The Command

A double slam, then a roar bellowed through Horn’s superstructure as the cell and uptake hatches whacked open and the booster ignited. Dan visioned what was happening forward. The missile bouncing up from its cell, then seeming to slow; teetering tail-down, balancing gooney-awkward on a cone of orange-white fire and bleached-out smoke. As it passed three hundred feet, the engine inlet popping open. Fuselage wing plug covers ejecting. Steering and stabilization fins switchblading out, followed by the wings. Then booster burnout, and the nose dropping. A heart-stopping moment as you waited, then the black smoke of engine start.

“Lookout reports, missile transitioned to cruise.”

“Very well,” Dan said softly. Holding the handset, listening to the roar of the second round going out. Of weapons on their way, hurled stone, loosed arrow, ball, bullet, and shell… the god of war bellowing, loosed again to insatiate frenzy.

* * *

When he heard it, Marty didn’t recognize what it was. Then he did, and twisted. But he couldn’t see.

A rusty haze stung his skin. It draped low over the waves, as if sanding their tops off. He shaded his eyes, looking for the birds. But couldn’t see them. One after the other the distant thunder began, and peaked, and then moved off. Toward the east.

Then something plunged out of the murk, and he whipped back to where he was: alone on a hostile, booby-trapped deck, with an armed man coming at him.

He’d glimpsed the guy sneaking back toward the bow. Slipping between the piles of tires. Only now did he make out the rifle. The unmistakable long curved mag, like the lower jaw of a cartoon miser. Marchetti froze, another shadow in the sand-fog. The burnoosed figure ran past, disappeared. Just as he did, Marchetti caught two more AKs slung over his back.

The sound intensified, like an airfield with jetliners going out one after the other. Using the aural cover, as soon as the other was past he tucked the .45 and unslung the Mossberg. Jacked a round of buck into the chamber. Think fast, Machete. The boys were aft, out of touch. He grabbed Cassidy and breathed, “Tell them on the ship, Red Ball, armed

resistance. We damn near got lit up by some kind of booby trap, a claymore or something like it.”

“Armed?”

“I counted three AKs headed forward. If he comes back and I get a clear shot, I’ll take him. But the ship better start hauling ass back here.”

Booger whispered something about not shooting first. Marchetti told him to shut the fuck up and get ready to fight for his life. He looked startled, then fumbled at his holster. Marty faced front again, hoping he didn’t get shot in the back.

The deck felt funny. The shadows, too … what the fuck was going on? Son of a bitch, she was moving. No. For a second he felt like on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Like the ship was sliding away under him. He blinked and shook his head.

Chattering raghead voices came from the fog. The after roar of the missiles going out was fading. So he could hear them now, clear, all talking at once. Coming aft. Armed, and the rest of the team didn’t know it.

The lead one came out of the fog, Kalashnikov held down across his belly, and Marty put the bead on his chest and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked and the raghead went down, screaming, and he pumped and swung, searching for the other rifles. The guys behind him were scattering, but somebody cracked off a shot. The officers had their pistols out and were pointing them wildly around. As Berger’s lined on his head Marchetti ducked away, then shouldered him back against the tire pile. “Get back to the boat, Booger.”

“You shouldn’t have shot him.”

“Mister Cassidy? Take him back, sir. Now. I’ll retrograde the team.”

The ensign was nodding when the boom of running feet came from the starboard side and a burst hit around them, bullets whanging off the deck. They were sprinting, a stampede, a dozen going by while flame spat here and there from among them. Nobody seemed to be aiming, just spraying and praying. Marchetti got another round off into them but didn’t think he hit anyone. The recoil thumped his shoulder, and he worked the slide, stuffed more shells in.

Cassidy was talking rapidly on the radio, vectoring the RHIB back in. Marty told him to belay that. As long as these guys were on the loose with AKs, they could lean over the side and hose out the boat. “We got to deal with these pricks first. Tell the ship we’re taking fire. We need the helo, need help, we need some fucking backup here.”

The boarding officer nodded. Marty poked the muzzle of the twelve-gauge around the tire pile. The deck was empty between him and the deckhouse. Just littered rotting flesh, the eddying fly-cloud, the stench, the sand. But something was different. It was like he was looking downhill. What the fuck?