Martindale, who was thirty feet to his left, gave him a thumbs-up. “I also see four.”
“What the hell are they doing?” came Captain Krause’s voice over the radio.
“Stay tuned,” Sandor said, “we need a closer look.”
They were nearly at the edge of the tree line and could not move nearer without risking exposure as the men around the truck busied themselves at the top of the concrete ramp that was used to lower boats into the river. Sandor held up two fingers and pointed to his eyes. Martindale nodded, then pulled out the binoculars.
“Appears to be some boxes on the ground. Hard to tell what they’re working on.”
“Are they armed?” Krause demanded.
“Also hard to make it out from here through rain,” Martindale told him.
“They must be armed,” Sandor said.
“Take them out!” the CO barked into their earphones.
“Sir,” Martindale responded, “we have no confirmation they’re hostiles.”
“That’s affirmative,” Sandor said, “and even if they are, we have no way of knowing whether the weapons have been set. We might want one of them alive.”
“Damnit,” Krause snapped back at him, “we’re not gaining anything by waiting, are we?”
Sandor could not suppress a smile. It was not that he found anything amusing about their situation, he simply liked the captain’s style. “Sir, I think the circumstances are suspicious enough to warrant action. What’s our position on the river?”
“Closest to you are a pair of CG Defenders heading north, be there in a few minutes.”
“A few minutes may be too late,” Sandor said, looking across at Martindale. “Let’s move.”
Before Krause could respond or Martindale could react, Sandor took off at a dead run. In the rain he was not immediately visible to the four men, but then one of them looked up and suddenly all four turned in his direction. In that instant, there was no longer any question about whether they were armed or hostile.
Two of the men did not hesitate, grabbing automatic rifles that had been on the ground, opening up a fusillade that sent Sandor diving for cover.
As Sandor hit the dirt and returned fire, the barrage of shots from Adina’s men flew past him, several hitting Martindale, who had followed him out from the cover of the trees.
Martindale’s combat gear included body armor, but he was knocked backward from the impact. As he lay still for a moment sprawled on the ground, the other two terrorists had time to get their assault rifles and join in the onslaught.
Sandor steadied himself behind some rocks off to the right. Before the Venezuelans could take cover, he hit two of them with a series of shots that put them down. By now Martindale had recovered, although he realized that he had been struck in the left side with one shot that managed to find its way through the seam of his protective vest. “I’m hit,” he spat into his mike.
Sandor had a quick look across the field at Martindale, who had crawled behind a tree, pulled off his backpack, and checked his injury.
“I’m all right!” the Marine shouted into his mouthpiece, then scrambled to a kneeling position and squeezed off a series of shots. “Let’s go.”
Sandor was not sure how badly he had hurt the two men who had fallen, but he knew there were at least two others who had taken cover behind the truck. “I’m going directly for the parcels,” he told Martindale. “You okay to circle around the front of the rig?”
“Affirmative,” Martindale replied.
“Let’s go,” Sandor said and raced forward.
Martindale rose to a crouch and also took off, moving in a crossing pattern with Sandor toward the front of the tractor-trailer as Sandor went left.
As he came to the top of the boat launch, Sandor was able to see what appeared to be two gray pods sliding down the concrete ramp, entering the river below. The shooters who were positioned behind the truck had managed to shove the two ovoid shells into the river. Now they resumed firing and Sandor was forced to lunge for cover again, this time behind a concrete stanchion at the top of the bulkhead. He steadied himself, returning a series of shots from his carbine, catching one of his attackers in the side and spinning him to the dirt. One of the men Sandor had previously hit suddenly rose from the ground, his weapon extended, but Sandor reacted in time to strafe him with a barrage that sent him tumbling backward, dead before he hit the ground.
When Sandor heard the sound of gunfire coming from the far side of the trailer, he knew Martindale was in position.
“We’ve got two packages already in the drink,” Sandor advised.
“Roger that,” Martindale replied. “You seem to have things under control up here. I’m going after them.” Before Sandor could respond, he added, “Need to ditch my helmet in the water, so I’ll be out of radio contact.” Without another word, Martindale yanked off his headpiece and made a dash to the right, where, about twenty yards from the loading platform, he dove headlong into the Mississippi.
In the storm, and under fire, Martindale misjudged the height of the bank, hanging in the air long enough to be exposed to another series of gunfire from the remaining terrorist, who was positioned behind the truck, but the shots narrowly missed. Martindale broke the surface of the water and plunged into the darkness, the impact driving most of the air from his lungs, his side already aching from the gunshot wound. He remained submerged as he began swimming with the current of the mighty river, stroking furiously to catch up with the two amphibious packages.
The diversion gave Sandor the opportunity to circle back and come around the rear of the trailer, where he took out the last of Adina’s men with a head shot. He moved forward with caution, first confirming that this last shooter was dead. Then he stepped slowly toward the other man behind the truck cab, the one he had hit from the other side. He was on the ground writhing in pain, and Sandor swiftly disarmed him, then slammed his foot onto the man’s shoulder and jammed the short barrel of the M-4 into his chest.
“How many are you?” When the man did not give an immediate response, Sandor moved the barrel to his throat and repeated the question.
“Four,” the man barely managed to croak as Sandor leaned on the stock of the carbine.
“What do you know about the bombs you carried onboard?”
Pain and fear were evident in the man’s face. “Nothing, man,” he said, “nothing. We were just the drivers, man, just the drivers.”
“Just the drivers, man,” Sandor repeated through clenched teeth, then spun the man onto his face and expertly bound his wrists and ankles with plastic restraints.
After that, still moving watchfully with his weapon in front of him, he made a quick review of the area and headed for the back of the truck. As he drew near the two men he had shot on the other side of the tractor-trailer he could see one was clearly dead, Sandor having successfully dispatched him in the second attack. The other was crawling on his hands and knees toward the edge of the woods.
Sandor came up from behind him. “Stop right there and let me see your hands. Do it now!”
The man stopped moving and raised his arms. “I’ve been shot.”
“Really? Well turn around now, nice and slow, or I’ll shoot you again.” The man turned slowly, until he was sitting on the ground. “That’s good,” Sandor said. “Now, how many are you?”
“Four.”
“How many bombs?”
A flicker of fear was apparent in his eyes.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“And now they’re both in the water.”
He responded with a slow nod of his head.
“You going to tell me how to disarm them or you want me to take you downriver so you can be there when they go off?”