Inspector Pitbull and the assault squads (Mediterranean Sea)

I was sitting on the third inflatable boat about to navigate the rough waters. The commander tested the comms, and a chorus of affirmatives roused from the soldiers, including the five frogmen that were carrying the explosives. With a signal from the commander, we set sail on full speed. Five minutes later, we could make out the lights of the tender ship. The boats divided, and I saw with unease the waves that seemed to be hitting us harder and harder. Every man was ready, outfitted with machine guns with suppressors and night vision goggles.

We moved into action. From different boats, the men started shooting at the same time, killing two guards strolling on one side of the tender ship. The soldiers were definitely expert shooters; it was hard to hit your target on choppy waters. One of our boats peeled away from the group, getting lost in the darkness.

In a couple of minutes, the first boat reached the tender ship and its soldiers boarded, escalating one of the sides of the ship and securing the perimeter. It was our turn now. Our objective was to capture or neutralize the Duke of Von Wolves. We got closer to the dark, impressive surface of the submarine and the commander, watching his clock, ordered us to go.

Two explosions detonated near our boat, blasting two impressive columns of water next to the submarine. Our soldiers started shooting at the observation platform of the submarine, hitting one of the guards. With a shout from the officer on guard, the submarine's guards dropped the boxes they were loading and fired back, but they were quickly neutralized by a couple of well-placed shots from the frogmen. Our operation was barely starting.

Duke, I thought, you just ran out of luck. This time, you'll be the one surprised.

The assault team took control of the prow and stern hatches. I checked my chronometer; only seventeen minutes to go before the ships blasted

the enormous submarine. Both teams dropped in after blowing the hatches and we were welcome by strong resistance. The commander divided our team, ordering one half to follow the retiring hostiles through a hallway on our right. The commander, a marine, and I turned to a narrow, hazy corridor on our left. When we reached the end, we found a locked hatch to a compartment that looked like a storeroom. The marine set his charges, and we covered, waiting for a rain of bullets to come from the other side of the door. After the explosion, the iron hatch fell with a dust cloud. I heard a pained grunt coming from the marine, who died instantly hit by a bullet through the head.

"Tango detected," the commander informed me, shooting from the other side of the hallway, "He's running away from one of the lateral compartments of the storeroom."

I felt blood rush to my head and my heart pound fast in my ears. It's him. Anger overcame me and, without thought, I charged through the opening left by the hatch, completely disregarding the crossfire.