Piranha

9

Juan Cabrillo grinned when he spotted the ill-advised roadblock ahead. Two tractor-trailers had been stretched across the far end of a bridge leading to the peninsula where Juan intended to rendezvous with the Oregon. Two Humvees with armed soldiers waited with the trucks, and three more Humvees trailed the tank, their occupants taking the occasional ineffective potshot.

Not wanting to reveal their final destination, Juan and Linc had led their pursuers on a stop-and-go chase around the city while Max got the Oregon in position. Max had just radioed that they were ready, so they were on the way to their hilltop objective.

“You see it?” Juan said into his headset.

“Unless those trailers are filled with lead,” Franklin Lincoln replied from the driver’s seat, “I think they’re underestimating what a sixty-five-ton tank can do.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and show them?”

“My pleasure.”

Linc gunned the Abrams up to its governed top speed of forty miles an hour. The tank bolted across the bridge, an implacable juggernaut charging toward what the Venezuelans must have thought were immovable objects.

Juan knew how wrong they were.

The Abrams plowed through the trucks like a linebacker tearing through a paper banner before a football game. Juan felt the tank barely slow as the empty trucks were pulverized, showering the nearby soldiers with metal shards.

Juan turned to see the Humvees crawling through the wreckage to continue the chase as the tank made its way down the shoreline road. He checked the fuel level. They were getting dangerously close to empty, and they still had two miles to go. If they ran out of gas in the middle of the road, the Venezuelans would be able to call in bigger weapons and either wait them out or blow the tank up. They’d be as good as dead.

Juan’s escape plan depended on having a few minutes outside the tank undisturbed. If they were surrounded by soldiers with rifles when they reached the top of the hill on the peninsula, they’d be shot as soon as they opened the hatches.

That meant slowing down their pursuers, and the power lines strung along the edge of the roadway gave Juan an idea.

“Linc, I think there’s going to be a blackout on this side of the harbor pretty soon.”

Without hesitation, Linc answered, “Yes, those telephone poles look very unstable. They should be replaced. I’ll help them with the demolition.”

Linc swerved off to the side of the road and aimed for the nearest thick wooden pole. The Abrams snapped it like a twig and it fell across the road, its power line sparking on the asphalt. The streetlights were immediately snuffed out, leaving only the illumination from the tank.

The Abrams continued along the roadside until they’d knocked over half a dozen poles.

“Nice driving,” Juan said. “That should give us at least a few minutes’ breathing room while they try to get those Humvees around them.” With no parallel street and rocky terrain behind the houses lining the road on one side and water on the other, the soldiers would have no choice but to clear the obstacles before they could resume the pursuit.

The rumble of the tank’s treads had brought out residents from their homes. The astonished onlookers made Juan feel like they were cruising down the street inside a parade float.

When they got to the end of the road, Juan used his phone’s GPS to guide them up the bushy slope. The Abrams faltered briefly as its treads tore at the dirt for purchase and then climbed the hill, flattening shrubs and small trees along the way.

In two minutes they had reached the apex of the hill, where in the daytime they would have had an expansive view of the Caribbean. The cloud cover obscured the full moon, making it impossible to see the archipelago of small islands three miles away that formed a natural breakwater protecting Puerto La Cruz and La Guanta from storms.

But Juan could make out the lights on the stationary Oregon far below them, three hundred yards north of the rocky coastline. Max had put the ship exactly where Juan was expecting to see her.

Juan popped open the hatch and climbed out of the tank, glad to get a breath of fresh air after being saturated with the stench of burned gunpowder. Linc cracked his hatch and pulled himself up. He stretched his beefy arms wide.

“That space was definitely not designed for someone like me,” he said.

“Is anything designed for someone like you?” Juan said as he phoned the Oregon.

Linc shook his head. “Why do you think my Harley is customized?”

Juan’s phone clicked and Max came on the line. “So that’s your Plan C, huh?”

“We like to travel in style,” Juan replied. “Are you ready to fire?”

“Eddie’s on deck with the Comet and has you in his sights.”

“Then let her rip.”

Comet was a company that designed line-throwing rockets required on ships by the Safety of Life at Sea convention, or SOLAS. They were used as fire safety lines to people who’d fallen overboard, and they could also send lines to other ships for passing back towlines or supplies.

Comet’s normal product fired rockets with a range of two hundred and fifty yards, but the Corporation had asked them to double that range.

Juan spotted a flash from the Oregon and a red teardrop of flame flew at them. Eddie’s aim was dead-on. The torch arced high over their heads and down the other side of the hill. The rope line landed right across the tank’s turret.

Linc wasted no time knotting it around the Abrams’s gun barrel to anchor it. He gave Juan the thumbs-up when it was tight.

“Tell Eddie that he was right on the money,” Juan said to Max. “We’ve got the line hooked up.”

“We’ll get it tied onto a crane at our end.”

The rope line went taut as Eddie reeled it in. The Oregon’s thrusters would keep the ship in place so that the line wouldn’t go slack or snap.

Juan motioned for Linc to go first. Linc climbed onto the tank, wrapped the strap from the assault rifle around the rope, and looped each end around his wrists.

“Remember,” Juan said, “we’re a lot higher than the Oregon, so you’re going to have a good head of steam when you get there.” Eddie had half inflated a couple of rafts to cushion their landing, but it would still feel like a wrestler’s body slam. Juan let Max know that Linc was on his way.

Linc nodded and stepped off the Abrams’s front end. Zip lines for tourists are made of heavy steel cable so they will remain taut under load, but the nylon line had much more flex to it and sagged under his weight. He walked down the hill until he was suspended from the rope and gravity took over.

Juan’s eyes were drawn away from Linc’s progress when he heard the sound of vehicle engines. Headlights came to a stop at the end of the road several hundred yards away. Doors slammed as soldiers piled out and scrambled up the hill. It would be simple to follow the trail of destruction the tank had left in its wake.

Flashlights bobbed as the soldiers climbed. Officers shouted orders to take them alive, but Juan guessed those orders would be countermanded if they saw he was about to get away.

Max called to tell him that Linc had made it, and not a moment too soon. The clouds had parted momentarily, revealing the tank’s silhouette in the moonlight. The soldiers had spotted the Abrams and were sprinting toward it, their rifles at the ready.

Juan repeated Linc’s actions. When he was set, he jumped off the tank and ran forward. His arms extended until his feet came off the ground and he was sliding down. Wind buffeted his hair, and the smell of salt water grew stronger as he neared the coastline.

Gunfire erupted behind him but was quickly snuffed out. Juan thought he knew why, but he couldn’t turn his head far enough to verify it.

They must have seen him flying through the air, puzzled as to how he was doing it, and snapped off some shots. Then some perceptive soldier had to have realized what he was doing and the race was on to find the line he was using. It would only be a matter of seconds before they realized it was attached to the Abrams.

Juan was still more than a hundred yards from the Oregon, but past the waves crashing against the rocks jutting from the surf. A vibration in the rope told him the soldiers had found it and were trying to shake him off. The next step was obvious.

The line suddenly went slack on the hilltop end, the victim of a sharp knife, sending Juan hurtling toward the sea. He straightened his body and entered the water feetfirst.

He plunged ten feet down. Before he released the rifle strap, he grabbed the rope and kicked toward the surface.

He breached the water and the line went taut again. Juan tightened his grip as he was reeled toward the Oregon. He could hear shots coming from the soldiers again, but at this distance in the darkness they might as well have saved the ammo.

The side of the Oregon loomed over him and a rope ladder was tossed over the side. Juan swam to it and climbed to the deck. Eddie and Linc pulled him up and Juan landed on his feet.

“Thanks,” Juan said. “I wasn’t planning to make that a water landing.”

“The guys at the yacht club will never believe what I reeled in,” Linc said with a smile.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Gao,” Juan said to Eddie.

Eddie bowed his head an inch in response. “Captain Holland.”

“Tell Max to get under way and that Plan C worked without a hitch. I’ll meet him in the op center after I dry off.”

As they walked, Eddie relayed Juan’s command on his headset radio. A moment later, the Oregon began to turn away from the coast.

Eddie’s face suddenly took on a more serious expression.

“What is it?” Juan asked.

“Max says we’ve just been hailed by a Venezuelan frigate twenty miles due west. Their captain is ordering us to surrender or be destroyed.”