SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (21 page)

Clever people these politicos and diplomats, too clever. It'd be nice to let John-Wesley loose on them.

"There's a light on inside the warehouse," Will shouted over the noise of the storm.

"It ain't a light," Ryder corrected him, "Someone opened a door. I can see people coming out."

He was right. Nolan strained to see through the driving rain, a dozen men, maybe. His pulse quickened.

It could be them.

"They're heading for the wharf," Brad shouted, "Shit, if it's them, they're getting away."

He measured the distance and made a rapid calculation. They weren't going to make it. The force of the wind meant it was like walking through a swamp, slow, every step a huge effort. They'd miss them by several minutes, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

He forced himself to quicken the pace, but it was hopeless. By the time they were only halfway to the warehouse, the men had disappeared.

All this way and for nothing, there must be something we can do!

"Keep moving," he shouted, but they'd stopped, "What is it?"

Vega gestured ahead of them. Three vehicles were coming right at them. It was impossible to make them out clearly through the torrential rain, but they looked like SUVs. They were also driving without lights, which explained how they'd come so close without detection. It meant Montez's men had woken up to the intruders. Three pairs of headlights came on, and the powerful beams speared them. Even worse, they could make out the heavy machine gun mounted in the bed of the leading vehicle. The barrel pointed right at them. Will shook his head in disgust.

"Fuck. It looks like the end of the road."

Nolan looked at the warehouse, still a long way away. Their targets had disappeared, and the enemy had them square in their sights. He looked at Will.

"You could be right."

* * *

President Edward Anderson looked up and grinned as his secretary, Marcia Groves, stepped into the Oval Office.

"What is it, Marcia?"

"General Walker to see you, Sir."

"Walker? Okay, send him in."

"You're due to meet the Treasury Secretary in ten minutes, Mr. President."

"I am? You'd better reschedule."

"Again? He won't be happy."

"That's tough. If Ben Walker is here, it'll be more important than anything the Treasury Secretary has to say."

A minute later, General Benjamin Walker, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, strode into the office and stood to attention.

"At ease," Anderson smiled at the six-foot tall, ramrod erect, barrel-chested head of the nation's military. He was a man who kept himself fit and ready for anything. Rumor had it the former Army Ranger kept up with jump training, despite military regulations keeping the man at the top away from low-level night jumps, "What can I do for you, Ben?"

"It's this Statue of Liberty thing, Mr. President."

"Statue of Liberty? You mean the World Heritage Site commemoration?"

"I do, Sir. Our analysts have taken a good look at it, and we feel it's unsafe, a potential security threat. My advice is for you to stand down on this one. You'd be a sitting duck out there on Liberty Island."

"You're not serious? That monument is the symbol of our nation, a symbol of freedom for all Americans. Dammit, General, it's inscribed with the Declaration of Independence. It's the most iconic image of America since, well..."

"The World Trade Center?"

Anderson grimaced. "You don't seriously think they'd try it again? My understanding is there'll be an exclusion zone around the skies of New York, fighter patrols, gunships; I doubt a pigeon could get through the net you men are throwing around the island."

"That's true, Sir, but it's not the only way to approach."

Anderson considered for a moment. "You mean by sea? Again, there'll be an armada of Coastguard vessels, troops onshore. I mean, Ben, nothing could get near. A submarine, maybe, but those waters are too shallow. Are you worried about one of those miniature subs?"

"No, Mr. President. We have detection equipment that could pinpoint an underwater approach from several miles out. No, it's not that. Frankly, Sir, we don't know what kind of threat we may be looking at. And that's the problem."

Anderson nodded. "There are known unknowns; that is to say, there are things that we now know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns – there are things we do not know we don't know."

"Donald Rumsfeld," Walker affirmed, "Yeah, but think about what's happened since he was DefSec, plenty of unknown unknowns. Sir, we think this could be one of them. And there's something else."

"Go on."

"Those men who escaped from Gitmo. They still haven't been recaptured. They were amongst the toughest, most skilled, and dedicated of any terrorists we've ever had in our custody. Whatever they may be planning, those men could be involved."

"You think?"

Walker nodded. The President thought for a few moments, and then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ben, but I can't call off one of the most iconic moments in the history of my Presidency, all because of something you don't know. I'll need concrete proof before I can even consider it."

"I understand, Mr. President. We'll keep digging."

"What about those Seals you said may be able to chase them down in Cuba? Did it ever get off the ground?"

Walker cursed Admiral Jacks for giving permission to proceed. He'd issued a clear order, and he'd seen fit to go over his head, making him look like a fool.

"I, uh, we're not sure."

"Not sure? Well, did they go or not?"

He swallowed. "There was a lot of misunderstanding, Mr. President. But yes, it seems they did go in, although who gave them the order is not entirely clear."

"Not clear? You'd better find out, General Walker. There's something fishy about this story. Where are they now?"

"We've had various reports from inside Cuba, and it appears they made it to Mexico. Possibly they're back on US soil. There's nothing concrete, not yet. We also have our own people searching for the escaped prisoners, in case they're already here. However, we have to face the facts. These people will do anything to hurt America. The combination of the Statue of Liberty and the President of the United States would be a target for which they'd slaughter ten thousand of their fighters. Literally."

"A suicide attack?"

"No question, these guys would happily give their lives for such an attack. Think about it, Sir. They get to Paradise, in return to a dozen clips of bullets, a few pounds of C4, whatever it takes. The US would take a hit that would set us back years, decades. For several years, we'd be in danger of losing our prestige in the world. Trade, the stock markets, you name it. They'd sell their souls if they thought they could pull it off."

Anderson closed his eyes and thought for a few moments. Walker was right about the impact. Wall Street would go into meltdown, and their status as a world power would go down the toilet. The potential cost could run into hundreds of billions of dollars. He opened his eyes.

"I won't cancel, General. What I will do is approve any measures you care to put in place to increase security. You want me to wear an armored vest, I'll do it."

"You already wear an armored vest," Walker reminded him.

"Yeah, I do. However, you know what I mean. You want to recall the Seventh Fleet, or draft in more troops, go ahead."

"I'll need a maritime exclusion zone, one mile from Liberty Island. Any boat tries to get near, even traveling at thirty knots, it'd take 'em a couple of minutes to get through. More than enough for our people to blow them out of the water."

"It'll ruin people's plans to watch the event from their boats."

"Better than the alternative. They can use binoculars."

"You've got it. Anything else you need?"

"I'll let you know, Sir."

"You do that. Remember, anything you need, it's yours. You're right. If they succeed in destroying both me and Liberty, they've won."

"Exactly."

Thank you, General. Let me know about those men. It sounds like a complete SNAFU, and when that happens on my watch, I don't like it. Keep me informed."

"Yes, Sir."

Anderson watched him leave the Oval Office. Despite the possible threat, he regarded it as low on the scale of priorities. It would be almost impossible to breach the massive ring of steel they'd throw around the island when it was the center of world attention. Even so, it was always wise to take precautions. He wondered again about those Navy Seals, the men they'd handed the task of hunting down the Islamists. Weird story, and he made a mental note to find out what lay behind it. A pity they'd failed, but that was the way of Special Operations. You couldn't always bring back the body of Osama bin Laden.

He picked up his diary and glanced down the list. SecTreas, he would be a problem. The guy had nagged him about the budget deficit long enough. He couldn't hold him off too much longer. He sighed.

When will these military types understand it’s the real business of government, budgets, finances, unemployment, and debt? The big bogeyman of a second major attack on the US from Islamic terrorists is just that, a bogeyman. Since when have escaped prisoners been a threat to national security? The fugitives from Gitmo are long gone. It’s up to CIA and FBI to track them down.

He picked up the internal phone.

"Marcia, call the Treasury Secretary. Tell him to come right away. I can give him a few minutes right now."

"Yes, Mr. President."

He put down the phone and thought about Daniel Leveson, his Treasury Secretary. Dan was from Boston, and he recalled he was a yachtsman. He'd even taken a silver medal at an Olympics when he was much younger. He'd invite him to join his party when he sailed his forty-foot Friendship sailing sloop out onto the Hudson. He planned to circle Ellis Island and then sail on to Liberty, where they'd land and perform the ceremony. With the area cleared of all vessels, it would be a chance to relax and enjoy a peaceful, pleasant day.

He smiled to himself. The biggest risk would be making a fool of himself when he docked his boat. He'd need to take extra care when the media were hovering overhead, filming every second. One slip, and they'd make sure it was a major event on the networks.

That’s what you call a risk, at least in political terms. Not some ragged-ass fugitives on the lam from Gitmo.

There was no way she could shake the feeling of being watched. She kept looking for the face of Hidalgo, maybe reflected in a store window or hidden in a crowd, but he never appeared. She knew he was there, watching, waiting. The pistol was in her purse, and in a short time she'd grown used to the extra weight. Had come to feel more secure in the knowledge she'd be able to fight back.

Esperanza smiled at Clay sitting across the table from her. She still felt guilty about using him, using her power as a woman to make him do what she wanted. Although he enjoyed it, so it was a quid pro quo. Besides, she'd grown almost fond of this boy. Even though there was something odd about him, something he kept deep inside, hidden.

A failed romance, maybe?

Despite his lack of a social life, he was darkly handsome. Or so she thought.

A pity she couldn't get the same pleasure from sex with him. Somehow, it seemed wrong. He was a nice guy, no question, but in bed, he seemed different. It brought out a side of his character that surprised her. He became more assured, arrogant, even dominating. She shivered. On one occasion he'd frightened her. Then again, he was her first lover. Maybe they were all that way. She had a lot to learn.

The TV was on in the coffee shop, and the big news item was about the President's visit to the Statue of Liberty, a commemorative thing. It sounded interesting, and it would be good to watch the bustle and the color. Besides, it was part of the history of America. The country she planned to make her own, as she could never return to Colombia.

"Clay, this thing on the weekend, the Statue of Liberty. I'd like to view the ceremony, do you fancy coming along?"

He looked surprised. "The Statue of Liberty? Why do you want to go there?"

"Clay, it's history."

"You're interested in that stuff?" He sounded surprised.

"Yes, I am."

He considered for a few seconds. "The best place to watch would be from the Jersey side. It's nearer to Liberty Island. It would be safer."

"I don't understand. What do you mean, safer?"

"You know, Manhattan will be jammed with people. I mean, anything could happen." He grinned, "They make me nervous, big crowds."

She gave him a warm smile. "Please, Clay, I'd prefer to stay on Manhattan. We'll be fine. We could see everything from Battery Park."

He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he grinned. "Okay, it's a date."

"It'll be a thrill, seeing the President of the United States in person."

"You'll need powerful binoculars," he warned.

"No sweat."

"And we need to be careful."

She giggled. "Battery Park?"

"It's just the crowds. There're always security issues at these events."

"Of course. But with you along to protect me, I'll be safe, won't I, Clay?"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "You'll be fine. I'll make certain nothing happens to you."

Besides, I'll be carrying the HK .357 Compact automatic hidden in my purse. Best not tell him, as it's on his license. He'd have a fit.

* * *

The three Ford F150s braked to a halt. As well as the gunner standing in the bed of the leading vehicle, there was a loader holding a belt of ammo. The beds of the other Fords were crowded with more men, all carrying assault rifles. The barrel of the mounted M-60 machine gun in the bed pointed at them, and the gunner looked as if he'd like nothing better than to blast them. Men jumped down to the ground, and more poured out from the vehicles. They all wore black slickers with hoods pulled over their heads against the torrential rain. In addition, the gunner had goggles to prevent the rain spoiling his aim.

"Drop the weapons!"

They stared back at the man who'd stepped forward. He spoke with a thick, Colombian accent.

"Who are you?" Nolan snapped back.

The Colombian gave him an evil grin. "I am the man who will order these men to kill you if you do not do as I say. Drop the weapons."

He weighed up the opposition for a few seconds. There were fourteen men in all, too many. Nolan and his men had been slow to react after the shock of the crash and their narrow escape from wreck of the Twin Commander. Fourteen against seven, the odds weren't good.

Seven? I only count six.
Vega! He disappeared into the storm. Why? He's one man against fourteen. Not good odds.

"I won't tell you again, gringo. Drop them."

He flinched as a long burst of gunfire split the night. Vega was lit up by the muzzle flashes of his AK-47, one of the rifles taken from the Cuban cops. He was no fool. He hit the M-60 gunner and loader first. They were out of action, at least until someone took over the gun. Three other men went down under his withering fire, and the others scattered, some diving to the ground, others running to shelter behind the vehicles.

They were still at a disadvantage, and Nolan knew they only had one chance to exploit the opening Vega had given them.

"Go for them, hit the bastards!"

As he shouted, he charged. The Colombians stood no chance. All the pent up frustration, the fury of the past few days, propelled Nolan's small force into the attack. Their Kalashnikovs poured out streams of heavy 7.62mm rounds that slashed into the enemy, knocking them down like pins in a bowling alley. The reaction of the Colombians was surprising. One moment they were angling to capture or kill them all, the next they were in disarray. There was no attempt to counterattack.

The rain-soaked ground was strewn with dead and wounded, their lifeblood mingled with pools of rainwater. A second later, the four survivors threw down their weapons and raised their hands.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot. Please!"

Nolan shouted for his people to cease fire, and they moved in, checking the wounded, kicking away their weapons, and covering the prisoners. He herded them into the beams of their own headlights where they stood shivering, the rain cascading off their waterproofs. He identified the man who'd called for them to drop their guns, wrenched the big Makarov from his belt, and pulled back the hood to get a good look at him.

His face was filled with pure hate, and his eyes were dilated, making him look wild and feral.

Cocaine, no doubt!

They'd have access to unlimited quantities, and they'd snort it like a kid eating candy, especially when they were called out for a night emergency.

Stupid bastards. Fighting when fueled by drink or drugs is a surefire recipe for disaster. Thank Christ this guy’s too stupid to understand.

"You're Montez's men?"

"What of it?"

Nolan could see the effect of the coke coursing through his bloodstream. He was alternating between hatred and venom for the Anglos who'd bested his men, and an irrational fear he couldn't understand.

"Answer the question, or I can shoot you and another of your men."

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, we work for Señor Montez. I am Angel."

"That's better. We're looking for some men, Angel. Afghans. Where did they go?"

He saw the flicker of recognition in the man's eyes. It was a tiny microsecond, but the telltale reaction was hard to miss.

"I know of no Afghans. We're all Colombians here, maybe a few gringos."

"Is that right?" He still held the Makarov in one hand. He inspected it closely and stared at the man, "I'll ask one more time. The Afghans, where did they go?"

"Señor, I swear, I know nothing of any Afghans."

In a single, fluid motion, he aimed and cocked the automatic, and pulled the trigger. The bullet entered Angel's left kneecap, and he rolled on the wet ground, howling in shock and agony. There was no choice. They were running out of time, and every second that passed meant they were further away.

"Please, no more! I will tell you. They were here."

"Yeah, I guessed that much. Where did they go?"

"I don't know. Please, I cannot tell you."

Nolan put the barrel against his right knee. "Right now you'll walk again, although you'll have a limp. If I pull the trigger, it'll be a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Last chance, amigo."

The man's face was a mixture of sweat and rainwater, his swarthy skin pale with agony and fear. "All right! They were going to a ship. It is waiting offshore in international waters."

"I get it. This ship, where's it headed?"

He shook his head, and his terror became a living entity, taking over his entire being. "I do not know!"

He was weeping now, tears pouring down his face. It was clear he'd given as much as he had. Nolan looked across to the wharf.

Maybe we can still make it.

"Will, start up one of the SUVs. We're heading toward the wharf. Those people we saw were our targets. Ryder, take care of the Colombians, and follow in one of the other vehicles. Let's go!"

He ran to the nearest F150, the one with the M-60 mounted on the bed. As he jumped into the driver's seat, Will leapt on the back and slung the body of the gunner over the side. The rest of them piled in, Eva in the passenger seat, and he stamped down on the gas. As they roared away, they heard the sound of shots coming from where they'd just left. Eva looked back, but the darkness hid the scene.

"What was that?"

 
He knew what had happened. He'd told Ryder to take care of the Colombians. He should have spelled it out.

"John-Wesley."

"He killed them?"

He felt like he'd aged ten years. Shooting down unarmed prisoners was obscene. Yet he bore some responsibility. He knew Ryder, knew his propensity for extreme violence.

"I didn't make it clear. I guess he jumped the gun."

She nodded thoughtfully. She'd seen his insane, homicidal rages, fueled by a perverted belief in a warped interpretation of the bible.

"He is evil, Ryder."

"Aren't we all guilty of evil, to some extent?"

"Maybe."

They reached the side of the wharf, and he stamped on the brake. A man stepped out of the nearby warehouse, failing to recognize them through the driving rain.

"Angel? Did you deal with those intruders?"

He cupped his hands and shouted, "Si!"

The man nodded to himself. Then he turned away and looked back, suddenly unsure. Brad put two holes in his chest, and he dropped to the ground. Three men ran out of the buildings after they heard the shooting, then four more charged out to join them. They dived out of the trucks and came up firing. These men weren't cokeheads, and bullets zipped around them as the Colombians put up a furious rate of fire.

Nolan crouched behind a wheel and fired short bursts to keep them back. They were well armed, and there was no shortage of ammo. The SUVs were riddled with bullets as the hostiles fired clip after clip, trying to subdue them with weight of lead. The Seals were forced to take careful, aimed single shots to conserve their dwindling supplies of ammunition, and it did little to deter the Colombians.

Nolan winced as a bullet sliced into his lower leg, gouging out a channel of flesh a half inch deep. His blood started to well and drip onto the ground. It was not time to slap on a dressing. He fired back twice, and the second shot took a man in the chest and sent him spinning to the ground. Will and Brad were shoulder to shoulder, one man took a shot, ducked down, and when the enemy put up their heads to return fire, the other man popped him with a snap shot.

A bullet hit Brad and hurled him to the ground, his shoulder bleeding badly. The shooter took careful aim to finish off the downed man. Nolan hit him with three rounds; one to the chest and two headshots almost decapitated him. Another Colombian went down, and the last two men turned and ran back into the warehouse.

"Get after them," he shouted, "Don't give them time to call for reinforcements."

They catapulted to their feet and raced across the open ground, through the door. The noise of the storm inside the warehouse was deafening, drumming on the roof like a devil's chorus of insane drummers. The huge space was dimly lit, with stacks of bales lined up. The air had a weird chemical odor, a mix of kerosene and other solvents. They exchanged glances.

"I guess DEA would like to see this," Nolan said to Evers, "Your friend Jackson could rack up some Brownie points."

"Yeah, I'll tell him. Christ, there must be half a billion dollars in here, street value."

He ducked as a shot cracked out and whistled past his head. The shooters were crouched down behind the bales. A burst of automatic fire made them dive to the floor.

"I'll take them from the flank," Will whispered, "Keep me covered."

He snaked away across the floor. Nolan and Rose fired repeatedly, and Vega joined in. Evers took aim with his AK-47 and fired a single shot, then ran out of ammunition. Brad tossed him a clip and kept firing. Eva suddenly darted across the warehouse drawing several shots, shooting back with her tiny Tokarev. It was too much for one of the macho Colombians. He leaned out to line up a shot, and Nolan punched two rounds right through the center of his chest. He went down with scream of agony, to lie on the floor, pumping blood into the dust.