you were suiting up on the boat deck, that sounded like good common sense. At the moment — crouched in near darkness in this foul-smelling cargo hold with possible hostiles coming from two directions — Allen thought it sounded a little thin.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Calm down,” he said.
“And keep your weapon holstered.” He realized that he was talking to himself, more than to Blandy.
The sounds from behind them grew nearer. Someone was moving toward them rapidly. Allen was about a second and a half from throwing his safety training and Security Condition One out the window, when OSC
Deacon’s voice crackled in his earphone.
“Blue Two, this is Blue One. I’m coming up behind you, over.”
“Copy, Blue One.” Allen relaxed a fraction. At least
A shape appeared, moving toward them in the gloom. After a few seconds, it resolved itself into OSC Deacon. He stopped at close whispering distance and crouched down. “Have you seen anything yet?”
“Negative, Chief,” Allen said softly. “But we definitely heard something.”
Chief Deacon nodded. “I’ve notified the lieutenant. He was already in the process of getting clearance to upgrade to Modified Security Condition Two. In the meantime, he’s authorized me to use my judgment in accordance with the tactical situation.” The chief paused for a second and then drew his own 9mm Beretta. “We’re going to go cocked and locked.
But, I swear to God, if either one of you shoots at anything, it had better be armed and in the process of cutting your fucking throat. Are we clear on this?”
Allen and Blandy both nodded and drew their weapons.
“All right,” the chief said. “These corridors aren’t wide enough to do right-left properly, so we’re going to have to do high-low. Blandy, you’re the shortest, so you’re low. I’ll take the high position. Make sure you keep your head down after we turn a corner so you don’t foul my field of fire. Allen, you’re jackrabbit.”
Allen frowned. In the jackrabbit position, his job would be to lag behind whenever the others turned a corner and opened themselves up to attack. Allen would only follow when the new stretch of corridor was proven to be empty of attackers, or if Blandy or the chief went down, in which case he would jackrabbit around the corner with his 9mm blazing — providing rapid and (hopefully) unexpected backup. “Chief, I’m taller than you are,” he said. “
Chief Deacon shook his head. “Negative. You’re the best shooter on the ship. I don’t want you hit by the first bullet that flies. If one of us goes down, you’re our best chance of getting out alive.”
“But …”
The chief grabbed Allen’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ve got your orders, Sailor.”
His words were gentle, but Allen knew him well enough to know that they were utterly nonnegotiable.
Allen nodded. “Aye-aye, Chief.”
The chief stood up and shifted his 9mm to a two-handed combat grip.
Allen and Blandy did likewise. The chief nodded. “Let’s go.”
Blandy went around the starboard corner of the Conex box, low and moving fast, his weapon swinging from side to side in short, precise arcs as he covered the shadowed corridor ahead. The chief swung around the corner a half-second behind him, his own Beretta carving a similar back-and-forth arc above Blandy’s head. They moved forward at a fast walk, their eyes and weapons ceaselessly scanning the gloom ahead of them.
In accordance with jackrabbit doctrine, Allen counted to three before swinging around the corner and following at the same brisk pace, his own weapon tilted up at a forty-five — degree angle so that an accidental discharge wouldn’t hit one of his teammates.
They covered the distance up the length of the first row of Conex boxes without incident. There was a five- or six-foot gap between the end of the first row of containers and the start of the second row. This space formed another makeshift corridor that intersected their corridor at a right angle, leaving short left- and right-hand passageways to investigate. They halted just short of the intersection.
OSC Deacon tapped Blandy on the shoulder and pointed to the left passageway, then he touched his own chest and pointed to the right passageway.
Blandy nodded. Still in his low-man crouch, he swung around the corner to the left and screamed.
Allen jumped so hard that he nearly squeezed off a round before he caught himself. He flattened himself against the steel wall of the shipping container to his left, trying to see what was going on.
Blandy threw himself backward, his arms and legs flailing as he struggled to get away. Still scrambling in a sort of crazy crab-walk, he crashed into the back of OSC Deacon’s legs, bringing the chief down on top of him. Blandy screamed again.
What the hell was it? Allen lowered his 9mm to a shooting angle and rushed forward to cover the threat. He had covered about half the distance to the intersection when something rounded the corner in front of him and charged up the corridor in his direction. It was low and moving fast through the darkness, its rapid steps drumming on the deck plates. It was some kind of animal, shaggy and four-legged. A dog? Allen’s 9mm jerked downward to cover the animal as it ran toward him. He sighted in on it, ready to shoot it before it could attack him the way it had attacked Blandy. Would it go for his throat or his groin? His finger began to squeeze the trigger, and then he got a good look at the animal. He broke into laughter.
It wasn’t a dog. It was a goat. Blandy’s terrifying attacker was a
Still laughing, Allen stepped aside and let the frightened animal run past him.
OSC Deacon crawled to his feet and began dusting himself off. “Was that what I think it was?”
“That,” Allen said with a grin that threatened to split his head in half, “was a highly trained attack goat. It’s a miracle Blandy wasn’t killed.”
Blandy got to his feet. “That’s not funny. That’s not funny at all.”
Chief Deacon holstered his 9mm and bent down to retrieve his boonie hat from the deck. “That is where you’re wrong, kid. I can tell you already that this is one of those stories that’s going to get funnier every time I tell it.”
Allen holstered his own 9mm and turned on his flashlight. “You can count on that, Goat Boy.”
Allen turned and walked back down the corridor to the doors of the container they had been set to inspect. Blandy and the chief followed him a few seconds later.
Allen grasped the latching handle of the Conex box and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. He clipped his flashlight to his belt, freeing up his left hand. “Hey, Blandy, come help me with this.”
The chief stepped forward. “I’ll help. Blandy, you keep an eye out for goats, sheep, and other farm animals with terrorist leanings.”
“Cute, Chief,” Blandy said. “Real cute.”
Between them, Allen and the chief were able to wrestle the reluctant latching handle up into the released position.
Allen swung the door open and shone his flashlight inside. He whistled through his teeth. “Uh … Chief? I think you need to take a look at this.”
OSC Deacon looked over his shoulder. “What have you got?”
The beam of Allen’s flashlight revealed stacks of gray crates with stenciled lettering in yellow spray paint: FALKE ANTI-AIRCRAFT RAKETENWERFER.
“Holy shit,” Chief Deacon said. “I don’t know what Ratken-worker means, or whatever the hell that is, but the
Allen sounded the syllables out slowly, “Rak-eten-werf-er … I think that’s Arabic for
CHAPTER 10
