The Command

You! Sasquatch! Out, out, out!” Marty Marchetti yelled, kicking the biggest turkey out of the van. The name had just come to him, but it seemed to fit. The other melonheads rolled and tumbled out, too, fingers carefully lifted off triggers. They hit the ground running, sprinted fifteen or twenty yards, heads bobbing, sand spurting up from their boots, and flopped down clumsily, or went to one knee, racking the slides on their weapons to feed the first round.

The ground was speckled with silver coins of sun and moving blurs of shadow. A breeze from seaward brought the crash of the surf. But here in the close, trapped air of the pine woods back of the dunes, everybody was sweating. He was, too, under the harness, gear, the life vest he insisted every man who’d volunteered had to wear today.

The candidates for USS Horn’s Maritime Intercept and Boarding Team, and Marchetti thought what a sorry bunch they were, wore blaze orange float coats and green nylon pistol belts and black leather holsters. They wore steel-toed work boots. They wore blue

Horn ball caps and high-impact goggles and carried the weapons they’d just been issued like they were afraid of them. This would be close quarters battle. Where you didn’t see the guy who wanted to kill you till you were practically face to face.

He got them moving toward the red-roofed building that waited ominously beyond the whispering pines.

He oriented and scanned, looking for the enemy, but didn’t see them. They were there, though. He’d seen them go in: two black-clad figures who moved with a graceful lope, more a shuffle than a run, heads weaving, scissoring to cover each other as they ran.

“Sweep Two—”

“Who’s that, Senior?”

“Krippner, Danchuk — you two take the right flank. Sweep Team One, stay with me. And talk to each other, goddamn it.”

This kind of work was out of their line for destroyer sailors, but then again, not that far out, considering where they were headed. He’d done a hundred and two boardings over his last two deployments. Over that time he’d come to realize the navy wasn’t giving the whole small-arms readiness, ship’s security, boarding and search thing anywhere near enough attention. It was low tech. No computers or missiles. Just one of those brown-water missions the navy always tried to push off on the marines or the coast guard or the reserves. The boarding team on a Spruance-class was typically one or two of the gunner’s mates dogging whoever their chiefs or division officers thought liked running around with a rifle or, worst case, whoever they didn’t want in their own rate.

They made it to the building without taking fire, though he felt exposed as hell. The guys in black were in there somewhere, waiting. He hustled the team in through a hangar door, shouting, trying to get them talking to each other. But their voices seemed to travel out and then stop, lost beneath the cavernous trusswork ceiling. This shadowed air smelled like old gunpowder. No glass in the windows, but lots on the floor, a green jagged glitter like the aftermath of a riot. Rusty Conex boxes and steel plates and old torpedo shipping containers were scattered across the stained concrete.

He sucked air, eyes darting from gloom to gloom. The weapon was heavy, and he had to keep bringing it up, searching over the barrel for a face or a flash of movement. Where the fuck were they?

Suddenly, there they were. A ragged rapid crack crack crack crack. The number-one team was trying to get around one of the containers without getting shot. They discussed it, too loudly, then gave it a try. A clumsy high-low, and the second one stepped out, fire clattered, two guns going full auto. The kid did a half turn and stumbled back, mouth gaped. A splotch of red oozed over his life vest.

The second team was supposed to be working up the right side, giving them supporting fire, but one had decided to anchor himself behind cover. The other was more aggressive, Marty liked the way he moved, low and graceful, holding his weapon in line with his eyes. Lizard, he called him in his mind. Yeah.

Marty moved after them. The kid looked back, saw him, winked. The other guy still frozen behind cover. Hopeless. Forget him.

A round came out of the darkness so close past his ear he felt the wind. He was silhouetted, goddamn it, should have closed the doors as he came in. He ducked back, then came out sprinting, firing a burst as he went to keep their heads down. He made it to the barrier, and yelled, “He’s to your right — my two o’clock.” Saw the big guy looking to him, uncertain, and yelled at him to get the fuck out of there.

Sasquatch did, and instantly caught a round to the head. He gripped his skull and staggered back behind the wall. Marty hesitated. Two down. It was all going wrong, maybe they should just try to get out. No. They had to go forward. But nobody was going to move until he did.