Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Juan and Linc had the cargo bay’s stern door covered, occasionally taking shots to keep Dominguez’s men from pouring through. The bow door was still locked tight, with a chain looped through the handle, but they could hear someone hammering away at it on the other side. It was only a matter of time before it was breached.

Bullets pinged off the armored vehicles around Juan and Linc as sailors with assault rifles poked their heads through the door to fire off a few shots. None came close. It was as if the men were simply trying to keep them pinned down.

Juan guessed that was exactly their plan. The Venezuelans had the high ground because the doors on either end, one toward the bow and one toward the stern, were at the top of the three-story-high hold, with stairs leading down to the floor, where the vehicles were lined up in eight rows of four. It was a stalemate; Juan and Linc couldn’t leave and the Venezuelans couldn’t charge down the exposed stairs.

“How many rounds do you have left?” Juan asked Linc.

“Two magazines, but at this rate I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”

“I’m down to one on the rifle I borrowed from our friend who let us in here.” A chop from Linc’s hand had dealt the guard a blow that would have him woozy for days. That still left enough men to beat them by attrition alone. There was no chance they’d make it all the way back to the Humvee. They had to find another way out.

Even if they concentrated on one door and made a break for it, the only way off the ship was by sea. They’d be sitting ducks for anyone taking potshots from the dock.

However, they did have one possibility on this very cargo deck.

“Remember how gouged the floor in the warehouse was?” Juan asked.

Linc nodded. “Sure. The treads on the armored vehicles will tear concrete like that to shreds when they turn. The tanks weigh upward of sixty-five tons.”

“Which means they have some gas in them. How hard do you think it would be to drive this?” Juan said, jerking his thumb at the M1 Abrams next to him. It was the tank closest to the dock side of the ship.

Linc was used to Juan’s improvisation, so he didn’t even blink at the suggestion. Instead, he said, “We’ve got to get the cargo door down first.”

“So you’ve driven one?”

“I sat in the driver’s seat of one back in the old days. A buddy of mine in the SEALs used to be a Marine tank driver. It looks pretty simple. Motorcycle-type handles for steering and acceleration, and a brake pedal. Not much different from my Harley.” Linc kept a customized Harley-Davidson in the Oregon’s hold for day trips at ports of call.

“So that would be a no.”

Linc smiled. “I learn quickly.”

“I like your attitude. Only one problem.” Juan pointed at the battery-powered emergency lights that were on overhead. “I’d bet they cut off the power so the door won’t go down.”

“That is a problem. Even a tank can’t smash through a ship’s hull.”

“But you did see the crates as we ran down here?”

A look of understanding crossed Linc’s face and he turned to squint at the other side of the hold. Two metal shipping containers were placed end to end along the wall. Each of them was marked with yellow warning placards that said “EXPLOSIVES.”

They held the ammunition for the armored vehicles. This really was a full-service smuggling operation. No sense in buying tanks that didn’t come with ammo.

“Keep me covered,” Juan said. “I’ll be right back.”

He felt extremely confident in Linc’s ability to protect his flank. Linc was an exceptional sniper, and even in the dim light he could take down any sailor who tried to rush in as long as he still had a round in the chamber.

Juan sprinted between the tanks, keeping his head low as he ran. He felt the shock wave of bullets passing overhead, but they were few and hastily aimed thanks to Linc’s expert covering fire.

Juan crouched behind the last tank and saw that the end of the freight container was exposed to the sailors at the stern door.

It was also locked.

A sizable padlock was looped through the handle. Either the North Koreans or Venezuelans didn’t trust the sticky fingers of their dockworkers.

Juan hitched up his pant cuff and accessed the hidden compartment in his combat leg. He’d leave the pistol and knife there for now. The plastic explosive and detonator were what he needed.

The small amount of C-4 would take care of a padlock easily enough.

He removed the explosive from its package and readied its detonator.

“Give me ten seconds on the stern door!” he called out to Linc.

“Roger that!”

“Now!”

Linc concentrated his fire on the stern door, keeping the gunmen pinned outside.

Juan darted to the container door and mashed the C-4 onto the padlock. He stuck the detonator and pulled the firing pin, which would give him ten seconds to get cover.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled.

The blast echoed through the hold. The padlock was blown to pieces.

This time, Juan didn’t wait for the cover fire. The guards would be too surprised at the explosion to pop back in right away. He ran over to the container, unhooked the latch, and flung the door open.

Metal boxes were stacked up to his eyes for the length of the container. The boxes closest to the end were marked “M829A2.” It was a sabot round. Juan knew the designations of every round the M1 Abrams used because the Oregon had an identical 120mm smooth-bore cannon hidden behind bow doors.

Sabots were uranium-depleted penetrator rods that were designed to go through tank armor. The shell around it was discarded as soon as it left the gun barrel. It would be no use to them. They would make a neat Coke-can-sized hole in the hull, and through anything else within a mile’s range, but not near big enough for a tank to crash out.

What Juan was looking for was an M908, a high-explosive, obstacle-reduction round. It was designed to blow apart concrete bunkers. It should do nicely on the side of the ship if he could find one.

He pulled himself up on top of the crates and started making his way back, using the flashlight on his phone to check the markings.

He got a quarter of the way into the container before he found one marked “M908.” He flipped the lid open and saw four giant shells nestled into their cradles, each weighing thirty pounds. He’d have to make do with two.

He slung his assault rifle over his back and hoisted two of the shells, one under each arm. He made his way back to the container door.

After carefully putting the shells down on top of a crate, he lowered himself to the floor, making sure to keep the door between him and the stairway. With the shells in hand again, he called out to Linc.

“Cover me!”

Juan dashed back toward Linc, knowing that if a stray round hit either of the warheads, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to scrape off the tank treads.

He knelt beside Linc next to the tank closest to the cargo door.

“Getting in the tank will be tricky,” Juan said.

“Too bad you didn’t find any belts for that fifty-cal,” Linc said, giving the machine gun mounted on the tank’s turret a longing look.

“Sorry. I had my hands full as it was.”

Linc nodded. As soon as Juan fired his shots, Linc leaped onto the front of the Abrams, flipped the driver’s hatch up, and hopped inside, leaving only his upper body exposed. When he had the stern door above them sighted, Juan put the two shells on the turret and climbed up.

He opened the commander’s hatch and lowered the first shell into the commander’s seat. As he turned to retrieve the second shell, he saw the bow door above them slam open. Sailors poured through, their rifles at the ready.

Juan grabbed the shell and clambered through the hatch as gunfire rained down on them. One of the rounds grazed his shoulder, causing him to drop the shell. He cringed as it hit the floor, but the fuse didn’t detonate.

Juan dropped inside and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He snugged it tight and engaged the locking latch, designed to prevent infantry from opening the hatch from the outside and tossing grenades in.

He put pressure on his shoulder to stop the bleeding while he checked his phone and saw that Max had come through. When they’d gotten stuck in the hold, he’d texted Max to cast off with the Oregon and that he and Linc would get out somehow and make it back to the ship. Juan had already had the idea of using one of the tanks to make their getaway, so he’d asked Max to contact their connections in the CIA to send Juan an operations manual on how to run an Abrams and fire its main cannon.

Max’s message said No need to contact CIA. Found this one on the Internet.

When Juan opened the attachment, he saw that it was a PDF of a scanned Abrams operations manual.

He rapidly scrolled to the start-up sequence. His eyes flicked back and forth as they flew through the instructions. It seemed straightforward. He located the proper switches and started the engine.

The turbine behind him spooled to life with a whine that made it sound as if they were about to make a moon launch. Juan looked out of the viewport to see that the guards who had flooded into the cargo bay had stopped in their tracks, watching the tank with caution as its jet engine roar filled the hold.

Juan put on a headset hanging next to the commander’s station.

“You with me?” he said.

“Loud and clear,” Linc responded. “It’s a tight fit but comfy. Like sitting in a recliner. I can’t see much, so you’ll have to let me know when to move.”

“Believe me, you’ll know.”

Juan secured one shell in the magazine and loaded the other into the breech, a process as easy as shoving the shell in and slamming the back closed, which allows the Abrams to fire six rounds a minute.

Once the 1500-horsepower turbine warmed up and was at full speed, he settled into the gunner’s seat. The sailors outside the tank had climbed on and were banging at the hull futilely trying to get inside.

Juan grabbed the two sticks controlling the turret and tested them out. The turret spun on its axis as easily as turning in his office chair. The guards outside tumbled off and ran for cover.

He put his eyes up to the gunner’s sight and pointed the cannon directly in front of them at a five-degree down angle. His finger rested on the trigger.

“Get ready, Linc,” he said. “This is going to shake you a bit.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Juan pulled the trigger.

The gun fired with a thunderous blast, rocking the Abrams backward, and was followed instantaneously by an even bigger explosion as the shell blew out the hull of the tanker.

The gaping hole now in the side of the ship sucked the smoke out, letting the lights from outside filter in.

“Let her rip,” Juan said into his mic.

“You got it.”

For a moment, the tank remained stationary as it tugged on the tie-down chains, but Linc gunned it and they snapped loose. The Abrams launched forward, its treads chewing the steel floor of the hold.

When the tank reached the gaping opening, its armor bent the jagged steel edges back as if ripping through an aluminum can.

The Abrams plunged six feet down onto the dock, slamming Juan into the seat when the tank hit the concrete.

The Abrams charged forward across the fifty feet separating the ship from the warehouse, Linc putting on speed as it approached the building’s garage door. It blasted through without slowing, sending the door flying across the bare warehouse floor. The sequence was repeated when they ripped through the front door on the other side of the building. Getting through the chain-link fence wouldn’t be any harder.

“Unless the Venezuelans can find someone to drive one of those other tanks,” Linc said, “there’s not much they can do to stop us.”

Linc’s comment gave Juan a devilish idea. “Hold up when we get to the fence.”

Linc pulled to a stop at the fence. Sailors outside surrounded them, peppering the side of the tank with bullets to no effect. Juan flipped through the manual until he found what he was looking for.

He keyed on the external loudspeaker and addressed the men outside in Spanish. “Hello out there, amigos. I just want to give you fair warning. Anyone who doesn’t get off that ship in the next sixty seconds is going to have a very bad day.”

He let go of the mic switch and spun the turret around until it was facing back the way they’d come. Through the two destroyed doors of the warehouse, he had a perfect view of the interior of the cargo hold.

He set the sight dead center on the ammunition container.

One of the sailors outside saw what was about to happen and yelled into a walkie-talkie. Men began careening in panic down the tanker’s gangway.

“I can’t see anything from up here,” Linc said, “but are you planning to do what I think you are?”

“Might as well wipe out their smuggling operation while we have the chance,” Juan answered.

“I’m all for that. Saves us another trip.”

Juan loaded the second shell into the cannon and watched the seconds tick down on his watch. One minute was more than fair, he thought.

When sixty seconds ended, the ship looked as empty as the famous ghost ship Mary Celeste. Juan again pulled the trigger.

The cannon bucked, sending the shell straight through the warehouse and into the tanker.

The ammo detonated with a blast that dwarfed anything up to this point. The cargo bay disappeared in a flash of white flame, an enormous mushroom cloud rising above the dock. The warehouse next to it was blown down by the explosion. Even wearing the headset muffs, Juan’s ears rang.

With a fire raging on board, the Tamanaco broke in two and began to sink immediately. They’d have a hard time selling the waterlogged vehicles if any of them survived the blast.

Juan glanced around and saw all of the men surrounding the tank had been thrown flat. They would need a few minutes to come around, but Juan spotted a column of what had to be military vehicles heading toward them from the nearby city.

“Where to now, Chairman?”

“Home, James.” The Abrams lurched forward, plowing the fence down and turning onto the road.

“Any ideas for how we’re going to get back on the Oregon now that they’re heading out to sea? They’ll have the docks locked down, so stealing a boat isn’t going to be an option. Plan B is out the window.”

They could have the Oregon send one of its lifeboats, but that would expose it to gunfire from the shore when it picked them up. Although the tank was impregnable, it was easy to follow, and it had only enough gas for loading onto and unloading off of the ship. At less than two miles per gallon, they were going to be dry in about fifteen minutes of driving.

Juan remembered the peak of the hill on the peninsula they’d sailed by when the Oregon was entering La Guanta Harbor. From the looks of it, it had enough elevation for what he was thinking.

“Max isn’t going to like this,” he murmured.

“Am I going to like it?”

“You’ll love it,” Juan said. “When has my Plan C ever failed?”

The Dolos had reached the mouth of the harbor by the time Manuel Lozada and his men had surrounded the lumbering ship in their four powerboats. The ship hadn’t responded to his radio call to return to the dock, so Lozada had gathered Gao and fifteen other men to take the freighter by force, if he had to. He still didn’t believe the rust bucket was armed with anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife, but he was going to follow the admiral’s instructions no matter how ridiculous they seemed.

He raised the bullhorn and stood atop the launch.

“Captain Holland and Dolos,” he called out in English. “You are required to return to your berth in La Guanta Harbor immediately. Your authorization to depart the harbor has been temporarily revoked because of safety precautions.”

He waited, but there was no response. The dim light on the bridge revealed no occupants. Lozada wasn’t surprised considering how grimy the windows were. The Dolos continued to plod out to sea. He repeated the call with the same result.

“You’re going to have to go aboard to stop her,” Gao said.

“It’s looking that way.” Admiral Ruiz had told him to rely on Gao’s experience with the ship and Lozada wasn’t going to argue. His expertise was in sailing ships, not assaulting them. “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest you attack the ship with all four boats simultaneously. Two at the bow and two at the stern. Overwhelming force is the most likely tactic for victory.”

Lozada agreed and radioed the other boats the plan. Each was equipped with a boarding ladder, and every man had been armed with an assault rifle. They weren’t special tactics policemen, but they were able to handle the weapons well enough to capture a straggly crew.

“I would like to request a pistol to take with me,” Gao said.

“Take with you where?” Lozada asked in confusion.

“I must go on board and guide your men. I know the hidden areas you have not seen. We may be ambushed unless we can find all of the crew.”

“Why are you willing to risk your life for us?”

“Not for you. I must avenge the comrades from my own ship. These spies will be revealed for who they truly are.”

Lozada considered the request. If the Dolos were nothing more than it seemed, letting Gao on board wouldn’t be a problem. If it were a spy ship as Admiral Ruiz and Gao believed, Lozada would want Gao on board to help his men navigate through the ship. Either way, Lozada could justify himself to the admiral.

He nodded for one of his men to surrender his sidearm to Gao. “Use that only if fired upon. If you injure or kill a crewman who turns out to be innocent, you will spend a very long time in one of my country’s prisons.”

Gao took the pistol, checked the chamber, and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. “I understand. You will see soon enough.”

They readied their ladder. Lozada signaled for all the boats to make their boarding attempt.

The harbormaster’s launch pulled along the port side near the stern. One of his men latched the ladder’s hooks over the deck scupper.

Before he could give the order, Gao leaped onto the ladder and began climbing. As soon as it was clear, the next man went after him. Lozada would go last, just to make sure the deck was secure.

He looked forward and saw that the boat at the bow was taking more time getting its ladder hooked on. Gao was nearly to the railing. He would be the first man on the ship.

He was about to call up and tell Gao to wait when a blast of water played across the launch, knocking Lozada and the rest of his men off their feet. The man on the ladder fell back under the pressure of the water, landing on the launch with a loud thump. Gao was high enough that he was above the aim of the fire hose trained on them.

The boat at the bow was hit at the same time and swung away. Lozada didn’t have to tell his boat’s driver to do the same. The launch swerved sideways, leaving Gao stranded on the ladder.

The fire hoses were often used by freighters to ward off pirates attempting hijacks. But there were always gaps. Lozada instructed his men to try again, keeping an eye on where the nozzles were located.

Gao leaped over the railing and drew his pistol. He motioned that he was going to try to disable the water jets.

He knelt over a valve and spun the wheel. The water flow lessened. In another few seconds he’d have it shut off and Lozada would be able to approach unimpeded.

The bridge door banged open and an Arab emerged carrying an assault rifle. Gao, who saw what was about to happen, rushed the gunman, but before he could reach him his rifle stitched bullets across Gao’s torso. Blood spattered the deck, and Gao’s momentum sent him tumbling into the gunman, his deadweight carrying them both back into the bridge.

Out of nowhere, crewmen aboard the Dolos popped up and fired rifles at the Lozada’s boats. Tiny splashes erupted around them. They took cover and were about to return fire when the Arab returned and aimed a rocket-propelled grenade at them.

Lozada ran forward and threw the throttle to its stops. The launch lurched forward as the rocket fired. It overflew the launch and exploded only fifty feet behind them.

“Fall back!” Lozada yelled to the driver, and repeated the command on the radio to the other boats, which were also under attack from RPGs.

The mortally wounded Gao had been right about the spy ship. The putrid vessel’s deception wasn’t to conceal advanced weaponry. It was about hiding a crew of spies armed with handheld weapons aboard a ship so disgusting that it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Still, Lozada wasn’t about to attack again. Although he didn’t know if the ship had torpedoes and missiles and lasers, the Dolos with its assault rifles and RPGs was more than a match for his men.

Admiral Ruiz would now have proof that the ship was worthy of being hunted down. Even if she were still thirty miles away, Lozada was quite sure her frigate would easily catch the slow freighter before it escaped.

–

Max Hanley was pleased to see that Lozada had gotten the message and was retreating. He recalled the gundogs and shut down the remotely aimed water cannons.

Max was watching the huge flat-panel front display from his engineering station in the Oregon’s Operations Center, a high-tech room the harbormaster couldn’t possibly have guessed was in the middle of the ship he thought was called Dolos. The op center was awash in blue from the innumerable computer screens, and antistatic rubber deadened footfalls on the floor. The entire room was colored charcoal, making the space a darkened analog of the bridge on the starship Enterprise.

Every aspect of Oregon’s operation could be controlled and monitored from this low-ceilinged nerve center, from weapons systems and helm control at the two front seats, to communications, engineering, radar, sonar, and damage control at the stations ringing the room’s perimeter. The chair in the center was currently unoccupied. Dubbed the Kirk Chair, Juan Cabrillo’s well-padded seat gave him an unobstructed view of the entire room, and he could control every function of the ship from its armrest, if necessary.

Max had to figure out a way to get the Chairman back in his proper place. He had protested mightily when Juan had told him to cast off, but the strange request for an Abrams tank manual made him believe Juan had something up his sleeve.

The door to the op center whisked open and Hali Kasim entered, grinning. The communications officer may have looked like an Arab, but the third-generation Lebanese American didn’t speak a lick of the language. He took a seat at the comm panel.

“That was fun,” Hali said. “I don’t normally like leaving my comfy chair, but I’ll make an exception when I get to shoot him.” He pointed at the door and the man Lozada knew as Gao Wangshu walked through without a scratch on him. Everyone on the Oregon knew him as Eddie Seng, director of shore operations.

He had already changed out of his bullet-riddled shirt, which had actually been perforated by squibs designed by Kevin Nixon. Like the fake gunshot wounds Hollywood stuntmen used in action scenes, Eddie’s were controlled by a tiny detonator hidden in his sleeve. He was supposed to have “died” during a gun battle while the Oregon was still tied to the dock, but Juan and Linc’s blown cover necessitated a change of plan. When Hali had come out of the bridge firing blanks, Eddie had set off the charges in his shirt, providing a convincing death for Mr. Gao. Harbormaster Manuel Lozada would never know that he’d been duped.

Raised in Brooklyn by Mandarin-speaking parents, Eddie had been recruited by the CIA as a field agent. His specialty had been long-term infiltration of the Chinese government, so he was well practiced at assuming a false identity in covert operations. It had been his idea to insert himself as the final witness to Oregon’s true nature, convincing the Venezuelans that it was the ship Admiral Ruiz had been searching for. For months now, word had gotten back to the Corporation that their cover as a tramp steamer was starting to crumble, given the number of battles they’d fought over the last few years. The Chairman had decided to do something about it, to get their anonymity back, and implying that they were no better equipped than Somali pirates was part of the plan.

Eddie’s part in the mission was to keep tabs on what the Venezuelans were planning and to make sure they discovered the Oregon’s arrival at the proper time. Lozada and Admiral Ruiz were convinced Gao had run into the Oregon before because a Chinese destroyer called the Chengdo had been sunk under mysterious circumstances. In fact, the Oregon had been responsible. It was during that battle that Juan lost his leg to enemy fire. A lie was much more believable if most of it was the truth.

“You look well for a dead man,” Max said.

“It didn’t hurt a bit,” Eddie replied. “I’m just happy Hali is such a good shot.”

“You taught me well,” Hali said with a laugh. After an operation in Libya that resulted in Hali getting hit, he had asked Eddie for more combat training. Eddie held black belts in numerous martial arts and was one of the elite sharpshooters on the Oregon, so Hali had learned from the best.

“How are the Chairman and Linc doing?” Eddie asked.

“He’s on to Plan C,” Max said, knowing Eddie would understand that things had not gone as expected for them. He turned to Hali. “See if you can get Juan back on the line.”

A hiss came over the op center audio system, followed by a click and a roaring background noise.

“Frank’s Tanks here,” Juan answered. “How’s the ship?”

“Not a flake of rust out of place,” Max said.

“And Eddie?”

“Good to be back, Chairman,” Eddie said.

“Great. Now we just have the matter of getting me and Linc onto the Oregon.”

“I wouldn’t recommend commandeering a boat,” Max said. “The harbor is full of angry Venezuelans with itchy trigger fingers. They’re holding off from the Oregon, but you’d eat lead trying to get past them.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ve picked out a nice spot on the peninsula between Puerto La Cruz and La Guanta where we can meet you.”

Max checked his satellite map for that location. “Are you thinking of swimming? Because those rocks look pretty jagged. The waves would beat you to a pulp against the shoreline.”

“I don’t plan to get my feet wet. Bring the Oregon to three hundred yards offshore at the northernmost point.”

“That won’t be a problem. Why?”

“Remember when we tugged that containership off that reef in the Azores?”

“Yup. We couldn’t get anywhere near it because of the gale.”

“But we could get a line to it.”

Max snapped his fingers. “The Comet.”

“Eddie’s the best shot. Get a disguise for him and get him up on deck. We need him to throw us a lifeline.”

“On my way,” Eddie said, and hustled out of the room.

Max shook his head. In this case, the expression “throw us a lifeline” was going to be the literal truth.