Page 42 of Shadow Boxed (Shadow Warriors #2)

Chapter thirty-four

By the time the Chinook arrived at the fishing trawler, Capland was already blocking its outgoing radio broadcasts.

Wolf studied the trawler through the chopper’s windshield.

The nets were down, its crew on deck. He braced his palms against the back of the pilots’ seats as the Chinook flew overhead.

The Bountiful Harvest, according to the name sprawled across the aft of the boat, rolled and dipped beneath heavy swells.

Water sprayed up on the deck and slid back down the hull, crashing into the waves.

Four men dressed in t-shirts beneath dripping rain bibs stared up, watching the Chinook pass. The men were responsive. No standing and staring, which was a relief. But their awareness didn’t mean they’d escaped infection. Not if their infection had just happened.

“Their nets are down, but their hold’s closed.” O’Neill’s voice came through Wolf’s headset. “They may not have hauled a catch in yet.” His voice hardened. “We need to look inside that hold.”

It was difficult to argue with that statement. The fullness of their hold would define the fate of this boat . If their hold was full, then they’d handled the fish and could be newly infected. Wolf glanced over his shoulder, finding O’Neill and his javaanee standing behind his back.

He turned back to the windshield and leaned between the pilots’ seats, reaching for the loudspeaker mic. He pressed the button to broadcast. “This is the National Marine Fisheries Service. We are ordering you to open your hold so we can assess your compliance with federal fish management laws.”

“NMFS doesn’t use helicopters for compliance sweeps. Nor does the Chinook carry their insignia,” O’Neill said, his voice staticky as it came through Wolf’s headset. “They’ll think we’re trying to steal their haul.”

Wolf shrugged. “If they do not respond to this approach, we will try another.” For the trawler’s sake, as well as its crew, he hoped the Bountiful Harvest complied. If not, the next approach would be far more invasive.

The Chinook’s pilot swung the chopper in a lazy circle and settled her off the Bountiful Harvest’s port side, with her cockpit facing their target.

The four men on the deck moved into a huddle while constantly glancing at the Chinook. A fifth man, an older one with grizzled hair and beard, stepped out of the wheelhouse, planted his fists on his hips, and scowled at them.

“There’s our captain,” O’Neill observed.

“He does not look happy,” Wolf noted.

Wolf pressed the speaker on the broadcast system again. “This is the National Marine Fisheries Service. You are in violation of national commercial fishing laws. Open your hold immediately.”

“In a normal compliance sweep, we’d board them,” Aiden said. “Doubt they’re gonna fall for the open hold demand.”

Aiden’s doubt proved prescient. The captain’s mouth opened wide. His jaw and lips moved. He was obviously shouting something. But the real dismissal came with the double middle fingers he thrust toward the Chinook.

Which was not a compliant response.

“Doesn’t look like he intends to accommodate us.” O’Neill’s voice was laconic.

“Indeed.” Wolf sighed. “Perhaps an illustration of our capabilities will back them down.” He tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Buzz them. Let them feel the heat without the burn.”

The pilot brought the Chinook up, then swung it around, aiming it at the trawler’s stern. They passed overhead much lower this time, so low the five men below them hit the deck and covered their heads with gloved hands.

Wolf waited for the pilot to bring the bird around again.

The Bountiful Harvest’s crew climbed back to their feet as the chopper straightened and settled into its previous position off the trawler’s port.

But the fifth man, the captain, was missing from deck.

His location became apparent seconds later when he stumbled out of the wheelhouse brandishing a rifle.

His hair and beard flapping in the ocean breeze, his legs reeling beneath the roll of the deck, he lifted the weapon, aiming it at them.

Judging by the flapping of his jaw and mouth, he was screaming something.

Multiple pings hit the Chinook’s windshield. Which did little damage. The cockpit was impenetrable to rifle fire. However, the irate Woohanta was definitely not in the mood to comply with Wolf’s demands. A pity. Plan B would be much more difficult on everyone.

“Is that asshole firing at us?” O’Neill asked, his voice lacking surprise.

“So, it would appear.” Wolf sighed. There went plan A.

“ Aggress B now in effect.” The pilot said through the comm system as he guided the chopper straight up.

Wolf turned. O’Neill and Aiden had already disappeared back into the cargo hold.

Wolf followed, swaying slightly beneath the Chinook’s maneuvering.

By the time he arrived at the weapons locker, O’Neill had already opened the equipment cage and removed a tranquilizer gun from the rack.

He handed the gun to Aiden. As the most proficient shooter on board, Aiden would target the trawler’s crew, while Simcosky and Winters provided distraction and cover.

O’Neill removed the final two tranquilizer guns and handed them to Wolf.

They only had three loaded tranquilizer rifles, so they’d have to reload the rifles for subsequent shots.

Unlike the Harbinger’s crew, the men aboard the Bountiful Harvest showed no signs of bot infection.

No aggressive behavior or standing and staring.

It was imperative that Wolf check the hold and assess the likelihood that the crew were infected before deciding Bountiful Harvest’s fate.

But to see in the hold, the men on board the trawler must be knocked out.

The knockout gas they’d used on Kuznetsov wouldn’t work here. Out in the open, with a heavy breeze, the gas would be swept away.

Which left tranquilizing the crew as their only option.

Yet that was problematic too. For one thing, the pitch and roll of the deck would make targeting difficult.

Plus, effective tranquilization meant using the proper dosage.

And the dosage was determined by the target’s weight.

They had no weights on the men below, so they’d have to use the guidelines for a standard human male, which might not correspond to the trawler’s crew.

Wolf took down a pair of binoculars and slipped the strap over his head as O’Neill grabbed a handful of extra darts.

Once they’d completed a weapons check on the three tranquilizer guns, and the rifles the former SEALs would be using, they headed for the cargo hold door.

Simcosky and Winters were already in position, rifles in hand.

They’d act as cover and create a distraction while Aiden targeted the men below.

“In position,” the pilot said through the comm as Aiden harnessed up.

As the Chinook settled into space, Aiden and his two former teammates dropped to the floor and eased onto their bellies.

Wolf and O’Neill deftly attached the left and right tethers to the three warriors’ harnesses, then stepped back, taking positions on either side of the door.

“Holding position.” The pilot’s laconic voice came over Wolf’s headset.

“Ready for go?” Wolf asked into his mic.

“Ready for go,” Aiden responded immediately.

“Good for go,” Cosky and Winters added.

Wolf dragged back the cargo hold door. The pilot had parked the Chinook slightly above and to the port of the trawler. Even with his eyes flush with the cargo bay door, the crew was visible below.

“Looks like the dosage should be right.” O’Neill’s voice came through Wolf’s headset. He stood on the other side of the door, shielded by its metal frame. “Four of the five targets appear to be on the average side.”

Wolf had noticed this as well. They were due for some luck...perhaps this was it.

Rifles in position, the wind whistling past their helmets, Aiden and his former teammates slid on their abdomens up to the lip of the cargo hold, trusting that their harnesses and tethers would hold them inside the craft. Cosky and Winters immediately started shooting.

Crack...crack...crack...crack

A steady barrage of rifle fire whistled above the heads of the crew below.

Crack...crack...crack...crack

The staccato cracks echoed through the cargo bay, deafening even with ear protection on. The sharp, sulfurous smell of spent gunpowder swept over Wolf. He blinked the burn from his eyes and watched the Bountiful Harvest’s crew hit the deck.

Aiden locked onto the exposed neck of one of the deck hands and fired. But the trawler rolled, and the dart sailed over the target’s head. He passed the spent tranquilizer gun to Wolf. Wolf handed him a fresh one and passed the spent rifle to one of his warriors for reload.

The next dart struck true, sinking into the target’s neck.

Pressing the binoculars to his eyes, Wolf watched the woohanta his javaanee had shot frantically claw at the dart in his neck.

Crack...crack...crack...crack

Cosky and Winters’s cover fire continued unabated.

The next dart disappeared into mist as a swell broke over the deck. A third and fourth hit the deck as the boat rolled beneath heavy waves.

“Fuck,” somebody said into the comm. “This is going to take forever.”

Aiden adjusted his targeting, holding the shot until the Bountiful Harvest hit the top of the swell and sank back down. The rifle barrel followed the boat as it dropped, releasing the dart just prior to hitting the bottom of the swell. The next two darts struck true.

Three down, two to go. The grizzled captain jumped up.

Rifle in hand, he staggered across the deck toward the wheelhouse.

Aiden took aim, held the shot, then let it go just as a cross wave broke across the railing and knocked the captain off his feet.

The dart flew over the gray head. By the time Wolf passed Aiden a fresh rifle, the captain had disappeared inside the wheelhouse.

Aiden turned back to the final deckhand, gently squeezing the trigger just before the boat lifted up again.

“Captain’s the only one left standing,” Cosky said through the comm.

Binoculars back up to his eyes, Wolf studied the wheelhouse. One of the windows exploded outward and a rifle barrel appeared. No other sign of the woohanta though, he was hiding below the glass.

“Fuck.” Aiden growled. “I can’t hit him while he’s in his hidey hole.”

“We could launch a gas grenade through the other window,” O’Neill suggested.

“Do it,” Wolf ordered, without lowering the binoculars.

O’Neill brought two of the grenade cannons forward and handed one to Aiden.

Brrrrooooft.

The boat rolled. Wolf watched the cannister hit the wall below the wheelhouse and dropped to the deck. The gas was colorless, so he couldn’t tell if the cannister had been discharged. But even if it had, the gas wouldn’t reach the woohanta inside the wheelhouse.

“Again,” Wolf said.

“Try to land this one,” O’Neill said as he handed the second cannon over.

“I’ll land it right up your ass if you keep running your mouth.”

Brrrrooooft.

This time, the canister crashed through the window and disappeared inside the wheelhouse.

Wolf continued watching with the binocular. The rifle barrel remained in the window.

“Can you tell if he went down?” someone asked, either Winters or Simcosky; the two former SEALs were hard to tell apart.

“No.” Wolf lowered the binoculars.

“Launch a third canister.” For backup, if the first cannister hadn’t deployed.

Brrrrooooft.

The third and final canister slammed into a monster swell as it broke over the wheelhouse. Sheets of water hit the small cabin and fell to the deck in streaming rivers. The metal canister floated across the deck and under the railing.

“That was the last on,.” O’Neill said.

Wolf grunted. His gaze remained locked on the wheelhouse.

The rifle barrel still bristled through the broken window. It hadn’t moved. It hadn’t fired at them. Three gas canisters had felt like plenty for the open ocean. Next time they would bring more.

Silence fell—the kind of silence throbbing with unacknowledged realities.

“We need to open that hold,” Aiden finally said.

More silence.

O’Neill was the one to break it. “Anyone who boards that boat is risking infection.”

“Boarding is not needed.” Wolf turned the binocular onto the deck and the boat’s refrigerated hold.

A large O-ring was fastened to the closed door.

The crew must attach a crane cable to the ring when they open the hold.

“We can drop a warrior in harness, and he’ll attach a cable to the ring on the hold’s door.

If we winch the door up, we can see inside without anyone touching the deck. ”

“It’s our safest option, assuming the captain isn’t still awake and ready for some target practice.

Whoever goes down there will be a sitting duck.

” O’Neill stared down at the boat, his gaze lingering on the broken window and rifle barrel.

“There’s also a chance that O-ring and hold door are crawling with bots. ”

“I’ll be careful where I touch, Mother,” Adien said on a scoff. When no one responded and the silence turned grim, he scoffed again. “Come on, we all know I’m the logical choice. The little bastards already had a run at me, and I’m still here.”

Cosky sat up and turned to scowl at Aiden.

“You’re here because of Kait’s constant healing.

For fuck’s sake, you’re barely a week out of a hospital bed.

Nobody knows what a second infection will do to you.

Your immune system is still recovering. It might not be able to handle round two with these damn things. ”

“Even if they do have fish in that hold, the infectious load on the O-ring would be minimal,” Aiden snapped.

“And Kait can do another healing to neutralize any bots I might have picked up.” His gaze skipped from Cosky to Wolf to O’Neill.

“Come on, what else are we going to do? Sink the boat and crew again, even though they aren’t showing any creepy symptoms?

This is a no-brainer. We need to know if they have fish on board, and we all know I’m the logical choice to go down and see.

” Aiden’s voice was hard. The dark eyes, so much like Wolf’s own, were full of conviction.

And he was right. No matter how much Wolf hated to admit it, his javaanee was the safest option for this mission.