Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Before he could begin, however, he had to complete their intensive basic training, which far outclassed anything the DHS had to offer. This was his last week, and when Judy Burges had requested available volunteers for a two-to-four-day training assignment in Florida, he had gladly accepted.

Now, however, the 9 mm Glock 22-C pistol in a clip-on holster under his shirt felt heavier with each step, and he was seriously reconsidering his choice to “see some action,” as he had put it, before settling down behind a desk.

His cell phone vibrated and he activated his Bluetooth receiver.

“Lights have been spotted off the port bow. We think this is our contact ship. Everyone stay alert.” The voice was that of the operative in change, a stern-looking guy named Heinemann.

William was sure the name was fake, but wasn’t about to ask. He had seen the cigarette boat come alongside, and then the three guys carry a long box back aboard as they left.

Something heavy was going down, and he was a part of it.

He hoped this would look good on his record; it would be a nice way to begin his career with the supersecret agency.

Everyone confirmed receiving the message, and he replied, as well. “Position Six confirmed. All clear aft.”

Taking another look around the platform, William looked across the water on the port side, searching for the pickup ship’s signal. He saw twin lights, one white, one blue, about a half mile away. It didn’t seem to be getting any closer, however, which he thought was odd. William watched it for several more seconds, but the lights stayed where they were.

Why aren’t they coming over? he wondered. A squeak on the deck behind him caught his attention. “Hey, what are you—?”

His words died almost as quickly as he did. The man behind him wasn’t another member of the crew, but was instead clad from head to toe in a black wet suit. Before William could do anything, he fired a silenced pistol twice.

William’s bullet-resistant vest stopped both bullets, one of them breaking his collarbone. He staggered back and clawed the Glock from his holster, opening his mouth to call for help as he brought the pistol up—

The black-suited man took one step forward and put a bullet through William’s open mouth, blowing out the back of his skull. The young man from Idaho didn’t even register his own death as he fell to the deck. His index finger, however, already on the trigger of the primed and ready Glock, spasmed enough to discharge his weapon, sending a round into the floor. The report echoed through the yacht and across the water.

“Shot fired aft! Shot fired aft!” Jonas broadcast to all positions. “P-Six, report! P-Five, cover aft deck. Everyone else, remain at your positions.”

Pistol in hand, he left the saloon and ran to the sundeck rail.

Although the back of the yacht had been designed in a cutaway style, with every higher level set farther ahead than the one below it, the staggered tops effectively cut his vision. But if he couldn’t see their assailants, they also couldn’t see him. He climbed down the ladder to the second level, leading with his gun the entire way. Pausing by the right spiral stairway, he tapped his receiver. Just as he was about to speak, he heard the distinctive chuff of a silenced weapon, followed by breaking glass. Immediately the loud, twin barks of a Glock answered.

“This is P-Five. Have encountered at least three hostiles on the aft deck, right side. Cannot raise P-Six—” Two more shots sounded. “Hostiles may attempt to gain access through the left side of the ship, repeat, hostiles may attempt access through left side of the ship—” The transmission was cut off again by the sustained burst of a silenced submachine gun stitching holes in the ship wall. “Request backup immediately.”

Jonas was impressed by the calm tone of the speaker—it had to be the ex–Las Vegas cop, Martinson. He was about to see if he could move to assist when he spotted the muzzle of submachinegun, perhaps an MP-5, poke up through the open stairwell. It was immediately followed by the hands holding it, then the upper body of a black-clad infiltrator. Jonas ducked behind the solid stairway railing, biding his time. For a moment there was only silence, broken by the soft lap of waves on the hull, and the strong odor of gunpowder on the breeze.

Although he hadn’t been in a firefight in more than a decade, Jonas’s combat reflexes took over. Every second seemed to slow, allowing him to see and react in a way that seemed faster than normal. He heard the impact of the boarder’s foot on the deck, and pushed himself out, falling on his back as he came around the curved railing. His target had been leading with the MP-5 held high, and before he could bring it down, Jonas lined up his low-light sights on the man’s abdomen and squeezed the trigger twice. The 9 mm bullets punched in under the bottom edge of the intruder’s vest, mangling his stomach and intestines and dropping him with a strangled grunt to the deck. As soon as he hit, Jonas killed the man with a third shot to his face.

“This is Lead One. I have secured the second aft deck.

P-Two and P-Three—”

He was cut off again as more shots sounded, this time from the front of the yacht. Jonas looked back out. A second team? he wondered.

And then he realized the plan, and how they had been suckered. “All positions, all positions, they mean to take the ship! Repeat, hostiles intend to take the ship! Lead Two, secure the bridge. P-Three, remain where you are and target any hostiles crossing your area. Will clear from this end and meet you in the middle.”

A chorus of affirmatives answered him, but Jonas was already moving. He stripped the dead man of his MP-5 and slipped three 30-round stick magazines into his pockets.As he stood, a small tube came spinning up the stairway, leaving a small trail of smoke as it hit the back wall and bounced onto the deck.

Dropping the MP-5, Jonas hurled himself back around the other side of the stairway railing, clapping his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut and opening his mouth as he landed painfully on his right elbow. The grenade went off with a deafening bang and a white burst of light that Jonas saw even through his closed eyelids. He heard more pistol shots below, followed by the canvas-ripping sounds of the silenced MP-5s firing back. Martinson’s going to get his ass shot off if I don’t get down there, he thought.

Jonas shook his head and pushed himself up, grabbing the submachine gun and checking its load. He figured the stairs had to be covered, so that way was suicide. But there was a narrow space, perhaps less than a yard wide, between the back of the stairwell and the railing of the ship’s main level. If Jonas could get down there that way, he could possibly take them by surprise, and he’d also have the stairway as cover. It might also be suicide, but it would certainly be the last thing they’d expect. He crawled around the stairway again and searched the dead body, coming up with two XM-84 flash-bangs.

Jonas grabbed one and set it for the shortest fuse time, one second. It should go off right as it hits the deck, he thought. He still heard the silenced guns firing below him, so somehow the two trainees had kept the rear team from advancing. He crawled to the edge of the platform, checked that his drop zone was clear, then pulled the pin and let the grenade go, pulling back and assuming the fire-in-the-hole position again.

The grenade detonated. As soon as the shockwaves died away, Jonas rolled to the side of the boat just as a stream of bullets ripped through the floor where he had been. He jumped over the stairway, using one hand to keep in touch with his cover so he didn’t jump too far out and miss the boat entirely. The moment he sailed into the air, he saw a huge problem—one of the assault team had had the same idea of using the stairway for cover, and had moved right under him.