Target one, p.15
Target One, page 15
Maybe my luck hasn’t run out after all.
We’ll see as I climb down this ladder and make myself a perfect target.
He went down as fast as he could, skipping rungs, risking a neck-breaking fall in order to shave off a few seconds of helplessness.
His luck held. Almost.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone running around the port side, aiming a rifle at him.
Oh crap. That sniper.
The sniper fired. Jacob let go of the ladder.
The bullet missed him, but as Jacob’s stomach lurched up into his throat, he knew he wouldn’t miss the deck.
He picked up speed, plunging toward the steel surface.
Jacob hit the deck and rolled as he had been trained to do, but no amount of training could prepare him for that long fall, or the fact that he landed on the pistol in the holster on his belt and then rolled right over the MP5 strapped to his back.
He rolled to a stop, body aching, pretty sure he had broken something.
No time for that now. That sniper was bound to take another shot.
Jacob had ended up on his front, just inches from a bollard. He scampered behind it, his limbs barely obeying.
A bullet pinged off the bollard the second he got behind it.
He fumbled to get his MP5 into position. At least his arms worked. He wasn’t sure about his legs, though.
The sniper lay prone too, half hidden by the corner of the shipping container stack, aiming right at him.
Jacob ducked back as another bullet sought him out, ricocheting off the deck inches away.
Now it was his turn. Ignoring the pain in his hip, he peeked out from behind the bollard and fired his submachine gun.
Or at least he tried to. The damn thing was jammed.
That’s what you get for smacking it on the deck from a fall of twenty feet, idiot.
Or was it thirty?
Back he went behind the bollard, an instant before another bullet almost passed through his skull.
Jacob set the MP5 aside and pulled out his pistol. Hopefully it wouldn’t jam too. Just as he was about to move out of cover enough to fire, he heard a shot and felt a hot pain on his thigh.
He scrunched behind the bollard even more and inspected his leg. Just a graze, but it told him that the bollard he hid behind wasn’t quite big enough to completely obscure him from view.
Time to end this. He reached around and fired a blind shot that would hopefully put the sniper’s head down, then revealed his own head so he could see what he was doing.
The sniper was aiming. Jacob fired. The bullet missed, but came close enough that the sniper flinched.
Not convinced about those 72 virgins, eh?
Jacob fired again, and the sniper’s skull exploded.
The front edge of the container stack lay fifty yards away, and around that, the entrance to the conning tower where the bridge stood. He had to get there before another of these crazies caught him in the open.
Jacob leapt to his feet, and immediately fell down again as his hip screamed in protest.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to ignore the pain and stand, using his free hand to support himself.
Nothing broken, or at least not so broken that his limbs wouldn’t work. That furrow in his thigh from the bullet was bleeding a bit too much for his liking.
It didn’t hurt nearly so much as his hip, though. He had landed on the side with his holster, and despite the roll he’d immediately tucked himself into, his whole weight had smashed against the steel weapon. He had probably fractured that hip.
A problem for another time, assuming he got to enjoy another time.
The container ship had left the Great Bitter Lake and entered the canal, headed north.
Headed toward the U.S. Navy ships that couldn’t turn around.
Jacob hobbled toward the front of the ship. A terrorist rounded the corner, clutching an AK. He took the guy out with a single shot to the head. Getting to the corner, he peeked around, saw no one, and grabbed the guy’s AK.
Just then, a burst of fire from an upper porthole forced him back around the corner.
Cursing, Jacob slung the AK and hobbled a few feet away to retrieve the sniper’s rifle, a nice Dragunov, one of the more accurate Russian models. The Middle East was awash with them. He wondered how many civilians this weapon had killed.
He’d put it to better use. Hobbling back to the corner, cursing even louder now as the pain grew worse and the blood soaked his pants, he exposed his head and shoulders in a near-suicidal move, peering through the telescopic sight.
The guy in the porthole raised his AK.
Too late. Jacob took him out.
He struggled toward the door of the conning tower, caught a movement from his upper peripheral vision, and turned to see a figure at the top of the container stack. He snapped a shot in that direction, missing but forcing the guy to duck back out of sight.
He had to do the same with someone appearing at another porthole in the conning tower.
Then he was inside. The terrorists, confident of their numbers, hadn’t closed and locked the door.
Tossing aside the rifle and unslinging the AK-47, he passed down a short corridor, ignoring a couple of closed doors until he found a staircase of steel mesh leading upwards.
He peeked up the stairwell, and saw a head move quickly out of sight.
Damn.
A shout in Arabic echoed down the hall. “Get the scientists to the bomb!”
He looked around, unsure of the source of the sound. He moved to a ground floor porthole and saw a fighter rush out of another door in the conning tower, leading three skinny young men.
Jacob wrenched open the porthole and fired. He took out the guard, then one scientist, then another.
The third scientist, hunched over and wrapping his arms around his head as if they could ward off a bullet, rounded the corner and disappeared.
Jacob hobbled for the door he had entered. If he caught up with that kid, he could find the bomb and defuse it.
A shadow darkened the threshold, resolving into two figures. Jacob paused. They were waiting for him. A clatter of several feet on the stairway told him they were coming that way too. He had to get out of there. He had to catch up to that last scientist.
Jacob reached for one of his grenades to toss through the doorway and take out those who stood between him and the bomb, only to find they had all tumbled out of his pocket in the fall.
His heart clenched. He was trapped.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Jana zigzagged her way across the load of shipping containers, jumping the short spaces between them while keeping one eye on the Geiger counter and the other on her surroundings, convinced she’d get shot at any moment.
She could hear plenty of firing again up toward the front of the ship. She looked that way and could see no one. They must be on deck.
Beyond the ship, though, she saw something far more disturbing.
Coming the other direction along the narrow canal, hazy in the distant heat shimmer, was the gray silhouette of a warship.
Jana’s heart sank. If she could see it, it was close enough to get annihilated by the bomb, and if there were nukes aboard like Jacob feared, they could very well go off in a chain reaction.
A crackling sound close by made her yelp. She looked around, frantic, but saw no enemies.
Jacob’s voice called out, “Jana, you still alive?”
She gasped with relief. It was the radio on her belt.
Grabbing it, she spoke into it while continuing her zigzag search for any radiation signals. She couldn’t afford to stop that for an instant.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Trapped in the conning tower. They got me hemmed in. Look, Jana, they just sent a scientist out there to go to the bomb. Skinny guy with glasses. Looks totally different than the rest. I think he’s going to go up one of the starboard ladders, one of the ones near the front. You’ve got to find him. I—”
Shots drowned out what he said next.
“Jacob? Jacob!”
“I’m still here. No way I’m getting out. Go find that guy. You’re our only chance.”
Cursing, she ran to the side of the container stack and peered over. At the front end, far from her, she saw a lone figure clambering up the ladder.
Jana lay down, aiming with her M16. She checked it was on single shot, then fired a round.
The guy didn’t flinch.
She fired again. That got a reaction. She must have come closer this time. Still the man, visible only as a small silhouette against the glare from the sea, continued up the ladder.
Jana fired again, and again. Still he climbed.
I’m not good enough to hit him at this range.
Enraged with herself, she charged along the containers, hoping to get to the scientist’s destination before he did.
She kept her eyes on the spot where she thought he’d come to the top of the ladder, hoping that he wasn’t going to some hidden hatch on the side of the container stack.
Jana remained so focused she didn’t notice another terrorist climbing up a ladder on the other side until he fired at her.
* * *
Aboard the USS Brandywine, Captain Cranston wasn’t sure what to do. His radar technicians had observed a container ship moving toward them, soon confirmed by the forward spotters, and a moment later his radio officer had just patched him through to an urgent call from the Egyptian navy.
“USS Brandywine, this is Captain Mohammed Idris of the Canal Guards. One of our patrol boats was fired upon and sunk in the Great Bitter Lake. A container ship, the Coral Atoll, flying the Liberian flag, is moving your direction. Our shore sentries say the firing came from there when the patrol boat tried to stop them moving. It appears your agent’s reports of a terrorist attack are true. We are sending more patrol boats and have contacted the Air Force, but we cannot get any more support to you for at least twenty minutes. We have a shore battery within range capable of sinking the ship, but we have not yet received permission from our superiors to fire upon the vessel.”
“I understand, Captain Idris,” Captain Cranston said, searching the canal ahead of him. To sink such a large ship would block the canal for months, leading to billions in lost revenue for this economically struggling nation. No one of Idris’s rank could make that kind of decision on his own.
In the far distance, he could just make out the container vessel blocking their progress. The huge ship was at least a mile away, but if there was a nuke aboard, it wouldn’t matter.
“Captain Idris, we have intelligence that this particular ship is under the control of a group called The Sword of the Righteous, and that it may be carrying a nuclear device. Do you have any intelligence to that effect?”
“A nuclear device! No, we have no such intelligence. And trust me, captain, in this situation I would tell you even if it meant revealing state secrets.”
“I believe you, Captain Idris.” The man sounded like a professional, someone who could think for himself.
“How firm is your intelligence?” the Egyptian asked. “This group is known to us, but has not yet many any great incursions into our country.”
“Our intelligence is … ” what do I tell him, that it’s based on a wild story from a lone field agent who thinks they got uranium 235 from an archaeological site? “ …not one hundred percent.”
“But it is obviously terrorists on the boat. Even if they don’t have the device you mention, they will try to ram you.”
“We will not let that happen, Captain Idris.”
“I understand, Captain Cranston. I will discuss the possibility of firing our shore battery at them with my staff. It is … a difficult decision. We also have reports of a helicopter landing on the boat.”
“That’s an agent with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Captain Cranston had just revealed classified information to a member of a foreign military, something that could get him court marshaled, but damn the consequences. He had a whole fleet of men and women to protect.
“There’s firing aboard,” the Egyptian officer said.
“Then he’s still alive. Good.”
“Only one man?”
“Yes.”
“One of our sentries was observing the ship with high-powered binoculars and said two people got out of the helicopter.”
Captain Cranston blinked. “I don’t know who the second person is.”
What the hell is going on over there?
“It does not matter. Only two against a whole ship of trained fighters? Your men will not be able to survive for long.”
“I’m afraid you might be right,” Captain Cranston said, his jaw tightening.
“Captain, that ship may or may not have a nuclear device. I find it hard to believe that they do, but you are still in grave danger. They could ram you, or perhaps set off a large amount of conventional explosives. I—hold on.” There was a pause as he spoke to someone in Arabic. The radio signal cut off. A moment later it returned. “Captain Cranston. My superiors are still discussing the issue. I emphasized haste. They said they will give me an answer in a couple of minutes.”
“We might not have a couple of minutes.”
“I understand. And I wish you to know that if you feel compelled to fire in self-defense, that you have nothing to fear from us. In fact … ” Captain Cranston could practically hear his counterpart’s internal struggle, the constant fight between logic and orders that any military man knows so well. “ … if you find yourself compelled to fire on the Coral Atoll, we will take appropriate action.”
The way he said it, Captain Cranston knew what he meant. He’d order his shore batteries to fire on the container ship. Captain Idris couldn’t express that out loud without endangering his command, but he wanted to tell the Naval officer what side he was on.
“Do you understand me, Captain Cranston?”
“I do. May I ask the nature of your shore batteries?”
“Harpoon Block II anti-ship cruise missiles.”
Captain Cranston gave an approving nod. Those were the best available, produced by an American defense contractor and only available for sale with federal permission. Someone in Washington wanted the Suez Canal well defended.
“I’m glad to hear that, Captain Idris. In that case, I wish to inform you that I will fire on the Coral Atoll.”
“Understood, Captain Cranston. May God have mercy on us.”
“I certainly hope so. Over and out.”
Because if we fire on the container ship, Agent Snow and whoever is with him will die.
He turned to his second in command. “Get the forward guns trained on that ship to fire on my command.”
“Sir, why did the Egyptian captain not want to fire first?”
“The Egyptian military is full of rivalries and factions, and the lower officers are afraid of the generals who make up the junta running this country. If Idris tries to fire first, one of his fellow officers might try and remove him from command. But if we force his hand by firing first, he can order the shore batteries to fire and know that his command will be carried out. The damage will have already been done and they can blame the Americans.”
To his credit, his second-in-command didn’t mock the Egyptians. This was a rough area of the world, operating under very different rules. The officer simply turned to the dashboard and radioed down a message to gunnery control.
“Prepare forward guns, battery one of anti-ship missiles, and all three torpedo tubes, aimed at the container ship ahead of us. Prepare to fire on the captain’s command.”
Captain Cranston allowed himself a tight smile. Without his having to say so, his second-in-command had brought all available firepower to bear on the hostile ship.
Within moments, the armaments would be ready, and then Captain Arnold Cranston would have to make the most momentous decision of his career.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Jana flinched as a bullet careened off the metal at her feet. She jerked her head around and saw a terrorist with an AK-47 standing just at the top of the front portside ladder. At the same moment, a thinner, younger Arab man wearing glasses poked his head over the top of the starboard side.
Making a split second decision, Jana fired at the scientist.
He disappeared, whether from getting hit or ducking out of the line of fire, Jana wasn’t sure.
Another bullet whined past her head.
Jana went to one knee and aimed.
A third bullet went past her. Jana, amazed she was still alive, returned fire with her M16.
At the range they were at, the M16 was a much more accurate weapon in trained hands than an AK-47.
In trained hands. She wasn’t trained. Not really. And this guy was.
Jana let off a round, missed, and let off another.
The guy went prone. She was pretty sure she hadn’t hit him, and so she went prone too, cursing herself for not thinking of that first thing. Dad had drilled that into her head, but practicing in the woods with no one around was a whole different ballgame than trading fire with a real person.
“Ahmed, get your dirty ass up here!” the man shouted in Arabic.
“She’ll shoot me,” came a squawk from the other side of the ship.
So I haven’t hit him, and it doesn’t look like he’ll make a showing until I’m dead.
She aimed, letting out a slow breath, focusing.
The terrorist let off another round, the bullet panging off the metal close by.
To her surprise, Jana barely flinched. She kept aiming, and squeezed the trigger.
And missed.
“Ahmed! Hurry up!”
The terrorist fired again, missing, before muttering something, ejecting his magazine, and reaching into a pouch slung over his shoulder to retrieve another magazine.
Out of ammo. He must have spent some firing at Jacob.
She aimed, and realized she wouldn’t hit him. She’d fired several times already and missed every time. She simply wasn’t good enough to be reliable at this range.
