Gradually, the hull began to sway.
Another swell struck the fifteen-meter white waterline, lapping back and forth at the faded red antifouling paint that had been eaten away below.
Thick gas had begun leaking from the air-conditioning vents. In the rain-soaked night, it showed as a pale, goose-down yellow. Through night-vision, visibility aft of the bridge was dropping fast; clumps of dancing noise crowded the image as the gas filled the space.
Behind the containers, the four operators of the task force strained to separate ambient sounds from the frantic footsteps of the mercenaries trapped in what had become a sauna. Most of the defenders who hadn't managed to don chemical protection were already down.
Captain John Hastings's watch vibrated sharply as the timer expired. He keyed the intercom, tilting his head to issue the next order:
"Don masks."
In the shadowed lee of the rectangular cover, the operators pulled MITR-M1 half-face respirators from their kits, flipped down their NVGs, and moved forward in a low, alert crouch.
Peering cautiously around the edge, Captain Hastings resembled a Brazilian wandering spider loaded with neurotoxin. The four reddened lenses of his NVGs stared forward without emotion. Fine water beads clung to the nylon straps; the plastic mask drew in damp, cold air—one steady breath in, one steady breath out.
"Gray-2, bounding overwatch."
He was first to step out high, rifle raised. Logan followed tight. On the opposite side, Django rested the LAMG on the container lip while Finn began his move.
"Last man."
Django lifted the machine gun, slapped Finn's back twice. Hastings flipped down his G33 magnifier and raised the HK437 NG, acquiring a silhouette in the thick fog around the bridge windows. He noted the cracks and shuddering in the glass—the mercenaries inside were trying to break out.
He signaled Finn on the left flank for permission to engage. They alternated three double-taps each, and six potential threats dropped with muffled thuds in the NVG image.
The two elements climbed the exterior stairs, combat boots ringing against stainless steel. Heavy shadows folded beneath the deck floodlights. Both teams went low at the door, weapons clamped tight.
"Stun grenade."
"Throwing!"
The first man punched the window with his buttstock; the second lobbed an M84 inside. The blast and instantaneous white bloom briefly cleared the gas. In the second it took for the irritant to flow back in, the operators rose from cover, riding the ringing and mild disorientation.
"Breach! Breach!"
They rolled over the sill, linked up in the smoke, and reformed into a diamond. The HVAC had already pulled half the gas; visibility improved, though exposed skin around their eyes still itched and burned.
Masks came off; everyone took an involuntary hit of residual agent.
"Hold formation—move!"
Hastings and Logan took point, deliberately amplifying their footfalls to apply rapid psychological pressure.
Hastings switched to his offset red-dot and scanned forward. Suddenly the bridge alarm shrieked; rotating red warning lamps instantly painted the interior crimson—smoke, bulkheads, scattered AKs, and unconscious or precisely neutralized mercenaries.
Stepping over the carnage, the operators periodically glanced at any defenders still twitching. Before they could raise sidearms, the team took turns dropping muzzles and finishing threats.
"Contact front!"
The sharp-eyed captain called it, swinging his offset dot onto two targets, tilting the rifle sharply to center mass and delivering four clean double-taps.
"Two down!"
Finn and Django followed two paces back—one covering the port windows, the other watching the rear stairwell.
The team sliced into the wheelhouse and killed their NVGs. Green radar screens and blinking white-yellow consoles were shrouded in deep-red haze, light bleeding into a web of diffused spots.
"Clear."
After sweeping the empty bridge, Logan cracked a chem-light and dropped the blue glow beside the doorframe.
"Lights off!"
Weapon lights went dark. They descended two narrow steel ladders into the sinking gas layer, masks back on. In total darkness they flipped NVGs down again, feeling their way along cold bulkheads and handrails, guided only by the IR flood of their AN/PEQ-15s.
The team entered the main deck corridor. The rear man double-tapped shoulders as pairs peeled off to pie left and right officer berthings and conference rooms.
"Clear." / "Clear."
Before they could fully reform, multiple medium-caliber bursts erupted from the far end. Muzzle flashes illuminated three mercenaries advancing in the dark, wearing basic respirators and hugging the starboard bulkhead.
Django ducked back as sparks and fragments burst off the wall, then used the corner as an arm rest, braced the LAMG, and hosed sustained fire, dropping two.
He pulled back and slapped Finn twice.
Finn went low, waited a beat for precision, then executed a failure-to-stop drill on the remaining mercenary—four deliberate rounds until the threat stopped.
"Threat neutralized!"
Hastings and Logan leaned out to confirm no survivors, then waved Django and Finn forward. With the narrower space, Logan—running the MCX Rattler Gen 4—took point.
He tossed an M18 smoke grenade to cover movement.
Entering the living quarters, the team began systematic room-to-room clearance: stacking outside, listening at the door.
Logan eased the door open; Hastings low-tossed a flashbang that rolled inside. At detonation they crossed in, slicing left and right corners.
Django and Finn entered two seconds later, clearing center and deep, checking under bunks and inside lockers.
Suddenly Logan caught movement in his peripheral.
"Suicide vest!"
He bellowed it, diving sideways without hesitation and ripping controlled bursts into the mercenary reaching for the detonator cord.
Once the threat was down, he stayed prone, rolled to cover the opposite side, and confirmed no one under the bunk.
"Flanks clear!"
He rose, shook his head with a wry grin, and rejoined the stack.
Hastings cracked another chem-light and dropped it, then thumped Logan's plate carrier in approval before leading them out.
"Open area—watch spacing."
They moved into the mess deck and galley. Gas was thinner here; dozens of tables provided natural cover.
Switching to dynamic clearance, they bounded in pairs, ten-meter intervals, alternating overwatch.
Catching a glance in a full-length mirror, Hastings spotted movement behind tables with uncanny speed.
"Five plus—grenade!"
"Frag out!"
Logan pulled the pin and lobbed an offensive grenade high toward Hastings's signal. The spoon pinged off as it flew.
White smoke and leaping sparks erupted. The mercenaries scrambled low to ride the blast wave.
"Contact! Contact! Contact!"
In the strobing red light, everyone acquired and engaged. Rifles recoiled hard in controlled bursts; thin veils of gas parted from suppressed muzzles like high-pressure water injected into oil—slightly underwhelming in slow motion, but devastating and continuous in real time.
"Three o'clock—two down!"
"Noon—two down!"
"Ten o'clock—last one!"
Mag changes on the move: empty dropped, fresh seated, bolt released, muzzle back on threat.
Past the final row of tables—clear.
"Area clear—keep pushing."
Ahead, a narrow passage terminated in a locked steel security door. Hastings signaled Finn—carrying the breaching shotgun attachment—forward. Finn raised the weapon over-shoulder, aimed at the lock, and fired a Dragon's Breath round.
A jet of burning magnesium erupted from the serrated muzzle, hammering the lock in a searing roar and lingering hiss. The NVG image flared white-hot.
"Breach!"
Between dancing IR lasers, two mercenaries tried to flee toward the engine room. One swung around with an RPG-7 already shouldered.
"Bound and cover—move!"
Time critical. Hastings and Logan advanced under fire; Django and Finn lagged a beat to suppress.
They prioritized the rocketeer, then Hastings dropped the last runner.
"Finn, status topside."
Halting at the red-painted security door the mercenaries had been desperate to reach, Hastings crouched to search the bodies while querying the team's drone operator.
"Superstructure quiet—Code 4."
Hastings stood, rapped the door with his knuckles—solid steel.
"Copy."
After a final sweep of adjacent spaces, the team safetied weapons and approached the door.
"This has to be it."
Captain John Hastings examined the square electronic lock panel. No keypad—just a concealed iris scanner.
"Get him up."
He pointed to the mercenary officer on the deck. Logan nodded, hooked under the armpits, and hauled.
"Fuck—little help here, Captain."
Hastings grabbed the body and steadied it while Logan maneuvered the face toward the scanner. The laser flashed green, followed by a long, satisfying tone.
"One of the best damn sounds in the world, brother."
Finn quipped to Django from the side. The two bumped fists.
"Fuckin' A."