If the team was worried about Hochberg and Kessler’s exchange, they didn’t show it. Heads and cores dutifully tucked around their rifles as they wound their way down the passage, the world awash in static green and white slashing lights in the pitch black. Ke thought for a moment while she leaned in close toward a badly wounded breach man, she tried to figure out what the old chief might have meant from his last words with an old friend.
“Don’t do it without me, comrade.”
The line reverberated in his mind as her and the doc turned the wounded man on his side, quick hands deftly stripping back armor and wet-suit to reveal half a dozen tiny slits, all oozing blood. The stab injuries were substantial and the doc looked up to see the bloodied knife laying on the deck, still clutched in the dead hands of the ghoul that did the work. It was a standard battle knife, narrow blade, perhaps six inches long. The SEAL nodded to the blade, gesturing to Ke who looked up and saw it too. From the entry wounds they could see the extent of the injuries would be severe. Collapsed lung for sure, potentially a severed inferior vena cava, perhaps a punctured heart, certainly chipped and cracked ribs from the blows and jagged blade, there would be very little to be done to stabilize the man. Ke took his vital signs while the doc fashioned an air proof bandage over the doomed man’s chest, thinking about shock protocols or even emergency jettisoning the wounded man with his floaters active. The radio chirped from Kessler’s team.
“Contact, bottom of the ladderwe- GRENADE!”
Instinctively Ke ducked her body over the wounded man and the corpsman shoulder his rifle, glaring down the hall towards their only approach. The call out had been from the far end of the hall, perhaps fifteen or twenty meters away, certainly with enough flesh and steel between where the injured were and where the grenade had been thrown up.
A blinding and dazzling flash, for a moment the silhouettes of two from Kessler’s team could be seen. Their bodies eclipsing the blast. Night vision scrambled for a moment and flooded with white before slowly fading back into the green world of artificial sight. A SEAL was shooting down the ladderwell, another was dragging one of the wounded back. The SEAL being pulled by his drag strap handle shouldered his rifle up and kept the rear guard as he was pulled to the waiting Ke and Doc. As the man was pulled up and over the lip of the hatch frame the two medical teammates could see little sizzling trails of smoke whisping off from his body. Embedded all around his legs and lower body was smoldering shrapnel. Doc reached out and hauled the wounded SEAL in the rest of the way and leveled his eyes with the casualty.
“Are you good?” He said sternly, his hand on top of his battle brothers’ weapon. It was a hard question for one warrior to charge another with. It was not a question of health, it was one of trust. Are you too messed up and rattled to be armed right now? was the question. The wounded man nodded, focusing on the familiar face and lowered his rifle. It was as if he had be snapped out of a haze and was suddenly aware of his wounds.
Another burst and clatter of weapons exchange reverberated off the walls, echoing mercilessly into the rebreather helmets of the Strike Team as they worked to keep the one assailant pinned at the bottom of the ladserwell, dragging the second man back to Ke and Doc.
Chief Royale’s voice was a calm in the storm of sound, “Helm team, two wounded, dealing with one tango, holding position until neutralized. Engine team, recommend alternate route of approach.”
Hochberg’s mind raced for a moment, struggling to remember all of the ins and outs of the ship. He had boredly wandered the vessel for nearly a year or more, learning all the places to hide and lurk to catch dozing sailors or men shirking responsibilities. The fun of being a chief was having been a regular sailor all those years back, he knew every trick of the trade. His old eyes glanced to a series of heavy cooling pipes that drew in water from outside and rushed it to the Kettle. With their streamlined battle-diving suits they could fit. Without a word the old Chief wriggled in between a set of pipes until he was nearly behind them, his strength helping to part the tubes some.
“GRENADE, G’BACK!”
Ke glanced up to see men dive for cover behind water tight hatch frames as an old fashioned potatoe masher grenade fumbled off the bulkhead and to the ground. She lowered her head to protect her night vision and ducked over the second man who had finally been dragged in. The explosion was concussive and everyone felt it thump in their chests. Without more than a beat in the moment, the SEAL was back at the top of the ladderwell. His rifle blasting the cobolt blue flashes as he kept the trouble maker below pinned.
Hochberg groaned with effort and further bent the heavy pipes wider, making room for everyone behind him. His voice was hoarse from effort as he called out, “Engine team on me, back of ‘zeh See See Pee!”
“The what?!” Replied Wells in the chaos.
Hochberg barked over the radio as he slipped down to the next deck, “Za casualty collection point, jackass!”
Doc laughed through his nose as he peeled back a layer of armor on the shrapnel casualty, “Fuck’n Iceberg, man.” Ke could barely hear him say it.
Perry had been huddled behind Kessler as they tried to figure a way past the shooting at the ladderwell, the chamber unsafe to pass through while the traffic of high velocity lead and tungsten sorted things out. Kessler had been crouched low, rifle on his back and hands full of something during the chaos, Perry occasionally tossing the one, shooting, SEAL a fresh magazine to keep the upper hand. Suddenly Kessler leaned back and held up one hand, he had created his only little grenade from a breach charge wrapped in tiny bolts he’d grabbed from the suit repair room.
“Frag out!” He yelled and planted the electric wire into the balled up explosive mold, chucking it down the stairwell and flinging himself back. He had cut the fuse suicidally short, perhaps barely three seconds.
The timing was perfect. The SEAL who had kept the old ghoul at bay at the base of the ladder peeled back to allow Kessler a chance to throw the MacGuiver grenade and then twisted and fell behind a hatch frame while Kessler landed stop him. The explosive detonated mid air, the bolts flung and carving through pipes and equipment, sparks and steam showering the lower floor. Hochberg felt something hot smack his shin and looked down to see a small screw planted sideways in his shin-plate.
The smoke ball rose up the ladderwell and fogged all sight in the green view. The old chief felt a second member of his team land behind him and he risked a peak around the corner. Two old dive suits had their backs to him, one dragging another toward Hochberg. The explosion must have disabled the one and his comrade was dragging him back to cover. For a moment Hochberg forgot where he was, wanted to dash out and help his kameraden recover the wounded friend, but the SEAL behind him nudged him and nodded. The old chief didn’t know who those men were in those old dive suits. Whatever was inside those layers of leather and brass wasn’t who stayed loyal to Sajer. Wasn’t who stayed loyal to the Fatherland. Hochberg leaned round the corner low while the second member of his team leaned high, both lining up shots into the base of the spine and firing.