It is a quiet morning on the Gulf
of Absolution; Arctic is underway on her nefarious
mission, transporting a cargo of death and destruction to the civil war-torn
country of Orangia. One more “delivery” and we can head for
our home port for a well-earned celebration. The life of an arms smuggler
is good, non?
Suddenly, a hail from the lookout…a massive grey ship is surging
over the horizon astern of us, and launching small boats as it closes in!
Even as all eyes turn toward these interlopers a sound from above shocks us—the
whine of jet engines, the throbbing roar of rotor blades. Enormous
helicopters appear from above—how could we not have heard them earlier?!—and
within seconds heavily armed men are sliding down thick ropes onto our fantail
and bows. Eight, sixteen, twenty-four—thirty-six troops are
unshipping weapons, checking their spacing, and advancing upon the
deckhouse. The United States Marines are here…
No time! No time to react to this overwhelming attack, to the
disciplined barbarity of the onslaught. We try to resist. The
sound of small-arms fire, the stutter of automatic weapons, the crash of
a grenade, the smell of cordite and the ozone of tasers rises up the
companionway to our bridge. Clutching our weapons, we try to hide in the
suddenly all-too-open wheelhouse; we will spring our ambush when they reach the
top of the ladder coming from the deck below…
Nothing prepares us for the assault when it comes.
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