Point of Contact

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 his 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?