Ted Bell - Phantom

Before anyone could even light up their powerful weapon-mounted SureFire lights, they could hear the great doors open with a whoosh and a deafening rattle of. 50-caliber machine-gun fire. And the object that came flying at them from the darkness behind those doors was nothing but a nightmare of death and destruction for anything in its path. The great doors slammed shut behind it.

As he dove for cover, Hawke thought it was some kind of whirling dervish, speeding toward them, spitting fire and lead in all directions by spinning rapidly, flying about two feet above the floor. No one could survive this thing, whatever the hell it was.

Hawke screamed into his battle radio, “Take cover! Get inside those niches and get down! Heads on the floor. Don’t move an inch until I give the all-clear!”

Hawke, his cheek on the cold marble, eyed the damnable thing as it flew by, the fusillade of automatic fire showering him with chunks of stone as countless rounds chopped up the marble above and behind him. Once it was past, he quick-peeked out of his niche and watched it fly down the long corridor, and, unimpeded by armed resistance, sail through the entrance and out into the night. He waited a few long minutes until he was satisfied the thing was not returning.

“All clear,” he said. “Medical corpsman, attend to any wounded and get them back to the ship safely. The rest, rendezvous on me.”

Stoke was the first to get to his feet and reach Hawke. Hawke was gratified to see the majority of his men on their feet and moving toward him, their SureFire lights wavering in the darkness.

“What the hell, boss?”

“Unmanned aerial vehicle. Never seen anything like it.”

“A flying Gatling gun, spinning like a top.”

“Yeah. Let’s blow those big doors, Stoke, and pray there aren’t any more of those bloody things behind them.”

Red Team proceeded down the rock-strewn passageway until they reached the bronze doors. Stokely Jones stepped forward and aimed his weapon, waiting for Hawke’s signal.

“We go in low, half left, half right. Jones, Brock, and I will cover the center. Based on what just happened, be prepared for anything. On my count, three… two… one… fire!”

A beat, and then, “Go! Go! Go!”

They blasted through the door, prepared, like the commander had said, for anything.

What they were not prepared for was a naked woman, sprawled across a vast bed, her thighs spread open to them, a very seductive smile on her face. He’d never seen such a sublime specimen of womanhood in his life. Her eyes were an ethereal blue that defied description. Hawke forced himself to look away. It appeared there was no one else to be found in the cavernous bedchamber, but his men were searching every closet, every nook and cranny.

“All clear,” he heard Stoke say.

“Good. Post a guard outside the door.”

Hawke leveled his weapon on her and advanced to the edge of the rumpled bed strewn with silk and satin pillows.

“Who the hell might you be?” he said, unable to keep his eyes from straying.

“Me? I’m the goddess Aphrodite,” she replied in a crisp, upper-class British accent.

“My God, you’re English.”

“No, actually, I’m not. I’m simply mimicking you.”

She smiled at all the young men surrounding her, staring at her, slack jawed, their eyes feasting hungrily upon her. She suddenly pulled a black silk duvet up under her chin, covering her torso, her breasts.

“What are you doing here?” Hawke said.

“Well, until you and your boys so rudely interrupted, I was making love.”

“Making love with whom?”

“A brilliant chap named Darius Saffari. He may have passed you in the hall.”

“Navy Blue, this is Big Red One, over.”

“Go ahead, Big Red One.”

“We located the target. He got by us. Seen anything unusual out there?”

“Uh, roger that, Big Red. We saw some kind of a UAV zipping around the backstreets and alleys of the villages. Damnedest thing you ever saw.”

“Could you pinpoint his direction, Stony?”

“Repeat, did you say ‘his’?”

“Roger. His. The aerial vehicle you saw is not unmanned. It’s our target. We’re out of the residence and headed across the piazza. Taking light fire, but nothing we can’t handle alone. Where was the target headed?”

“Looked like it was headed for the marina.”

“Stony, you’ve got to get there as fast as you possibly can. I think I know why he’s bound for the marina.”

“Why, over?”

“The big white yacht on the pier across from the fuel dock. Cygnus. Has to be his escape route.”

“On our way, Commander.”

“Listen carefully before you approach the target. That vehicle is armed with multiple fifty cals capable of firing simultaneously in three-hundred-sixty-degree rotations. Lethal fire in all directions.”

“Roger. Hold on, sir. One of our rooftop snipers has just spotted him. He’s definitely headed in the direction of the marina gate. He’s in a fucking flying wheelchair!”

“Has your sniper got a shot?”

“Negative. He’s disappeared into the backstreets.”

“Blue and Red teams converge at the gate. If Blue gets there first, keep going. Fight the fight, don’t fight the plan. Try and take him with an RPG. Maybe we’ve got time to board the yacht before he escapes.”

“Affirmative, Big Red One. We’ll get him, before or after he boards the yacht.”

Hawke and the Red Team made it across the piazza and into the confused maze of narrow streets. Hawke had memorized the fastest route to the gate in case it all went bad and they had to escape in a hurry.

R ed Team arrived at the gate to find Blue Team pinned down under heavy fire. Saffari’s men had erected steel barricades to cover the man’s escape. They were pouring fire into the street where Stony’s men were taking whatever cover they could find. Hawke found Stollenwork emerging from an alleyway and into the street. He had an RPG attached to the muzzle of his M-16. He fired it at the center barricade and ducked back into the alley.

When the smoke cleared, Hawke could see that the damn thing had barely been dented. Hawke had a quick word with Stokely and Brock and then ordered his men to take whatever cover they could find and return fire. Then he ducked into the alley where he’d seen Stony disappear.

“Stony,” he said, crouching beside the man. He was jamming another mag into his assault rifle.

“Shit. That flying bastard is getting away.”

“Maybe not.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve sent my two best men up to the rooftops of this building and the one across the street. From that height, they can put fire on the enemy behind the barricades.”

Stony didn’t say anything, just smiled.

“Meanwhile, we can pick off as many of these guys as possible,” Hawke said, stepping out into the street and opening up with his M-16.

Five minutes later, they were storming the barricades, shooting the few remaining survivors on their way to the gate and then, the marina. When they emerged from the tunnel on the other side of the wall, they were cheered by the sight of the big white yacht, still moored to the pier to their right.

They raced down the central dock until they came to the “T” at the end. Left was the fuel dock and the captured patrol boat, right was Cygnus, moored at the end of the dock.

“Let’s move,” Hawke shouted, sprinting the length of the long steel pier.

He arrived first, staring up at the white hull of Saffari’s yacht. The first thing he noticed was that there were no mooring lines securing the yacht to the dock. And no crew casting off, yet the yacht remained in place, despite current and wind. The only possible explanation was that the hull was somehow attached to the pier underwater.