Patriot

CHAPTER 74

Brock and Gator heard the clanking tracks of the mobile Howitzer chugging steadily onward along the trail just below them. It had just belched smoke as it lobbed two more 105mm cannon shells at Blackhawke. The last two rounds had missed, but the gunners were still dialing in the range and these two rounds were much, much closer.

The Russian Army DONAR tracked vehicle was on the move again, no doubt trying to avoid the ship’s missile tracking systems.

But, Harry thought, assessing the situation, also trying to gain a better angle on the enemy vessel that had dared to invade the harbor. And that was now pounding the Cuban shore defenses protecting the intelligence installation and huge weapons cache. Once Blackhawke was clearly in the sights of the big Howitzer, her fate would be sealed.

“Where the hell’s Big Bertha headed, Gator?” Harry said, looking up at him. The kid had climbed a palm tree with his NVG binoculars, trying to get a fix on the big cannon’s movements though the jungle cover.

“Headed half a click up the trail. Looks like somebody cut a clearing out of the jungle up there. Artillery emplacement. Definitely one of the Howitzer’s preferred firing positions here on the mountain, based on the piles of expended shells up there… and… we can’t let them gain that advantage, sir. Not if we’re going to keep them from sinking Blackhawke.”

“Then what are we waiting for down here, slick?”

“Not me, chief,” Gator said, dropping to the ground and grabbing his weapon. “Let’s get a move on.”

The two men kept low and out of sight, moving in tandem through the jungle, one on either side of the trail. This was good, Harry thought. His leg had stopped hurting so much, thanks to the morphine injection. They hadn’t been spotted yet. And they knew exactly where the new target was headed.

“Come to new heading zero-zero-six,” Hawke said, his eyes trained on the puffs of artillery smoke rising up near the top of the mountain. The Howitzer crew was already taking evasive action, not waiting around for one of the ship’s gun crews to get a lock on the cannon’s location. This surprise appearance of heavy artillery was definitely a wild card dealt into the war game at the last minute. Once the gunners up there found the boat’s range, all bets were off.

The fighting around the harbor was growing more intense. Cuban shore batteries were now pounding the vessel. Most of the rounds were falling harmlessly into the sea, thanks to the ship’s armor plating and the relatively poor training of the Cuban artillery crews by their Russian “advisors.”

Also helping the ship were the very effective evasion tactics displayed by Geneva King, manning the battle helm of Blackhawke. The shells that hit were inflicting superficial damage, but nothing that could sink the ship. Not so far, anyway.

The Howitzer was another situation entirely. A direct hit in a vulnerable spot by a 105mm shell? “Say sayonara, Suzanne.”

Stoke’s last situation report had Redcoat moving into the warehouse district proper. Here is where the resistance of Cuban and Russian commandos was heaviest. And where Blackhawke’s gun crews had been concentrating their fire to soften up the resistance. Redcoat had rejoined with Bluecoat just in time to present a unified show of force. Both squads had suffered casualties in breaching the main and secondary gates.

Even though the black-uniformed Russian Spetsnaz forces were concentrated in this central location, Stoke said, 12-Gauge and his squad had already managed to rig charges in the two smaller warehouses. They were now working on an approach to the third. The Russians were clearly determined to protect the largest cache of explosives, the cases of Feuerwasser located in the largest of the three warehouses, which butted up to the concrete seawall.

“You’ve got twenty-eight minutes, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Get it done and get the hell out of there. Once that big Howitzer dials us in, I can’t guarantee anything anymore.”

Harry and Gator raced ahead of the surprisingly fast-moving tracked vehicle upon which the mighty cannon stood. Their destination was now only a few hundred yards up the winding trail. Gator had a plan, he told Harry, but they had to get up to the clearing first to have any chance of success taking out the monster gun.

“Here, take this!” Gator shouted, tossing Brock a spool of wire he’d pulled out of his satchel while still on the run.

“What the hell is it?” Harry said. He had a bullet in his leg, after all, and he couldn’t quite keep up with the star running back from Gainesville ascending a sloppy muddy trail.

“You’ll see,” Gator said, breaking first into the clearing. He had a spool of his own and was running from palm to palm around the perimeter of the cleared tract, taking a couple of turns around the trunks of each tree with the wire before racing to the next.

“Do the same on the other side,” he shouted to Brock, “and meet me in the middle of the clearing with what’s left on your spool!”

When they met in the middle, Harry saw that the whole of the clearing was now crisscrossed with the wire web they’d woven in under five minutes. The big gun was coming into view around a wide bend in the trail when Gator pulled a dull black box out of his vest pocket and jammed the two ends of wire into slots in the side.

“Explosive?” Brock said.

Gator smiled as he punched in a sequence on the little black box.

“Sort of. The wires are impregnated with explosives,” Gator said. “This is the detonator. Sends out signals. Any metallic solid coming with fifty yards of this box ignites the wires. The wires are coated with stuff called Willy Pete. White phosphorous. Burns at ridiculous temperatures and incinerates anything it comes into contact with — like, say, Big Bertha coming up that trail right now. Better run for the woods, sir; this could get ugly.”

They ducked beneath the spiderweb of death and sprinted for the safety of the green wall of jungle at the edge, Brock lagging behind because of his wounds. He stumbled, almost fell, and looked back at the black-uniformed Russian storm troopers coming in advance of the tracked vehicle and — shit — he had about one minute to make it to the trees or he was one gone cat.

“Wrap your arm around my shoulder and hold on,” Gator said. “Hurry up, I’ve got you, sir!”

The man had come back for him. And Brock knew he’d never have made it were it not for Gator’s bravery. Bullets were sizzling all around the two men as they neared the green stuff.

Diving into the dense jungle foliage, they just had time to turn around and see the big Howitzer rolling into the explosive spiderweb they’d strung up…

The whole world lit up in a blaze of white-hot fire and billowing white smoke — one minute the cannon was clanking forward — the next it had simply burned up along with the wires, turning into white ash and powder before their eyes. The troops who’d accompanied the vehicle were likewise consumed in the chemical fire. And then the 105mm ammo blew sky high. The clearing was a horrific and short-lived nightmare one moment, a smoking emptiness the next.

Brock was staring at the devastation, shaking his head.

“How the hell do I get my hands on some of that funky wire, Gator?” he said.

“You can’t, Brah. It’s illegal.”

Stoke didn’t even realize he’d been shot.

He was way, way too busy. He’d gotten his guys this far. The two smaller warehouses to either side of the old courthouse building were gonzo. Now 12-Gauge needed to finish rigging the third. The blackshirts were well entrenched in a small square outside the entrance to the three-story warehouse building. On the top floor were port offices: harbormaster, excise, logistics, and all that crap. On the first and second floors were cases and cases of the most powerful explosive anybody’d ever seen, stacked up to the roof.

Hawke had said this secret stuff of Putin’s was dynamite to the thirtieth power. Hell, President Vlad had knocked Miami off the damn grid with it and sunny South Florida was still reeling in the dark.

Stoke knew old Vladimir was just getting warmed up. Feuerwasser was leaving this port by the boatload on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. Headed for the United States and God knows where else.

“Fat, listen up,” Stoke said. He and his wingman had been rigging charges up on the warehouse roof and now they were hunkered down near the oil storage drums on the dock. Not a great place to be hunkered down when the shooting started, Stoke told Fat, but then he had a better idea.

He’d stashed a bottle of Feuerwasser from the second warehouse just before they’d blown the roof off the damn building. You never knew when extremely high-powered explosives might come in handy. Like… now.

“Talk to me, bossman,” Fat said.

“We need a diversion if we’re going to go through those doors alive. This is it.”

“What?”

“Our diversion. We use it to blow the used oil dump right next to the warehouse. The fire might even spread inside and trigger the heat charges on the roof. You with me on this? Blow the oil cans and get the hell out. Join the assault mounting in the plaza.”

“I guess.”

“Got a better idea, Fat?” he said, jamming a fuse through the metal twist cap of the bottle and setting the primer.

“Nope.”

“I didn’t think so,” Stoke said, picking up his radio. “Bluecoat, this is Redcoat One. Fat and I are going to blow the east wall on the count of five. That’s your signal to advance into the square and enter through the front. We’ll be right with you. First man inside secures a case of the contraband and heads for the boats. Over.”

“We roger that, Redcoat One. On five, over.”

Stoke said, “Five, four… three, two… Let’s go!” He backhanded the vodka bottle into the midst of the oilcans and the two of them ran like hell for their lives.