Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [69]
Immediately the noise of the siren hit them—it had been muffled by the walls of the reactor facility—but there was no one in sight. The corridor outside was well lighted, and they saw a metal-grid stairway rising to the next level a short distance away.
“Let’s clear this floor first,” Jackson declared, waving two fire teams to the right and two to the left.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” called Baxter, who was peering through the small window in a door.
Jackson went over to the electrician’s mate and looked, whistling in surprise as he saw a large, dimly lit chamber with some fifteen or twenty large, shaggy figures sitting listlessly on metal bunks. One or two turned their big muzzled faces toward the door, but the rest simply slumped where they were. “They’re those yetis,” he remarked in amazement.
“Maybe the ones that got away from the battle. We did track them here, after all, sir,” Baxter suggested.
Jackson noted the sturdy steel door with the lock and latch clearly visible on the outside. “It looks like they’re being treated more like prisoners than loyal allies.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too, sir. You want me to do anything about it?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Might as well leave them here for now. We can work out the details later.” Even so, it was an interesting development, and Jackson began to think about how he might turn it to the Team’s advantage.
Three minutes later the reconnoitering SEALS returned. “More storage down this way, sir. Looks like food, clothing, that kind of stuff,” Ruiz reported. “No people, though. I think we’re in their basement.”
“There’s a weapons locker over here, LT,” Dobson said, coming from the other direction. “The door’s still open, and lots of racks are empty; I think them sumbitches grabbed their gear already and headed upstairs. I did find another one of these here stairways.”
“All right.” He turned to the navy coxswain, who had led his men out of the ductwork behind the SEALS. “Grafty, I want you and your men to stay here for the time being. You’re going to be our reserve, but be ready to move after Sandy or me if we need help.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the petty officer said.
“Well, let’s take the next level, then,” Jackson declared. He turned to his second in command. “Mister Sanders, take your squad with you up this ladder. The rest of you, come with me. Dobson, lead the way to the other stairs.”
The men moved out at a jog. Ruiz and his detachment swarmed up the near ladder, which was a spiraling grid of bare metal rising into a cylindrical shaft overhead. The second stairwell, thirty meters away and around a corner, was a similar structure, and Sanchez led the way up that one, with Marannis and then Jackson following close behind.
As they emerged onto the upper floor, they saw flashing lights, heard the shrieking wail of the siren, and surprised a dozen Eluoi troops who were rushing away from them, presumably moving toward the outer hatch. The first three SEALS up the ladder opened fire while the rest of the men scrambled up, and the Eluoi went down without getting off a return shot.
But the attackers had been discovered. Jackson heard the bark of a loud automatic weapon and hurled himself prone as slugs zinged off the walls and floor. Realizing that the shooting had come from beyond the dead soldiers, he squeezed off a burst against the unseen enemy. Marannis and Sanchez did the same thing while, behind him, one of his men launched a high-explosive grenade.
“Duck and cover!” came the warning—it sounded like Mirowski’s voice—and the helmeted SEALS pressed their faceplates to the floor. The blast was a sudden, jarring blow, filling the corridor with smoke.
“Charge!” Jackson barked, immediately springing to his feet and sprinting toward the