Текст книги "Splinter cell : Blacklist aftermath (2013)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

The Humvee pulled to a halt even as a pair of broad, wrought-iron gates bordered by black-and-yellow stripes yawned inward. A guardhouse stood on either side of the gates, with riflemen posted at each. More bearded guards wearing traditional security uniforms came out to greet Fisher and Briggs, who were introduced to the officer in charge and taken over to a computer terminal, where the logs were stored.

Although Fisher had requested that those logs be sent electronically to the team, the prince had declined, saying they were confidential but that Fisher was welcome to take a look at them in person. Fisher began surreptitiously snapping photos of the log with his OPSAT and transmitting them back to Charlie and Grim.

“Got them, Sam,” said Charlie.

“We receive fifty, sometimes one hundred shipments per day,” said the officer in charge. “Packages and equipment of all kinds.”

Fisher squinted and scanned through the long list in 10-point type, the items identified in a mishmash of English and Arabic.

He scrolled down, tapped his finger on the screen, and moved back so that Briggs could have a look.

An invoice indicated the arrival three hours earlier of seven thousand feet of pipe and four new drill heads.

“What do you think?” asked Briggs.

“I think we should check it out.”

They returned to the Humvee, and Fisher said, “Prince Shammari, there is a delivery you received earlier that we’d like to examine.”

“You think my personnel missed something?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we can take you back to your helicopter.”

“We’d rather inspect the shipment ourselves—only because the timing is right.”

Shammari made a face and called out to the driver. The convoy moved forward, through the gates, and onto a road leading out toward four silver spheres looming in the distance.

“And can you tell the driver to get us there as fast as he can?” Fisher added.

“Of course I’ll tell him. But first, look over there.”

Shammari pointed to the lines of Al Fahd Armoured Personnel Carriers on either side of the road, some armed with .40mm cannons, others with .50-caliber machine guns mounted above their cabs. Some troops manned the fifties while others stood on lookout in the turret-top cupolas to the rear.

The prince went on: “If anything were to bypass the gates, these men would cut them down in a second. Do you have any idea how many eyes and ears we have on this processing plant? How at this very moment we’re being monitored by cameras, by motion detectors, by drones flying over our heads? Do you know how many rounds of ammunition we can put on a target in a single minute? It’s truly incredible.”

Fisher closed his eyes and steeled himself. “Yes, it is.”

“But still you question our security.”

“Didn’t the king, your uncle, say it was better to have a thousand enemies outside your tent than one inside?”

“He did. But you’ve just crossed into one of the most secure places in the world.”

Fisher considered a retort, then thought better of it.

The pair of warehouses Grim had mentioned earlier began rising from the twilit gloom ahead. At least the driver had taken his cue and raced ahead with a heavy foot and clear sense of urgency.

They pulled up outside the first warehouse, a rectangular two-story building about the length of an entire football field. Several guards were posted outside the doors, and a few more along the rear dock and loading ramps.

While Shammari strode from the Humvees, Fisher and Briggs jogged away with the security team hustling up behind them. Seeing what was happening, the warehouse guards moved aside, and the lead troop, a sergeant, slid a key card across a scanner, opening the side door. They charged inside.

Massive halogen lights suspended from the iron rafters cast broad puddles of light across the concrete floor. To their left, oversized racks rising some eight meters held bundles of pipes of various lengths and diameters. To their right towered literally hundreds more racks with thousands more pipes, fittings, clamps, and dozens of other parts, some recognizable, some completely foreign to Fisher. Placards in Arabic and English identified sections as DESALTER, VACUUM DISTILLATION, NAPHTHA HYDROTREATER, CATALYTIC REFORMER, and FLUID CATALYTIC CRACKER, among many others.

In sum, the warehouse was an overwhelming maze of drilling and oil refining equipment, each aisle a labyrinth of rubber, copper, steel, and aluminum. Without knowing exactly where the recent pipe and drill shipment had been stored, it could take them an eternity just to get near it. Moreover, it was after hours, and the warehouse foremen had gone home for the evening.

“The most recent large shipment,” Fisher told one of the sergeants in Arabic, reciting the invoice number he’d memorized. “Delivered today.”

The troop had a schematic of the warehouse and delivery schedule displayed on an iPad mini. He called up the route, pointed toward a long row between racks on their right, and once more, the group took off jogging, with the prince bringing up the rear.

They rounded a corner, and the sergeant called for a halt to once more consult his tablet. He glanced up at the storage racks, numbered 329, 330, 331 . . . then his gaze panned downward to more labels. He began walking up the row several more meters, then spun and stopped. “It’ll all be here,” he said, pointing to the bundles of pipes and cone-shaped drill heads sitting atop pallets covered in shrink-wrap.

“Grim, are you seeing this?” Fisher muttered.

“Got everything. I don’t see anything that looks like a generator there.”

Fisher turned back to the troops. “Who’s got the radiation equipment? We need this scanned.”

Two soldiers dropped their packs and fished out their portable radiation survey detection meters and wands.

Prince Shammari lumbered up behind the group and said, “What do you think of our warehouse?”

Fisher wasn’t sure how to answer. “Nice.”

“And this is the delivery you’re so worried about?”

“Yes, it is.” Fisher called for some more light, and the troops directed their flashlights onto the pipes and within them.

“I can assure you,” said the prince, parading up to Fisher and getting in his face. “This delivery has been thoroughly inspected by three of my engineers, by my radiological teams, and by anyone else we deemed necessary to ensure it is not, and I repeat, not some kind of explosive device that you and your people suggest may be en route here. These items were ordered months ago, and the company verifies the shipment and invoices through their own security personnel, and then those items come through our very rigorous process. And I remind you, even after Ms. Grimsdóttir called, we searched this entire facility, just as a precaution. I was very explicit about that. You’re wasting your time with these radiation detectors and with this whole nonsense. No one got past my security. No one can get past it. I hope you and your people understand that now.”

Fisher stood there.

Part of him felt deeply embarrassed, the other part ready to commit murder.

Shammari bared his teeth, but his lips curled into a grin.

Fisher averted his gaze. “We’ll be leaving now.”

33

BEFORE climbing into the Humvee, Fisher stole a moment to have a word with Grim, who’d been monitoring the conversation he’d had with Prince Shammari.

The wind was beginning to howl in his ears as he listened to her through his subdermal: “I don’t know, Sam, I was positive all the dots were connecting.”

“They still are.”

“Maybe Abqaiq’s not the target.”

“Then why are those Russians in Dammam?”

“Maybe it’s been the port all along. Or maybe the capital. Maybe it’s Riyadh. That’s only two hundred miles southwest.”

Fisher mouthed a curse and said, “We’re heading over to Dammam. We’ll see what we can pick up there. You keep working with Kasperov and his right-hand guy. I’ll be in touch.”

As they drove away from the warehouse, Prince Shammari glanced up from his surfboard-sized smartphone and announced that out to the west, a thunderstorm traveling at up to 45 knots was beginning to collapse and dump torrents. Wind directions were reversing and gusting outward from the storm. Reports from Riyadh said a haboob was beginning to form and that everyone should seek cover.

“Haboob” was an amusing word for a very deadly and intense sandstorm common on the Arabian peninsula.

“Where are you headed now?” Shammari asked Fisher.

“Dammam.”

“Then you’d best hurry.”

“We will. I’m sorry we wasted your time. Your security is impressive.”

“As I’ve demonstrated.”

“Your deliveries here, they all come in by truck?”

“And by rail. With a few small ones by helicopter.”

“The oil is shipped by pipeline up to Dammam.”

“That’s correct.”

Fisher sat there, considering that.

“I hope for our sakes that you’re wrong,” said Shammari. “There is no plot. There is no bomb. I know we’ve been talking about terrorists with nuclear weapons for years, but the world cannot afford it. Not ever.”

“I agree. But I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Fisher glanced out the window. “There’s a bomb out there. And we’re going to find it.”

* * *

BY the time they hit the helipad, the chopper was already warm since Fisher had called ahead to the pilot. They bid their tense and somewhat awkward good-byes to the prince and his troops, then started for the helicopter.

While stars shimmered directly overhead, the western sky was no more than a churning brown wave that consumed the entire horizon. Briggs pointed, and they both gasped.

This could be the largest and most formidable haboob Fisher had ever seen, and that was saying something because he’d spent enough time in Arab countries to ride out his share of storms. This bad weather could buy them some time. If the storm extended all the way up to the port it could shut down operations, perhaps delaying the oligarchs’ plan.

They climbed into the chopper, Briggs taking one of the backseats, Fisher up front with the pilot. They rolled shut the door, and just as they were lifting off, Grim called.

“Sam, I’ve got new intel from Kasperov. He called one of the oligarchs directly. Kargin, the guy who was talking to Chern. Kasperov threatened to unleash the Calamity Jane virus on the man’s company and holdings if he didn’t call off the attack.”

“Then it’s over?”

“Kasperov thinks Kargin killed himself while he was on the line. The guy said it’s too late. There’s nothing that can stop them now.”

“Aw, shit. Did he get anything else?”

“He didn’t, but his partner Kannonball did. More intercepted comms between the GRU and an agent in Dammam. Best we can tell there are four Iranian MOIS agents at the port. They’ve linked up with the rogue GRU agent and were ordered to meet up with a railcar broker.”

Fisher’s OPSAT flashed as Grim sent him a satellite map of the desert between Dammam and Abqaiq, with a flashing red line between the two. Fisher zoomed in on that line to expose a set of railroad tracks, noting how the railway left Dammam, ran right through Abqaiq between the Saudi Aramco compound and the processing plant, then arrowed farther south to Riyadh.

“Grim, what if they—”

“I’m ahead of you. The Saudis have GID agents at the port, and I confirmed with them that one of the Iranian ships offloaded an HEP car.”

“A what?”

“An HEP car. These are high-end power cars that sit directly behind the locomotives. They look like engines sitting backward and they generate extra power needed for refrigerator cars and tractor trailer cooling units. The Saudis have some older diesel locomotives and still use some of these power cars on their lines. There was nothing unusual about this shipment, and all the paperwork checked out with the railway.”

“So why are we interested?”

“Because that HEP car was attached to a locomotive carrying oil containers, twenty-one in all, and it’s the only shipment scheduled to run through Abqaiq this evening. It’s number 116.”

“So you’re saying they don’t use HEP cars with oil container trains.”

“No—but they attached one anyway because they wanted that car to move out tonight.”

“Tell me why oil is being shipped down by train when there’s pipeline from Abqaiq to Dammam.”

“That oil is headed for Riyadh. They still need to ship the processed oil back down to the city by rail, and as you’ve seen, that railroad passes right through Abqaiq.”

“So they got past security at the port and the bomb’s inside the HEP car.”

“It has to be.”

“So the bomb is part of a larger shipment.”

“Yeah,” said Grim. “We weren’t thinking big enough.”

“So now all they have to do is wait until the train passes through the processing facility and detonate it for maximum impact. Just like the thorium operation, they either have a spotter in Abqaiq or like Kasperov said, they’ll have someone to trigger it manually, someone on a suicide mission.”

“Plus they have the storm to cover them. No way they could’ve planned that, but they’ll take advantage of it.”

“Call Shammari. Tell him to stop the train.”

“I already did,” she said. “The train’s still coming. It’s been hijacked. Just a single rail between Abqaiq and Dammam. No way to divert it.”

“What’s our ETA to the train?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Backup?”

“Shammari’s troops are leaving the compound now, but his F-15s have been grounded. He says he’s got some light helicopter gunships en route.”

“Tell him to hold back those gunships until I give the order—otherwise they could spook the triggerman.”

“Roger that. And, Sam, once the storm hits we’ll lose the satellite feed and maybe the rest of our comms.”

“That’s all right. We know what to do now.”

“Sam, I, uh . . . I think this time we’re right.”

“Is your gut telling you that?”

“It is.”

“Good. Mine, too.” He closed his eyes and could almost see her face. She wore the barest hint of a smile.

He wanted to say something else, something more meaningful because she was right, this was it—possibly the last conversation they’d ever have after years of working together.

“Grim?”

“Yeah?”

He stammered. “We’ll be okay.”

After a long pause, she answered, “Talk to you soon, Sam.”

Briggs, who’d been listening in on the conversation via the chopper’s intercom system, reached over and proffered his hand.

“What’s this?” Fisher asked.

“Just in case,” said Briggs. They shook firmly. “Someday, when I grow up, I’m gonna be just like you.”

Fisher shoved Briggs and smiled. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

34

THE chopper pilot from Dubai, who’d introduced himself as Hammad, knew some English—enough to deal with tourists—but that wasn’t an issue since Fisher and Briggs spoke Arabic.

However, convincing the thirty-year-old man with closely cropped beard to engage in the unthinkable with his rotary wing aircraft was the real challenge.

“We just need a ride to the train,” Fisher said over the intercom.

“To the train? The storm’s coming. We can’t do that. Besides, why there? How were you planning on boarding?”

Fisher sighed. “Very carefully. You’ll take us to the train. Now.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t.”

“Then you can hop out right now, and my buddy will take over.”

Briggs reached in beside the man and began to open the side door.

“What’re you doing?” The pilot swatted away Briggs’s hand and cried, “You’re crazy! Crazy! We have the storm. We have to get back to the port and get under cover!”

“Hammad, we need you,” said Briggs, who looked to Fisher for approval and got it. “We’re talking about terrorists on board that train.”

“I’ll put it to you this way,” Fisher interjected. “If you don’t help us, we won’t kill you—but what they have on that train will.”

The pilot hesitated. “What do you mean?”

Fisher sloughed off his shirt to expose his tac-suit. Behind him, Briggs held up their machine guns. “Our business isn’t exactly oil.”

Hammad’s eyes flared. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

“Exactly,” said Briggs. “We’re just asking for a little help.”

“Don’t shoot me. Please.”

Fisher snorted. “Are you kidding? Today’s your day to be a hero. You up for it or what?”

Hammad was visibly trembling now. “My boss will kill me if I put even a scratch on the helicopter.”

“It’s cool,” said Briggs. “I know you can do this.”

Hammad gestured to a picture of two little girls taped just above his instrument panel, two gems about five and six years old. “They need their father!”

“I know,” Fisher said. “So do we.”

The man’s eyes were burning now. “Who are you?”

Fisher tensed. “We’re the passengers you’ll never forget.”

“Maybe you’re the terrorists!”

Fisher tapped a few keys on his OPSAT, bringing up some digital photographs of his daughter Sarah when she was nine. He held up his wrist for the pilot to see. “That’s my daughter. She’s all grown up now, but she still needs her father. And her father needs you. So let’s get this done. For all of them. Okay?”

Hammad pursed his lips, swallowed, then took another look at Briggs and Fisher.

Briggs put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “We have faith in you, Hammad. More than you know.”

After taking a deep breath and reaching out to touch the photograph of his girls, Hammad said, “I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t,” Fisher assured him. “Now take us a mile or two south, and get us up high, another thousand feet.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the pilot muttered, banking sharply, then gaining altitude, the chopper buffeted hard by a sudden gust that left Fisher’s stomach about thirty feet below.

“Continue nice and wide,” said Fisher. “Anyone on the train spots us, they’ll think we’re heading to the port.”

“I understand,” said Hammad. “You’re not the terrorists, then, right?”

“I know it’s hard to tell who the good guys are these days, but Allah’s on your side.”

“Yes, always.”

Hammad kept several pairs of binoculars on board for sightseers. Fisher grabbed a pair and focused on the train, just a metallic serpent chugging forward across the broad plains of desert. Twin headlights reached out into the gathering dust. Fisher panned up toward the haboob and regretted that decision.

The storm was a living, breathing creature of wind and sand, consumed by hunger and unaffected by politics, religion, or any other differences men used to justify killing each other. It was motivated only by the laws of physics, a perfect killer.

“All right,” Fisher told Hammad, shaking off the thought. “Come back around and descend hard and fast. You’re like an old fighter pilot in World War II, coming in to strafe the enemy, got it?”

“Holy shit, yes. I got it.”

Briggs had finished stripping down to his tac-suit and was double-checking their pistols and spare magazines. He handed Fisher his Five-seveN and SIG P226, then holstered his own weapons. Next he handed Fisher his submachine gun with attached sling and clutched his own tightly to his chest.

“Good to go,” Briggs said over the intercom. “Nothing beats the smell of factory-fresh ammo in the evening.”

Fisher almost smiled, then glanced to Hammad. “You’re doing great. Keep descending. Okay, now over there, we need to get lower, that’s right, bank right . . . right . . . descend again! You see it now?”

Hammad swooped down like a vulture, then he pitched the nose and descended even more aggressively. Fisher found himself clutching the seat with one hand as they came within five meters of the desert floor before Hammad pulled up and leveled off to check his altitude. Not two seconds later, he descended a few more meters.

“That’s how to do it,” Fisher said. “That’s perfect. You could be a military pilot.”

“Yeah, man,” said Hammad, sounding only half as confident as Fisher.

The helicopter was on a straight and level path directly behind the train, with the rail ties ticking by. Despite being jarred by the train’s wash, Hammad kept them less than two meters above the railway, with only the caboose container’s tiny red taillights as a reference point.

Their approach was about as stealthy as Fisher could’ve hoped for, but he still wasn’t sure how loud the locomotive and HEP car were and if they’d been noisy enough to conceal the chopper’s engine and rotors to anyone posted outside the train. The plan, of course, was to go in ghost.

Fisher lifted his binoculars. The tank cars themselves were as expected—long black cylinders with well-rusted bellies and ladders both fore and aft. There were grab irons mounted to the sides and narrow, flat upper decks with railings that allowed maintenance workers to pass from car to car.

“Okay, great job, Hammad,” he said. “Stand by to get us up top.”

As Fisher unbuckled and climbed toward the backseat, ready to give Hammad his final instructions, gunfire ripped across the canopy—

And suddenly Hammad was jerking the stick, throwing Fisher backward.

“Get above the last car!” shouted Briggs. “Don’t pull away!”

“He’s shooting at us!” cried Hammad.

Fisher crashed into the backseat and then whipped his head around, catching the barest glimpse of a man posted between the caboose and the next tank car. He repeatedly swung out from the side of the train, single-handedly firing his rifle, the muzzle flashing—but oddly not a single round struck the chopper. Was he the world’s worst shot?

Fisher squinted for a better look.

“Oh, you’re kidding me!” cried Briggs.

In that instant oil began spraying across the canopy, mixing with the swirling dust and clouding Hammad’s view as the agent continued spraying the oil container with bullets, releasing more streams of oil.

“Pull up now!” Fisher cried.

Hammad shook his head. “I can’t see!”

The oil kept splashing and bleeding off, the streaks beginning to blur like a kaleidoscope. One false move by the pilot, and they’d either plow into the back of the train or smash into the tracks—and Fisher’s imagination took him through both of those scenarios in an instant.

“Come on, Hammad, do it!” Fisher cried, slapping his palm on top of the pilot’s and ready to take over if Hammad backed out.

Hammad’s eyes bulged. “Okay, I got it!” He gasped, shuddered, then pulled back and brought them above the oil spray, coming directly above the container car. He was leaning forward now, staring through a meager opening on the canopy no more than twelve inches wide and not yet stained with oil.

“Here,” shouted Briggs, handing Fisher his pair of trifocals.

With his goggles on, Briggs threw the latch and yanked open the door.

The wind literally screamed into the compartment.

And the sand came in needle-like torrents.

Hammad coughed and cried, “Hurry!”

“Just hold position!” Fisher told him. “You’re a hero today, my friend!”

“Holy shit, yes!”

Briggs leaped from the chopper and hit the container hard, falling forward, sliding for a second, then latching onto one of the railings. One hand slid loose and he was thrown back by both the train’s velocity and the storm, but he leaned forward and returned that hand to the rail.

Ignoring the desert blurring by and the sand beginning to rip through the rotors, Fisher couldn’t help himself. He chanced a look at the sandstorm—perhaps a quarter mile away and barreling toward them.

Oh my God . . .

The diminutive train and even tinier chopper lay directly in the path of what resembled a thousand-foot-tall tidal wave as murky and thick as the ocean itself.

Chilled, Fisher flicked his gaze back on the oil container, focusing on his upper deck landing zone.

Then, with a curse that really meant no, I’m not too old for this shit, he pushed away from the helicopter and plunged two meters to the top deck.

As his boots made impact, they gave way on a thin coating of oil that had whipped up from the rotor wash and was dripping off the railings.

He hit hard on his rump and began slipping off the deck, a hairsbreadth from being blown right off the container—when Briggs’s hand latched onto his, just as Fisher went swinging off the side and across the oil-slick surface.

Suspended now, Fisher caught another glimpse of the man who’d been firing at them, illuminated in the pale green glow of his trifocals. He was an Iranian MOIS agent, Fisher assumed, with balaclava tugged over his head, Kevlar vest strapped tightly at his chest and waist, and baggy combat trousers. Two pistols were holstered on his right side, one at the waist, the other on his lower hip. The rifle was an AK-47—and it popped again as Briggs dragged Fisher up and onto the deck.

Another salvo cracked from the AK, and Fisher swung back toward the chopper.

Hammad was just pulling away, taking heavy fire now from the agent, rounds sparking and ricocheting off the fuselage, a few punching into the side window.

Salvo after salvo tracked him.

He banked hard to the right. Too hard. Blood splashed across the side window. He lost control of the bird—

And before Fisher could open his mouth, the helicopter flipped onto its back, pitched slightly, then crashed with a thundering explosion into the desert behind them, the flickering fireball sweeping into the rising gale. Secondary explosions lifted into the first, with contrails of black smoke instantly shredded by the sand.

With the picture of Hammad’s little girls abruptly and permanently etched in Fisher’s memory, he gritted his teeth and sprang to his feet.

Thoughts of payback did not blind him with rage, but the anger did trigger a massive adrenaline rush. There wasn’t a combatant in the world who could stop him now.

He raced across the top of the container car, reached the end, and just as the agent glanced up from his perch at the foot of the ladder, Fisher unleashed a volley of 9mm NATO rounds directly into the bastard’s head, punching him back and sending him tumbling off the train.

“Sam, duck!” cried Briggs.

Fisher dropped to his haunches as more gunfire whirred over his head. Two cars up, another agent had mounted the ladder, placed his elbows on the top of the container, and begun trading fire with Briggs, whose submachine gun fire drove the man back behind the tank.

“Keep him busy,” cried Fisher, who crawled forward, slid under the upper deck railing, seized one of the grab irons, then allowed himself to slide down, off the right side of the container. He descended on two more grab irons until he was able to latch both hands onto the base of the upper deck railing. Now, with his legs dangling freely, he worked himself sideways across the deck, concealed from the agent’s view, while Briggs squeezed off another volley of suppressing fire, the MPX booming over the rattle and clack of the train.

Fisher continued slipping across the container until he reached the end and once more shifted down to the grab irons. He lowered himself between the cars, crossing over the coupler receiver hitch and reaching the next ladder.

Three more rounds cracked overhead, these from the agent, and Briggs answered with another triplet of fire.

“Almost there,” Fisher told Briggs.

“Roger, let me know.”

Fisher scaled the ladder and once more began skimming his way across the side of the container—

But without warning the train lurched forward, thundering at what must be full speed now, the diesel locomotive running at least sixty-five miles per hour. Fisher felt his grip falter and he tensed, fighting to pull himself higher and keep moving, each release of his gloved hands coming in smooth, practiced strokes. All those pull-ups and all that French Parkour training focusing on using momentum to breach obstacles always paid off.

“Sam, if you can still hear me, the train’s only about ten minutes away from Abqaiq,” Grim said. “We’re running out of time here!”

“Okay. We’re on the train. We’ll get it done.”

“You’re breaking up now. I didn’t get—”

Static broke over the subdermal as a gust wrapped around the tank, rattling the undercarriage.

When he was about two-thirds of the way down the container, he took a deep breath. “All right, Briggs. Hold fire.”

“Holding.”

Fisher reached up, slapped a gloved hand on the bottom rung of the upper deck’s railing, then, hanging by one hand, he drew his Five-seveN and swung up a leg, latching it around a support post. As he forced himself back onto the upper deck, sliding on his belly, he brought up his pistol and watched as the agent chanced another look.

Bang. Fisher shot him in the eye. “Briggs, move up!”

The wind was so fierce now, the sand battering them so violently, that Briggs could only stagger his way across the deck, keeping both hands latched onto the railing.

“We’re too slow!” Fisher shouted.

“I know! I know!”

Four MOIS agents and one rogue GRU agent. That was Fisher’s initial threat assessment. Two down. There should only be three remaining, but there was no telling yet if the MOIS agents had brought in more recruits.

That was until the next three began firing at them, even as they descended the next ladder to continue moving up the train.

“That’s not the rest of them,” Briggs shouted.

“No, we’ve got more than we thought.”

“Shit. Let me get an active sonar reading. Okay, there it is. Picked up those three, maybe a few more near the front, but the signal’s weak, too much downtime between bursts.”

“We’re nine minutes from Abqaiq,” said Fisher.

“Then we get up there, and it’s guns blazing! We got no choice,” Briggs said.

“There’s another railing that runs low along the wheels,” said Fisher. “I think I can make better time using that one. Same deal. You cover, I move up.”

“All right, but my way’s faster.”

“I agree. Your way will get us killed faster.”

Briggs frowned.

“Let’s do it.” Fisher slid around the side of the container and stepped onto the lower railing, merely a thin bar and protective skirt for the wheels. The grab irons were too high to reach, and there was no way he could balance himself on that rail without hand supports and with the train dieseling hard at sixty-five miles an hour, so he clutched the rail, then allowed himself to fall forward, swinging beneath it, ankles latched, and he began a swift, hand-over-hand approach, with the cacophony of the wheels at his side until he reached the midsection, the wind passing under the container and coming in short bursts, the sand hissing and getting into his mouth, ears, and nose. Ignoring the blood rushing into his head and the fire in his pectoral muscles, he grimaced and slid even faster.

Briggs’s machine gun cracked another announcement, but then footfalls thundered across the top of the container, followed by another exchange of gunfire—