Blacklist Aftermath

35

Shouting his partner’s name was a reflex action. Fisher didn’t expect to find the man. He’d already assumed that Briggs had been swept off the train.

But then he was glad he’d called out — because a voice came from near his boots:

“Sam! Down here! Little help!”

Fisher lifted his chin to glance over the side of the oil tank.

There was Briggs, both hands locked onto a grab iron. He must’ve slid down the container and seized the iron as he smashed into it. Time to repay the earlier favor. Fisher got on his haunches and reached over, taking Briggs’s hand, then, raging aloud in exertion, he hauled his teammate back onto the deck.

Coughing and spitting out sand, Briggs nodded, and they got back up and forged on, the train moving relentlessly through the storm now, the containers — despite being weighed down with oil — beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart.

They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs bounded forward, made his jump, and landed behind Fisher. They both crouched down to spy the end of the tank. No response from anyone ahead. Now they would make some time.

Yet before they reached the end of the tank, something very odd happened, something that had them standing more upright and glancing around, their gazes lifting to the skies…

The din of howling winds and hissing sand faded, as though they were passing through some strange boulevard deep in the heart of purgatory, soft whispers coming on the air, the sand falling in light flurries like snow, the clinking of the train more distinct.

They took advantage of this lull and raced across two more containers. En route, Fisher spoke quickly into his SVT: “Grim? Charlie? Can you read me?”

“We got you, Sam,” answered Charlie. “Looks like you’re in some sort of pocket.”

“Roger that. We’re almost there.”

“And, Sam, we got some new intel on that rogue Russian agent with the group.”

“You got an ID?”

“Yeah, and—”

Charlie’s voice dissolved into a rush of static accompanied by a blast of wind and sand that struck with a vengeance, slamming Fisher and Briggs into the opposite railing.

He could barely see his gloved hands now, and while reaching the HEP car and locomotive would take more time, the storm would, for the most part, conceal their approach until the very last second. He doubted the MOIS agents were equipped with protective gear, so they might’ve retreated inside. The reduced visibility could actually work in Fisher’s favor, adding precious time to their remaining six minutes. The trigger man’s top priority was to ensure the bomb was physically in the Abqaiq compound before completing the firing circuit. Right now he was presumably as blind as Fisher.

The next connection between cars required them to descend and ascend the ladders since the gusts — coming in erratic salvos like gunfire — made it far too risky to jump. Fisher took another sonar reading as they came within two containers of the HEP car. He glimpsed right through the oil-filled container to detect the shimmering white outlines of a pair of agents huddling against the wind between cars, ready to ambush them. There was another one inside the locomotive serving as engineer, and two more inside the HEP car.

So the Iranians had, indeed, picked up a few reinforcements. The GRU agent would more than likely be in the HEP car with the bomb.

Before they could climb up, ready to ambush the ambushers, a reverberation worked through the oil tank and into the ladder. Fisher ascended a few rungs, then caught the barest thump of footfalls. He turned back to Briggs, issued a hand signal, and Briggs gave a curt nod, ready.

Just as the agent above neared the edge of the railing and spotted Briggs, who was acting as the bait, a word came through Fisher’s subdermal, just a whisper from his partner: “Now.”

Clutching the ladder with one hand, his pistol jammed tightly in the other, Fisher pushed up from his current rung, leaned back, and shot the agent point-blank beneath the chin just as the agent was bringing his rifle to bear.

As he shrank back onto the deck, Fisher continued his ascent, slapping his arm across the dead agent’s knees in order to target the Iranian’s partner, who’d dropped to his belly about two meters ahead and had propped himself on his elbows.

Yet before either of them could get off a shot, what seemed like a long chute of sand — a twister tipped on its side — ripped across the train, sweeping the first agent’s body right out from beneath Fisher, who seized the railing at the last second.

When he looked up again, the other agent was hurling through the air, writhing against invisible claws and firing wildly in a reflex response, the rounds drumming into the tank, a few ricocheting off the rails.

“Briggs?”

“Right behind you. No plans to slip again.”

“We’re clear to move. You get up there past the HEP car and take out the engineer.”

“Roger. I’ll need to check that windshield first to make sure they can’t see us.”

“Good call. We’re down to five minutes here.”

Fisher struggled up the ladder and hooked his arm completely over the railing, driving it into the crook. He clutched his wrist, using his arms like a carabiner clip to fasten himself to the deck. Briggs shifted past him, then Fisher carefully unhooked his arm and fell in behind, taking another sonar reading.

“Hold up,” he ordered Briggs.

“Shit, what now?”

One of the agents inside the HEP car was not there. He took another reading, and the image came up indistinct, suggesting that maybe the two agents were so close together that he couldn’t tell them apart.

“What?” Briggs.

“Forget it. Keep going!”

They left the last tanker car and then Briggs motioned them onto their bellies. They crawled forward so that Briggs could get a more furtive glance at the HEP car’s operator’s booth, which was facing toward them.

“Can’t see much,” said Briggs. “Let’s do it.”

As they clambered to their feet, rings of light appeared in the distance, like fireflies buzzing in a tight orbit, sparking and tinkling, with smaller, perpendicular pairs flashing in a random sequence of yellow and white behind them.

Next came the whomping. And Fisher’s jaw dropped.

The twin silhouettes of Shammari’s AH-6 light gunships burst from the gloom. The prince had ignored Fisher’s request to keep them on standby and had sent them directly into the storm. As they approached, the shimmering rings became brighter and resembled Fourth of July sparklers spun by overzealous children. The effect was created by their rotor blades, as the air had turned into 80 grit sandpaper rubbing against their surfaces.

The first chopper knifed through more draperies of dust, and its pilot opened up on Fisher and Briggs, laying down a bead of 7.62mm rounds fired from a pair of miniguns. Rounds stitched their way up, across the tank container, cutting a line right over the deck between them.

Fisher dove forward, with Briggs crossing the path of fire as the second bird came in behind the first, swooping down and tipping forward, its rotors mere meters above them.

“What’s he doing?” cried Briggs.

“Grim, if you can hear me, you need to call off these choppers!” hollered Fisher.

Automatic weapons fire cracked from the HEP car, and the fuselage of the chopper came alive. The pilot broke off and banked away at a steep angle, sure to come around for another pass.

Ironically, the agents inside the HEP car had driven off the bird — and that allowed Fisher and Briggs to reach the ladder.

The HEP car’s windows were darkly tinted, so they couldn’t see the agents who’d just slid open the side door and leaned out to fire. Out of options, Fisher and Briggs descended anyway, rushing down between the cars, then Briggs climbed along the front of the HEP to remain low, beneath the windshield. From there, he’d claw his way above it, reaching the upper deck of the HEP from the storm side. That was the best path to the locomotive.

“Make it fast, buddy. Those birds are coming back, and our triggerman’s got to be nervous now.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

They banged fists, and Briggs tested his purchase on the HEP, then hauled himself away. There was no upper deck on the HEP car, just a series of rungs across the top not meant for climbing. Once he scaled his way up there, the gauntlet to the locomotive would prove, in a word, interesting.

Meanwhile, Fisher took one more sonar reading, and the image brought a curse to his lips.

Just a single occupant inside the HEP car. Clean reading. Where was the other agent?

“Briggs, we’re missing one. Stay sharp.”

“Yeah,” the man answered, his voice burred by what had to be an intense physical effort. “I’ll be ready.”

Fisher shot a look to the sky: He couldn’t see the choppers, but their rotor wash was suddenly stronger than the storm and blowing directly down on him.

Grim and Charlie were still unreachable.

As the pair of AH-6s continued around once more, Fisher peered alongside the HEP car, then looked up, zooming in with his trifocals.

Abqaiq rose like some otherworldly oasis from the swirling night, the once-bright security lights muted to soft candles, the chutes of burn-off bent sideways, the spherical tanks futilely barricading walls of sand that broke into tendrils and reared back like cobras ready to strike. Despite the sandstorm’s best efforts to disguise it, the processing plant was still out there, waiting for them, and they were racing headlong toward it.

Pursing his lips, Fisher hauled himself up along the back side of the HEP car, reaching the operator’s door and clinging to it against the high wind. He tried the lock. No, it wouldn’t be that easy.

Clutching the door’s handle with one hand, he leaned back and opted to shoot out the window. Three rounds chewed through, then he busted free the rest of the glass with his elbow and levered himself up and onto the sill, shoving in his pistol hand and ready to fire. Clear. He hauled himself inside, collapsing onto the car’s floor.

Fighting for breath, he rolled, pushed up onto his hands and knees, then stood, spinning back toward the controls.

They were gone. Stripped. Nothing here but bundles of wires jutting from empty consoles. Some of the cables had been neatly cut, others torn free.

A small hallway ahead dropped down three steps to another door, this one made of aluminum or steel and seemingly retrofitted to the car. No window. Iron bar handle. Two locks. Dead bolt, no doubt.

“Sam, watch out! I think I see—”