The video showed a raw aggression, a nastiness that few people are aware of in dolphins, not realizing that even the trained ones are often as wild as their wild brethren. Merk saved the digital file to the NMMP cloud.
Merk opened a new window to Tasi’s dorsalcam and watched her sweep back and forth under the broad hull of the ferry. She didn’t find any remora-type device attached, so that ferry, at least on the bottom, appeared clean.
He raised his hand to give Inapo an order when two shots were fired. One clipped the water near the outboard motor to find the range; the second shot struck the starboard gunwale, puncturing a hole in the air chamber, blowing rubber pieces in a blast of shrapnel that strafed his body and the back of his head as he turned away.
The plastic and metal grains blew across Merk with a hissing sound of air that spurted out of the ruptured chamber. He ducked, feeling the sting of the pieces spray his wetsuit; the smell of burnt rubber and cordite from the high-powered shells froze him momentarily. The next two shots missed, spraying water off the other gunwale. The sniper had the range, but not the sight.
Not wanting to be shot, Merk hit the deck. He reached back for the motor, cranked the throttle, and took off. Lying on his belly, he blindly steered the lopsided rubber boat using the tops of the lower Manhattan skyline as reference points, trying to race out of the range of the rifles.
Out in the open, vulnerable to a sniper’s line of fire, Merk figured the shots came from nearby Governors Island or farther back from one of the Red Hook buildings. Either way, it gave him one of two options other than being shot. He could jump into the river, which would buy him time to survive and enable him to hitch a ride with a dolphin, or race up the East River far away.
More shots struck the water. Sporadic at first, then the gunfire blew in a staccato stream.
On the roof of the grain terminal, the two teams of SEAL snipers heard the shots. The engineers scouted the rooftops of buildings below and along the point of Red Hook. Then one SEAL saw muzzle-fire light up behind a mechanical bulkhead on the roof of a low-rise building.
“Open fire,” the lieutenant commander ordered, standing between the engineers.
The eight SEAL snipers shot at the mechanical roof, dumping the load, with the bullets chewing up and breaking off brick and metal in a hail of bullets. Several shots pierced the water tower on top of the building, with water beginning to leak out and flood the roof.
The lieutenant commander called his counterpart on Governors Island, sitting directly across from the apartment building on the opposite side.
On the deck of the chemical ship, Jenny heard the gunfire. She saw the rubber boat race a zigzag path across the river toward the FDR, but she didn’t see anyone steering the boat. She took out a pair of night-vision goggles and tracked the rubber boat when a new round of gunfire erupted north from what she figured was the South Street Seaport building. She called the Intel Fusion Center, requesting SWAT and paramilitary teams to descend on the East River pier.
Her smartphone vibrated a message: “Drone en route.” She looked up at the night sky to spot the UAV. She opened a mobile app that uploaded a 3-D map of New York City with an icon of the drone flying down the East River. She opened a second app and now saw what the UAV operators out of Fort Meade watched with infrared, as they maneuvered the drone, armed with Hellfire missiles, toward the new nest of snipers.
On the roof of the low-rise apartment building, bullets sprayed the brick bulkhead from both directions. The three Russians, who had offloaded the Iranian dolphins in the East River, were now cowering behind the parapet as shrapnel of brick, mortar, steel, and glass rained down on their wounded bodies; water poured across the deck from the shot-up water tower.
A Black Hawk helicopter took off from Governors Island. It circled around the harbor. Hovering, it swung into position and opened fire, suppressing the snipers further, blowing apart the precast parapet. Bullets struck and hit two of the snipers, wounding one in the arm and shoulder, blowing apart the head of the other. The third Russian crawled toward the corner of the roof, but, in doing so, was now exposed to the snipers on the roof of the grain terminal.
A pair of SEALs shot and wounded the third Russian in the legs, immobilizing him.
In the rubber boat, the gunfire from the rear was replaced by sniper shots from the front. Bullets tore apart the rubber boat; they were heavy caliber. Merk picked up the metal flarebox and laptop trying to shield himself, as he attempted to kneel up and roll into the water. But as he rose a shell blew apart the laptop. He felt the next bullet would find its mark and kill him — when Tasi leapt out of the water… arched over the rubber boat… and speared Merk in the chest, knocking him into the river as the next shot ricocheted off the falling flarebox.
Underwater, Tasi drove Merk down.
More shots struck the rubber boat above in muted punches; other bullets broke apart upon hitting the water surface, which acted like concrete and shredded the shells to pieces.
On the deck of the chemical tanker, Jenny knelt behind the wall. She took out a folding-stock assault rifle, and patiently waited to acquire where the gunfire came from. About a half mile away, up and across the East River, she saw muzzle-flashes of the snipers’ rifles. She took aim and fired an automatic stream of bullets, raking the rooftop in the vicinity of the snipers.
She switched on an open mic on her vest and called in the location of the snipers on the South Street Seaport roof as she continued to suppress the snipers with return fire.
On the roof of the Seaport, the Somali gunmen came under fire. Bullets struck and danced around them, smashing glass windows on the floor beneath them, and an office to the rear. When the gunfire stopped for reloading, they sprang and ran to the stairwell, when up above them the CIA drone angled down, circling like a hawk, with the Hellfire missiles armed, chasing them in the opposite direction. They raced across the roof with a fresh round of bullets spraying around them. One bullet clipped the lead Somali in the ankle, dropping him to the deck. The other guard ran toward the edge of the building at the elevated FDR Drive.
A few more strides… a swarm of NYPD and CIA agency vehicles pulled up to the building. SWAT snipers yelled “Freeze!” from down below as they trained assault rifles on the lone Somali sniper stopping at the edge of the roof. He held up his hands and looked back at his wounded mate squirming in pain.
FBI agents stormed out of the rooftop stairwell, aiming machine guns at the Somali. He trembled. A tear of defeat upwelled in his eye as he dropped the rifle and kneeled down.
The rampage was over, but not the threat. There was still a bomb ready to go off somewhere in New York City.
Across the river… Tasi swam Merk toward the chemical ship that Jenny had boarded.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Gripping the dorsal fin, Merk rode Tasi to the chemical tanker.
On deck, Jenny pointed to the rear of the ship and ran to the stern, shouting, “Merk, get out of the water. This tanker is loaded with chlorine.”
Merk waved her off and slipped on the dive goggles. He tapped Tasi and she dove them under the hull in a powerful thrust.
Out in the river, EOD divers raced over to the chemical tanker. They dropped anchor next to a micro-buoy — a navy dolphin had flagged it as an area searched earlier in the day.
Underwater, Merk panned the bottom of the algae-clad hull, but saw nothing as they swam under and rose on the other side by the pier. As they breached, taking a full breath, Merk watched Inapo glide over to them. He lifted the dive goggles and signaled the EOD divers that he would come over. He grabbed on to Inapo’s dorsal fin and rode over to the RHIB.