Graham Brown - Ghost Ship

Kurt held the trigger and kept the electricity flowing as he got to his feet, ran forward, and kicked the man in the face like he was trying to punt a football out of the stadium. The man’s head snapped back and he lay still.

With the situation in hand, Kurt grabbed the Uzi and dropped back to where Calista had fallen.

“You’ve been hit.”

“My leg,” she said.

Kurt pulled her up onto the landing. She’d taken a bullet to the thigh. It was bleeding, but not enough to suggest it had hit an artery. He took off her belt and wrapped it around her leg as a tourniquet.

“I think it’s broken,” she said. She tried to stand, but even with his help she couldn’t put any weight on it.

“Just go,” she said. “They’ll be coming up here soon enough. You’ll need me to watch your back.”

Kurt hesitated and then handed her the Uzi. He figured she’d earned it at this point.

“Don’t let him live,” she said. “He has no right.”

Without answering, Kurt propped her up against the wall, where she’d have some cover and a good angle to fire at anyone who came her way.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back for you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she replied.

He turned and raced up the stairs, finally arriving at the upper landing. A solid-steel door blocked him. It was bolted shut.

Kurt checked his ammo. Seven shells left. He hoped it would be enough.

Stepping back, he opened fire on the lock. The iron projectiles tore it apart like armor-piercing rounds. The door burst open under the onslaught and Kurt rushed in.

He saw two guards, took one of them out, and then dove for cover as the other one started firing.

Scrambling across the floor as the man unleashed a hail of shells, Kurt rolled and fired back. The lethal shot blasted through one of Sebastian’s computers and killed the last of Sebastian’s bodyguards instantly.

Kurt stood and looked for Sienna. He spotted her at the back of the room. Sebastian had her up against his body and was holding a nickel-plated automatic to her temple.

From where he stood, Joe had the advantage of elevation and could both see and hear the battle raging on the compound’s bottom two terraces. Over the headset he heard Lt. Brooks directing his men, probing for a weakness and being pushed back. Across the dark lawns he could see the burning helicopter and red streams of tracer fire converging on the area around it from three directions.

He pressed the talk switch on his headset. “Dragon leader, this is Zavala,” he said. “You’re being surrounded. Suggest you abandon position and move down the hill.”

Pressed up against the rock wall for cover, Lt. Brooks heard the call and sat dumbfounded for a second. None of his men were named Zavala. Then it dawned on him. One of the oceanographers went by that name.

“Zavala, we cannot pull back, we have five men wounded, two critical. There’s no cover lower down. If we don’t hold this wall, we’re dead.”

A burst of static gave way to the smooth-sounding voice of the oceanographer. “I’ll swing around and try to relieve the pressure on your right flank.”

That would certainly help. But there were too many of Brèvard’s men there for one man to take on even if he took them by surprise.

“Negative,” Brooks said. “You’d be facing twenty hostiles. If you really want to help, take out those fifty-caliber guns and that missile site. Our only chance is to get the rest of the men on the ground, but they can’t get within a mile of us as long as those things are active.”

A delay that seemed like forever made Brooks fear Zavala had been taken out, but then his voice came through loud and clear. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Brooks fired over the top of the wall and ducked as some incoming shells blasted chunks out of the top of it.

Lance Corporal William Dalton scrambled over and reinforced the position. “What’s the word, Lieutenant?”

“Help might be on the way,” Brooks replied, “though we’re never going to live it down if we get saved by a marine biologist.”

“At least the word marine is in the title,” Dalton replied.

“Good point,” Brooks said, snapping off a shot and ducking once again. “Good point.”

Moving in a crouch, Joe made his way toward what he assumed was the missile site. But he came across the twin .50 caliber machine guns first.

He saw them track left to right, as if looking for the helicopters in the distance. Putting the railgun to his shoulder, he blasted apart the pivoting tripod mechanism they were mounted on. Hydraulic fluid spewed everywhere and the guns froze in place.“One fifty-caliber weapon down,” he said.

“Good,” Lt. Brooks replied. “See if you can get that missile launcher.”

“I can’t see it,” Joe said.

“Higher up,” Brooks said. “My guess would be the center of that hedge maze.”

Joe looked around. He could see the wall of hedges, but he had no way to reach the entrance. And considering the complexity of the maze, he doubted he could make it quickly to the center.

The rattling sound of the second .50 caliber weapon got Joe’s attention and he had another idea.

Zeroing in on the sound, he cut through an ornamental garden filled with strange flowering bushes. On the far side he saw the second machine-gun emplacement. He raced toward it, but instead of tracking one of the helicopters in the distant sky, the guns whirled around toward him and the barrels began to depress.

Joe figured he’d run out of coolant and was now giving off a heat signature, but he was committed and continued his charge, diving at the base of the tripod and sliding into it as the guns began hammering away, tearing up the ground behind him.

With Joe clinging to the base of the tripod, the clamoring stopped but the guns continued swinging from side to side, hopelessly trying to find a position from which to fire at him. It was no use, Joe was in too close and safely beneath their maximum angle of depression.

With a nod to whoever designed the system, Joe considered his options. Instead of destroying the mechanism that aimed and fired the guns, he began taking it apart.

Both machine guns began hammering away, tearing up the ground behind Joe, but he was beneath their maximum angle of depression. He crawled forward and made it to the tripod. Instead of destroying the mechanism that spun and aimed the weapons, he eased up next to it and began ripping out wires.

Eventually, the weapons stopped rotating.

Putting the railgun down, Joe pulled out his knife and began stripping the wires. Soon enough, he had a half dozen wires stripped to the copper.

“Zavala?” the radio cackled.

“I’m working on it,” Joe said.

“Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better make it quick.”

Trying out different combinations of wires by pressing them together, Joe got the platform to turn in a herky-jerky motion until it was pointed back up at the center of the hedge maze.

Next he managed to elevate the guns. Now he just needed them to fire. He looked toward the trigger assembly. The weapons themselves were standard M2 .50 caliber machine guns. Nothing exotic, but the triggers were covered by a metal housing.

Using the back of the railgun as a club, Joe broke the housing free and got access to the triggers. A simple hydraulic clamp had been set up to pull the triggers remotely. Joe didn’t have time to fiddle with that, so he put his hands around the trigger mechanism and squeezed.

Both weapons began to spit lead. Every fourth shell was a tracer and from those Joe could see his aim was a little high. He forced the barrels down a fraction and began to fire again. This time the shells found the mark, tearing into the missile battery and shredding it. One missile exploded, another launched and flew outward before quickly nosing over and thudding into the pastureland beyond the walls.