Piranha

6

Juan and Linc had the cargo bay’s stern door covered, occasionally taking shots to keep Dominguez’s men from pouring through. The bow door was still locked tight, with a chain looped through the handle, but they could hear someone hammering away at it on the other side. It was only a matter of time before it was breached.

Bullets pinged off the armored vehicles around Juan and Linc as sailors with assault rifles poked their heads through the door to fire off a few shots. None came close. It was as if the men were simply trying to keep them pinned down.

Juan guessed that was exactly their plan. The Venezuelans had the high ground because the doors on either end, one toward the bow and one toward the stern, were at the top of the three-story-high hold, with stairs leading down to the floor, where the vehicles were lined up in eight rows of four. It was a stalemate; Juan and Linc couldn’t leave and the Venezuelans couldn’t charge down the exposed stairs.

“How many rounds do you have left?” Juan asked Linc.

“Two magazines, but at this rate I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”

“I’m down to one on the rifle I borrowed from our friend who let us in here.” A chop from Linc’s hand had dealt the guard a blow that would have him woozy for days. That still left enough men to beat them by attrition alone. There was no chance they’d make it all the way back to the Humvee. They had to find another way out.

Even if they concentrated on one door and made a break for it, the only way off the ship was by sea. They’d be sitting ducks for anyone taking potshots from the dock.

However, they did have one possibility on this very cargo deck.

“Remember how gouged the floor in the warehouse was?” Juan asked.

Linc nodded. “Sure. The treads on the armored vehicles will tear concrete like that to shreds when they turn. The tanks weigh upward of sixty-five tons.”

“Which means they have some gas in them. How hard do you think it would be to drive this?” Juan said, jerking his thumb at the M1 Abrams next to him. It was the tank closest to the dock side of the ship.

Linc was used to Juan’s improvisation, so he didn’t even blink at the suggestion. Instead, he said, “We’ve got to get the cargo door down first.”

“So you’ve driven one?”

“I sat in the driver’s seat of one back in the old days. A buddy of mine in the SEALs used to be a Marine tank driver. It looks pretty simple. Motorcycle-type handles for steering and acceleration, and a brake pedal. Not much different from my Harley.” Linc kept a customized Harley-Davidson in the Oregon’s hold for day trips at ports of call.

“So that would be a no.”

Linc smiled. “I learn quickly.”

“I like your attitude. Only one problem.” Juan pointed at the battery-powered emergency lights that were on overhead. “I’d bet they cut off the power so the door won’t go down.”

“That is a problem. Even a tank can’t smash through a ship’s hull.”

“But you did see the crates as we ran down here?”

A look of understanding crossed Linc’s face and he turned to squint at the other side of the hold. Two metal shipping containers were placed end to end along the wall. Each of them was marked with yellow warning placards that said “EXPLOSIVES.”

They held the ammunition for the armored vehicles. This really was a full-service smuggling operation. No sense in buying tanks that didn’t come with ammo.

“Keep me covered,” Juan said. “I’ll be right back.”

He felt extremely confident in Linc’s ability to protect his flank. Linc was an exceptional sniper, and even in the dim light he could take down any sailor who tried to rush in as long as he still had a round in the chamber.

Juan sprinted between the tanks, keeping his head low as he ran. He felt the shock wave of bullets passing overhead, but they were few and hastily aimed thanks to Linc’s expert covering fire.

Juan crouched behind the last tank and saw that the end of the freight container was exposed to the sailors at the stern door.

It was also locked.

A sizable padlock was looped through the handle. Either the North Koreans or Venezuelans didn’t trust the sticky fingers of their dockworkers.

Juan hitched up his pant cuff and accessed the hidden compartment in his combat leg. He’d leave the pistol and knife there for now. The plastic explosive and detonator were what he needed.

The small amount of C-4 would take care of a padlock easily enough.

He removed the explosive from its package and readied its detonator.

“Give me ten seconds on the stern door!” he called out to Linc.

“Roger that!”

“Now!”

Linc concentrated his fire on the stern door, keeping the gunmen pinned outside.

Juan darted to the container door and mashed the C-4 onto the padlock. He stuck the detonator and pulled the firing pin, which would give him ten seconds to get cover.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled.

The blast echoed through the hold. The padlock was blown to pieces.

This time, Juan didn’t wait for the cover fire. The guards would be too surprised at the explosion to pop back in right away. He ran over to the container, unhooked the latch, and flung the door open.

Metal boxes were stacked up to his eyes for the length of the container. The boxes closest to the end were marked “M829A2.” It was a sabot round. Juan knew the designations of every round the M1 Abrams used because the Oregon had an identical 120mm smooth-bore cannon hidden behind bow doors.

Sabots were uranium-depleted penetrator rods that were designed to go through tank armor. The shell around it was discarded as soon as it left the gun barrel. It would be no use to them. They would make a neat Coke-can-sized hole in the hull, and through anything else within a mile’s range, but not near big enough for a tank to crash out.

What Juan was looking for was an M908, a high-explosive, obstacle-reduction round. It was designed to blow apart concrete bunkers. It should do nicely on the side of the ship if he could find one.

He pulled himself up on top of the crates and started making his way back, using the flashlight on his phone to check the markings.

He got a quarter of the way into the container before he found one marked “M908.” He flipped the lid open and saw four giant shells nestled into their cradles, each weighing thirty pounds. He’d have to make do with two.

He slung his assault rifle over his back and hoisted two of the shells, one under each arm. He made his way back to the container door.

After carefully putting the shells down on top of a crate, he lowered himself to the floor, making sure to keep the door between him and the stairway. With the shells in hand again, he called out to Linc.

“Cover me!”

Juan dashed back toward Linc, knowing that if a stray round hit either of the warheads, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to scrape off the tank treads.

He knelt beside Linc next to the tank closest to the cargo door.

“Getting in the tank will be tricky,” Juan said.

“Too bad you didn’t find any belts for that fifty-cal,” Linc said, giving the machine gun mounted on the tank’s turret a longing look.

“Sorry. I had my hands full as it was.”

Linc nodded. As soon as Juan fired his shots, Linc leaped onto the front of the Abrams, flipped the driver’s hatch up, and hopped inside, leaving only his upper body exposed. When he had the stern door above them sighted, Juan put the two shells on the turret and climbed up.

He opened the commander’s hatch and lowered the first shell into the commander’s seat. As he turned to retrieve the second shell, he saw the bow door above them slam open. Sailors poured through, their rifles at the ready.

Juan grabbed the shell and clambered through the hatch as gunfire rained down on them. One of the rounds grazed his shoulder, causing him to drop the shell. He cringed as it hit the floor, but the fuse didn’t detonate.

Juan dropped inside and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He snugged it tight and engaged the locking latch, designed to prevent infantry from opening the hatch from the outside and tossing grenades in.

He put pressure on his shoulder to stop the bleeding while he checked his phone and saw that Max had come through. When they’d gotten stuck in the hold, he’d texted Max to cast off with the Oregon and that he and Linc would get out somehow and make it back to the ship. Juan had already had the idea of using one of the tanks to make their getaway, so he’d asked Max to contact their connections in the CIA to send Juan an operations manual on how to run an Abrams and fire its main cannon.

Max’s message said No need to contact CIA. Found this one on the Internet.

When Juan opened the attachment, he saw that it was a PDF of a scanned Abrams operations manual.

He rapidly scrolled to the start-up sequence. His eyes flicked back and forth as they flew through the instructions. It seemed straightforward. He located the proper switches and started the engine.

The turbine behind him spooled to life with a whine that made it sound as if they were about to make a moon launch. Juan looked out of the viewport to see that the guards who had flooded into the cargo bay had stopped in their tracks, watching the tank with caution as its jet engine roar filled the hold.

Juan put on a headset hanging next to the commander’s station.

“You with me?” he said.

“Loud and clear,” Linc responded. “It’s a tight fit but comfy. Like sitting in a recliner. I can’t see much, so you’ll have to let me know when to move.”

“Believe me, you’ll know.”

Juan secured one shell in the magazine and loaded the other into the breech, a process as easy as shoving the shell in and slamming the back closed, which allows the Abrams to fire six rounds a minute.

Once the 1500-horsepower turbine warmed up and was at full speed, he settled into the gunner’s seat. The sailors outside the tank had climbed on and were banging at the hull futilely trying to get inside.

Juan grabbed the two sticks controlling the turret and tested them out. The turret spun on its axis as easily as turning in his office chair. The guards outside tumbled off and ran for cover.

He put his eyes up to the gunner’s sight and pointed the cannon directly in front of them at a five-degree down angle. His finger rested on the trigger.

“Get ready, Linc,” he said. “This is going to shake you a bit.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Juan pulled the trigger.

The gun fired with a thunderous blast, rocking the Abrams backward, and was followed instantaneously by an even bigger explosion as the shell blew out the hull of the tanker.

The gaping hole now in the side of the ship sucked the smoke out, letting the lights from outside filter in.

“Let her rip,” Juan said into his mic.

“You got it.”

For a moment, the tank remained stationary as it tugged on the tie-down chains, but Linc gunned it and they snapped loose. The Abrams launched forward, its treads chewing the steel floor of the hold.

When the tank reached the gaping opening, its armor bent the jagged steel edges back as if ripping through an aluminum can.

The Abrams plunged six feet down onto the dock, slamming Juan into the seat when the tank hit the concrete.

The Abrams charged forward across the fifty feet separating the ship from the warehouse, Linc putting on speed as it approached the building’s garage door. It blasted through without slowing, sending the door flying across the bare warehouse floor. The sequence was repeated when they ripped through the front door on the other side of the building. Getting through the chain-link fence wouldn’t be any harder.

“Unless the Venezuelans can find someone to drive one of those other tanks,” Linc said, “there’s not much they can do to stop us.”

Linc’s comment gave Juan a devilish idea. “Hold up when we get to the fence.”

Linc pulled to a stop at the fence. Sailors outside surrounded them, peppering the side of the tank with bullets to no effect. Juan flipped through the manual until he found what he was looking for.

He keyed on the external loudspeaker and addressed the men outside in Spanish. “Hello out there, amigos. I just want to give you fair warning. Anyone who doesn’t get off that ship in the next sixty seconds is going to have a very bad day.”

He let go of the mic switch and spun the turret around until it was facing back the way they’d come. Through the two destroyed doors of the warehouse, he had a perfect view of the interior of the cargo hold.

He set the sight dead center on the ammunition container.

One of the sailors outside saw what was about to happen and yelled into a walkie-talkie. Men began careening in panic down the tanker’s gangway.

“I can’t see anything from up here,” Linc said, “but are you planning to do what I think you are?”

“Might as well wipe out their smuggling operation while we have the chance,” Juan answered.

“I’m all for that. Saves us another trip.”

Juan loaded the second shell into the cannon and watched the seconds tick down on his watch. One minute was more than fair, he thought.

When sixty seconds ended, the ship looked as empty as the famous ghost ship Mary Celeste. Juan again pulled the trigger.

The cannon bucked, sending the shell straight through the warehouse and into the tanker.

The ammo detonated with a blast that dwarfed anything up to this point. The cargo bay disappeared in a flash of white flame, an enormous mushroom cloud rising above the dock. The warehouse next to it was blown down by the explosion. Even wearing the headset muffs, Juan’s ears rang.

With a fire raging on board, the Tamanaco broke in two and began to sink immediately. They’d have a hard time selling the waterlogged vehicles if any of them survived the blast.

Juan glanced around and saw all of the men surrounding the tank had been thrown flat. They would need a few minutes to come around, but Juan spotted a column of what had to be military vehicles heading toward them from the nearby city.

“Where to now, Chairman?”

“Home, James.” The Abrams lurched forward, plowing the fence down and turning onto the road.

“Any ideas for how we’re going to get back on the Oregon now that they’re heading out to sea? They’ll have the docks locked down, so stealing a boat isn’t going to be an option. Plan B is out the window.”

They could have the Oregon send one of its lifeboats, but that would expose it to gunfire from the shore when it picked them up. Although the tank was impregnable, it was easy to follow, and it had only enough gas for loading onto and unloading off of the ship. At less than two miles per gallon, they were going to be dry in about fifteen minutes of driving.

Juan remembered the peak of the hill on the peninsula they’d sailed by when the Oregon was entering La Guanta Harbor. From the looks of it, it had enough elevation for what he was thinking.

“Max isn’t going to like this,” he murmured.

“Am I going to like it?”

“You’ll love it,” Juan said. “When has my Plan C ever failed?”