Chapter 22 - THE TRANSATLANTIC THUNDER
Six hours into the flight, thirty-five thousand feet over the pitch-black swells of the North Atlantic, the cabin was submerged in deep red combat lighting. Most of the operators slept with their heads slumped against their rucksacks, conserving energy before the violence to come. Elena sat at the forward planning table beneath a single overhead map lamp, her grandfather’s rifle resting across the steel surface like a patient carnivore.
Beside her, Lieutenant Torres and First Sergeant Miller leaned over the satellite printouts.
"The target is an annex facility three miles outside the port city of Qalat-al-Zayt," Elena said, her finger tracing a rugged promontory jutting into the southern Mediterranean. "Officially, it’s a diplomatic communications relay. Unofficially, it’s a regional CIA listening post tracking illicit weapons shipments moving through North Africa."
"Who hit it?" Torres asked, studying the thermal overheads. "Local militia? Extremists?"
"Neither," Elena said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin tone. She flipped the page to reveal high-resolution aerial photography of the courtyard. Bodies of annex security guards lay near the shattered gate, each dropped with clean center-mass double-taps. "Look at the dispersion. Look at the tactical geometry. Militia doesn't clear a compound with overlapping fields of fire and linear bounding overwatch. These men are private military contractors."
Miller leaned closer, his eyes narrowing at the grainy blowups of the attackers' kit. "Crye Precision uniforms. Unmarked plate carriers. High-cut ballistic helmets with dual-tube night vision. They’re running Western gear."
"They're a shell company called Apex Tactical Solutions," Elena revealed, tapping a dossier sheet stamped with financial tracking numbers. "Registered in Cyprus, funded through offshore shell accounts out of the Caymans. And guess who sits on the advisory board of the parent hedge fund?"
Torres’s jaw clenched. "Senator Thomas Rourke."
"The father of the little prince who tried to ruin this company," Miller growled, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the steel table. "The same bastard who had Caleb hand you this scarred rifle to turn you into a laughingstock."
Elena’s hand moved unconsciously to the cool walnut stock beside her. Her thumb grazed the deep indentation where an AK-47 round had gouged the wood fifty-five years ago in the hands of her grandfather.
"Rourke’s son failed on the rifle range," Elena said quietly. "Now the father is covering his tracks. The annex holds six American intelligence analysts and hard drives containing five years of back-channel communications between Apex Tactical and corrupt defense procurement committees in Washington. If those analysts talk, or if those drives reach the Pentagon intact, Senator Rourke doesn't just lose an election—he goes to federal prison for treason."
"So the hostages aren't meant to be ransomed," Torres realized, a cold sweat breaking out on his temple. "They’re meant to be liquidated."
"And Company B was chosen to go in because Rourke thought his injunction would freeze us on the tarmac," Elena said. "With us grounded, the annex would fall, the bodies would be burned, and Apex Tactical would vanish into the desert. But we’re in the air. We touch down on the deck of the USS *Bataan* in two hours to stage the heliborne assault."
Elena looked down at the rifle. The pitted parkerized steel gleamed under the red light.
May you like
"Check your weapons, gentlemen," Elena commanded softly. "When we hit that compound, there are no rules of engagement other than absolute survival. Rourke wanted to break me with this wood and steel. Before this night is over, I’m going to make him choke on it."
***
