“The Keldara were boat warriors once,” Vil shouted back. “Now we are again!”
The Navy chief had, without being asked, installed racks for the guns. Which was fortunate because without those racks the weapons would have been battered to pieces. As it was, two of the team’s radios were out. The ride was brutal but exhilarating.
“We’re going to have to tank!” Vil noted, tapping his fuel state. “I think we are going to be seen!”
“That is for the Kildar to figure out! All we have to do is capture some fucking Islamics. Then find out what they know!”
Abdullah al-Egypti pulled the exhausted diver over the side and clapped him on the back.
“Good job, Farid,” he said. “Time to head home.”
“I used to enjoy diving,” the former commercial diver said, pulling off the elaborate dive rig. “But this is getting to be a bit much.”
“Well, we will have a break in—”
“Abdullah,” Jamal said, pointing to the screen. “We have two boats approaching from the east. Fast. And a plane or a helicopter.”
“Get that stowed,” Abdullah said, running to his seat. “And for Allah’s sake, secure the barrel!”
“We need to get it below,” Farid shouted.
“No time!” Abdullah said, starting the engine and turning in-shore.
“There they go,” Creata said.
“Alpha team,” Mike said. “Target is rabbiting. Say again, target is rabbiting.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sky was turning a deep blue overhead, a sure sign of the sun coming over the horizon, as Vil tried to coax everything he could out of the Fountain, trimming the engine up a tad more to reduce the amount of hull hitting the water. He was slowly leaving the Drone driven by Tuul in his wake. In fact, the Drone had dropped directly into the wake as a way to pick up just a bit of speed. In flat water the Drone was, perhaps, a tad faster than the Fountain. But in these heavy waves the bigger single-hull boat was definitely faster. The problem with running in a wake, Randy had told them, was that the bubbles from the lead boat, the “cavitation effect” reduced the power the trailing boat’s propellers could convey. So despite the lighter waters the Drone was still falling behind.
“We’re on them, Kildar,” Vil said, touching his throat mike.
“Alpha team, turn fifteen degrees west,” Mike said. “Cut the corner.”
Abdullah looked at his GPS. It was five miles to the outer reef. The Scarab would be faster once he got into the slightly calmer water. As it was, he was having to keep his speed down to prevent the barrel of VX breaking free. Farid had lashed it down in the corner but if it broke loose they’d have to stop and secure it again. Otherwise it was likely that the barrel would break open. And while Abdullah didn’t mind being a martyr, he’d like to take at least a few infidels with him.
“Farid! How is the barrel?”
“Holding,” Farid said. He was crouched by the barrel, tying in another knot. “So far!”
The boat driver looked at his radar next, then shook his head. The two boats pursuing him were cutting in from the south, not following him directly. They were going to try to cut him off. And they were fast. Allah’s Teeth they were fast.
“I can see them,” Dmitri said, reaching down to the deck and unstrapping his MP-5. “Team,” Yosif’s assistant team leader continued, thumbing his throat mike. “Lock and load. But unless forced, do not fire. Take a bullet if you have to. But whatever you do, don’t shoot one of those damned barrels!”
“Dragon, move to take-down position,” Mike said.
The helo sped up and Mike gestured to Lasko to open his door.
“Lasko,” Mike said. “Two outboards. Don’t hit the barrel.”
“Of course not, Kildar,” Lasko said, thumbing his mike. “Who do you take me for? Shota?”
Lasko leaned out the door of the Hind and lined up the port engine. He could see a man crouched by a blue barrel at the rear of the boat. The man looked up at him and made a gesture with his hand that was as ancient as any human culture, a thumb thrust up between index and middle finger.
Lasko could care less. All he wanted to do was make the shot. He targeted the port engine and stroked the trigger. The boat almost immediately swung hard to port, then corrected back and began weaving.
That was okay, let it weave. He waited, then stroked the trigger again. Target.
Abdullah cursed as the second engine went out.
“Fire back!” he shouted.
A man passed up an AK to one of the people on the boat and Lasko leaned back.
“Mannlicher!” he shouted, holding the Barrett behind him like the proverbial Great White Hunter switching from elephant gun to lion in the midst of a charge.
Mike grinned, handing him the 7mm while taking the Barrett. Then Lasko leaned out as rounds started to crack upwards.
He found the man with the AK and swung the barrel down as rounds flew past. One of his rounds cracked into the man’s knee. The Kildar wanted them alive and it wasn’t like taking someone down at two miles.
He continued to track around, taking down one target after another. The boat was rocking in the waves, still moving slowly to port and the targets weren’t exactly standing still to be shot. Not to mention the movement of the helo.
So what?
Abdullah dropped, screaming and clutching his shattered knee. The sniper was unreal. He had fought the Americans in Afghanistan and even they could not have shot four men in four rounds in under four seconds through the damned knees! From a helicopter, no less.
He reached for the AK that Jamal had dropped and tried to raise it but even as he did it was snatched out of his hand, the breech destroyed by another round.
Farid crouched by the barrel in horror as the first of the boats came alongside. He was the only one who had, so far, not been shot. It could only be because they did not want to hit the barrel.
He didn’t want them to hit it, either.
As men in battle armor and strange digi-cam uniforms jumped over the side of the boat, he raised his hands, slowly, and put them on top of his head.
They said Guantanamo was a nice place, three square halal meals and even some pretty female guards…
“North contact,” Mike said. “Close it, Lasko. Vil, head for the Largo Coast Guard station. Give the commander, and the commander only, the location of the WMD. Keep the driver. Find out anything you can fast. Turn the others over to the Coasties.”
“Hello,” Dmitri said, sitting down by the man who had been on the deck by the driver’s seat. “My name’s Dmitri. What’s yours?”
The man spat out a curse in Arabic and Dmitri shook his head.
“That’s not very nice of you,” he said, taking the butt of the MP-5 and slamming it into the man’s bandaged knee. He waited for the screaming to die down, then smiled. “My cousin was just killed by some Islamic motherfuckers like you, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t give a shit about your opinion of me or my gods. Now, what is your name?”
“Abdullah,” the man gasped. “Abdullah Al-Egypti.”
“Well, Slave of God who is Egyptian,” Dmitri said, “I’d like to know what you did with the other barrels.”