The laser beam sliced through one of the RHIBs. Ruffin heard an agonized scream come from the lightweight boat. Muzzle flashes rippled through the cavern in front of him. Another laser beam streaked through the air and struck the water.
"Open fire!" Ruffin hollered into his radio. "Grenadiers, concentrate fire on hostile in silver jumpsuit. He's Simbaaku."
A third laser hit another RHIB. Two anguished cries erupted from that boat. Little spouts of water kicked up around them from Venezuelan AK rounds.
Gunfire roared from the Shield International and Trinidadian forces. Tracers criss-crossed over the water. Deep thumps from grenade launchers joined the cracks and pops of assault rifles and submachine guns. Another laser beam cut through the air, but missed their RHIB.
Fountains of water rose from inside the cavern where grenades landed. Two flashes went off along the port catwalk. A couple of Venezuelan marines tumbled over the railing and into the water.
Another laser beam indicated they hadn't hit the Simbaaku.
Bullets cracked around him. Two pinged off the RHIB's hull. Ruffin pulled the trigger of his MP5 until it ran dry. He rammed home a fresh magazine as Fetisov fired the grenade launcher under the barrel of his G36 rifle.
AK rounds pinged and thudded against their RHIB. Gomez grunted and twitched, then slumped to his side.
"I've got him!" Best crawled over to give the former SEAL first aid. "Akua, take control of the boat!"
Ruffin pushed aside his worries for Gomez. He just kept firing his MP5. The best way to help Gomez was to take out the security force in the hardened shelter.
Fetisov launched another grenade. Another. The assault force was roughly 40 meters from the opening. More bullets struck their RHIB. A laser beam sizzled just a few feet from Ruffin's head. He sighted the Simbaaku and fired three bursts. The alien remained standing. Damn bulletproof suits. They'd better –
A grenade burst at the Simbaaku's feet. He spun around and smashed into the rock wall behind him. The laser pistol fell from his grasp and clattered over the edge of the walkway into the water.
More grenades exploded along the walkways. The surviving Venezuelans retreated through the exits on both sides, slamming the doors behind them.
A brief feeling of relief swept through Ruffin. He quashed it. He had nothing to feel relieved about. Their mission had barely begun.
Akua steered the RHIB alongside the walkway. Ruffin swung around. "Gomez!"
Best looked at him and shook his head. "Sorry, Sir. He's gone."
Grief swelled inside him. Another member of his team, dead. How many more would he lose before this was over?
Now's not the time for that.
He called for a casualty report. Shield International suffered two dead, including Gomez, and four wounded. The Trinidadians had one dead and three wounded. Ruffin left Linc to tend to the injured men, and assigned four members of Trinidad's Special Naval Unit to guard the shelter. He then looked at the fallen Simbaaku. Blood the color of oil flowed from his neck and face. His human mask had dissolved. In its place was the Simbaaku's true, gorilla-like face.
One less alien to deal with.
Ruffin headed for the door at the far end of the walkway and checked for booby traps. Finding none, he carefully tried the handle. Locked.
Not a problem.
He attached a small brick of C4 just under the handle and shoved in a blasting cap. Everyone backed up about 15 feet.
"Fire in the hole!"
Ruffin hit the detonator. A sharp bang erupted from the door. It swung open a couple of feet. Akua and Jellicoe rushed up to the door and chucked hand grenades into the corridor. Seconds later they went off.
Ruffin used his mirror to check around the doorway. Two Venezuelan marines lay still in the corridor. No sign of any other threats.
He turned to the rest of the commandos. "Let's go."
XXXXX
Lieutenant McGlothen pissed his pants. He trembled as he slowly descended through the night sky, tracers flashing all around him. His heart hammered against his chest as he waited for one of them to tear through him. Would it hurt? Would it be quick?
His chute seemed suspended in mid-air. He urged it to go faster, to get him to the ground where he could find cover.
McGlothen took quick breaths as he stared at the darkened ground. Was it getting closer?
Two rounds cracked by and punched through his parachute.
"Oh God, come on!"
The ground rushed up toward McGlothen. He forced his body to go limp a second before his boots struck solid earth.
He scrambled to his knees, grabbing his M4 with one hand and undoing his harness with the other.
That's when he heard loud voices nearby, voices speaking Spanish.
A chill went through McGlothen as he saw the silhouettes of two men running toward him. Each carried a rifle with a curved magazine.
Bad guys.
Training took over. McGlothen brought up his M4 and squeezed off a three-round burst. The first man stumbled. A second burst put him down. His partner fired at the same time as McGlothen. He heard rounds warble past him. The enemy soldier arched his back and collapsed.
Sweat soaked McGlothen. His hands shook as the roar of gunfire filled his ears
Don't fall apart. You're an officer.
He took a cleansing breath. The first thing he had to do was assemble the platoon. The second was to neutralize the Venezuelans. Nothing else mattered until he accomplished those two things.
McGlothen slid out of his harness and hurried off, ducking behind trees and bushes. The road lay 40 yards away, lit up by muzzle flashes. He counted between 30 to 40 marines, two transport trucks, and a squat, six-wheeled EE-11 armored personnel carrier with a marine firing a .50 caliber machine gun into the air.
At his men!
McGlothen almost fired at the marine in the APC, but stopped himself. If he missed, every single Venezuelan would turn his attention on him, and he'd be dead. He had to find more paratroopers before he could launch a counter-attack.
He left his cover and sprinted around a smoldering crater, probably created by one of the van Speijk's 76mm shells. A parachute fluttered along the ground nearby.
"Duke!" McGlothen called out the challenge, expecting to hear the response, "North Carolina," based on one of college basketball's biggest rivalries.
There was no response.
McGlothen gripped his M4 tighter as he approached the parachute. He saw a man lying on his side, still in his harness. He bent down and rolled him over.
A young, dark-skinned man stared back at him with dead eyes. McGlothen recognized him. Corporal Burke. Rounds had torn open his torso and throat.
McGlothen turned away and puked.
Are they all dead? Am I the only –
The distinct cracks of M4 rifles split the air. McGlothen spun around. He spotted three shadowy figures firing from behind an earthen berm at the Venezuelans.
He sprang to his feet and ran over to them. "Duke! Duke!"
One of the men turned around. "North Carolina!"
That confirmed it. They were 82nd Airborne.
McGlothen flopped down on his stomach next to them just as an AK round warbled over his head.
"That you, Lieutenant?" One of the men asked. McGlothen recognized him instantly. Sergeant James. With him were Privates Sutherland and Gonzalez.
"Affirmative, Sergeant." McGlothen put his sights on a Venezuelan firing near the rear of a truck. It took three bursts to take him down. "Have you been able to find anyone else from the platoon?"
"Campbell and Darwin. Looks like they bought it before they hit the ground."
A lump formed in McGlothen's throat. He shook off the deaths. If he didn't get his shit together more of his men would die.
"We can't stay here. We have to make contact with more of our men. Once we have enough we can launch a more coordinated counter-attack."
"Priority should be finding the guys with heavy weapons," said James. "We're not going to win this with just rifles."
"I agree."
Before McGlothen could give an order, orange strobes flashed among the trees to his left. The Venezuelans turned much of the fire in that direction.
"Looks like some more of our guys made it," said Gonzalez.
A deep chug-chug-chug cut through the never-ending pops of AK fire. The .50 cal. McGlothen watched its tracers streak toward the paratroopers in the woods.
"They ain't gonna last long with that fifty cal goin'," James noted.
McGlothen looked at the sergeant. James was right. No counter-attack would succeed while that heavy machine gun was operational. He looked over at the treeline, hoping to see one of his men loose an anti-tank rocket. None appeared. His throat went dry as he turned back to the EE-11. The gunner kept up a steady stream of fire.
They had to take out that machine gun. Now!
"James, Sutherland, Gonzalez. We're gonna work our way around the Venezuelans' right flank. When we get close to that APC, I'll toss some grenades at the machine gunner. You three cover me. Got it?"
"Yes, Sir," Sergeant James replied.
Sutherland and Gonzalez looked scared, but acknowledged McGlothen.
The four paratroopers sprinted away from the berm. McGlothen slung his M4 over his shoulder and pulled out two grenades. James and the two privates fired quick bursts as they ran, stopping briefly for cover behind trees or bushes or inshell craters. Some of the craters had bodies or parts of bodies around them.
They dashed toward a tree about twenty yards from the EE-11. AK rounds warbled through the air or punched into the ground.
Three of them struck flesh. Gonzalez gasped and fell. Sutherland blazed away while James checked on the fallen private.
"He's dead."
"Keep moving!" McGlothen turned away from Gonzalez. He couldn't afford to look at him, or think about him right now.
Bullets smacked against the tree. McGlothen peeked around it. The machine gunner continued to hose down the paratroopers on the other side of the road, his back to him.
It's now or never.
"Cover fire!"
James and Sutherland opened up. McGlothen pulled the pins on both grenades, tensed, and jumped out in the open. He threw one grenade, then the second, and dove back behind the tree. The first grenade exploded next to the EE-11's right center wheel. The second detonated on the vehicle's deck. The gunner threw his hands up over his head and tumbled to the ground.
"Yeah! Got him!" cheered Sutherland.
A stocky Venezuelan yelled and pointed emphatically at McGlothen and his men. Seven more marines turned toward them, AK-103s raised.
McGlothen swore he heard a crack in the distance. The stocky Venezuelan's head snapped back. A dark mass burst from his skull. The marines gawked at him, frozen in shock.
A second shot rang out. Another marine had his brains blown out. So did a third before the remaining ones found cover.
McGlothen turned around. Dozens of figures rushed from the trees and opened fire on the Venezuelans. They had to be from the Trinidadian Regiment.
Caught in the crossfire, the marines' numbers dwindled until less than twenty remained, half of whom were injured. That's when raised arms and white handkerchiefs appeared.
McGlothen, James and Sutherland advanced with the Trinidadians and secured the prisoners. He noticed one man out of place with the Trinidadians. He wore a leaf and grass covered ghillie suit and carried a Remington 700 rifle. That had to be the sniper from Shield International, Jaelin. McGlothen assumed he'd been the one to take out those Venezuelans right before the Trinidadians showed up.
"Lieutenant McGlothen! You around, Sir?"
"Over here, Sergeant!" Relief flooded him as he thanked God Sergeant First Class Espinosa had made it through.
"Is the rest of the platoon assembled?" McGlothen asked when Espinosa stood before him.
"What's left of it. We've got ten KIA, six wounded and two MIA."
"You can add two more to the KIA tally. Burke and Gonzalez." McGlothen clenched his teeth, praying he kept the worry off his face. They'd been on the ground barely 15 minutes and had lost nearly half the platoon.
"I'm sorry to bring you more bad news, Sir, but Giordano was one of the ones killed. He was carrying one of our Javelin launchers. The tube took two rounds. It's out of commission."
"Dammit." McGlothen scowled. He stared at the road leading to the south, to Valencia 30 miles away, where the 41st Armored Brigade was based. The Javelin anti-tank missile was the only weapon they had capable of destroying a Venezuelan AMX-30 main battle tank. Instead of having two, they were now down to one.
"We should scrounge the Venezuelans equipment," Espinosa suggested. "See if they have any heavy weapons we can use."
"Good thinking, Sergeant." McGlothen pointed to the EE-11. "That fifty caliber there should still be in good shape. Put a man on it."
"Yes, Sir."
"And start placing our IEDs on the road. We're bound to have company from Puerto Cabello soon."
"Yes, Sir."
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" A solidly-built young man carrying a SINCGARS field radio unit on his back hustled up to him.
"What is it, Corporal?"
Corporal Spillman, McGlothen's radioman, answered, "Message from Eclipse. Satellite's picked up another convoy of marines leaving Puerto Cabello, headed here. Six trucks, two jeeps and two APCs."
McGlothen just stared at Spillman in silence. It appeared they'd be having company sooner than expected.
XXXXX
Massive fireballs rose around Titanosaurus as he stomped through oil refineries and petrochemical plants in Pasadena. Thousands of people on the Pasadena Freeway, which had now become a parking lot, abandoned their vehicles and made a mad dash for safety. Most of them never made it, crushed beneath the monster's enormous feet.
The flames spread beyond the refineries and plants, setting neighborhoods, business parks and shopping plazas ablaze. Noxious smoke sickened thousands, and killed hundreds with respiratory ailments. The scope of the disaster overwhelmed Pasadena's police, fire and EMT personnel, at least the ones who survived Titanosaurus' attack.
The monster roared as it neared Houston. Despite the warnings from the Texas government for civilians to hunker down in basements or other forms of shelter, the majority of the city's six million residents tried to flee. It didn't take long before all the roads leading out of the city became gridlocked.
Titanosaurus waded across Buffalo Bayou. The Port of Houston Industrial Complex lay in his path. The monster crushed buildings, vehicles and shipping containers flat as it advanced toward Houston.
A rumbling sound filled the air. Titanosaurus paused and looked up. Six F-16s of the Texas Air National Guard rocketed through the night sky and dove on the monster. He roared, raised both hands, and fired his talons. All the kinetic-energy projectiles missed. Sleek, dark objects fell from the F-16s. Paveway laser guided bombs. Eight exploded against Titanosaurus. He just roared and continued on.
The F-16s continued their attack. Bombs, missiles and 20mm shells rained down on Titanosaurus. None of it slowed him down. One of the F-16s crossed in front of Titanosaurus. A swat of his right hand disintegrated the fighter.
When he reached the outskirts of Houston, Titanosaurus roared and turned around. The fin on his tail sprouted. He whipped it back and forth. Hurricane-force winds screamed through the city like a banshee. Vehicles and people spiraled through the air and smashed into buildings and lampposts. Windows exploded. Hundreds of thousands of glass shards streaked through the air, shredding anything in their path. Buildings toppled over. Houses and trees were ripped out of the ground.
Within minutes, Houston's Second Ward had been reduced to rubble, with most of its 14,000 residents dead or injured.
Titanosaurus roared and continued deeper into the city. He swung his tail back and forth. Each swipe shattered dozens of homes and buildings. As Titanosaurus neared the Eastex Freeway, he launched a barrage of talons. Overpasses exploded. Hundreds of cars and people tumbled through the air and slammed into the ground. More talons tore apart the gleaming steel and glass structure of the George R Brown Convention Center.
Tremors rippled through the ground. Titanosaurus halted his attack and turned east. A towering dark shape marched toward him, illuminated by the glow of hundreds of fires throughout Houston.
Titanosaurus roared.
Godzilla roared and unleashed a gusher of atomic fire.
XXXXX
Captain Borgman stared at the monitor showing the CIA satellite feed as one of van Speijk's 76mm shells exploded near the marine convoy. He heard and felt another thump from the gun when Lieutenant Yrlund, the air warfare officer, called out, "Two aerial contacts taking off from Puerto Cabello. Identified as Mi-17 helicopters."
"Bearing?"
"They are over the water, approaching our position, ten kilometers out."
Borgman clenched his jaw. He hesitated using any of his Sea Sparrow surface-to-air missiles against helicopters. Their 76mm gun could easily take care of the Mi-17s. He'd rather hold on to the missiles in the event they had to deal with enemy jets.
But the American and Trinidadian ground troops were depending on that gun for fire support. Without it, they risked being overrun.
"Yrlund. Target Sea Sparrows on enemy helicopters."
"Yes, Captain. Sea Sparrows locked on targets."
"Fire."
"Firing. Missile one away . . . missile two away."
Borgman watched the missile tracks. The Mi-17s went into a series of sharp turns. Green clouds blotted out parts of the screen. Aluminum chaff, designed to fool the SAMs' radar.
It didn't. Both missiles connected with the Venezuelan helicopters. Two flares appeared on the satellite image, then vanished a few seconds later.
The 76mm gun banged away. A couple of shells struck the road ahead of the marine convoy, cratering it. One of the EE-11s tried to drive through it and got hung up. Another shell obliterated the APC.
The rest of the convoy halted. Marines jumped out of their vehicles and scattered in the woods. More shells came down on them.
"Sub-surface contact!" hollered Sergeant Mickers, van Speijk's chief sonar operator. "Bearing zero-five-seven, fifteen hundred meters."
A flash of fear went through Borgman. It had to be one of the Venezuelan subs. "Vector our helicopter to that position."
"I have torpedo tubes opening," Mickers reported. "Two torpedoes in the water! Two enemy torpedoes in the water!"
XXXXX
Ruffin peered around the corner. Two Venezuelan marines lay dead in the corridor, victims of the grenades he and Fetisov had thrown half-a-minute before. He had hoped one of them might be wounded and alive. They needed intel on the exact location of the control room. Ruffin figured it had to be four or five floors up. Maybe six. Hell, he had no idea how far up the complex went. No one did.
He resisted the urge to curse. People in his line of work hated going into a situation like this without knowing the layout of their target. Unfortunately, developing that sort of intelligence took time, and time was something they didn't have.
Ruffin and the other commandoes moved down the corridor without encountering resistance. He came to a door leading to a stairwell and opened it. Both he and Fetisov swept the space with their weapons. Clear. The Men proceeded up the stairs until they reached the door for the fourth floor. Could the control room be on this floor? Ruffin felt it should be higher. Still they had to be sure.
He stood alongside the frame, pushed the door open, and swung around, MP5 up.
The silver-suited form of a Simbaaku filled his vision.
TO BE CONTINUED