Targets of Opportunity (50 page)

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It did not take long before Sandor and Martindale came within range. “Looks to be four of them,” Sandor whispered into the microphone imbedded in his helmet as he watched them working in the pouring rain. The truck had been backed up to the river, the doors to the trailer now wide open.

Martindale, who was thirty feet to his left, gave him a thumbs-up. “I also see four.”

“What the hell are they doing?” came Captain Krause’s voice over the radio.

“Stay tuned,” Sandor said, “we need a closer look.”

They were nearly at the edge of the tree line and could not move nearer without risking exposure as the men around the truck busied themselves at the top of the concrete ramp that was used to lower boats into the river. Sandor held up two fingers and pointed to his eyes. Martindale nodded, then pulled out the binoculars.

“Appears to be some boxes on the ground. Hard to tell what they’re working on.”

“Are they armed?” Krause demanded.

“Also hard to make it out from here through rain,” Martindale told him.

“They must be armed,” Sandor said.

“Take them out!” the CO barked into their earphones.

“Sir,” Martindale responded, “we have no confirmation they’re hostiles.”

“That’s affirmative,” Sandor said, “and even if they are, we have no way of knowing whether the weapons have been set. We might want one of them alive.”

“Damnit,” Krause snapped back at him, “we’re not gaining anything by waiting, are we?”

Sandor could not suppress a smile. It was not that he found anything amusing about their situation, he simply liked the captain’s style. “Sir, I think the circumstances are suspicious enough to warrant action. What’s our position on the river?”

“Closest to you are a pair of CG Defenders heading north, be there in a few minutes.”

“A few minutes may be too late,” Sandor said, looking across at Martindale. “Let’s move.”

Before Krause could respond or Martindale could react, Sandor took off at a dead run. In the rain he was not immediately visible to the four men, but then one of them looked up and suddenly all four turned in his direction. In that instant, there was no longer any question about whether they were armed or hostile.

Two of the men did not hesitate, grabbing automatic rifles that had been on the ground, opening up a fusillade that sent Sandor diving for cover.

As Sandor hit the dirt and returned fire, the barrage of shots from Adina’s men flew past him, several hitting Martindale, who had followed him out from the cover of the trees.

Martindale’s combat gear included body armor, but he was knocked backward from the impact. As he lay still for a moment sprawled on the ground, the other two terrorists had time to get their assault rifles and join in the onslaught.

Sandor steadied himself behind some rocks off to the right. Before the Venezuelans could take cover, he hit two of them with a series of shots that put them down. By now Martindale had recovered, although he realized that he had been struck in the left side with one shot that managed to find its way through the seam of his protective vest. “I’m hit,” he spat into his mike.

Sandor had a quick look across the field at Martindale, who had crawled behind a tree, pulled off his backpack, and checked his injury.

“I’m all right!” the Marine shouted into his mouthpiece, then scrambled to a kneeling position and squeezed off a series of shots. “Let’s go.”

Sandor was not sure how badly he had hurt the two men who had fallen, but he knew there were at least two others who had taken cover behind the truck. “I’m going directly for the parcels,” he told Martindale. “You okay to circle around the front of the rig?”

“Affirmative,” Martindale replied.

“Let’s go,” Sandor said and raced forward.

Martindale rose to a crouch and also took off, moving in a crossing pattern with Sandor toward the front of the tractor-trailer as Sandor went left.

As he came to the top of the boat launch, Sandor was able to see what appeared to be two gray pods sliding down the concrete ramp, entering the river below. The shooters who were positioned behind the truck had managed to shove the two ovoid shells into the river. Now they resumed firing and Sandor was forced to lunge for cover again, this time behind a concrete stanchion at the top of the bulkhead. He steadied himself, returning a series of shots from his carbine, catching one of his attackers in the side and spinning him to the dirt. One of the men Sandor had previously hit suddenly rose from the ground, his weapon extended, but Sandor reacted in time to strafe him with a barrage that sent him tumbling backward, dead before he hit the ground.

When Sandor heard the sound of gunfire coming from the far side of the trailer, he knew Martindale was in position.

“We’ve got two packages already in the drink,” Sandor advised.

“Roger that,” Martindale replied. “You seem to have things under control up here. I’m going after them.” Before Sandor could respond, he added, “Need to ditch my helmet in the water, so I’ll be out of radio contact.” Without another word, Martindale yanked off his headpiece and made a dash to the right, where, about twenty yards from the loading platform, he dove headlong into the Mississippi.

In the storm, and under fire, Martindale misjudged the height of the bank, hanging in the air long enough to be exposed to another series of gunfire from the remaining terrorist, who was positioned behind the truck, but the shots narrowly missed. Martindale broke the surface of the water and plunged into the darkness, the impact driving most of the air from his lungs, his side already aching from the gunshot wound. He remained submerged as he began swimming with the current of the mighty river, stroking furiously to catch up with the two amphibious packages.

The diversion gave Sandor the opportunity to circle back and come around the rear of the trailer, where he took out the last of Adina’s men with a head shot. He moved forward with caution, first confirming that this last shooter was dead. Then he stepped slowly toward the other man behind the truck cab, the one he had hit from the other side. He was on the ground writhing in pain, and Sandor swiftly disarmed him, then slammed his foot onto the man’s shoulder and jammed the short barrel of the M-4 into his chest.

“How many are you?” When the man did not give an immediate response, Sandor moved the barrel to his throat and repeated the question.

“Four,” the man barely managed to croak as Sandor leaned on the stock of the carbine.

“What do you know about the bombs you carried onboard?”

Pain and fear were evident in the man’s face. “Nothing, man,” he said, “nothing. We were just the drivers, man, just the drivers.”

“Just the drivers, man,” Sandor repeated through clenched teeth, then spun the man onto his face and expertly bound his wrists and ankles with plastic restraints.

After that, still moving watchfully with his weapon in front of him, he made a quick review of the area and headed for the back of the truck. As he drew near the two men he had shot on the other side of the tractor-trailer he could see one was clearly dead, Sandor having successfully dispatched him in the second attack. The other was crawling on his hands and knees toward the edge of the woods.

Sandor came up from behind him. “Stop right there and let me see your hands. Do it now!”

The man stopped moving and raised his arms. “I’ve been shot.”

“Really? Well turn around now, nice and slow, or I’ll shoot you again.” The man turned slowly, until he was sitting on the ground. “That’s good,” Sandor said. “Now, how many are you?”

“Four.”

“How many bombs?”

A flicker of fear was apparent in his eyes.

“How many?”

“Two.”

“And now they’re both in the water.”

He responded with a slow nod of his head.

“You going to tell me how to disarm them or you want me to take you downriver so you can be there when they go off?”

The man said nothing.

“You don’t look to me like one of those Islama-psychos, wants to get all blown up in the name of some holy war. Am I wrong about you or what?”

Luis hesitated, then said, “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Not necessarily, not if you tell me what I need to know.”

Luis was in pain, but he figured his injuries were not fatal. Maybe, he thought, survival was an option. “Where are the others?”

“You’re the last man standing,” Sandor lied to him, “which means you only have yourself to save here. So what’s it gonna be?”

“You gotta promise…”

Sandor stepped forward and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. “No deals, no negotiations, just tell me what I need to know.”

“Timers,” he said, “they’re on timers.”

“How long?”

“A little more than half an hour now.”

“Nuclear?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Those gray pods, how are they programmed?”

When Luis hesitated, Sandor aimed his M-4 between Luis’s eyes.

“Hey, take it easy, I’m talkin’ to you, right? They’ve got low-speed propellers, gyroscopes, each set to reach the refinery as the timer runs out.”

“Any booby traps in the setup?”

“No, I didn’t see none.”

“You telling me the truth?”

Luis nodded. “The truth. Now get me the hell outta here.”

“Oh sure,” Sandor said, “I’ll have you on your way to the local Ritz-Carlton in no time.” Then he rolled the man on his face and trussed his wrists and ankles with plastic ties, all the while making his report over the microphone to the communications center at Corpus Christi.

Once Sandor had the man secured, he continued to describe the scene while he ran for Martindale’s backpack and pulled out the digital Geiger counter. As soon as he placed it on the ground beside the trailer and turned it on, it confirmed that the area was hot.

“We’re affirmative on the weapons,” he reported. “We’re dealing with weapons-grade plutonium. These are nukes and they’re set to go.”

Captain Krause spit out a string of expletives.

“We need to get a team that can disarm these,” Sandor said, “and we need them in place right now.”

“Roger that,” Krause responded. “Any chance we can just blow them out of the water?”

“That’s a negative. We need to catch up with them first and have a look. I’m not so sure there isn’t some triggering device if we interfere with their program.”

“All right,” the CO said, “but we don’t have much time if this asshole is telling you the truth.”

“Get the bomb squad on those Coast Guard speedboats as soon as you can,” Sandor said. He was standing on the bulkhead now, looking downriver for Martindale. “The pods are running with the current,” he told Krause, then ran to each door of the trailer, finding the compartments empty. The remnants of the crating were scattered about on the soaking wet turf. “Looks like whatever they meant to do is already done,” he reported.

“What the hell does that mean?” Krause demanded.

“It means I’m going to follow Martindale.”

“Hang on, Sandor, we’ve got Coast Guard on the way. If you go in the water, we’ll have no radio contact.”

“Damn,” Sandor said, knowing he was right. “I’m not just going to stand around here, I can tell you that.” He moved quickly, dragging the two bound terrorists, one at a time, to the side of the trailer. He lifted them, shoving each one into a different compartment, slammed the doors shut, jumped into the cab, and started the engine. “I’m heading for the refinery,” he said into the microphone. “It’s only three miles, and I’ll get there in the truck. Maybe the two I have with me will have more to tell us once they’re staring at those pods coming downriver.”

————

At that moment the Coast Guard speedboats arrived from the south. They were Defender-class vessels with dual outboards and, as they came around the bend of the river, the crews spotted the two floating bombs. They also saw a man just behind the two gray crafts and proceeded to open fire.

“What the hell are they doing?” Sandor yelled into the microphone as he was maneuvering the gears on the large truck. “Order a cease-fire, they’re shooting at Martindale.”

Martindale also saw the USCG boats as they raced into view, then heard the first rounds go whizzing by his head, the bullets slowing as they entered the water all around him.

He had no choice but to dive, using the two large fiberglass pods for cover.

Krause, who was surrounded by a team of officers in the communications center at Corpus Christi, quickly had the situation under control. “This is Captain Krause, commanding officer at COM-CENT,” he bellowed into the speakerphone. “Get those nitwits to cease firing. They’re not only about to kill one of our own, but we don’t know enough about those pods or how they might be wired to set them off.”

Sandor was listening as he steered the rig onto Samuels Road and accelerated toward the refinery entrance, just a couple of miles south. “Tell security I’m coming,” he said to Krause, then got the large rig moving south.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

BATON ROUGE REFINERY, LOUISIANA

H
URRICANE
C
HARLENE HAD
reached Category 3 and was at full force now, battering the entire region with winds that gusted over a hundred miles an hour and rain that was falling so hard that roads began to resemble rivers and fields had become swamps. The Mississippi was a torrent of roiling water.

After barreling down the deserted highway, Sandor reached the refinery entrance in just a few minutes. He pulled the tractor-trailer to a stop at the first security checkpoint, which today was being manned by fully armed members of the United States military. When Sandor threw the door of the truck open, four soldiers leveled rifles at his head.

“I’m Sandor,” he told them, but they stood at alert. He still had his helmet on, with radio access to Corpus Christi. “Hey, I’m glad you guys are on top of this, but Captain Krause is coordinating this defense, he’ll vouch for me.”

At the mention of Krause’s name, the senior man on duty stepped forward. “They’ve got a team that just arrived down at the dock, Mr. Sandor. Come with me.”