Point of Contact, Page 2

  The boat plummeted down again, and Jack’s stomach with it, hitting the bottom of the swell so hard that Jack’s knees nearly buckled. The waves were getting worse.

  Jack tugged on his MPX to verify the sling was still snug as he stood back up and planted his right boot on the gunwale. A moment later he felt the massive surge beneath him and the boat rocketed upward, but the hull crashed hard against the steel ladder just as Jack stepped off, throwing him forward. He barely managed to grab an icy rung with both gloved hands as his knees slammed against the sharp steel, boots dangling in midair. A moment later his feet found a rung and he was secure. His eyes tracked the fleeing swell as it crashed against another steel pylon.

  His heart raced. That was close.

  Jack paused just long enough to take a deep breath and gather his wits.

  Big mistake.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw another rogue wave suddenly breaking over him in a white-capped fury.

  He braced himself against the ladder just as the wave hit.

  Too late.

  2

  All Jack could do was hold on grab-ass tight. The wave hit him like a great gray bull, smashing the side of his helmeted face against the ladder’s steel, but somehow he hung on.

  A second passed and the furious gray monster sped away into the forbidding dark.

  Jack couldn’t believe his luck. He didn’t wait for the next one.

  He untangled himself as quickly as he could and began the ascent, spitting and coughing up briny seawater through his mouth and nose. He scrambled as fast as he dared on the frozen steel, driven upward by John Clark’s raspy voice ringing in his brain: “Shit happens in threes.” Comms going down and a big-ass rogue wave counted for two. He didn’t want to think about what the third might be.

  The first few soaking-wet steps were easy, but his left foot slipped badly on the next ice-coated rung. Once again his heart raced, but his fast reflexes secured him tightly to the ladder. His mind was clearer now—running from death had that effect on a man’s brain—and in a moment he was in his stride, carefully but swiftly alternating hands and feet in the dangerous ascent.

  He climbed several rungs before glancing up to locate the rest of his team. They were already near the top and scrambling fast, unaware of his near-death experience. The gunshot to Adara’s leg in Chicago last year clearly hadn’t slowed her down.

  Gaining confidence in his stride, Jack picked up the climbing tempo. The adrenaline was fueling him now, which helped cut the cold, even though he was drenched and the exertion was warming him up despite the blasting snow. The burning in his thighs was a good sign that he was still alive. Even the seawater still stinging his sinuses helped clear his mind.

  So far, so good.

  He slowed as he entered the guardrail cage near the top of the ladder, expecting Adara’s gloved hand in the open hole to signal him to hold. The plan was for the three of them to rally at the entrance, then split up and assault their respective targets some ninety feet apart. He popped his head up quickly to scan the platform.

  Adara and Midas were gone. What the hell?

  So much for the plan.

  Jack cleared the hole and the guardrails and assumed a crouching position on the steel-grated deck, designed to keep seawater from accumulating. Most of the snow fell through, so there were no clear boot prints for Jack to follow. He glanced to his left, where the crew’s quarters were located. He didn’t see either Midas or Adara, but according to the plan that’s where they were headed. The schematics indicated that the entrance door was around the corner from where he was, so if the two of them were positioning there, he wouldn’t be able to see them anyway.

  Jack checked his watch. If the other team was in place, they’d hit their door in the next thirty seconds.

  Time to get to work.

  Jack racked the charging handle of his MPX. The terrorists would all be inside in weather like this. Of course they were. He smiled to himself. What moron would be outside in this shit? The snow fell heavier now in the fierce wind—near-blizzard conditions. Jack brushed away the ice crusting on the back of his gloves.

  He tried his comms again but still got no reply. Even if Adara and Midas were squatting here next to him, they couldn’t talk to one another—in this wind they’d have to shout, and even if they could hear one another they’d risk giving their positions away.

  Jack watched the seconds tick by. He was grateful for the long, tedious hours of training he’d spent over the last week on a platform not unlike this one, especially now that he was finally here in the freezing dark, getting hammered by gale-force winds and with time slipping away. He checked his watch again.

  Go!

  He ran in a low squat past a steel storage crate and rounded the corner when something near the deck caught his eye. “Head on a swivel!” Ding had shouted at him time after time in training reps. It saved his ass again.

  Jack froze in place, the toe of his boot just short of a line of snow.

  A tripwire.

  It stretched across the steel grating, heavy flakes perching on it like fat pigeons roosting on a power line.

  Jack knelt low and lit up the tac light on his weapon, following the tripwire to its terminus—an MRUD, a Yugoslavian knockoff of a Claymore mine.

  Tricky bastards.

  Gavin’s intel brief didn’t mention mines, but Clark said to be ready for anything. Maybe these Green Army Fucks deployed a jammer to screw with their comms, too. But now Jack wondered, Are the tangos just covering their perimeter, or are they setting us up for something worse?

  Jack stepped carefully over the tripwire, his eyes keenly alert for more of them in the green glow of his NVGs and the falling snow. He saw none as he reached his position to the right side of the outward-opening steel door.

  According to the dated schematics, the square control-room building he leaned against was thirty feet by thirty feet—identical to the other three structures on the old platform. Jack was entering on the east wall. On the far west wall was another door, leading to the crew’s quarters. On the north wall was a door to the machine shop. That was his goal.

  If I survive the control room, he reminded himself.

  Inside the control room there were no interior walls. All of the control panels, desks, and workstations were along the exterior walls. Once he was inside, there was nowhere to hide.

  Jack checked his watch again. Ten seconds to go. He laid a gloved hand on the doorknob and turned it gently. Unlocked. Good.

  Gunshots rang out on the far end of the platform. Sounded like AK-47s. That meant Ding and Dom were in it. But they weren’t shooting AKs. He didn’t hear return fire. Maybe the sound of their suppressed guns wouldn’t make it to him in this wind.

  Jack felt the blood rush. His friends were in trouble. Suddenly he wasn’t cold at all. Time to kick some ass.

  Jack pushed the door open and quickly drew back, pressing against the corrugated steel wall, certain the terrorists would fire at the open doorway.

  They didn’t.

  Jack glanced in for one second and jerked back. He’d seen nothing in his NVGs except the exit door on the north side of the room, slightly open. He was grateful for the advantage the low-light tech gave him.

  More loud gunshots blasted around the platform. A few muffled bursts as well. He needed to move his ass.

  He dashed low and fast through the doorway—

  BAM!

  Light stabbed his eyes like daggers.

  His wide-open pupils in the NVGs turned the light in the overhead lamps into photon shrapnel. Jack hit the deck and rolled just as gunfire broke out from the open north door. He raised his weapon blind, pulled the trigger, and sprayed full auto in the direction of the noise, but as soon as his magazine emptied, the GAF shooter stopped.

  Jack jumped to his feet, yanking off the goggles and rubbing hi
s blinded eyes as he bolted for the north wall. By the time he slammed into the wall near the door, his vision had mostly cleared. He wondered if it was a motion sensor or a fast hand that had tripped the room lights. Guess it didn’t really matter.

  A quick check of his body confirmed he wasn’t hit. He wasn’t sure why not. The linoleum floor near where he had dropped was shredded.

  All Jack could think was Shit comes in threes. And that was number three.

  But his gut told him that three wasn’t the limit.

  He loaded a fresh mag and charged his weapon.

  Jack knew the north door opened to a short open deck that led to the machine shop. Another outward-opening door would be waiting for him.

  So would the shitbird that just took a potshot at him.

  And maybe his friends.

  He heard more gunfire far away. Could be his team was still in the fight. Or the tangos were killing the hostages.

  Without comms, he couldn’t know.

  No time to lose.

  Jack knelt low and did the head-bob thing again. Nobody on the short open deck, and the door on the far end of it was shut.

  They knew he was coming. All they had to do was kick open that far door and open up on him. He’d be trapped on the deck with the rails pinning him in—unless he decided to leap over the side into the roiling blue abyss.

  “Seven breaths,” he told himself. A line from the Hagakure.

  He ran like hell.

  His heavy boots clanged on the steel grates. He kept his eyes focused on the shut door, waiting for it to open.

  It didn’t.

  He slammed into the machine shop wall with a thud. They already knew he was coming. No point in dancing around in the freezing dark.

  He wished he had a flash-bang. But he didn’t. Just his guts. That had to be good enough. His team was counting on him. So were the hostages.

  Jack ran through the room schematic again. Thirty by thirty. Six rooms—stalls, really, only two walls each. Two-by-fours and corrugated steel. Tools and machines in each, he assumed—lathes, welding tanks, whatever.

  Which one would the shooter be in?

  Jack yanked the door open but stayed out of the doorway. He felt the big-caliber slugs slam into the wall above his head. Glanced up. Saw the jagged steel petals flower a foot above.

  That meant the shooter was probably in the northwest corner. A lousy shot—or scared to death.

  Or wanting him to think so.

  He had to do something to distract the shooter. He reached his MPX around the door frame and fired a short burst, aiming high against the far back wall to avoid hitting a hostage or one of his team if they were close by. He fired another burst, then dashed through the door, diving into the first stall on the left. He slid into a tall mechanic’s tool chest.

  A woman screamed on the other side of the room.

  A short burst of gunfire rang in the distance.

  Damn! Jack glanced up. A blunt-nosed drilling hammer hung from a peg on the far wall. He dashed over and grabbed it.

  “This is gonna hurt!” he shouted as he tossed the hammer like a hand grenade. It bounced and skidded across the steel-grated floor, landing near the last stall on the left, where he figured the tango was located. He hoped the bastard would think it was a flash-bang and cover up.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Before the hammer finished bouncing and skidding, Jack launched out of his stall and rolled into the second one on the other wall, his weapon pointed at the northwest corner.

  Sighted in the center of his scope was a bearded fighter and a short-barreled AKS-74U—almost like a machine pistol. Jack wanted to waste him, but he was hiding behind two platform technicians in oil-stained coveralls. Both women. One brunette, the other a stunning blonde. Even from here he could see the blonde’s blue eyes. The bearded man held the two women by their collars in one fist, half choking them. His other hand held the weapon, pointed at their heads.

  “Drop your weapon!” Jack shouted.

  “I kill them both!”

  The red dot on Jack’s gunsight centered for a second on the man’s face. Jack’s finger twitched, but he didn’t pull. The first ROE on any op was to save the hostages if at all possible. Putting a slug in this puke was secondary. It wasn’t worth the risk. The bastard was scared. Maybe Jack could still talk him down.

  In that moment of hesitation the terrorist shifted his position and hid again behind the women. Too late, even if Jack wanted to shoot.

  “Drop your weapon!” Jack shouted again.

  “Fick dich, Kapitalist!”

  Jack held up a hand. “Don’t be stupid. Drop your weapon. I’ll guarantee your safety.” Jack didn’t budge. He prayed the psycho would expose himself again.

  Instead, the terrorist walked the two women forward out of the stall and toward Jack, keeping them in front of him like a human shield, and worked his way toward the steel exit door on the east wall leading toward the wellhead.

  Jack stutter-stepped left and right to keep from being an easy target, but he was out in the open—why didn’t this guy just shoot him? He kept his weapon trained on the killer, hoping for a clear body shot. If the man escaped, he might take out his friends and blow the rig. But if Jack took the wrong shot, he’d kill the hostages.

  The bearded terrorist reached the door. His gun hand searched for the knob, but his eyes stayed fixed on Jack. “Don’t even think about it!”

  “No, man, we’re cool.”

  The door opened slightly and the Green Army fighter backed into it—then suddenly thrust the two women forward and slammed the door behind him.

  The women ran toward Jack, shouting and crying.

  Jack raced for the exit door, but the two women grabbed him and wrapped their arms around him. “Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Get back! Please!”

  Jack grabbed them both by the waist and shoved them firmly but gently away from the door for their protection. “Are you hurt?”

  Both women shook their heads. “No, no. We’re okay. Thank you!”

  Jack heard two gunshots ring out from the other side of the shut door.

  “Wait here!”

  The women nodded, compliant, stepping back toward the far wall.

  Jack raised his weapon high and approached the door.

  “Jack! You in there?” It was Ding’s voice on the other side of the door.

  Thank God. Jack sighed with relief. “Yeah. It’s me. Jack.” He dropped his weapon to his side.

  “All clear?”

  “All clear!”

  The door swung open. Ding stepped through, a wide grin on his face. Dom was right behind him.

  “Where are the others?” Ding asked, as Dom’s smile broke into a horrified grimace.

  A pistol shot cracked behind Jack. The bullet’s overpressure brushed the side of his face, but the slug hit Dom in the chest. In the blink of an eye another shot cracked and put a bullet in the wall near Ding.

  Jack whipped around, raising his weapon to shoot the brunette with the pistol, but it was the grinning blonde who caught his eye as she thrust the tip of an eight-inch knife blade into his gut.

  3

  The tip of the heavy black KA-BAR Tanto blade crashed into one of the ceramic-composite body-armor plates on Jack’s vest, dulling the blow. The blade slipped across the plate but didn’t penetrate. The force of the strike pushed him back a few inches, stunning him for a moment.

  In a heartbeat, the blond terrorist drew back her arm to launch another knife thrust at Jack’s exposed face, but her neck exploded in a cloud of arterial spray as three muffled shots rang out, spattering hot blood on Jack’s skin. The blonde spun to the ground in a heap like a broken puppet.

  Jack’s adrenaline-fueled brain slowed the action down to a crawl even as his reflexes accelerated. His
eye caught the brunette falling to the deck at the same time as her comrade, two red stains flowering on her chest, pistol clattering to the steel deck.

  Adara dashed over to Jack, the barrel of her MPX still smoking. She ripped the balaclava off her head to get a better view. Her short blond hair was matted with sweat. She touched his chest where the knife had struck. The fabric was torn, exposing the ceramic plate. “You hurt?”

  “No—check Dom.” Jack feared the worst. His cousin was one of his best friends.

  But Adara hadn’t waited for Jack’s suggestion, and at “No” she sped over to Dom, seated on the floor and leaning against the corrugated wall. Ding had already yanked open Dom’s armor vest when Adara pushed him aside and dropped to her knees. The former combat Navy corpsman had patched up wounded Marines in Afghanistan. She’d seen the worst and expected more of the same as she reached for Dom’s wound, but she knew she could deal with it.

  “Damn! That hurt!” Dom said through gritted teeth.

  Adara examined his left pectoral where the slug hit. A huge red welt the shape of the armor plate that saved his life was forming on his skin. “That’s gonna bruise ugly, but you’ll live, cowboy.” Adara fought back a flood of emotion. On the combat field they were teammates, not lovers. She pushed it all back inside for later. There was still a job to do. She stood.

  “Anybody hurt?” Adara asked.

  “I think we’re all good,” Ding said. The shortest man in the room spoke with the authority of a trusted leader. Years of service in the infantry, Rainbow, and the CIA had earned him the hard-won respect of everybody at The Campus, especially John Clark.

  Midas nodded at the dead blonde on the deck, a nearly headless corpse. “I think she’s gonna need a Band-Aid.”

  “Good shot, by the way. You saved my life,” Jack said.

  “I was aiming for her head. But you’re welcome,” Midas said, clapping Jack on the shoulder as he loaded a wad of chaw in his bearded jaw. Adara had put two rounds into the brunette, who was trying to kill her boyfriend.

  “I want a fast sitrep, people. Where are we?” Ding asked.