Charles Taylor - First Salvo

The electric motor purred inaudibly. Christ , Ryng thought impatiently, I couldn’t care less about how quiet the engine is. All that matters now is speed. I’d take it big and noisy and fast, anything to get us the hell out of here . Silently and with agonizing slowness, the little motor pushed them across the harbor toward the opposite shore. They would follow the coastline as far as they could. If they were followed, then they’d just have to move ashore and somehow get back to civilization overland.

The day was clear and crisp, barely a cloud in sight. It was a perfect arctic autumn day. After months of perpetual daylight, the harbor would soon begin its annual season of darkness. How lovely it would have been to have conducted this operation under that kind of cover , Ryng thought. But then it would have been forty below zero, the arctic winds would have frozen Denny’s fingers as he tried to set his bombs, and the harbor would have been frozen solid .

The familiar noise of a helicopter in the distance snapped Ryng out of his momentary reverie. Perhaps if they had been on land, they could have hidden, but there was no way they could escape the helo that was moving slowly in their direction. The rhythmic thrum of the engine swept across the water, the bass-drum boom magnifying as it rebounded between the peaks on either side of the harbor.

The helo swept back and forth in a zigzag pattern, unsure of what it was looking for, what it might find. In the small boat, the two men placed their rifles on automatic, laying their extra magazines within easy reach. The AK-74 was terrific for what they had done earlier, but it was next to useless against a helicopter — even with incredible luck.

Quite unexpectedly, a deep rumbling from the direction of the harbor mouth caught their attention for an instant. It started like distant thunder, a low growling on the horizon. Lasting no more than two seconds, the rumble became a thunderclap echoing up the harbor, oscillating between the peaks on either side. Beyond the harbor, rising in oily black clouds that rolled over and through one another, came the proof to Ryng that Harry Winters had completed his part of the bargain. There was no doubt in Ryng’s mind that Harry had pulled it off.

“Harry…” Denny offered tentatively.

“Yeah,” Ryng responded. “He’s never missed yet.” A low whistle escaped from his pursed lips.

“I hope he made it—” he began, but Ryng cut him off, gesturing toward the helo.

Ryng headed for the shore on an angle. A wide, glacial river poured into the harbor ahead of them. There would be no way they could cross that if they went ashore on this side of it. He had to get to the other side, and he needed time and something other than the quiet little electric motor that pushed them sluggishly along. It didn’t seem so slow when we came in here , Ryng reminded himself, but no one was after us then . He looked over his shoulder as the helo closed in. It had spotted them.

They both recognized the telltale increase in pitch and knew without looking that they’d been seen. The helo banked as it changed course in their direction, lowering altitude to inspect what had been sighted.

The first pass was free. As the craft hovered just ahead of them, they fired together. It seemed a foolish venture, handheld guns pumping small antipersonnel bullets into a huge metal machine. Three clips each were expended senselessly while the helo backed off to a safe distance.

Ryng swung the boat toward shore. They’d be easy targets on shore — but they were sitting ducks in the boat.

Raucous noise shattered the peaceful arctic calm. Either man could have described the developing scene if he had been blind. Once again the increase of engine revolutions, the thwack of the rotors. The helo was making another pass at them. They waited with loaded clips, bobbing along like toy ducks at a shooting range.

Even before the helo came within range of their rifles, the chatter of machine gun fire added a new dimension to the sounds of the harbor. Foamy trails, punctuated by tiny fountains of water, heralded the path of the bullets, racing first one way and then another. But Ryng realized they had one advantage. The machine guns were attached to a vehicle hanging in the air, swinging as if on a thread, making it more difficult to aim. The trails continued to sweep aimlessly across the water, leaving a white froth behind them.

Ryng whipped the little boat about frantically with one arm — anything to provide a harder target — while he fired wildly with the other. In the hail of bullets, Denny was transformed into a madman, emptying clip after clip when the helo came anywhere within range. As he expended the last shot in a clip, he would yank it out, inserting one clenched between his teeth, mechanically jamming another in his mouth even as he began squeezing the trigger.

Now a path of bullets swept erratically across their craft. There were two, maybe three, thuds as the bullets hit and passed through. The boat was intended to be self-sealing, and they held their breaths. It was! But it was built for occasional damage, not .50-caliber slugs.

The helo circled away, this time climbing slightly.

“Oh, shit! You know what that means,” Denny hollered. “The heavy stuff — rockets! ”

And as he uttered the final word, they saw the telltale wisps of smoke. One — two — three. They could see the rocket trails, make out the rockets themselves as they bore down on them. The first struck twenty yards in front, erupting in a cloud of water and shrapnel. The second passed close overhead, cutting the air with a howl in concert with the blast as it hit the water fifteen yards away. The final one was too close. It might have been a good aim or a lucky shot. In any case, the buzz of metal shards told Ryng there was no more time.

The hiss of escaping air added a new dimension to the sounds around them. Looking down, Ryng saw a large tear in the rubber, no more than an inch to the left of his knee. There was no way any self-sealer was going to solve that problem. Before he could call attention to it, Denny was reaching around him, jamming his shirt into the hole.

“That’ll buy us a couple of minutes,” Denny shouted above the sound of the helo making its next approach. “I hope to hell they’re not developing a style up there. That last was too close.”

This time the helo came in much closer. Now they could even hear the pop as the rockets were fired and the whooshing noise of the weapon as it raced at them. Above it all, Ryng heard the steady chatter of Denny’s gun, clip after clip, working so rapidly that he functioned like a machine gunner.

Whump! A rocket burst directly in front, not more than ten yards away. A second exploded into the water within yards of Denny, the third passing well astern. Clouds of water poured down on them. The helo was bearing down now, diving behind the rocket fire, machine guns blazing. Ryng rolled into the bottom of the boat, hands over his head, knees drawn up. Operating only by instinct at that moment, trying to hide like an ostrich, thinking he couldn’t be seen if his head were buried.

Then he looked up as the helo roared overhead, a perfect target, but Denny was no longer shooting. Ryng noticed a wisp of black smoke, then a rush of it from the exhausts behind the engine. The helo banked sharply, increasing altitude at the same time. The smoke! They’d hit it!

“Look at that! No shit, will you look…”

Bernie Ryng turned impulsively, overcome with joy. Just as quickly it became horror. He found himself staring in fear at what was beside him. Denny was as dead as could be. There hadn’t been a sound, no shout, no thrashing to indicate he’d been hit. A shard of metal protruded in grisly fashion from his forehead. There was no blood. It was impossible to tell how deeply the chunk of shrapnel had penetrated, but it was enough to have killed Denny instantly.