The Last Roman p-1 Page 8

  “Here’s the plan. We infiltrate the cargo ship after hitching a ride on the HMS Triumph, one of Britain’s nuclear submarines in the area. We’ll rendezvous with them in the Tyrrhenian Sea, where they will take us the rest of the way. Once aboard the cargo ship, we’ll locate these containers and stuff ourselves into as few as possible. Then, we take a ride.”

  He utilized his stylus again, enlarging the image to encompass the port and town, highlighting the predicted route in red. He then shifted the image to show just the town and the location of the cave.

  “Once the trucks reach this position,” he pointed to an area just before the edge of town, “Lieutenant Strauss will disembark and take position within the town to provide sniper support. You up for this, Strauss?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied sternly.

  “Brilliant. Hunter, you’re with the team. We’ll need more shooters inside for this one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now. Our primary objective is to recover the high value target, Mushin Abdullah, if he’s there. When we see him, we try and take him, but if he turns out to be too much to handle, we take him out. Wang, you’re on hostage transportation. Keep him quiet, but keep him mobile, we may need to cut and run. If I give the order, take him out.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” Wang said confidently.

  “Okay. Bordeaux, once we’re out, we blow the entire place, Abdullah or no. Bring enough C-4 to bring down the house.”

  “It’s what I do best, sir.”

  “Cheers. Finally, we’ll have a little extra backup on this one. A few days ago, the CIA was gracious enough to store some extra equipment we may need in a safe house inside of town. They’ve also made contact with the local resistance. If things get hairy, and we need to hole up and wait for extraction, that’s where we’ll regroup.”

  Well, that seemed odd. Why would we need additional supplies for a simple smash and grab mission? Worst case scenario is that we have to hump it back to the docks on foot, but that shouldn’t take more than a few hours.

  I continued pondering until McDougal continued.

  “Our contact’s name is Omar. He’ll be watching the docks upon our arrival and will signal us when he’s ready for our insertion. Again, if things go bad, we’ll have his local militia for backup, but we can’t rely on them. We’ll fall back to the equipment cache and call for extraction, but only as a last resort. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get in, plant the charges, secure the high value target, sneak out, and wait for the place to blow on a timed delay. I’m not holding my breath on that one, so prepare for the worst. We’ll be moving out at 1300. It’s now 0900, so get your gear, and get some rest, we’ll need to be sharp when we hit the port, sometime around midnight. Any final questions?”

  I raised my hand. “Sir, rules of engagement?”

  “The townspeople are harboring known terrorists. If they get in the way, take them out. Let God sort out the rest. Anything else?”

  He glanced around the room one final time. Everyone was silent.

  "All right, dismissed.”

  ***

  A few hours later, the team assembled in the armory, the first time I had seen everyone congregated in the small room at one time. Each member of the team was going through their equipment, and checking their weapons. Wang with his UMP submachine gun, McDougal with a G36C assault rifle, Bordeaux with the Mk 48 Mod 0 version of the M249 SAW light machine gun, which fired the larger 7.62x51mm round, and Vincent had an M4 carbine. Santino had an HK416, similar to mine.

  The HK416 had been designed by a Green Beret when the M4 was deemed “too unreliable” by military brass. One end result was a far more efficient and dependable rifle in the form of the Heckler amp; Koch 416. Any gun designed by those guys was good enough for me.

  Strauss was preparing two weapons. A German made AMP Technical Services DSR-1 was her primary rifle. It was an efficient sniper rifle that fired the same large round as Bordeaux’s SAW, but while not as handy in a large scale firefight, it was obviously far more accurate. McDougal had informed her that a M107. 50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle, similar to the one she and I had trained with earlier, was waiting at the weapons cache.

  I again wondered at the purpose of such a cache, especially one containing such a powerful rifle.

  Whatever. Out of sight, out of mind. At least hopefully.

  Her second weapon was a Belgium engineered FN P90 personnel defense weapon. Preferred by tank and helicopter operators, its compact bull pup design gave it the size of an UMP, but thanks to a more unique round, its firepower and range was far greater than its size suggested. Its fifty round magazine and anti-armor rounds made it a sniper’s perfect secondary weapon.

  As for me, I already had my rifle secure and my wetsuit on, and was just completing preparations on my re-breather gear well ahead of everyone else.

  The Draeger Mk V breathing apparatus has been standard issue for SEALs for over thirty years, its design and function so effective. Instead of regular scuba gear, where a wearer breathes from an isolated oxygen source, the Mk V recycles the air breathed. With it, I could remain submerged beneath an enemy dock for the better part of a day, as long as I kept my breathing under control. The new Mk VI, developed only a few years ago, merely needed to have its internals cleaned, as opposed to having them replaced, an operation one can do in the field.

  As I waited, I made sure to avoid looking at Helena in her wetsuit, which was harder than it sounded. I’m fairly certain we were friends at this point, but I didn’t want to risk offending her again, as much as I wanted to in this case. The rest of the team was likewise averting their eyes. After all, women in the Special Forces were still a rather new concept, and ones wearing wetsuits were completely novel. I glanced at Santino beside me, who returned the look offering a knowing smile. There could be only one thing on his mind, and it had nothing to do with how he felt about Helena in her wetsuit.

  The bastard.

  Shaking my head, I returned to my preparations. I began packing my MOLLE rig into a water tight bag. Before packing my vest away, I noticed a new addition to the shoulder area. Prior to my transfer, my vest was designed as a sleeveless undershirt would look, but now it had shoulder pads that would extend just past my shoulders. The pads had six thin, rectangular, plastic pieces that ran horizontally along the width of the entire pad, overlapping one another slightly, and curving around my arms.

  If I had to guess, I’d say the design was meant to imitate the lorica segmentata armor that Roman legionnaires, and Praetorians, would have worn. Prior to the first century A.D., legionaries wore chain mail type armor that was heavy, difficult to clean, and expensive to make. Around the time of Augustus, the lorica segmentata was pressed into service, which was far lighter, cheaper to make, more protective, and just as mobile as the chain mail. The armor was designed to flex and bend with the natural movements of the body, and the overlapping metal rectangles running horizontally down the chest and torso provided much better protection against arrows and glancing sword blows.

  I could see that my black lorica segmentata armor was a hardened polymer instead of iron, and I assumed it was bullet proof. It was unfortunate that due to the operational needs of my vest, with magazine and equipment pouches festooned over the front, back, and sides, my armor couldn’t similarly be refit to mimic the original design. I’d have to settle for the hidden gel pads buried inside for protection. In any case, I appreciated both the protective and aesthetic value these new shoulder pads provided.

  Stuffing the vest into my bag, I gave the locker a final look over. Everything was secure and ready to go. My rifle was secure in its waterproof bag, and my other equipment was stored in another waterproof bag.

  With a breath of satisfaction, I began lacing up my black waterproof boots, but my thoughts continued to stray towards that equipment cache. Something just did not click with this mission. In all the years I’d been in the field, never had I been provided with additional gear to help out if things got ba
d. Sure, I’d raided the enemy’s supplies numerous times, but I’d never been given this kind of support.

  Maybe working for the Pope has more advantages than I thought.

  Tying off my second boot, I stood, and turned to see if my lovely swim buddy needed a hand.

  I immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Helena was in her form fitting wetsuit, bending over at the waist to retrieve something out of her foot locker. Thanks to the skin tight material, I could see that her body was more than just lithe, but well-muscled in all the right ways and places.

  Recovering as quickly as I could, I tried to shift my eyes before she caught me.

  I wasn’t quick enough.

  Expecting some form of backlash, I was instead rewarded with a sultry smile.

  “You all right, Lieutenant? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  I coughed, and Santino, seated next to me, elbowed my thigh.

  “Ah, um, I was just wondering if you needed any help. McDougal mentioned your lack of underwater experience.”

  “I’ll be fine, just stay close and don’t let me wander too far down there.”

  “I’ll stay right on top of you.”

  I winced. Oops.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant,” she said coldly.

  I was saved by McDougal’s commanding voice. “All right everybody, we’re leaving in ten. Get your gear and meet up at the airlock.”

  I shouldered my gear bag, as well as my rifle bag, and grabbed my Mk VI, noticing Helena was ready as well.

  “Ready, Lieutenant?” she asked.

  “Lead the way, ma’am.”

  ***

  The airlock was little more than a room with a hatch one would find on a submarine and a grated floor. On the floor were seven underwater propulsion vehicles, or UPVs for short, little more than a thin bed to lay in with foot rests. At the front was a dashboard with a windshield, propulsion lever and a joystick. The dashboard had a night vision view of what was in front of the sub, a GPS radar screen, fuel and power readouts, and a radio. The craft was simple enough to carry one person, a reasonable amount of gear, and travel through the water at a respectable speed. It didn’t possess a cockpit so it forced a pilot to use his own breathing device. I was extremely familiar with the little ships, but the rest of the crew rarely had the opportunity to even work with flippers, something every diver should be competent with anyway.

  McDougal ordered me to give the team a quick briefing on the crafts since I was the most familiar with them. I went over the basics: throttle and directional controls, dashboard equipment, as well as to remind them that they keep their legs firmly secure in the foot rests.

  Only Santino had a question. “Phasers?”

  I shook my head and tried not to laugh.

  Honestly, any eight year old could control the small submersibles. The controls were designed like any video game controller and as long as the user stayed on the bed, feet secure, they wouldn’t float away. Even if they did manage to separate from the sub, the controls had an automatic shut off if separated from the pilot. All it would take was a quick swim back.

  After I finished my quick briefing, the team spread out amongst the UPVs, McDougal in the center flanked by Wang and Bordeaux, Santino and Vincent on the left, and Helena and myself on the right. After we were situated, the room automatically began filling with water, and the team was left floating within. I looked through my goggles to make sure Helena wasn’t freaking out or anything, but thankfully she seemed fine. Noticing my inspection, she turned and gave me a thumbs up. Her face was masked by her goggles, and unable to communicate via our radios, I couldn’t tell if she was truly all right, but she was tough. She’d be fine.

  McDougal pressed a button on his dash board, and the double doors in front of us began to crack open. Beyond them was nothing but blackness, no plant or aquatic life visible. I knew ancient sewer systems had been discovered by modern archeologists over the year and could be used as a means to navigate the ancient city beneath the modern city. They were also pretty disgusting. They had been steeping for millennia, a breeding ground for hundreds of kinds of bacteria and disease.

  McDougal gunned his UPV, and the team smoothly exited the room into the murky water. Our headlights only penetrated a few feet into the darkness, forcing us to rely on our GPS. It provided us with waypoints laid out on a rudimentary topography map, connected by lines already programmed in the system. Our progress was slow going though not through any lack of skill on our part, but simply because we were new to the terrain. As I promised, I stayed just above and behind my swim buddy the entire way out, and was happy to note she handled her little boat supremely well.

  One problem avoided.

  About fifteen minutes into the trip, we came to a solid wall, but our waypoints clearly indicated we needed to go through the blockade. McDougal held up his fist, indicating for us to hold our position. He manipulated another switch on his dashboard, and I began to hear a steady whirring noise and could see the water clearing. I glanced behind me and noticed a wall was blocking the way we had just come through. McDougal must have activated some kind of system that filtered the water in the sewer.

  A few seconds later, I saw the water clearing noticeably before the doors opened before us. McDougal motioned forward, and the team gunned their engines, making a quick right turn into a narrow passageway to follow the Vatican’s artificial corridor straight to the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  It took us another forty-five minutes before we left the coastline and came face to face with a lumbering, whale shaped behemoth that would become our ride.

  My earpiece crackled to life as McDougal contacted the submarine using his radio’s push-to-talk button to transmit a quick burst of Morse Code. The Navy still taught the archaic form of communication developed in the 1840s, and most Special Forces outfits learned it as well. Quickly squeezing a radio’s PTT button transmits a quick bursts of static which makes for a perfect way to send the code.

  I heard a return transmission that indicated the sub was ready for our arrival, and saw McDougal point in my direction. I sent him a thumbs up, and made my way to the gigantic vessel, Helena right behind me.

  Boarding a submarine in nothing but a wetsuit wasn’t a challenge for a seasoned Navy SEAL, but could be potentially lethal for an amateur. Had I been in a companion submarine, and not alone in a wetsuit, a docking collar would be used to attach the two subs together. The collar would pressurize, and coming aboard would be as simple as opening both hatches and crossing the threshold.

  To a achieve my task, however, I would need to turn the wheel on the hatch, climb down a ladder till I reach a second hatch, close the first one, wait for the water to recede in the little airlock, open the second hatch, and climb down into the hallway.

  It sounds easy in principle, but it’s more complicated than it sounds.

  The first step was to secure my UPV in one of the submarine’s external storage lockers. I found it easily, already open, and astern of the hatch. Piloting it into the locker, I abandoned my small craft, secured my gear bags to a carabiner attached to my wetsuit, and approached the wheel I would need to turn in order to open the hatch. I signaled for Helena to hang back. There was no sense in risking a possible accident when I could easily perform the operation by myself, and in my sleep.

  I began by firmly grasping the wheel, and reciting the age old “lefty loosy, righty tighty” mantra everyone utters before turning something. Next, I planted my feet on the hull, squeezing the slight lip that juts up encasing the hatch. Slowly and surely, I turned the wheel to the left, thankful when it offered little resistance.

  After a dozen or so turns, the hatch popped open with a slight sputter of bubbles. The small antechamber would have been filled upon our arrival to ensure the hatch didn’t explosively decompress, probably killing me. I signaled for Helena to swim in first.

  Following her in, I pulled my gear bags in behind me, and shut the hatch. The space in the cylindrical airlock was cr
amped and tight, forcing us to float chest to chest, inches apart. I grasped the ladder with my right hand and right foot, while Helena did the same with the appendages on her left side. With my left hand, I grabbed a crowbar from its resting place and pounded the inner hatch three times, and waited until the water started to slowly drain from the compartment.

  As the water passed my face I pulled back my hood and removed my goggles and breathing apparatus as Helena did the same.

  “Tight squeeze,” I said, adjusting my position, accidentally bumping my elbow against her breasts.

  She glared, and I looked around, trying to ignore her look while also trying to find any way to make the water go faster. Failing, we endured a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, before the inner hatch finally opened.

  “After you,” I offered.

  Helena gave me a smirk before descending a few steps, lowering her gear to the deck, and dropping behind it. I followed quickly.

  I landed in a crouch, and Helena began to close the inner hatch, while I keyed my radio. In order to stay efficient and silent on the battlefield, instead of speaking into the radio to confirm orders, or signal an all clear, we simply clicked the PTT button twice in quick succession, an efficient way to indicate all was well on the other end of the radio. The double click could mean many things depending on the situation, but McDougal would understand that I had sent it as an all clear to send in the next pair.

  After sending the transmission, I turned to face the two seaman emerging from the hatch to my left. The pair wore British naval uniforms, midshipmen according to their rank insignias, and had the look of men who spent way too much time under the water. Noticing my inspection, the pair halted and saluted.

  “Welcome aboard the H.M. S Triumph, Lieutenant.”

  I returned the salute. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

  After securing the hatch, Helena turned and stood next to me.

  The pair’s immediate reaction was to salute a second time, but with obvious hesitation. These men probably hadn’t seen a woman in months, especially not one that looked like Helena, who was looking especially radiant with her damp hair and face.