Chapter 27 #2
Thirty-three enemies, each armed with rifles chattering wildly, should have cut them down in seconds.
But their response revealed their lack of discipline and training.
Panicked shouts in a foreign tongue, bullets spraying high and wide, sinking into wooden crates or ricocheting off metal decks with sharp pings that echoed like angry hornets.
With the smoke still curling from the grenade blasts burning his nose, Jerry steadied his breath and peered through the QBU’s optics, the crosshairs sweeping the chaotic loading dock below.
The enemies—now down from thirty-three—numbered only twenty-seven strong.
Fractured by panic, they scrambled for cover behind crates and machinery, their automatic fire wild and unfocused.
One combatant popped up from behind a forklift, rifle aimed at Pena’s position. Jerry’s finger caressed the trigger. The shot cracked sharp and true, dropping the man before he could fire.
“Strike one. Bow,” Jerry murmured into comms, his voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through him.
Below, the team advanced in tight formation, Norton and Brock laid down suppressive bursts that pinned clusters of enemies, while Pena, Ibrahim, and Sanders flanked right, their movements a symphony of practiced precision.
Pena signaled forward, dodging a haphazard spray of bullets that chewed into the deck plating nearby.
Jerry’s heart tightened—too close—but he refocused, spotting another enemy reloading clumsily on the rafted-up cargo ship’s gangway.
Another squeeze, another enemy slumped. The rifle felt like an extension of his arm, familiar and reliable, even if it wasn’t his usual gear.
The dock thrummed with noise—people shouting, the roar of gunfire, metal pinging from ricochets.
Sweat beaded on Jerry’s forehead, the office air thick with the scent of gunpowder and sea salt wafting up from below.
A near-miss shattered more glass from the window frame, shards tinkling to the floor as a stray round whizzed past his left shoulder.
He ducked instinctively, pulse racing, then rose again.
What he wouldn’t give for a plated vest and a Kevlar helmet.
His team pushed hard, exploiting the enemy’s disarray —some combatants fumbled magazines, others argued amid the haze, shouting conflicting instructions, their coordination crumbling under pressure.
“Clearing central crates—cover the ramp!” Norton’s voice crackled.
Jerry shifted his aim, eliminating threats emerging from the cargo ship’s shadow, their rifles barking futilely into the smoke.
The team surged ahead, dress shoes slipping but steady on the debris-strewn deck.
Brock vaulted a low barrier, firing on the move, while Ibrahim dragged a wounded teammate.
Who?
No, just a shadow. He missed Waller in his ear. Jerry blinked sweat from his eyes, scanning for the next priority.
As the last pockets of resistance faltered, Pena waved toward the dock. “Boarding now—Jerry, overwatch the deck!”
The five-man team below funneled toward the gangway as if they had practiced it a thousand times, weapons up, crossing the narrow gap to the rafted cargo ship.
Jerry’s shots kept the pressure on, making the bandits keep their heads down.
The vessel loomed like a steel behemoth, its hull groaning against the cruise ship’s side with each swell of the water.
An enemy leaned out. Jerry hastily fired and missed, the impact echoing faintly. But the man retreated. Brock saw the bandit and moved in.
Heart steadying with each breath, Jerry watched his team secure the boarding point. The fight wasn’t over—not with Olive still out there somewhere and an entire island of hostages—but they had gained ground.
“Moving,” he broadcast. He slung the QBU and moved to rejoin them below. Jerry, Brock, Ibraham, and Sanders cleared every corner of the loading dock while Pena and Norton kept the gangway covered.
Upon signaling the all clear, the six men moved inexorably up the gangway. Pena, Norton, and Sanders took the lead with Jerry, Ibraham, and Brock bringing up the rear and covering rear security. One by one, they boarded the ship.
Jerry’s senses sharpened in the dim, echoing corridors. The vessel’s hull groaned softly with the ocean’s rhythm. The ship appeared lightly manned by an all-Chinese crew, but the faint hum of machinery below decks could mask potential footsteps.
They moved swiftly yet tactically, stacking up in tight formation: Pena at point, weapon sweeping low; Norton covering high angles; Brock and Ibrahim alternating flanks while Sanders brought up the rear. Jerry, QBU ready, scanned for elevated threats.
His mind raced through contingencies. What if the crew had rigged traps? What if reinforcements hid in the engine room?
They cleared compartments methodically—breaching doors with controlled force, cutting into corners to expose threats slice by slice. In one narrow passageway, a crewman in black fatigues emerged suddenly from a side hatch, hands empty but eyes wide with alarm.
“Down! On the ground!” Pena barked in English-tinged Mandarin. Brock zip-tied him swiftly as the man complied without resistance.
“Mandarin, Jorge?” Norton observed.
“Married to Emma? I picked up some things. Important words, anyway.”
No shots fired—yet—but the encounter ratcheted Jerry’s tension. They pressed on, the air growing thicker with the scent of oil and salt and sweat despite the ventilation fans whirring overhead. A muffled shout echoed from deeper inside the ship—Chinese voices, urgent but indistinct.
The team communicated in hushed clicks and hand signals. Finally, the bridge loomed ahead, its reinforced door a final barrier.
Jerry shot through the door’s lock with a precise round, the report echoing sharply down the hall. He kicked it in, the impact reverberating up his leg through the thin soles of his dress shoes. He raised his weapon instantly, sighting in on the man obviously in charge.
An older Chinese man in full black battle fatigues stared at them with cold contempt, silently raising his hands. Pena approached with pistol drawn, grabbing the man and pressing him against the wall to zip-tie his wrists.
Norton broadcast, “Trout. Coppertop. Smothered mate. I say again. Smothered mate. Over.”
Fisher’s voice, responding to the chess reference, crackled over comms. “Roger, Coppertop. No movement on the ship’s deck. No movement in the loading bay.”
They lacked the manpower for a full sweep, so vigilance remained high—eyes on every shadow, every unlocked door.
Anderson chimed in. “Be advised. Just confirmed DC is sending reinforcements. DHS and a detachment from Fourteenth Group inbound.” Reinforcements dispatched by the Secret Service and a detachment from the 14th Special Forces Group (Airborne), previously conducting training in Puerto Rico, were en route.
“ETA?” Pena demanded.
After a few seconds, Anderson replied, “Twenty-two mikes.”
They moved back to the loading dock with their prisoners in tow. Upon arrival, Jerry handed off his Chinese prisoner to Ibrahim, who herded him toward a makeshift corral of stacked crates they had moved into place to confine their few captives.
“We’re gonna need medical support for some of their wounded. Trout. Prioritize that,” Pena broadcast.
“Roger,” Fisher replied. “I’ll put them on the list right behind Pot Pie.”
Pena scoffed, then whistled sharply. “Jerry Maguire, Hobbes, Honest Abe…” he hesitated, “Coppertop. Do another sweep of that ship. Drumstick and me will keep these fine folks company. Make it quick, boys. Most ricky-tick. Spike the punch bowl on the way out.”
An eternity passed in the next twelve minutes.
Once the all-clear echoed—tentative but necessary—they tossed grenades into the ship’s engine room.
After getting back on the cruise ship, they severed the mooring ropes and sealed the cruise ship’s cargo doors, isolating the threats.
They returned to find that Pena had made no meaningful progress in getting any information out of their guests.
Norton keyed his comms. “We need Twenty-Four Ten. Anyone available to escort her?”
“I’ll go get her,” Pena replied.
Emma chimed in over the channel. “Send pictures. I need to start research.”
Jerry quickly snapped a few photos of the Chinese leader’s face and texted them to Pena’s wife.
“Glad I didn’t join the Navy, for whatever good that did me today,” Sanders quipped in his droll voice.
Abruptly, Anderson cut in, “Jerry Maguire, we located Olive.”
His heart leaped in his chest. Already halfway to the door, he demanded, “Where?”
“Brig. I’ll guide you,” Anderson said.