With just a couple of strokes, they were at the ladder. Coming up for air, they confirmed it was safe before sliding the knives back in the leg straps. Raising the barrels of their weapons just above the water, they removed the condoms and tucked the “rubbers” under their belts.
Grant motioned for Adler to take the lead while he kept watch, just in case someone else was on shore. Adler grabbed hold of the ladder. Cautiously, he climbed one step at a time until he was finally able to see over the gunnel. No one was on deck… bow or stern. Curtains around the cabin were drawn. An occasional shadow moved behind them.
He stepped onto the deck. His wetsuit booties exuded water with each step. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he kept his eyes on the cabin.
Grant came aboard next to him as he looked around the deck, seeing the det cord and at least two boxes of C4 under the tarp. He nudged Adler, motioning with his head toward the explosives. They didn’t see any IEDs yet.
Still hearing voices and sounds coming from the cabin, they started edging their way closer. In the back of their minds they knew at least one of these men had to be kept alive for questioning. Whether it worked out that way was a whole other ballgame.
Grant gave himself a wide berth by staying as far away from the cabin as he could. Ducking low, he took slow, careful steps and went to the starboard side. Taking up a position to the right of the door, he stayed out of view from the windows. Adler posted himself on the port side, taking up the same position as Grant. They were ready. Suddenly, the door flung open. They froze.
Callum Quinn came out, shouting, “Padraig! Flynn! Where the fuck are you two?!”
Quinn took two steps farther onto the deck, when in a split second, Grant’s arm was pressing against his throat. He jerked him closer, immediately holding the .45 against Quinn’s temple.
Quinn stiffened as Grant whispered, “Quiet.” He kept pulling Quinn farther away from the door. Pressing the .45 harder into the side of Quinn’s head, he whispered, “How many inside?”
Unable to speak, Quinn held up four fingers.
Grant asked, “Armed?” Quinn was barely able to give a quick nod. Grant shot a look at Adler, mouthed the word “four” and jerked his head toward the cabin. Adler acknowledged.
Voices inside the cabin suddenly went quiet. Someone shouted, “Callum!” Quiet again.
Then, there was a sound of clips being rammed into weapons. Out of pure instinct, Adler backed up, then hit the deck.
With one swift motion, Grant’s .45 collided with the side of Quinn’s head, collapsing him in a heap. With Quinn possibly being the only one alive for a G2 after what was bound to happen next, Grant had no choice. He had to try and protect him.
Keeping low, he dragged Quinn’s body farther from the cabin. He got down on one knee, partially blocking Quinn’s body. Again grasping his weapon with both hands, and ducking low, he aimed it at the cabin, just as a burst of gunfire erupted, blowing out cabin windows. Glass sprayed in every direction. Small, jagged pieces flew over the three men. Then, there was silence.
Adler and Grant didn’t return fire. They held back and waited, not knowing where the men inside were positioned, or what weapons they had. But now Grant had a better idea of the men they were dealing with. None of them were running around with “full seabags.” The idiots fired blindly, not thinking Quinn could’ve been in the line of fire.
Adler kept his eyes on Grant who pointed to the ladder. Immediately, Adler understood. Staying low, he crept backwards then went down the ladder. He stood on the bottom step, wrapping his left arm around it. His eyes barely showed over the gunnel. Now, it was a waiting game.
Inside the cabin, the four remaining men were backed up against the forward section of the cabin, holding Berettas and AR-18 rifles. The AR-18 was small in size, had a folding stock that made it easy to conceal and was capable of rapid fire.
Shouting louder this time, Aidan Logan called, “Callum!” He pressed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder.
Grant was going to lay on the guilt trip and make the idiots wonder. “You’ve just eliminated three of your own men! I’d advise you to lay down your weapons then come out with your hands up!” He looked at Adler, who was steadying the barrel of his .45 on the gunnel. Neither one of them expected the fight to be over so easily, especially after hearing the sound of weapons being reloaded.
Inside the cabin, Logan glanced at the other three men, mouthing the word “Yank.” He motioned for one of the men to take up a position closer to the door, near where their ammo blew out cabin windows and shredded the curtains.
The Irishman who had been selected for the task eased himself closer to the blown out windows. Stretching his arm forward, he aimed his weapon at the doorway.
A second later a bullet from Adler’s .45 took him out. He collapsed on the deck, just as another round of bullets were fired by the remaining three men. Again, it went quiet.
Now those men had to make a decision. Quinn was the only one who Labeaux expected to meet with before the assault.
They could fire up the engines, then try to make a run for it. But the odds were against them in reaching Northern Ireland before the RAF or Navy blew them out of the water. Even though they only heard one Yank, they had no idea how many more were either onboard or waiting on the beach.
Defeated but not yet finished, Logan made that decision. If they had to die, the Yank — or Yanks — would die with them. He pointed to each man, then to the starboard side, toward the boxes and IEDs inside the cabin. The other two men snapped their heads up, stared at him, then nodded.
Staying close to Quinn, Grant decided to give it one more try. “You’ve got thirty seconds, gentlemen!”
Loud sounds started emanating from the cabin, some as if boxes were being pulled across the deck. Whatever was happening, it didn’t sound like the men inside were going to give up.
Grant shot a glance at Adler. They both had a really bad feeling. Grant looked at Quinn’s crumpled body. There wasn’t any way he could take Quinn over the side then try and swim pulling dead weight. No. He and Adler had to save themselves, swim their asses off, and get as far away as possible from what they they were expecting — an imminent explosion.
He started taking slow steps backwards, easing his way down the starboard side, motioning for Adler to hit the water. He stayed alert, watching the cabin, prepared to fire his weapon.
Adler swam under the boat then popped up to the surface. Seeing Grant waiting above, he whispered, “Skipper!”
Shoving his weapon in his belt, Grant dove for the water. Immediately, Adler went under, catching up to him. They were trying desperately to distance themselves from the Cat, expecting the worst. The two Americans weren’t about to take the time to look back. They stayed at least fifteen feet underwater, stroking and kicking like hell.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash inside the cabin. A microsecond later a huge, booming explosion rocked the shoreline, sending a fireball hundreds of feet into the air, lighting up the coastline. Another explosion went off, then another, sending shockwaves through the water. IEDs, det cord, C4, exploded in what seemed like organized chaos.
Rolling over, Grant and Adler backstroked as they looked above, seeing bits and pieces of the Cat raining down, some still on fire. Finally, they surfaced, spitting out sea water, then taking in gulps of air.
“You okay?” Grant asked, as he wiped his face.
“Yeah. You?”
“All body parts are functioning.” Treading water, they both looked back. “Christ!” Grant said between clenched teeth, seeing the mass of destruction.
“Why the fuck does this keep happening to us?” Adler shouted angrily as he pounded his fist into the water. Any chance at a G2 had been blown all to hell.