When one of the team on the other boat told her he was still working on his, she took a quick check of the time. Sandor did as well, and saw there was less than three minutes left.
“Ask the major if he wants my help.”
“That’s a negative,” she was told. “He’s almost there.”
Franz turned to Sandor and the others, saying, “This device is still live, although it’s no longer nuclear. There are explosive components designed to detonate the nuclear blast. We need to release this pod and let it run downstream. We can detonate the charge ourselves at that point by firing at it, or let it blow itself up. Either way we need to get it away from this boat.”
Sandor was impressed at her calm demeanor and the way she delivered the information, especially since they were only a couple of minutes from being incinerated. As Franz’s team went to work to unhook the pod from their cruiser, Sandor had a look across the water. He could see that Formanek was still facedown in the fiberglass shell.
“Is he going to make it?”
Franz glanced at the other boat. “He’ll make it,” she said.
Another anxious minute passed. Captain Franz’s team had cut their pod loose and it was already proceeding down current as their boat made a turn back upriver. They stood at the railing, watching anxiously until they finally saw Formanek being raised out of the fiberglass shell holding the plutonium.
Only at that moment did Sandor sense the slightest panic in Franz’s demeanor.
She was clutching at her headset and, as soon as she saw the major get to his feet, she was barking orders over the line.
“The device is still live, repeat, the device is still live. Secure the nuclear fuel and cut the pod loose. Repeat, cut the pod loose and reverse course. Sir, do you read me?”
“Roger that,” came the reply but at the same moment the passengers on Sandor’s vessel witnessed the first pod, the one they had sent floating free downriver, ignite.
It was not a large explosion, nor, in the midst of this hurricane, was it particularly loud. Their boat had already motored upriver far enough to create a safe distance but, before Formanek’s team had the chance to fully release their pod and get clear of it, the device in their pod erupted.
As the second pod detonated, it spewed flames into the air and showered burning fragments across Formanek’s small craft. In an instant the boat’s fuel line caught fire, and the sky was suddenly filled with fire and debris and, even amid hurricane winds, the screams of pain and horror could be heard.
The two USCG Defenders that had first encountered the pods, one of which now carried Tom Martindale, were holding their position north of where Sandor stood beside Captain Franz as they helplessly watched the fire rage upward into the pouring rain. They now gave full throttle to both outboards and took off toward the burning speedboat. Captain Franz also gave the order to move into position to assist.
All three boats swiftly came to the aid of their stricken mates, but it was too late. Major Formanek and the two sailors who had held on to him as he prevented a nuclear catastrophe paid the highest price of heroism. They were closest to the pod and now all three were dead. The others aboard were injured in the explosion and ensuing fire.
Captain Franz wept openly, as did the men on her team.
In the haze of smoke and noise and tears and drenching rain, Sandor could not bear the cacophony of voices that filled his headset. He pulled off his helmet, tossed it into the river, then stared across the water at Tom Martindale, sharing that moment of ineffable sorrow that always comes after intense combat and the inevitability of death. They had ridden to the precipice of massive catastrophe and successfully faced it down, but now they were left to confront the personal tragedies that follow in the wake of the grotesque actions visited on this world by those who traffic in evil. No one who has not experienced the horror of battle can ever understand that moment, no one who has not engaged the enemy can feel that pain.
All they could do was nod to each other. Then Sandor turned away, sat on a bench off to the side, held his face in his hands, and wondered again what needed to be done to put an end to all of this.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
The surviving men and women were evacuated from the horrific scene on the Mississippi and whisked off to Baton Rouge General. An excellent hospital, it was fortunately close enough so that ambulances and military vehicles could transport all of the wounded there quickly and without the need to risk helicopter flight. As Hurricane Charlene continued to intensify, the latter was not a viable option.
Baton Rouge General features a burn center that is one of the finest such facilities in the South. Its state-of-the-art capabilities would be tested as the twelve-bed unit suddenly found itself crowded beyond capacity.
The others were left at the refinery to sort out what had just occurred — and what had almost occurred. Back on land Sandor assisted Captain Franz as she organized a cleanup operation. They were in possession of two containers holding weapons-grade plutonium, the remnants of the two fiberglass pods, and the two wounded prisoners. Military personnel appeared in force now to take control and, once matters were put in a semblance of order, Franz stepped away for a moment and found Sandor standing off to the side, soaking wet and staring out at the rainstorm.
Her eyes were still rimmed with red, bearing that vacant look that Sandor had seen too many times. “If you hadn’t found that truck in time…” She hesitated. “What would have happened is unimaginable.”
“Unfortunately, in my line of work the unimaginable is very much the reality, captain.”
She nodded slowly. “You saved so many lives here today.” She wanted to express her gratitude, to say something else, but her voice trailed off.
“I know,” Jordan said in a soothing voice. “But we couldn’t save everyone.”
Her eyes welled up again.
“You did a great job today. And so did Major Formanek.”
She drew an uneven breath. “Yes, I guess we all did.”
Sandor was shown to an office in the refinery administration building. He called CENTCOM and was promptly tied into Captain Krause as well as the team in the SitRoom at the White House. He made his report, and the group in Washington was obviously elated at the news.
“We lost some good men and women today,” Krause broke in.
“Of course,” the man from NSA replied, “but those men and women helped avert a major catastrophe.”
“Pieces on a chessboard,” Krause muttered. Sandor heard him and responded with a grim smile. The others did not make out what he said, or pretended not to.
“Gentlemen, I still have two prisoners down here,” Sandor reminded them, “and I think they may have a thing or two to tell us.”
“Sandor, Walsh here,” the Director of Central Intelligence said. “You need to get those men up here straightaway.”
Sandor stared out the window again and shook his head. The gale was blowing the rain sideways and he suddenly realized he was drenched from head to toe. “Well, sir, I could start driving north and probably make it back in a couple of days. Maybe I can stop over in Busch Gardens and show them the sights.”
Sandor could picture the grimace on the DCI’s face as he replied. “We understand you’re in the midst of a hurricane.”
“That would be affirmative, sir. I think it would make sense if we secure the hostiles on premises until this blows by, then perhaps Captain Krause could arrange transportation for us out of Corpus Christi.”