CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HOMICIDE, n. The slaying of one human
being by another. There are four kinds of homicide:
felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy,
but it makes no great difference to the person slain whether he fell by one kind or another
-the classification is for advantage of the lawyers.'
-Ambrose Bierce, 'The Devil's Dictionary'
D-106, MV
320 miles south of Reykjavik, Iceland
In his little, not particularly comfortably fitting, earpiece Eeyore heard, 'We're five miles behind you and closing at three quarters speed. We'll go to flank once you report that the radio room and bridge are secure.'
'Roger,' he sent back. 'I'm leaving now. I call; you come a-running.'
'Wilco,' answered Biggus Dickus. 'Good luck. Godspeed.'
Antoniewicz didn't bother answering that. He reached down, past the layer of television boxes he'd slept on, and twisted open the rods that held the container's door shut. That made a little noise, a faint screech. Inside the container it sounded terribly loud. Outside, he was pretty sure, the sound would be lost amidst the sea splashing against the bow and the more distant noise of machinery. What he hadn't counted on were the sounds of male passion coming from somewhere very near the container. It sounded like, 'Ana bahebak . . . ana bahebak . . . ana bahebak.'
With his NVGs on his face, Eeyore eased his head around the half open door and looked in the direction of the sound. Sure as shit, and the pun was somewhat intended, there were two of the ships complement-passengers or crew, who knew?-both bearded, with their trousers down around their ankles, one bent over the railing while the other, with both hands grasped tight to the former's hips, belabored his posterior. The one bent over the railing was playing with his own penis.
If they'd just been crew, and unarmed, Antoniewicz might have just passed on. As it was, the Kalashnikovs he saw propped against the inner hull said, no, too dangerous to let them live.
The laser aiming device was already on. With a mental shrug Antoniewicz lined it up on the head of the fucker, ignoring, for the moment, the fuckee. With both hands to steady the weapon, he squeezed the trigger until he was rewarded with a moderate felt recoil, the metallic snap of the slide, the phooot of contained gas being partially released, and the near disintegration of his target's head.
Oddly enough, even with his brain destroyed, the target's hips kept pumping for a few moments longer, and perhaps even faster. Eeyore had the inane thought, Gee, I guess sex really is a mindless activity, after all.
He padded forward quickly, then, just as the fucker's body started to go limp and crumble to the deck, took aim once again, this time at the one bent over the rail. That target's head was not visible, though it might have been to a taller man than Eeyore. No matter, he knew how to get a head up quickly. He shot the fuckee in the kidney. That produced pain so immense, so absolute and ultimate, that the fuckee could only draw air in and twist. As his head raised, the invisible laser lined up on it. The victim never even felt the shot.
Antoniewicz bent down and grasped his second target's legs, lifting and letting the limp body splash to the sea below. He placed his pistol on the deck and grabbed his first victim, hauling the corpse up and pushing the torso over the side. Another bend and heave and that body joined the other in the North Atlantic. The salt spray was not quite enough to overcome the smell of shit-covered dick.
Antoniewicz bent again and picked up his pistol, then gave a little mock salute. Once again, he turned aft toward the superstructure, the bridge, and the radio room. He reported this to the Bastard, with the comment, 'Two tangos engaged and down. I'm not compromised.'
'Roger,' came the answer, 'we're about three miles out.'
As he walked aft, Antoniewicz wondered, What is it about the wogs, anyway? Is it that when women are held so far down that they're little more than animals, the men have to fuck each other to avoid the sense of engaging in bestiality?
On the other hand, there's a fair possibility they were just gay. Shit, pun still intended, happens.
The superstructure astern was well lit, well enough, in fact, that it was better for Eeyore to lift his NVGs off of his face and go on ambient light once he was about two thirds of the way back. His eyes were still adjusting from the NVG-induced purple haze as he walked forward. That haze kept him from seeing the expended brass-really thin steel with a faint brass wash on it-until he'd stepped directly onto some and suddenly felt his feet flying out underneath him. He hit, hard, knocking his wind out in a way that hadn't happened to him since he was boy.
He lay there on the deck, arms overhead, gasping for air, and silently cursing, Fucking sloppy wog bastards; never clean up their messes. Dirty motherfuckers . . .
Antoniewicz became aware of someone tall and skinny, bearing a curve-magazined rifle in one hand, standing over him, outlined in the light from the superstructure. He thought, simply, I'm fucked, while-far the worse-feeling, I fucked up, and unconsciously stiffened, bracing himself for the bullet he was sure was coming.
Instead the man standing over him said something in Arabic to which Eeyore could only make gasping sounds in reply. Then he bent over, offering his other hand to help the former SEAL to his feet. Antoniewicz took the proffered hand with his own left-never mind the insult that offered, and let the Arab pull him to his feet. He then put his pistol's muzzle under the Arab's chin and pulled the trigger, exploding the head.
A quick lift and push and that body, too, went over the side to splash into the North Atlantic.
'Hold . . . up . . . a . . . minute . . . or five,' Antoniewicz gasped into his radio.
'You okay, Eeyore?'
'Long . . . story. I'll . . . be. . . . okay.'
It feels a little dirty to shoot someone who was trying to help. Oh, well.
It was a full five minutes before Antoniewicz felt able to continue forward in top form. Since he hadn't heard or seen sign of the Bastard he had reason to believe they'd understood and complied with the request for delay. While straining to regain his breath, he listened as best he was able for sounds from the superstructure. There seemed to be something like a party going on at the very bottom of the thing, just where it joined the lowest container deck. At least, the sound seemed like nothing else but a party. And, also, as near as he could tell from sounds, there were twenty-five or so partygoers in attendance.
Mmm . . . too many for the submachine gun. Especially if they've got their weapons to hand. I think five frags-fragmentation grenades-ought to do for a room the size of the superstructure, especially given the metal walls and the ricochets.
He flicked his Makarov on safe, then stuffed the silencer into his trousers. Unthinkingly, and perhaps somewhat illogically, he made sure the muzzle would, in the event of an accident, drive the bullet into his leg rather
