The water was a murky blur of reds and blacks with an occasional slash of light to pierce out from the melee. Hochberg could no longer tell whose limbs were whose and his gloved fingers felt for a brass helmet and groped around for the window ports. In the tangle of limbs and yells through the bursts of static, the old chief victoriously wrenched open the visual port and plunged in his heavy survival knife, feeling it connect with something dense. His fingers gave the handle a tight twist and he felt the blade give and heat roll over his wrists. The heavy divesuit crumpling in under the weight of the swarming Strike Team.
Perry had finally got the brawl he had hoped for. Before the room had filled with blood and black he’d fanatically thrown himself at the arm of a knifing ghoul, busy shredding one of the breach team. Perry had remembered the speed and accuracy of the last encounter and how it had robbed him of the chance to go toe to toe with the monsters. It was all of his strength against the ancient divers one arm and Perry was thoroughly enjoying the advantage. His legs snaked around the bent limb and ankles locked in the ghouls armpit. Feeling his grasp synch in place Perry pushed back off the old diver as hard as he could, wrenching his back in a hard arch and holding the arm close to his chest, the knife scraping idly at his chest plating. At first there was some resistance, then the wrist joints began to fling loose, then the elbow joint gave way and Perry felt the arm crunch through to the opposite direction. Then came the surprise. The ghouls other fist came sailing in and caught Perry square in the rebreather mask, cracking his face-shield and sending him floating away in a flurry.
Royale had finished the remaining, arm broken diver with a well placed shot in the facemask. The listless heaps of leather and brass shifting strangely in the wake of so many motions. Headlamps scanned for additional movement and Hochberg reached out to actuate a leaver. Slowly the room began to shed water, pumps pulling the dirty fluid out and trailing it in the ocean. In the back of Kessler’s mind he wondered when the last time those two bloods had mixed in conflict.
“Head count!” Royale was hungry for more blood and his tone betrayed him. As the water level dropped to chest level the team began to settle on their feet. Heads searching for friends and friends scanning themselves for wounds.
Three SEALs called out their injuries and Kessler eyed the gash in his arm that had already begun to heal itself quickly, keeping mum about his problems. Ke and the remaining corpsman set to work at once and Royal motioned for the healthy to cover the doors from counter attack. Drifting in the close room of bodies, face down on the deck, was another SEAL. Ke leaned down and turned him over, the spear had lodged in under his jaw and into his skull, there was nothing to be done.
Hochberg took a quick inventory, “We’re 16 ‘zat are mobile capable. ‘Ze rest of ‘za ship should be dry for now, so ‘zat means we can move faster and shoot quicker. Wounded will stay here, walking wounded will provide defense for docs. Kessler will take a team toward ‘za helm, I’ll take the rest to ‘ze power-plant.”
Kessler hefted the rifle infront of himself and eyed the contraption wearily, he had never been as comfortable with infantry action as Hochberg had, and it showed some. Royale quickly stepped towards Kessler’s group, taking tactical lead.
“Additional wounded will have to either keep moving with the strike force or hunker down in place as we move, unless you feel comfortable enough to let the wounded work their way back.” Chief Royale was scanning his brothers in arms and nodded to Ke and the corpsman.
The two finished applying combat gauze into an axillary wound and gave bloody thumbs up, quickly moving to establish an IV in the mess. Hochberg looked around one more time in the altered room and then looked to Kessler.
“It’s like when you come back and mom’s rearranged all ‘ze furniture.” Said the old chief dryly.
Kessler looked apprehensively to the next hatch and then down at the old bodies of former compatriots. He wanted to look at them, wanted to pull back the helmets and see his old friends, wanted to apologize for leaving them to the wills of a madman. His glance drifted to the bodies of wounded sailors who were his countrymen now, deep inside Kessler’s mind he felt a familiar rage shift. Men were dying for a long twisted and long failed dream, good men from both sides, selling their lives so that reason and rationality might have a chance. It was heartbreakingly stupid, war always was in the end.
“Yes, except mother booby trapped everything and turned your brother and sister into twisted zealots because she believes it’ll make farher come back after he left.” Kessler’s words dripped venom.
Wells chuckled to himself without knowing the turmoil in Kessler’s mind and positioned himself up at the hatch, ready to wrench it open. The Strike Team shifted the wounded into position behind cover and the rest shouldered rifles, sights set on the hatch. Hochberg spoke up quickly, “I have an idea…”