned as he recognized my voice. “How the FUCK did you get this number, Marcinko? And where the fuck are you? I can barely hear you!”

“Put the big man on, you rat-breath, low-life, cocksucking, back-stabbing motherfucker! I’ll be dealing with you in person when I get back to Washington. And back the fuck off Karen. I find out you’ve been back-dooring her sweet ass, you’ll find my ten inches buried to the hilt in yours. Now put the president on, asshole!”

Remember, good reader, what I’ve told you about my bedside manner? It really does
suck
, doesn’t it?

“DICK! ONE MINUTE OUT! MAKE IT QUICK! WE’RE RUNNING LOW ON GO-FAST JUICE!”

I waved an acknowledgement to the crew chief then fished my waterproofed microcassette player outta my right breast pocket. I’d wrapped the little fucker in a watertight baggie before the mission. There was a cassette loaded and it was a motherfucker!

“Dick? This is the president. Congratulations on your success. I understand you have gotten our device back, yes?”

My lips curled back like a rabid wolf with a hard-on and no place wild enough to stick it. “Yes, Mr. President, I’ve got the fucking nuke. Now listen up. Paul Kossens, one of
my
SEALS, died helping me get your precious bomb back. A man named Danny Barrett is going to drop by your office in a few days to pick up Paul’s posthumous silver fucking star. You’re going to ensure all the paperwork is squared away and I’m going to personally give it to his next of kin when they bury him at Arlington. Am I understood, Mr. President?”

There was a half-second’s silence on the other end before the president replied, or tried to, I should say.

“Goddamn it, Marcinko! I’m the fucking president of the United States!
Your
commander-in-chief! I can’t believe I’m hearing you speak to me in this manner!”

“Believe it.” I paused a moment for effect. “And I’m not done. Karen Fairfield is off-limits. She did her job and that’s more than I can say for some of the rest of your ass-wipes. I want Master Sergeant Trace Dahlgren promoted ASAP to sergeant-major. Get some dumbass colonel over at the Department of the Army to handle that before I’m on the ground at Dulles.

“I have to go now and baby-sit a nuclear bomb, but before I do, I want you to hear something. You can presume there are many copies. You can presume that no matter what happens to me,
someone
will make these available to the press unless I get what I want. When I want it. Have a great day, sir.”

I held the cassette recorder up to the cell’s mouthpiece and punched the
PLAY
button. Watching the numbers spin on the triple-digit counter, I punched off when I knew the president had heard what I’d wanted him to—his absolutely clear and explicit orders to me, given over phone at OISA. Like I said earlier, good and faithful reader, I’d learned to play hardball along the beltway a long time ago. The only rules I play by today are my own, and I play damn hard and only to
win
!

The ramp began to drop and soft, early morning light reflecting off the ocean flooded the gloomy hold of the ’47. Trace, the chief, and I all grabbed the hard rubber handholds on the Zodiac and pulled it toward the ramp. I tossed a paddle in as well as the emergency kit the chief had assembled for me. I nodded in appreciation as he handed over his Nomex flight jacket. I’d appreciate its warmth while I waited on the Coast Guard to show up.

“We’ll hover about ten feet off the deck and then bring her nose up. It’ll just take a good push and you should roll right off the ramp and safely down. Good luck, Captain. See you soon!” The crew chief scooted back and gave a hand signal to Trace. I jumped into the Zodiac and prepared myself for the short drop to the ocean’s surface. Someone pulled my frazzled ponytail and when I turned around it was Dahlgren.

“Sure you don’t want any company, skipper? I’m available.”

“You stay with the bird,” I yelled over the increasing roar of the chopper’s engines, “I’ve already lost one teammate I care about. I don’t want to lose another one. You understand me,
Sergeant Major
?”

Trace’s eyes widened for just a moment. Then she hopped out of the Zod and joined the chief where together they could push my big ass into the water. I turned around and stared out the back of the Chinook. I could see nothing before me but the smooth surface of a calm sea. Fuck it if I was alone for a while! Loneliness builds character and I’d been on my own since I could remember. Besides, I needed a break. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. Big ocean, little boat, warm sun, gentle waves, tactical nuclear weapon that may or may not go off at any moment… what more could a simple man like me want from life?

“GO! GO! GO!”