The shock of cold water stole my breath. I kicked toward the freighter's hull, every stroke a battle against the weight of soaked gear: drysuit, buoyancy vest, rifle slung tight, and pack heavy with empty cargo nets. Ghost surged ahead, guiding me with barely a glance. I focused on his silhouette, matching his rhythm.
At the hull, I found the ladder Ghost had hooked over the rail. I gripped the bottom rung and heaved upward. My boots hit the deck with a wet thud. The metal was slick with salt spray and algae; my glove slipped for a heartbeat, but I righted myself before I could fall. Soap was already crouched by the hold hatch, his rifle across his knees, eyes scanning the deck.
"Move," Price's whisper cut through the night.
Ghost and I hustled forward. Gaz was halfway through cutting the hatch's seal with a silent hydraulic cutter. The hiss of gas escaping was the only sound besides our breathing. Soap slipped inside first, disappearing into darkness. I followed, stepping over the threshold into the hold.
The air was thick with the smell of diesel and damp wood. Crates were stacked in neat rows, each one a standard military shipping box—sturdy plywood, reinforced at the corners, stamped with serial numbers and foreign manufacturer codes. These crates held the enemy's next wave of small arms and explosives, ready to arm militants or fund terror. Our orders: deny them those weapons and collect every detail for intelligence.
I crouched beside the first crate, fingers brushing the stencilled marking: "MX-5 FRAG — HANDLE WITH CARE." I slipped a blade under the lid's rim, pried it open, and peered inside at neatly packed blocks of C-4. My breath caught—this wasn't merely ammo, it was a bomb-making factory in a box. Soap's steady hand tapped my shoulder.
"Net one," he murmured.
Together, we slid the crate onto the deck and clipped it into the cargo net Ghost had positioned earlier. The net's straps bit into the wood as I cinched the buckles tight. Then on to the second, the third, each one heavier than the last—not just from weight, but from the consequence they carried. Denying these explosives and rifles meant fewer roadside bombs, fewer firefights, and fewer civilian casualties.
"Four down, two to go," Gaz's voice crackled in my ear.
My knee protested each lift, but adrenaline drowned out the ache. We worked in practised silence, every movement precise. Outside, the distant drone of a patrol boat grew louder—their sweep pattern intersecting ours in another two minutes.
"Last one," Ghost whispered.
I prised open the final crate, revealing rows of AK-style rifles stacked snugly on their sides. The wood- and plastic-framed weapons gleamed under my helmet light, a stark reminder of the jobs these crates could do in the wrong hands. I loaded it onto the deck, secured the net, and double-checked every buckle.
Price's voice: "Rail. Now."
We retraced our steps to the side hatch. Ghost slipped over first, disappearing into black water. Gaz followed, then Soap. I paused at the ladder, pressed the first rung with my uninjured foot, and slid down. The second rung wobbled under my weight, but I held fast and plunged back into the Adriatic.
The cold hit me again as I broke the surface, but I kicked toward the waiting RHIB. Ghost's hand found mine; Soap's gloved arm steadied me. We kept low, no splashes, no bubbles. When I reached the boat's side, I wrapped an arm around the tube and hauled myself aboard. My wet boots slapped on the deck.
Price started the engine. The RHIB surged forward, cutting a pale wake in the black water. I sank to my knees, chest heaving, saltwater dripping from my hair. Around me, the team re-secured the nets and loaded rifles for immediate reaction.
No alarms. No shots. Mission accomplished.
But as we sped toward the support ship, I sat covered in salt and shaken by the weight of those crates—aware that each one we'd lifted would now never arm another fighter or terror cell. That knowledge settled over me heavier than any gear I carried.