Rogue Faction Part 1 Page 2
Sutter’s most distinguishing quality was the patch he wore over his right eye. There were plenty of rumors as to how the arms dealer had lost the eye, likely many of them started by Sutter himself. But out of Sutter’s crew, only Cyrus knew the truth. Though he would never admit it, Sutter had lost it as a child while playing on his parent’s vineyard in France.
Offering Sutter a disinterested grin, Cyrus slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and shrugged. “I wouldn’t call him my friend. He’s really more of an acquaintance.”
“I should think not,” Sutter laughed. “He’s going to get you killed, after all.”
Refusing to cower before Sutter, Cyrus shrugged once again. “He’ll be here. He still has a few minutes left. Don’t worry.” Though he never liked turning his back on Sutter, he knew it would make his point.
Cyrus turned slowly to take in the rest of the hangar. The massive front doors had been closed up tight, safe from prying eyes. The wide concrete floor was polished and coated with polyurethane. It gleamed white under the glare of the fluorescent lights high above. Most of the floor space was empty, except for the massive Airbus parked in the center. A steel wheeled staircase was pushed up against the forward cabin door, allowing Sutter’s men to file in and out of the plane like hard-working ants from a dirt mound.
Making a slow circuit of the building’s perimeter was a short bespectacled man. He walked at an awkward pace, his eyes moving across the outermost wall of the building. The bald top of the man’s head shone with a glare that was almost as blinding as the polished floor. He was checking an array of explosive charges located at the periphery of the hangar.
Sutter followed Cyrus’s gaze. “Does Eartzie’s work on the perimeter concern you?” he asked.
“Everything that deviant troll does concerns me.” Cyrus sent an accusatory glance back at Sutter. “You’re out of your mind. Do you really think you can trust someone like that?”
The comment brought a laugh from Sutter. “This new thermobaric explosive is supposed to be something special. I need an expert on hand to authenticate the product your contact is delivering. Eartzie is the best. He’s forgotten more about high energy explosives than you or I will ever know.”
Slowly shaking his head, Cyrus kept his eyes locked on Sutter. “You’re telling me you trust him? Have you been paying attention? He forgets to blink, for God’s sake. The guy’s got a head full of loose wiring—he doesn’t give you the creeps?”
Cyrus saw the twitch under Sutter’s good eye with that statement. Sutter looked back at Eartzie who was now on the far end of the hangar. The man was standing statue still, and staring at a blank spot on the wall. When Sutter’s gaze returned to Cyrus, Cyrus saw a distinct lack of conviction for any argument he might make.
“Is there some reason you would rather I have someone else examine the device?” Sutter accused. “Is there something you’re hiding?”
“No,” Cyrus said flatly. “But we’re talking about an extremely powerful explosive. One you intend to put in the hands of a nutcase who’s likely to set it off just to see what the inside of his own face looks like. I think its poor judgment on your part.”
The slight resulted in a deep guttural sound from Sutter; it was something akin to a growl. With a wave of his hand, he motioned to someone outside of Cyrus’s field of vision. Cyrus knew he’d successfully distracted the man for a time, but it hadn’t been long enough. The unmistakable feeling of two rifle muzzles being pressed into his back was enough to eliminate any doubt.
Sutter walked forward and pulled the pistol from the holster on Cyrus’s hip. With a cold detachment echoing in his voice, he concluded, “Your friend isn’t coming.”
Chapter 2
Kingston Waterfront
10:58 pm
Lying prone at the edge of the warehouse roof, Wil Helinger was thirteen hundred yards away from the scene playing out on the distant stretch of sand. He had the wharf to his back—the distant sounds of heavy machinery were muted, but ever present. The powerful floodlights of the dock created a diffused glow to his rear, causing him to lie close to the roofline in order to avoid creating an unmistakable silhouette against the skyline.
Helinger’s night vision glasses turned night into day, but without the green cast common to conventional night vision hardware. The goggles looked like a pair of sleek sunglasses crossed with a pair of low profile ski goggles. They slipped on over his ears like glasses, but wrapped tight to his face to keep the light from their heads-up display from spilling out into the night. They incorporated the latest in light enhancement technology and were slaved to the targeting system of the powerful .50 caliber long rifle mounted on a small articulated arm at his side.
Sliding his finger across the small touchpad that was built into the goggles and located over his right temple, Helinger’s view of the distant area was magnified by a factor of 15. He watched as a pair of large, inflatable zodiacs materialized from the fog that had settled over the bay. No—not just any zodiacs. These were RIBs. There was a .50 caliber bolted to a stationary mount at the bow of each craft making them even more formidable.
Helinger reported the discovery. “This is Overwatch, we have movement in the bay. I’ve got two RIBs closing on your position.”
He heard Boone grumble. “Don’t tell me, 50’s?”
“Affirmative, sir. Each craft is equipped with a stationary .50 caliber. I count three tangos aboard each boat.”
“Roger that,” Boone said. “Teams one, two and three, prepare to take your assigned actions. We move when Overwatch gives the word.”
His finger sliding across the pad on the side of his goggles, Helinger increased his magnification further. Without taking his eyes off the targets below, he touched the small screen strapped to the back of his left wrist. A small red reticle appeared in the center of the heads-up display inside his glasses. When his eyes focused on the large gun mounted at the front of the first watercraft, the reticle slid across the display and centered in alignment with his focus. He tapped his wrist display and the reticle pulsed twice. When his eyes shifted to the position of the second heavy gun on the second boat, the reticle followed. He flagged the position of the second target with another tap of his finger. As each target was designated, a residual transparent marker remained over the target. Even as he turned his head, the markers moved along with the selected targets. It was as if the digital markers were pinned in cyberspace and only became visible as his gaze passed over the tagged physical locations. Helinger knew that the targeting system was able to maintain the lock on moving targets as well as stationary objects. So, if the crafts made a break for it, the targeting system would maintain a lock in spite of changes in angle, trajectory and distance.
Helinger went on to tag the twin engines of both inflatable boats, just as he had with their guns. The articulated .50 caliber long rifle beside him was slaved to his goggles and would fire on the designated targets the moment he triggered it. Unfortunately, the system was a prototype, and did have a limitation. He could flag only a maximum of five targets at one time. The two heavy guns onboard the boats were an obvious priority, but so were the twin outboard engines that powered each boat. If he put a round into each gun as well as each engine, he was still one shot short. He could only flag five of the six targets, which meant one of the engines would remain operational.
“Hold position,” Helinger reported.
The boats were just making landfall. As they reached shore, a man leapt from each craft to drag it from the surf. When the second boat came to rest, Helinger found a solution to his problem. Re-designating the last target, he locked in the targeting scenario. The automated rifle fired depleted uranium rounds that were packed with 30% more powder than conventional ammunition. Since the targeting computer would compensate for wind shift, gravity, and even the friction of the round as it related to the weather conditions, recoil from the hot loads wasn’t a concern. The final resting location of the second RIB had put both of its e
ngines in line with each other. A single depleted uranium slug would tear through the pair of engines with ease.
Helinger watched as two new men from each craft leapt to the beach and joined the pair who had pulled the boats from the water. One man on each inflatable was left behind to wield the .50 caliber deck gun. Most importantly to Helinger, two of the men on the beach were struggling to carry between them what looked like a small thermal cooler. Helinger tapped another button on his wrist and the view from his goggles switched rapidly between thermal, electromagnetic and microwave displays of the men and the cooler.
“This is Overwatch,” he said. “I have eyes on the prize. I’m ready when you are.”
The four targets moved up the short stretch of sand. Two of them lugged the device while the other two flanked them, their rifles held at the ready. Three men were advancing across the beach from the opposite direction. They’d come from the parked SUV; one carried a small bag under his arm. He recognized that man as Kang.
The exchange was about to take place.
“This is Overwatch. Polecat, do you read me?”
The four seconds he waited for a reply felt like a lifetime, but Helinger already knew that something was wrong. “This is Overwatch. COMM check. Sound off.”
No answer.
Shit.
Kang and his two men reached the four men from the boat. They were gathered in the middle of the small expanse of sand. Both boats sat at the waterline, a man standing at the ready behind each heavy gun.
Turning his attention to the parking area not fifty yards from the beach, Helinger saw the dark shapes of Boone and Stubbs as they cleared their brush-covered position and moved toward the crest in the small ridge separating them from the coast. Zooming the view of his glasses further, Helinger could see Boone’s lips moving. He realized that Boone was trying to use the radio but wasn’t getting through.
Watching carefully, Helinger saw Boone wave Stubbs off to the right as they made a slow advance on the ridgeline that blocked their view of the beach. When Boone turned to the south and looked directly at Helinger—a form impossible to make out in the darkness from that distance—Helinger knew it was time. Boone raised two fingers and pointed them at Helinger’s assigned position. Helinger knew he’d just received the Go signal.
With a single tap on his wrist, the ceaseless clanking, banging and grinding of the late-night dock operations was shattered by five back-to-back thunderous explosions. From the corner of his eye, Helinger could see what looked like a single long flame leap from the muzzle of the .50 caliber rifle, as five rounds were unleashed faster than any human could aim and pull the trigger.
————
Kingston Waterfront
11:01 pm
Boone took a quick look at his watch and felt his heart sink. They were officially behind schedule. He was supposed to have the package in-hand well before now. His meeting with Cyrus and Aubin Sutter was set for 11 pm. There was no question—Sutter was not a patient man. But if anyone knew how to stall, it would be Cyrus.
Boone took a deep breath and hoped the rest of the mission could be concluded without delay. “It’s your call, Overwatch,” he urged.
Boone watched as Kang and two of his men exited the Land Rover and headed over the ridge separating the parking area from the sandbar. The exchange was about to go down. Only Helinger had a clear view of all that was happening, although Team Two was ready to sweep in from the north and would have a partial view of the targets at the moment. Team Three would come in from the south, but they were literally buried in three inches of sand and couldn’t move until it was time to spring the trap.
Boone noticed that Kang carried a large satchel. Whatever was inside was heavy, because the moment his boots hit sand, his stride became decidedly more labored. Giving Kang time to reach the men from the boats, Boone tried once more to raise the rest of the team on the radio. His first two attempts had gone unanswered, and he was growing more concerned with each passing second. A sick feeling roiled in the pit of his stomach as he counted the seconds that had passed since Kang and his men had disappeared over the ridge.
“COMM check,” Boone growled. “Is anybody there?”
Stubbs met Boone’s eye and shook his head. There wasn’t even static—it was like the radio frequency had been smothered to the point of nonexistence. Pointing two fingers at Stubbs and making a motion to the right, Boone gave the signal to advance. There was no more time to waste.
Looking to the south, Boone eyed the dark roofline of the nearest warehouse on the wharf. Though he knew Helinger was there, he couldn’t detect any trace of the man. Raising a hand, he pointed two fingers at Helinger’s position.
A burst of light from the distant warehouse roofline was the first indication that Helinger had received the improvised command. A flame split the night a second and a half before the blast wave hit. Explosions sounded from over the ridge and down the beach. Boone and Stubbs were already charging for the vacant SUV and the beach beyond. Teams Two and Three would be closing from their respective positions of north and south.
Small explosions could be seen as Boone passed the Rover and crested the ridge with his rifle sweeping for targets. A massive explosion sounded before he could zero in on his first target. A ball of flame shot into the air producing a concussive wave that nearly knocked him off his feet. Though the burst of flame vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, the denotation had raised the temperature of the air by a considerable margin.
Both boats were sinking to the waterline at their sterns, and still grounded at their bows. The intermittent explosions came from the ammo cans of .50 calibers cooking off in the small fires at the front of each boat. Understandably, each gunner left aboard was now little more than a pile of pink meat. Both men looked like jigsaw puzzles with half their pieces missing.
In the middle of the beach lay five additional bodies. Four were clearly fallen hostiles; it was obvious by their grubby clothes and discarded AKs. Two of the men were fragged, and in worse shape than the gunners left in the inflatable boats. Some kind of charge had detonated, catching the group of men at close range. Body parts were missing. The remaining pair of hostiles were in better condition—but only in the most relative terms. They, too, were clearly dead, though they would be heading to hell with all body parts still in place.
Taking in the scene, Boone was at a loss to find an explanation. Thirty feet away he saw the dark form of another body. He stowed the rifle on a sling over his back and pulled his sidearm. Rolling the body, he recognized the man was part of Team Three. He checked for a pulse, but found none. He wasn’t surprised. There was blood—a lot of it.
Looking around quickly, Boone was shocked to find the body of Kang missing; not only that but the two Korean men with Kang were MIA, as well. The remaining two members of Team Three were also unaccounted for, and Team Two was nowhere to be seen.
His eyes probing the stretch of beach, Boone waved his hand at Stubbs. “Where in the hell did they go? Fleming is dead. Help me find Hobbs and Higgs!”
The dance of light and shadow cast from several small residual fires only served to confound the search. Everything around them seemed to be moving in the swaying shadows. A splash in the surf at the shoreline was subtle, but distinctive. Boone spun with his SIG raised and his finger already partially depressing the trigger. The contrast of his night vision glasses adjusted to see the form of a man lying in the slowly rolling waves.
“It’s Hobbs!”
Boone pulled Hobbs from the surf, while Stubbs covered their position as best he could from the waterline. Boone tried his radio again, as he assessed the man’s injuries. He still couldn’t raise Team Two, Overwatch, or Command. Something was very wrong.
Examining Hobbs’ limp form on the wet sand, Boone couldn’t find any blood. Seeing the man’s eyes suddenly flutter and then roll wildly in their sockets, Boone felt a flood of relief. He patted Hobbs on the side of the face and spoke sharply in hushed tones.
Hobbs’ eyes finally snapped open and looked at Boone—alarm clearly visible. Rolling onto his side, he vomited onto the sand. “Jesus, what happened?” Hobbs groaned.
“I was going to ask you that! What the hell happened? Where is everyone?”
Chapter 3
Stoffer Airfield
11:05 pm
One of his men had just reported that the last of the cargo would be secured within the next five minutes. Sutter sent orders for the pilot and copilot to begin their preflight preparations. He wanted to depart the moment everything was in place. Glancing at the small balding man standing alone at the periphery of the loading zone, Sutter considered his options. He was reluctant to inform Eartzie—the addled bomb maker—that his latest toy, the experimental thermobaric explosive, wasn’t going to arrive in time for departure.
Though he did his best to hide it, the bomb maker unnerved him. He was as small and unassuming of a person as Sutter had ever seen, but a few minutes in the man’s presence was all it took to gather an overwhelming sense that he just wasn’t right. He was quiet…too quiet. It was nearly impossible to engage him in conversation. Almost to the point where he made one wonder if he were mentally deficient, or otherwise absent. That sense was counterbalanced by the way the quiet man’s eyes constantly moved to observe everything around him—even as his body remained unnaturally still. There was a disturbing intelligence behind those eyes when they fell on you, observant and predatory, completely at odds with the rest of his appearance.