Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Voices. Gabbling. Probably remarking that the guard was supposed to be here. They came through the door together, saw the guard and froze for just a second. I shot them both above the ear. Down they went.

“I’ve got Grafton,” I whispered into my headset mike.

“Roger that.”

I helped myself to an AK, motioned to Grafton, and we slipped out the door.

Paused to listen.

Down the stairs to the second floor. Grafton wasn’t quiet. He was trying, but to me we sounded like a symphony warming up.

I froze to listen some more. People talking in the lobby.

We had to chance it.

Down to the ground floor. A squint into the lobby. Two guys standing there talking, one with an AK, the other with an RPG-7 launcher and a bag of warheads over his shoulder, looking out into the plaza. Fortunately the window glass was long gone, so there would be no reflections.

I could just hear the hum of the generator in the basement.

I motioned to Grafton. I wanted him to step through the door, then turn left and go down the stairs to the basement armory. When I saw that he understood, I checked the guys, then gave him a nudge. He went. When he had made it, I followed. The diesel generator was louder here.

Going down was going to be iffy. Someone in the basement was going to get another free shot at our legs.

Well, we couldn’t stay here, and the noise helped mask our footsteps. Suck it up and do it, Tommy.

I led off, the Ruger in my right hand and the AK in my left.

Thank God the room was empty. We cleared the stairs and I walked over for a look into the other room. Just piles and piles of weapons.

Grafton didn’t say anything. Just stood and looked.

He wandered into the other room.

After he had had his looks, he whispered, “Thanks, Tommy.”

“Do you still have your pistol?”

“Still do. A little hideout popper.”

“When the shit hits the fan in a few minutes, one of these guys may rush down here to shoot an RPG into this mess. Blow us all to kingdom come.”

Grafton didn’t say anything to that. He started walking, looking at everything.

In less than a minute he stopped and pointed. I looked. He was pointing at a battery. From a car or truck. Wires on the top. We walked toward it. Saw that there were actually three batteries, wired in series. The positive and negative wires ran to a radio-controlled switching unit, then into a box of PVV-5A.

“It’s set to blow when someone triggers it,” Grafton said. He walked over to it and crouched down. I was right behind him.

“This wasn’t here last night,” I told him.

“Ragnar wasn’t in a hurry to get to Paradise,” he replied.

The simplest way to safety the thing appeared to be to merely pull the wires off the batteries’ terminals. Grafton must have thought so, too, for that is what he did.

“Look around,” he hissed. “See if there’s another rig like this.”

There wasn’t.

Grafton, Mr. Sunshine, said, “Well, if there is another trigger unit we’ll find out soon enough.”

With the generator droning monotonously, we hunkered down in the doorway arch between the rooms where we could watch the stairs. Grafton must have been glad to see me, because he punched me once in the arm and gave me a quick grin.

I looked at my watch. Three minutes to go.

* * *

Two companies of marines were spread out on the dunes above the beaches, one company to the north and one to the south. They had spent the last two hours getting into position, aided by armored personnel carriers that delivered them to within a few hundred yards of their combat positions.

From where they lay, they could see the plaza and the numerous armed pickups that sat there, and those that buzzed around aimlessly, apparently piloted by nervous drivers.

* * *

The guards at the fortress never heard or saw the British Royal Marine commandos. They came out of the darkness like ghosts, cut throats and pulled the bodies into the brush. The whole job took two minutes.

Then they sifted into the fortress through the gun ports. The lieutenant found Captain Penney standing by the kitchen area with his officers and saluted.

“Lieutenant Mick Laycock, sir, Royal Marines.”

Arch Penney’s jaw fell. As the marine held the salute, he realized he should return it, and did.

“The admiral asked me to inform you, sir, that transport has been arranged. Your passengers and crew will be driven to the airport as soon as possible.”

“The airport?”

“Yes, sir. Transports, sir. I don’t wish to be forward, sir, but I suggest you inform your people and organize them as you wish.”

“Yes, Lieutenant … What did you say your name was?”

“Laycock, sir. Royal Marines.”

“Indeed.”

“If I may make a suggestion, sir? You might wish to get your people away from these openings in the wall. As a precaution, sir.”

Arch Penney grabbed the young man and gave him a bear hug.

* * *

Bullet Bob Quinn was watching from the Sultan ’s bridge. Mike Rosen and High Noon were there, too, sharing the binoculars and night-vision scope. Two other SEALs manned the Big Fifty machine gun, one to shoot and the other to ensure the ammo belt fed properly. Quinn had the Barrett.50 caliber sniper rifle lying nearby on the deck, but he thought the guys on the beach and the marines on both sides probably had enough firepower. Really, there is such a thing as enough.

Rosen was excited. He could feel the tension, tangible as smoke.

For the last ten minutes Quinn had been watching a boat being launched from the beach. Apparently the holy warriors were coming out again to check the ships and harbor area. The boat was under way now, heading straight for the anchored cruise ship.

Bullet Bob keyed his headset mike. “Vince, do you see the approaching boat?”

“Roger.”

“Take him out when I give the word.”

“Roger.”

Vince was standing on the topmost deck of the liner with an M-3 recoilless rifle on his shoulder. This reloadable weapon fired an 84 mm warhead and could take down anything up to a tank. This one was equipped with an ambient-light-gathering sight, so the boat showed quite clearly on the dark sea. Vince could even see the crewmen. He counted heads. Eight. Fairly small boat propelled by an outboard engine. The exhaust of the engine whispered in the night air.

Another SEAL was on the pilot sponson, actually just inside the ship, waiting, in case the fighters boarded before the bell rang.

Out at the airport, Willis Coffey looked at his watch, misread it and told the guys on his net to start shooting. The sniper rifle boomed, submachine guns opened fire, and within seconds all the Shabab warriors in the five positions they occupied around the airstrip were dead, wounded or standing with their hands up. The CIA team ceased fire and moved in.

As they did, one of the standing men leaped to a machine gun in a truck bed and cut loose. He managed to spray the area and wound a man before he was killed.

When the controller aboard ship said, “Go,” the SEALs on the beach cut loose with submachine guns and M-3s. Aboard Sultan, Quinn’s men opened up on the trucks with the Big Fifty.

On the upper deck, Vince fired his M-3 at the approaching boat. The charge literally went through the boat and detonated in the water, lifting the boat and breaking it in half. It quickly sank, taking most of the men with it. Two managed to stay afloat until the SEAL in the pilot sponson shot them; then they slipped under.

A Shabab lieutenant standing on the balcony of the lair saw the muzzle flashes coming from the beach, aimed his RPG-7 and triggered off a rocket. Fortunately he had launched an antiarmor warhead, which vented its main charge into the sand. One man was injured. Before the holy warrior could reload, he was cut down by a.338 Lapua Magnum slug fired by E.D.