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“Staircase is clear. I’m covering the door from the bridge,” she reported.

An older design, the Ocean Dancer had a simple bridge layout. The staircase bypassed the other levels and entered the bridge from the rear. Access to the side wings was from the inside.

Under the watchful eye of the former JTF sniper, the team climbed to the bridge level and stacked against the wall. Rick tried the handle. It was locked. “I’m going to have to cut off the hinges,” he observed.

Mike took the electric breaching saw from Rick’s back and passed it to him as TJ and Gar covered the stairs. As Rick hacked at the door’s external hinges, Axe tried to pull Mike downstairs. “Easy, boy. We’ll find them once the bridge is secure.”

Rick was halfway through the first hinge when bullets slammed into the door from the inside. He jumped clear, but the bullets failed to penetrate the thick steel. “At least one more shooter on the bridge,” he reported.

“Do you want to try the internal stairwell?” asked TJ.

“Negative, I’ll have this door off in the next thirty seconds.”

Rick was true to his word and had both hinges sliced off in well under a minute. More bullets slammed into the door as he worked, but nothing penetrated the thick steel. With the hinges cut, it only took a quick shove with a hooligan bar for the door to swing open.

Bullets snapped through the open doorway as the men inside gave it another burst with their submachine guns. Rick held his carbine around the corner and returned fire. “This may not be our best idea yet. Bianca, is there anything you can do?”

Onboard the chopper, hovering at the same level as the doorway, the sniper scoped through the open doorway. “I don’t have a shot.” Flicking to the internal crew network, she shot a question to the pilots. “Guys, can you get me down on the roof?”

“Not directly, too many antennas. We can get you to within a few meters.”

“Perfect, let’s do it.” She flicked back to the team channel. “Boys, sit tight, I’m going to see what I can do.” As the chopper worked its way around to the ship’s flank, she placed her rifle on one of the Blackhawk’s seats and attached the sling to a support. Then she drew her pistol, confirmed there was a round in the chamber, and holstered it. She noticed the bladders in the cargo bay had halved in size as she stood grasping a roof hold.

The pilots brought the chopper into a hover a meter above the bridge and two meters from the roof.

“We can’t stay here for long,” snapped one of the pilots.

“Roger, I’m getting off.” Bianca took a deep breath, then sprinted across the chopper’s narrow floor and leaped across the gap. Hitting the roof, she tucked and rolled, coming up on one knee. “Mike, Rick, throw your distractions, I’m on the roof.”

She paused at the edge and looked down into the port side bridge wing. The deck below her was splattered with blood.

Registering a series of muffled bangs, she turned, lowered herself down, and dropped onto the deck. Drawing her pistol, she opened the door to the bridge and stepped inside.

Three Koreans were covering the rear door to the bridge, and another was attending to the man she’d shot on the bridge wing. Crew members were at their stations, managing the ship.

The man attending to his colleague was the first to spot Bianca. He lunged for a submachine gun as she fired. Her shot was accurate and drilled him in the right shoulder. He screamed. A fur missile blasted through the rear doorway, and Axe took down one of the other men. The remaining two spun to target Bianca. She hit one of them in the chest as the other dropped, shot by Mike as he followed his dog inside.

Gar and the SEALs piled onto the bridge, securing the Koreans and the ship’s crew. Testament to their skill, none of the enemy were dead. Three were wounded, and the other two had been shot in their body armor.

“That was slick,” Rick said as he packed one of the wounded Korean’s shoulder wounds and strapped his arm across his chest. “That doorway was a serious bottleneck.”

Bianca was bandaging the arm that Axe had mauled. “Happy to help out.”

“How many more men are on board?” Mike asked the Korean who’d spoken English on the boat.

“Just the five of us,” he said between breaths. They’d stripped his dented chest plate. “The rest of the men are the ship’s crew.”

TJ addressed the captain, a short Asian with grey flecked hair. “How many in your crew?”

“Twelve,” the man replied.

“Are any of them armed?”

The man shrugged.

“Do any of them have guns?”

“No, we are sailors. There are no guns.”