Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

It took him twenty painful minutes to get from the water’s edge to the tree line. Every movement calculated to blend in with the background. Because of the loose shale underfoot, a quick sprint to the trees would have been the equivalent of tying tin cans to your legs and shouting, “Shoot me! Shoot me!” The real trick had been maneuvering the bulky equipment bag under his left arm and still give himself the ability to fire his weapon if needed.

From the safety of cover, Smoke started to get into sneak and peek mode. First thing to go was the dry suit. Underneath, he wore a silent suit, a British-designed set of Gore-Tex long johns. The suit allowed his body to breathe moisture out while not letting moisture in. Smoke could lie in a water-filled ditch for a week and still be dry.

He pulled open the watertight sack and pulled out his jungle boots and fatigues he’d painted with broad splashes of black paint himself. Mosquito repellent was liberally applied to any exposed skin and rubbed over his fatigues. He was careful not to get the stuff on any of his kit. The repellent was noted as a terrific solvent and was hell on plastic. A few swipes of camo paint broke up the outline of his face. In the dark jungle, Smoke would be as close to invisible as possible. There were only three more things left in the sack: a small field pack with two days rations, extra ammo and, his pride and joy, an HK MSG90 rifle. He checked to see that the twelve power Starlight scope was all right. It was.

Smoke put the dry suit and the underwater rifle into the sack and pushed it under some brush, along with the rebreather. Unseen and unheard, he moved from the edge of the beach towards the trail.

Sean held on to the tether rope for balance. All four of their Zodiac inflatables were held together by the thin line. A member of the SEAL support team steered the lead boat. Once the team was on the beach, he would tow the rubber convoy back out to sea and meet the patrol boat that had dropped them in North Korean waters.

The dark outline of the coast lay ahead. Sean’s boat, the last one, held most of the NEST team. Harris was in the raft ahead. Gayle sat beside Sean, silent and tense. The first time for this sort of thing was never easy. And his first mission had been nowhere near the level of magnitude of this one. He tried to pierce the dark coast ahead and kicked himself for not grabbing a set of the lowlight binoculars. He had the night vision rig, but hated to waste the batteries over his own curiosity.

“I hope this Smoke is as good as Hunter says he is,” Sean thought to himself as he rubbed at the comlink in his right ear. It felt a size too big, but it beat not being able to communicate at all.

“Beach in sight.” The message crackled in his ear. “All clear received.”

So this Smoke character had secured the beach after all. The Russians had heard as well. Weapons were cocked as silently as they could be. Sean snapped down his goggles. Even when they were on, the coast remained a dark green smudge.

The first boat hit the shale beach with a brittle crunch. The seven-man point guard inside moved immediately towards the tree line and set up a perimeter defense. The number two boat hit the beach right beside the first. Its eight men rolled out and pulled the remaining two rafts to shore.

All of the rafts were checked for equipment left behind. There was none. The lead boat was pushed back into the water. The two support crew on board began to tow the Zodiacs back out to the pick-up point.

Weighed down with equipment, the rest of the unit made their way to the trees. Smoke emerged from the darkness, his sniper rifle in his hands. In the safety of the trees, Hunter called a quick council of war.

Smoke squatted in the circle of soldiers and relayed the ground situation to everyone. “Okay, the NKs have been pretty irregular with their patrols along this beach. Why, I don’t know, but it looks like they are keeping the majority of their men on the other side of the peninsula.” He tugged at a small branch. “The vegetation along the trail is pretty undisturbed. So if there are patrols, they’re small. The smoker I saw on my way in earlier was pretty lax in his patrol security. I’m guessing he was alone, but I could be wrong.”

Hunter took this information and broke down the plan of attack.

Smoke was back on point. The trail, a narrow mud track, snaked its way through dense-wicked vegetation. Perhaps the intel pukes had got it wrong again. It wouldn’t be the first time they had stuck it to SEAL Team Three. Smoke stopped and raised up an open hand. The rest of the team moved to the shadows at the edge of the track.

The track had changed. Two kilometers from the beach and the track had become a road. It had been widened enough to take a six-by truck. Smoke’s eyes scanned the wall of foliage on each side of the dirt road. Broken and snapped large branches at least ten feet off the ground were visible on both sides. He began to pick out the deep ruts of truck tires. Somebody had moved a lot of equipment and men up this track in a very short period of time. No weeds grew in the churned-up middle of the track. The vegetation at the edges also looked beaten down. This was not good.

Trucks meant men; well-equipped men. Patrols would start to be regular, their members professional soldiers, not local cadre like his friend with the cigarette. The local militia unit was probably filling in until enough soldiers arrived to take over. The jungle crowded in overhead. Most of the ambient light needed by the night goggles was being blocked.

On the up-side, if it was hard for him to see with the goggles on, it would be almost impossible for any unequipped guard to see him or the rest of the team behind him. As for hearing him, Smoke smiled to himself, they never did. He scanned ahead, and there it was again, the brilliant brief spark of a cigarette. Smoke slipped even deeper into the shadow of the foliage at the side of the mud track. He began to work his way forward. The mud and crushed plants of the trail muffled what little sound his feet made. He twisted his feet with every step to avoid any sucking sounds that could give him away. This was the best part of his job; absolute one hundred percent adrenaline. You could keep your stuffy soul-killing office jobs. Money, comfort or chemical stimulants could never even come close to the rush Smoke felt when he was allowed to work.

A kilometer up the trail, he came to a fork. The one to his right, according to the satellite photo he had studied in the briefing, led to the peninsula. Smoke hunkered down and felt the ground with his hands. Plenty of smooth-sided imprints of bare feet, probably kids going for a swim or… ah, there, the sharp edge of a boot print. He felt its cleated pattern. Definitely an army boot, and then right beside the boot, the flattened and soggy remains of a cigarette butt, still warm to the touch. Fuck, this dick head was lax. That was good news. Of course, you never could tell. The carelessness of one guard did not mean the rest of the man’s unit were as indiscreet. The boot imprint was angled to the left track. Smoke felt the ground a few feet farther ahead and found the other boot mark. So, the patrol route followed the trail along the coast, but skipped the peninsula. The troops on the missile battery would be regular army or even some kind of Special Forces. Best to assume the latter. Smoke decided to wait for the rest of his unit to reach him. Hunter would need to be briefed.

Smoke clicked the transmit button on his comlink three times. It was the signal to form up on his position. He moved once again into the shadows. Hunter was the first one to arrive. Smoke gave a low whistle.