Overwatch: A Thriller Page 28

  Two down. This is going to get messy.

  Logan looked to his right to see Mike firing an MP5 10mm submachine gun, his personal weapon with which he’d trained within the FBI.

  John and the sergeant major dragged the colonel until they reached cover behind a desk. Logan looked down and saw the commanding officer was gone, his open eyes rolled back in his head.

  Motherfucker . . . Another innocent casualty to add to Cain’s rising death toll. He breathed deeply to control the rage that coursed through his veins.

  John saw the anguish on the sergeant major’s face, and he said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant Major. He’s gone.”

  Logan watched as the other man’s grief quickly turned to a mask of vindictive hatred. The sergeant major said, “I’m going to kill as many of those fuckers as I can. No way they get away with this shit. No fucking way!”

  The gunfight outside the COC ebbed back and forth. Bullets entered the COC as the hostile security force realized there were Marines inside firing at them. Rounds bounced off the walls and careened off the ceiling and floor.

  Logan calculated his options, looking for any tactical advantage he could exploit.

  It’s turning into a Mexican standoff. Christ . . .

  He watched as the HRI personnel worked their way toward the rear of the two Cougars closest to the COC. Some of the men provided cover as the rest loaded up into the back of the two vehicles.

  What the hell are they doing? Logan wondered. There’s nowhere to go.

  The Marines concentrated their fire on the vehicles, but the bullets had no impact. The vehicles’ heavy armor easily deflected the well-placed shots. Nothing short of a direct hit with a tank round would stop one of them.

  He looked at John and opened his mouth to speak. Suddenly, the deafening sound of .50-caliber gunfire drowned out the small-caliber automatic weapons.

  Logan ducked his head under the desk as the gunner in the lead vehicle swiveled the Browning toward the COC and opened fire.

  This is going to hurt.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The inside of the COC was transformed into a whirlwind of shattered furniture, computers, and electronics as .50-caliber rounds impacted everything in sight. Those who dove to the floor survived. An unlucky few were killed instantly, their bodies suffering grievous wounds from the heavy-caliber machine gun.

  The gunfire continued for at least fifteen seconds. Chunks of concrete were torn from the walls; racks of electronics and radios exploded in sparks and flame. The COC was turned into a scene of utter devastation.

  So this is how it ends, Logan thought.

  BOOM!

  A tremendous explosion shook the entire facility as Scott Carlson fired his SMAW—the loudest weapon in the Marine Corps arsenal—at the metal doors at the far end of the bay.

  The 83mm rocket sailed through the air toward its target, streaking only feet above the heads of several Marines near the decoy Humvees.

  The rocket struck the sliding metal doors, and a second explosion shook the dam. The doors were blown outward, and an enormous, gaping hole appeared, allowing sunlight to stream into the bay.

  The Marines shook their heads to clear the silence most of them were suddenly experiencing. The SMAW and the resultant explosion had temporarily deafened them.

  The .50-caliber fire stopped.

  At least that’s one small mercy, Logan thought as he leapt up from behind cover and edged to the right side of the door, finally gaining a vantage point of the entire scene.

  Amid the carnage of bodies and ammunition shells, Logan immediately recognized what Cain’s plan was. Most of the gunfire had subsided. Cain’s men were almost completely loaded into the vehicles.

  John appeared at Logan’s side and saw it as well. “Christ. He’s going to drive his way out of here, and we don’t have anything that can stop those beasts.”

  “Yes, we do. Cover me.” Before John could object, Logan West shot out of the COC and sprinted along the back wall toward the far entrance.

  John was shocked at his friend’s sudden move, but after years of training and shared combat, he instantly intuited where he was going and what he planned to do.

  Oh my God. He’s completely insane. Still, he opened fire, hoping to draw attention away from the fleeing figure of Logan West.

  * * *

  As the Marines recovered from the explosions and .50-caliber onslaught, Cain yelled, “Scott, we need to move now! We only have seconds left before they recover! Go! Go! Go!”

  As Scott started the 330 hp engine, Cain glimpsed a flash of movement from the left. Was that Logan West, sprinting at full speed along the back wall? What the hell is he doing?

  As Cain watched, Logan dodged in and out of cover, never slowing his stride, working his way toward the far end of the bay.

  Then Cain saw the finish line of Logan’s run, and like John Quick had, he realized what the next move was. Oh no you don’t, you sonofabitch!

  “Scott,” Cain said calmly, “if you don’t punch it now, we’re not getting out of here.” He suddenly raised his voice and screamed, “Move!” as if kicking a stubborn mule in the side. It had the intended effect, and the Cougar lurched forward, grabbing at the concrete floor as it gained traction, screeching along the way.

  It was a good old-fashioned footrace, but Logan West had set his high school record for the forty-yard dash while on the football team his sophomore year. Man versus Cougar. It was an even match, but this was no game, and Logan intensely focused on his objective. He breathed heavily and deeply but in control. This is going to work. I know it.

  He visualized every action he had to execute once he reached the end of the bay. It was going to be close.

  Eighty yards . . . He saw a few Marines from this end of the bay turn toward him from behind cover as he moved past their positions, a blur of speed.

  “Open fire and slow the Cougars down! They’re coming your way!” he barked through gasping breaths. He didn’t wait for their reaction.

  Sixty yards . . . Logan heard the convoy moving through the carnage toward him. Cain had taken advantage of the lull in the battle to get his vehicles running.

  The sound of gunfire once again filled the top of the dam. Marines directed their fire at the convoy as the vehicles weaved their way in and out of the gigantic stone pillars, entrenched Marines, Humvees, and trucks strewn throughout the bay.

  Thirty yards . . . He’d be there in seconds. The Cougars were still three pillars away—at least 130 yards.

  Ten yards . . . Get ready, this is for keeps . . .

  He reached his destination and leapt into the air. His right foot struck the passenger-side running board as he launched himself into the open cabin of a lone, twelve-foot high, seven-ton truck. The behemoth was a six-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicle used by the Marine Corps to tow anything from water and fuel supplies to howitzer cannons.

  Logan had a different purpose in mind for this one, as his momentum carried him across the small gap between the seats, and he landed squarely in the driver’s seat with a jarring thud.

  He spared a glance through the two-inch bulletproof glass. The convoy had gained speed and momentum, even as the entire assembled force of Marines concentrated their fire on it.

  Unlike a commercial vehicle, the seven-ton truck Logan had chosen had no key ignition. Logan turned the silver ignition switch and was rewarded with a series of beeps, indicating the battery switch on the back of the cab was on. Thank God . . .

  He remembered a staff sergeant once told him that Marines were prone to leave the battery switches in the up and “on” position. It allowed them to get the hell out of sticky situations a few seconds faster. Logan had counted on it.

  As soon as the beeps stopped, Logan turned the switch, and the 425hp engine roared to life.

  Now for the fun part.

  Logan slammed the gearshift into drive, released the clutch, and pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard. The truck lurched forward, quickly gai
ning speed.

  Logan was fifty yards from the hole blown into the bay doors by the SMAW.

  Cain’s convoy moved faster.

  Logan watched all five vehicles approaching from the right. He aimed the front of the seven-ton directly toward the opening and revved the engine, shifting gears as rapidly as he could. The seven-ton gained ground and power as it moved to intercept the escaping Cougars.

  This is going to be close.

  The convoy was only thirty yards away and approaching fast. Logan didn’t have time to think as he braced himself for the impending impact.

  The truck was fifteen yards from the opening when Logan finally realized he’d calculated correctly. He was going to make it. He looked through the windshield at the lead Cougar and saw its two occupants staring at him, mouths agape.

  Logan managed a smile, but then the smile was wiped away as his seven-ton truck struck the front left quarter of the Cougar at forty miles per hour. The violent impact threw Logan toward the steering wheel, the wheel itself whipping to the left. Logan never let off the gas. As he tried to control the steering wheel, he kept the pedal pinned to the floor.

  The force of the seven-ton, magnified by the several layers of armor, threw the Cougar off course and to the right, even as Scott tried to slam on the brakes. Logan paid no attention as the remaining four vehicles drove past them through the hole in the bay doors. This was the only one that truly mattered.

  Logan, now in control of the seven-ton, blinked his eyes as blood poured into them. Must have hit my head . . .

  He shifted again, leveraging the lower gears for more power. The truck pushed the wounded Cougar sideways.

  Logan was only ten feet from the cab of their windshield. He saw Cain—he recognized him immediately since he was one of the most powerful figures in the global private military-industrial complex—in the passenger seat screaming at the driver, who fought to regain control of the Cougar. Good luck, asshole.

  Logan looked hard at the driver, images from Fallujah surging from beneath the surface of his memory. It can’t be. But it was. The cold certainty of it gripped him momentarily like an ice-cold vise.

  The driver of Cain Frost’s Cougar was none other than James, the treacherous CIA agent who’d set his Marines on a path to their deaths. The sonofabitch must be Scott Carlson, Cain’s second. Logan didn’t know how James—now Scott—had come to be in the employment of Cain Frost, and he didn’t care. He stared momentarily at the man who had haunted his nightmares, a man he’d vowed to kill. It’s almost time, motherfucker.

  Logan averted his gaze from Scott’s face and locked eyes with Cain. Then Logan did something unexpected. He smiled at Cain and pointed straight ahead, gesturing with his index figure as he did so.

  Cain stared back, confused. The seven-ton continued to grind, bullying the Cougar sideways at will.

  A sudden look of horror appeared on Cain’s face. Cain shouted something to Scott, who jerked his head to look at Logan.

  Logan made a “bye-bye” gesture with his right hand, smiling the entire time. Knowing that his enemy understood what was about to happen, Logan put his hand back on the steering wheel and gripped it with all his strength.

  The seven-ton pushed the Cougar ten more feet. Logan heard a metallic pop, the sound of steel bending.

  Logan revved the engine one last time, pushing forward. It’s done.

  The front of the Cougar tilted upward as the vehicle breached the railing at the edge of the bay.

  Logan yanked open the driver’s door, keeping his foot on the gas as long as he could. The Cougar passed the tipping point, and Logan stole one last look into its cab. He thought he heard screaming, but he wasn’t sure and didn’t care. The Cougar disappeared over the edge.

  Logan didn’t hesitate. He dove from the cab of the seven-ton as its momentum carried it through the gap in the railing, chasing after the Cougar. He landed on the hard concrete and rolled several times.

  Oh no, he thought as his momentum carried him directly toward the open air. He heard two huge splashes as the Cougar and seven-ton landed in the river below. He was certain he was about to follow them over the edge, but then his roll was stopped as his back slammed directly into a pole in part of the railing that remained intact. His breath was knocked out of him, and he steadied himself against the sensation that he was about to pass out.

  He opened his eyes. The gunfire inside the bay had stopped. Blessed silence . . .

  He lay on his stomach, his face resting on the concrete edge of the bay, squinting as the Iraqi sun poured down on him. He looked down into the river, and he saw the back of the seven-ton bobbing in the water. The Cougar was on its left side. There was no movement around the vehicle. Whether the men in the back of the Cougar had been killed or knocked unconscious, the end result would be the same. The vehicle began to sink into the dark Euphrates water.

  Logan thought he heard someone shout his name: his ears still rang from the sounds of the battle.

  He was about to turn toward the main part of the bay where the firefight had begun when a sudden glint of metal flashed in his eyes from the water below. He put his hands over his eyes to shield them from the sun and searched for the shining object in the murky water below. He found the source of the reflection thirty yards away from the sinking Cougar and seven-ton.

  Oh, fuck . . .

  Both Cain Frost and Scott Carlson had survived the fall and were swimming away from the dam. A large, metallic briefcase trailed in the water behind Cain, held in his left hand. To Logan’s surprise, he saw a SURC moving toward the survivors.

  He’s going to rescue them. I need to get someone to radio that patrol boat. The sound of footsteps stopped next to him, and Logan turned to see John Quick staring at him in amazement.

  Before he could speak, Logan said, “It’s him. I don’t know how, but’s it’s him.”

  “Who, Logan?” John asked.

  “Scott Carlson, Cain’s chief of operations. I’m assuming that’s who was driving Cain. The motherfucker is James, our CIA friend from Fallujah.”

  “Christ, after all this time . . .”

  Logan looked into his friend’s eyes and saw the pain from old memories. “I know. It’s crazy. We’ll figure it out later, but first someone needs to radio that boat and tell that operator the men he’s about to rescue are the ones we’re trying to stop. Looks like Cain’s got the bomb too.”

  Logan stood up, almost falling over as John steadied him. He saw three Marines approaching. “Any of you have a radio?” he asked.

  Before they could answer, John said, “I don’t think we have to worry about the driver’s safety anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?” Logan snapped his head back toward the river, only to see the driver helping Cain Frost out of the river and onto the SURC. Scott was already on the deck. All three men shook hands and smiled warmly at one another in recognition.

  “Oh shit. He had a backup plan.” They watched as the small patrol boat turned around and sped down the Euphrates River, moving toward the city of Haditha itself, five miles away.

  “John,” Logan said slowly, “can someone please get me a helicopter? This isn’t over just yet.”

  CHAPTER 52

  TOP OF THE HADITHA DAM

  Captain Barnett had lost contact with the COC at the first sounds of the intense firefight below. He knew something had obviously gone wrong, but Colonel Walker’s orders had been specific.

  “If something happens and this goes sideways, it’s your job to make sure none of the bastards get away. You understand, Jack?”

  Captain Barnett understood. Other than the sergeant major (who didn’t really count since he was the colonel’s right hand and wielded more power than any captain in the Marine Corps), he was the lowest-ranking officer to be fully briefed on Cain Frost and his sociopathic intentions. There was no way in hell he would let Frost get away with this madness if he had anything to say about it. He’d seen enough death and mayhem—hell, been respons
ible for plenty of it himself—to last several lifetimes. Another war would only lead to more of the same.

  The explosions rattled the concrete roof where he sat atop two large olive-green boxes. He fought the urge to climb down into the heart of the dam. As much as his instincts and training urged him to run toward the fight, he knew that for right now, for this moment, his job was up here. So he silently prayed for the Marines below and waited as the battle raged on. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  The gunfire picked up in intensity, and he would’ve sworn he heard several .50-caliber machine guns firing simultaneously.

  That’s not good for someone.

  Then the firing stopped as abruptly as it started, the silence followed moments later by two thunderous explosions, the second one coming from his left.

  He spoke into the handset on the AN/PRC-117 VHF manpack radio at his feet. “FSC, this is Black Sky. Anything from the COC yet?”

  The Fire Support Center responded, “Not yet. Sounds like things are getting crazy up there.”

  “No kidding, FSC, I’m about—” was all he had time to say before he heard a splash in the river below. A second dramatic splash followed moments later.

  “FSC, wait one.” He dropped the handset, slid off the olive-green containers, carefully avoiding the large weapon lying on the roof, and ran over to the edge of the dam.

  Good Christ almighty. One of HRI’s Cougars was slowly sinking below the surface of the water. Then he saw the truck. Is that a seven-ton?

  Captain Barnett knew it was. He just hoped the crazy driver had escaped before plummeting over the edge. He saw movement in the water, but his attention shifted as he heard the roar of powerful engines to his left.

  Four Cougars sped down the dirt road away from the dam, weaving in and out of the tactically positioned Jersey barriers. Marines manning the checkpoints along the half-mile road to the main gate opened fire. The assault rifles and 7.62-caliber machine guns had no effect on the powerful antimine vehicles. The rounds ricocheted off the bulletproof glass and armor.