Echo Platoon by Richard Marcinko, John Weisman Read Free Book Online Page B

submitted.
    Action: we hit the place and engage two or three of the bad guys. The remaining tangos wax the hostages—either by shooting ’em or killing ’em with grenades or other explosives. Then having done that, they try to kill as many of us as they could before we overwhelm them and send ’em on the ol’ MCRTA—which as you can probably guess, stands for Magic Carpet Ride To Allah.
    My friends, I didn’t like the way the plot played out. I don’t mind sending tangos to meet their maker. But I prefer to do it without allowing them the opportunity to kill hostages or my men and me, before we help them make that one-way trip Allahward.
    That’s why I had to rewrite the book they’d written. I wasn’t going to get a lot of time to redraft their manuscript, but I hoped I had enough to make sure the denouement would come out the way I wanted it to end: HEA 11 for moi; MCRTA for them.
    Randy and Nigel appeared. I used my hands to tell them what was going on. I watched as they turned their radios off. Then I shrugged out of my combat gear and body armor and motioned for Boomerang to do the same. Then, motioning Nod to join us, we crept back, double-timing around the side of the dwelling unit, back to the derrick housing where we’d made our ascent onto the rig platform.
    There, I opened the emergency fire-response compartment at the base of the derrick and plucked the business end of the small-diameter rubber fire hose from its reel retainer. I made sure the nozzle was shut down, then turned the water on, watching as the hose ballooned as the pressure built up.
    I silent-signaled for Boomerang to head back toward the rear of the modular dwelling unit with the hose. My hands told him where I wanted it, and I received a thumbs-up in return.
    He and Nod headed out. I made my way through the small hatchway into the derrick housing chamber and peered around. It was empty. I moved toward the helipad. Below the pad itself was a protected hideout for the landing crew. I slipped inside.
    Bingo. There it was: a forty-gallon garbage can sat off to the side. I dumped it quietly, removed the crap inside, and checked the plastic bag used as a liner.
    No holes. Perfect. Were there any more around? I ran a fast look-see around the area. Nada. Well, fuck it. This one would have to do.
    I sprinted back around the chopper pad, and along the rail, bag in hand. Nigel and Randy were waiting with Boomerang, Nod, and Duck Foot at the back side of the housing unit. Boomerang and I grabbed our tactical equipment and reattached it.
    Then I jerked my right thumb toward the roofline. Nod nodded—he understood what I wanted. He scrunched down, and made steps out of his legs and cupped hands. I put my foot on his knee then my other in his hands. He rose enough so that I was able to catch the edge of the modular roof, and pull myself up soundlessly.
    Silently, I looked down and told Boomerang, Randy, and Nigel to come up and bring the hose with them. The nasty grins on their faces told me they understood what I was about to do.
    Nod boosted his shipmates up. Boomerang pulled his size forty-four extra-long frame onto the roof. Nod handed the nozzle of the hose to the lanky SEAL, and then helped the other two shooters roofward. With the deadly, muscular agility of a pride of big cats on the savanna, the three SEALs crept forward, following in my wake. Proceeding slowly, so as not to make any noise or vibration, we made our way across the flat roof until we reached the seam between the dorm unit and the common room unit. Just beyond us and to our left, the big roof air-conditioning unit whirred steadily, its exhaust fan vibrating just enough to mask our movements.
    I pulled the wide, thin wooden spool from its pouch on the rear of my CQC vest, unrolled aboutfour yards of V-shaped flexible shaped charge, and laid it out on the roof in a rough circle, the V of the lead shielding inverted, so it pointed upward.
    I secured the ribbon charge to the roof