Stirling and Jock rushed outside and down the metalled ladders. The ship rocked in the swell, and the sound of helicopters whirred overhead, men shouted and the clanging metal hit them like the icy blast of wind. Then boom, an explosion thumped somewhere below deck. Stirling went past a faded red ‘three’ painted on the entrance hatch to the third deck. Smoke bellowed out the heavy steel door. Stirling heard shouts coming from inside the smoky gloom. He half-turned back to Jock. Jock nodded and Stirling brought the butt of his sub-machine gun into the centre of his chest. The sharp beam of torchlight from Stirling’s MP-5 caught the pluming smoke and lit up the floating sediment, and it parted like a curtain in front of them. They swept through the crew’s canteen, quick and silent. One fluorescent tube flickered on the ceiling. There were rows of plastic tables and chairs scattered around.
A sting caught the back of Stirling’s throat and he felt the burn around his eyes and nose. He knew the feeling very well. He could smell the smoke, and it was laced with the repulsive sweet, sewer taste of chlorine. Someone had thrown a smoke grenade, and Jock said, just as Stirling thought it: “That’s bloody CS gas, boss.”
“Fuck it,” Stirling said, more to himself than anyone else.
It crossed his mind to put on his respirator, but it would take time, and they were trained to overcome the recoil in their mind and override the body’s pain, as their eyes burned and their throats closed. It wasn’t nerve agent.
They heard panicked shouts coming from beyond the opposite door.
Stirling jerked his head towards it, and Jock moved past him in a crouch and slipped through the door and into the darkness. Stirling turned the corner and went to the right. It was like someone turned the volume up on the shouts. There was a din and competing voices yelled over one another.
Three balaclava black-clad special forces raiders stood in front of Stirling. In front of them, with his back to Stirling, was a man in a white robe, long flowing black hair, and he held a switch in his right hand. In his left, he had another soldier by the throat. The smoke drifted and wafted out of the doors. It was chaotic.
The soldier struggled in the terrorist’s grip. The others in his fire team were screaming at the white-robed man: “let him go!”, “drop the switch!”, ”don’t move!”
The suicide bomber sensed Jock and Stirling behind and half turned. He tried to move his back against the wall and the soldier in his grip resisted and leaned forward. The situation was getting out of control. The white-robed terrorist lifted his right arm and started praying:
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
Panic. The pitch of the shouting rose and was more frantic.
“He’s going to do it! He’s going to do it!”
The soldier in his arms looked at Stirling. Their eyes locked. And Stirling saw him nod. His eyes were wide behind the holes in his balaclava. Stirling felt a calm wash over him like a wave on running up against the beach. He took a deep breath in. The terrorist closed his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. The soldier in his arms struggled frantically.
“Pull up your socks!” Stirling shouted and took a single shuffle forward to set himself, the soldier lunged forward and opened up a space between him and the suicide bomber. The light from Stirling’s rifle lit up the terrorist’s face. He pressed the trigger.
Tap.
The first round hit the terrorist between the eyes. His forehead imploded with the impact and his eyes locked back in his skull. Stirling took another shuffle forward, like a boxer throwing a jab and depressed the trigger.
Tap-tap.
The next two rounds slammed into the divot of the terrorists neck, between his collar bones and right above his sternum. Once fired, the hollow-points spread and widened. This transferred the bullet’s energy into the target, and sent a shock wave through the soft tissue. In slow motion it reverberated out like the force of a knockout punch. The soldier broke free and dropped to his knees and touched his throat and coughed violently. Stirling stood over the top of the collapsed body.
“Merry Christmas, motherfucker,” Stirling said through gritted teeth.
Jock rushed forward and pinned the terrorist’s thumb and took out the detonation switch.
“He’s down boss,” Jock said.
Stirling looked at what was left of the terrorist’s face. The centre mass of his skull was imploded, like the top of a bloody volcano.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Stirling asked Jock wryly.
The Glaswegian glanced at him quickly and then laughed.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”
“Come on step back, step back,” one of the other soldiers said and pulled Stirling back gently by the shoulder, “did you just tough talk a dead body?” he asked, “that is going straight in the regiment’s quote book. Who is this?”
“Contact, wait out,” Stirling heard someone say, and send the contact report to mission headquarters.
Stirling took in deep breaths through his nose. His nostrils and back of his throat burned and his tear ducts stung with the gas.
“Right, you,” Stirling said, and four finger Brecon-pointed at one of the other fire team, “get on the net, get EOD down here. Tell them there could be a bomb-makers workshop on this ship. Get zero-alpha to send out a Charlie-Charlie-One, let everyone know.”
“Roger.”
“Actions on IED. Let’s get out of here,” Stirling said to the rest of the guys, “seal these doors, get tape on them.”