Gradually, the hull began to sway.
Another dark swell slammed into the fifteen-meter white load line, lapping back and forth at the faded red antifouling paint that had been eaten away below the waterline.
Thick gas was already venting from the air-conditioning outlets, forming a pale, goose-down yellow haze in the rain-soaked night. In night-vision, visibility aft of the bridge was dropping fast—dancing static snow crowded the view as the gas filled the space.
Behind the stacked containers, the four operators strained to pick apart the ambient noise. The panicked, scrambling footsteps of the mercenaries trapped in what had become a gas chamber would build to a crescendo, then cut off abruptly. Most of the defenders who hadn't managed to don any chemical protection were already down.
Captain John Hastings felt his wristwatch vibrate sharply as the timer hit zero. He keyed the mic, voice low and calm.
"Masks on."
In the shadowed lee of the rectangular container, the operators pulled their MITR-M1 half-face respirators from their kits, seated them, flipped down their NVGs, and assumed a low, coiled stance—ready to move.
Peering cautiously around the corner, Hastings looked like a Brazilian wandering spider loaded with neurotoxin—four red lenses staring without emotion. Rain beaded on the nylon straps; the polymer mask drew in cold, wet air with each steady breath.
"G-2, bounding overwatch."
He was first out, rifle high, moving fast. Logan followed tight. On the opposite side, Django rested the LAMG on the container lip while Finn began displacing.
"Last man."
Django lifted the machine gun, slapped Finn twice on the back, and moved.
Hastings flipped down his G33 magnifier, raised the HK437 NG, and acquired a silhouette emerging from the bridge fog. He noted the cracked window panes and their vibration—the mercenary inside was trying to smash his way out.
He signaled Finn on the left flank for simultaneous engagement. Three controlled double-taps each; six potential threats dropped silently in the NVG image.
The two elements bounded up the exterior stairs, combat boots ringing against stainless steel, heavy shadows folding under the deck floodlights. They stacked low on either side of the door, muzzles angled in.
"Flash."
"Throwing!"
One operator punched the window with his buttstock; the second lobbed an M84 inside. The detonation and blinding white bloom momentarily cleared a pocket in the gas. As the irritant rolled back in, the team pushed through the ringing and disorientation, rising from cover.
"Go! Go!"
They vaulted the sill, linked up in the smoke, and reformed into a diamond.
The HVAC had already sucked out half the gas; visibility was improving, but exposed skin around the eyes still burned.
Masks came off briefly—everyone coughed once, hard.
"Hold formation, move."
Hastings and Logan took point, deliberately heavy-footed to put psychological pressure on anyone still fighting.
Hastings switched to his offset red-dot, scanning ahead. Suddenly the bridge alarm klaxon sounded; rotating red warning lights painted everything—smoke, bulkheads, scattered AKs, unconscious or precisely neutralized mercenaries—in pulsing crimson.
Stepping over the carnage, the operators flicked glances at the few still twitching. Anyone reaching for a sidearm received a controlled pair before they could clear leather.
"Contact front!"
Hastings barked it, swung the offset dot onto two threats, tilted the rifle sharply, and delivered four clean double-taps down the torso axis.
"Two down!"
Finn and Django followed two paces back—Finn covering the port windows, Django watching the rear stairwell.
The team sliced into the wheelhouse proper and killed their NVGs. The green radar screens and blinking consoles were shrouded in deep-red haze, light bleeding into diffuse webs.
"Clear."
Logan snapped a blue chem-light, tossed it by the doorframe as a marker.
"Lights out."
Weapon lights off, they descended two narrow steel ladders back into the heavier gas layer, reseating masks. In near-total darkness they flipped NVGs down again and moved by feel along cold bulkheads and handrails, guided only by the IR flood of their AN/PEQ-15s.
The team entered the main deck corridor. The trail man double-tapped shoulders; pairs peeled off to check officer cabins and the conference room.
"Clear." / "Clear."
Before they could reform, medium-caliber fire erupted from the far end of the passageway. Muzzle flashes lit three mercenaries advancing along the starboard bulkhead, wearing basic respirators.
Django ducked back as rounds sparked off the corner, showering him with fragments. He pieced out, used the bulkhead as a brace, and hosed the corridor with the LAMG, dropping two.
He pulled back, slapped Finn twice.
Finn low-peeked, took a deliberate beat for precision, then executed a failure-to-stop drill on the remaining shooter—four aimed shots until the threat folded.
"Threat neutralized!"
Hastings and Logan confirmed no survivors, then waved Django and Finn forward. The narrower space put Logan—running the short-barreled MCX Rattler Gen 4—at the very front.
He tossed an M18 smoke for concealment as the team advanced.
Entering the berthing area, they began systematic room clearing: stack at the door, listen, then—
Logan eased the door; Hastings rolled a flashbang low. On detonation they crossed into the compartment, slicing left and right.
Django and Finn entered two beats later, clearing center and deep corners—under bunks, inside lockers.
Logan, moving too fast, caught movement in his peripheral.
"Suicide vest!"
He shouted it while already diving sideways, rifle up, hammering controlled pairs into the mercenary reaching for the dead-man switch.
Threat down, he stayed prone, rolled 180 degrees, and cleared under the opposite bunk.
"Flanks clear!"
He rose, shook his head with a wry half-grin, and rejoined the stack.
Hastings snapped another chem-light to mark the room, gave Logan a solid thump on the chest plate, and led them out.
"Open area coming up—watch spacing."
They stepped into the mess deck/kitchen. Gas was thinner here; rows of tables provided natural cover.
They switched to dynamic clearing: pairs bounding, two-meter intervals, alternating overwatch.
Catching movement in a wall mirror, Hastings reacted instantly.
"Five plus, grenade!"
"Grenade out!"
Logan pulled the pin and lobbed a concussion grenade high toward Hastings' point-out. The spoon pinged off a table as it flew.
Boom.
White smoke and leaping sparks rolled outward. The mercenaries scrambled low to ride out the blast.
"Contact! Contact! Contact!"
In the strobing red light, the team engaged. Muzzles tracked hard; suppressors exhaled thin jets of gas that pushed back the haze like time-lapse fluid injection—visually subtle, but brutally effective.
"Three o'clock—two down!"
"Noon—two!"
"Ten o'clock—last one!"
Empty mags dropped, fresh ones slapped home, bolts released forward.
Past the final row of tables.
"Area clear. Keep moving."
Ahead, a heavy steel door at the end of the narrow passage was dogged shut. Hastings signaled Finn—breacher—with the under-barrel 12-gauge.
Finn shouldered the shotgun and fired a breaching round into the lock.
"Go!"
IR lasers danced as two fleeing mercenaries appeared—one shouldering an RPG-7, who spun to engage.
"Bound and cover—move!"
Hastings and Logan pressed forward with fire while Django and Finn lagged to suppress.
The RPG gunner went down first; Hastings dropped the last runner in the back.
"Finn, sitrep topside."
Crouched beside the red-painted security door the mercenaries had been desperate to reach, Hastings checked bodies while asking the team's drone operator for an update.
"Superstructure quiet. Code Four."
Hastings stood, rapped the door—solid steel.
"Copy."
Final compartment checks complete, safeties flicked off, the team closed on the door.
"This is it."
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, give me a hand here, Captain."
Hastings grabbed the body, positioned the face. The scan laser turned green with a long, satisfying beep.
"One of the best sounds in the world, mate."
Finn quipped to Django. The two bumped fists.
"Damn right."