Red Shark

“When I tell you to, put a flash-bang into those weeds over there by the pier,” Jefferson said. “It’ll get their attention, maybe they’ll put that damn light on it long enough for Van Kirk and Zipolski to shoot it out.”

Ramos fetched a 40mm grenade from his rucksack and loaded the weapon. Van Kirk and Zipolski would have only seconds to shoot out the searchlight when it paused — if it paused — before the commotion caused by the grenade’s concussion and brilliant flash of light wore off and the light moved on again. If they missed, Fat’s men would know where the shooting had come from and start pouring in lead.

But before Jefferson gave the order for Ramos to fire the grenade, a man with a Russian PK machine gun opened fire, spraying live rounds and green tracers helterskelter in their direction from a hidden position.

“Think that son of a bitch knows where we are?” Brodie said, face pressed into the sand. Sand tossed in the air by bullets grinding up the beach a yard outside their perimeter rained on their backs.

“Shit, no, he’s firing blind,” Zipolski said.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Brodie replied.

Rounds snapped overhead while others thunked into the stacked fuel drums. Raw fuel — gasoline and diesel — gurgled out onto the beach, its pungent smell on the wind. Scott thought about hot tracers in contact with liquid fuel.

“EPA’s not going to be happy about that,” Leclerc said, keeping low.

The shooting stopped.

“Either he burned up that PK or he’s reloading,” said Caserta.

Jefferson lifted his head. “Can anybody see the shooter?”

The firing started up again, tracers zipping by overhead.

“Yeah, he’s behind that Toyota Land Cruiser parked at the end of the pier,” Leclerc said. “I saw his muzzle flash.”

“All right, when Ramos fires that flash-bang, I’ll take him out,” Jefferson said.

He gave the order; Ramos, lying on his side, lifted the weapon over his head and, judging distance and angle, fired blind. Hunkered down, Scott felt the grenade’s concussion against his back and, even through tightly closed eyes, saw night turned to day from its two-million-candlepower flash.

Van Kirk and Zipolski waited until the wild firing from the Toyota had stopped and the searchlight had swung to where smoke drifted over the weed patch, then opened fire. The light went out in a shower of sparks, glass, and metal. Except for dim illumination provided by the lights strung on the pier, the surrounding area, including the beach, was in total darkness.

“They’re all blind from that flash-bang: can’t see a damned thing,” Scott said.

As if to prove him wrong, a muzzle flash bloomed from behind the Toyota, the PK spitting out rounds until it ran dry.

“Eat this, mother!” Jefferson reared up and fired on full auto, almost emptying the M4’s 20-round magazine at the vehicle, blowing out both windshield and backlight, shredding upholstery, sheet metal, and the shooter, too. He spun out from behind the Toyota, dropped his weapon, and collapsed.

Jefferson said, “That asshole’s down for good. Okay, we’ve got a clear lane to the beach. Let’s move!”

Scott grabbed Jefferson’s arm. “Not yet. This way.” He motioned to the villa.

“Are you nuts? That’s finished. We’re out of here.”

“Not until we search the villa.”

“Search the villa?…”

“We’ll split up. I’ll take the steps, you and the others take the service road. Their attention’ll be focused on the beach and the pier. They won’t be expecting us.”

“No way. Fat’s got plenty more men up there. We’d have to take them out, plus those guard towers.”

“Then do it.”

Jefferson gave Scott a long, hard look. “You are nuts. If we break contact now, we can get out of here in one piece.”

“That’s your call, but I’ve got my orders. If you want, pull back to the mini-sub and I’ll signal when I’m done and you can pick me up.”

“What the fuck is this, a brass balls contest?”

“I’ve got a job to do. I need your help, but I’ll do it without you if I have to.” Scott turned away.

Jefferson grabbed a handful of Scott’s cammies. “Don’t pull that shit on me.”

Scott freed his arm from Jefferson’s grip. “Save it for Fat’s men.”

The SEALs looked from Jefferson to Scott. Chief Brodie hissed, “The bad guys are out there, not here.” He looked at Jefferson. “What’s it gonna be, Colonel?”

Jefferson glanced at the men. “The villa.”

“Conn, Sonar. That Kilo’s back.”

Deacon hustled into the Reno’s sonar room. The sonar supervisor said, “Sierra One, Kilo-class submarine bearing two-four-two. Turns for three knots. There’s his tone-line, Captain. Have the range for you in a minute.”

Deacon said, “Where’s the ASDS?”

“Bearing two-three-eight. Range less than four thousand yards. Still anchored.”

“Get me the range on the Kilo — pronto.” Deacon returned to the control room. “Rus.”

The exec stepped away from Fire-control Alley. “Sir?”

“Get me comms on the ASDS, tell them what we have brewing. And I want a setup on that goddamn Kilo. Just in case.”

“Aye, sir.”