Читать книгу Pirate Offensive - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Key West, Florida

It was a quiet night along the Keys, and the little chain of scattered islands looked peaceful. The elevated highway that connected them back to mainland America had almost no traffic, and the ocean was quiescent, the swells low and gentle, the breeze balmy and warm. A picture-postcard night for a tropical paradise.

There was no moon in the sky, which was keeping most of the honeymooners and tourists off the white sand beaches. Hot and jazzy Latin music emanated from a dozen bars and restaurants , and the police rode bicycles along the clean streets, mostly just watching out for drunks and the occasional lost child.

Sitting alongside each other on a stone breakwater, the two men waggled their bare feet in the air, each of them floating in a private cosmos.

““Hey,” one of them said suddenly, shaken from his reverie.

“What?”

“Fireworks, man. Look at the fireworks!”

Squinting into the distance, the first man laughed at what appeared to be an old fishing trawler sending out flares. This close to land? The crew could walk to the beach and never get their shirts wet. Strange.

“Got your camera, dude?”

“Always!”

“Shoot the ship, man. Something fishy here.”

“Ha! Fishy. Ship. No, wait...”

Suddenly, a red dot appeared on the wall between them. The first man tried to swat it away like an annoying bug. A split second later, something large zoomed across the water and slammed into the wall.

The blast threw both of them high, wide and in a hundred tattered pieces, the wall erupting into a fireball. The detonation rumbled across the sleepy town like an angry peal of thunder, rattling windows and setting off dozens of car alarms.

Onboard the trawler, Lieutenant Gloria Fields scowled at the laughing man standing nearby. “Was that really necessary?”

“A diversion to confuse the police,” Chung replied, tossing the spent rocket launcher into the ocean. “Now, let’s get those chips!”

Almost straight ahead of the trawler, onshore, sat a low, white stone building, three stories tall and surrounded by lush palm trees and exotic flowering bushes. The sign across the front read, “Maxwell Armatures.” No lights were on inside the structure.

“The microchips are in the safe on the third floor,” Captain Narmada said. “I want them all.”

“So be it,” Lieutenant Fields said, swinging a LAW rocket launcher onto her shoulder.

Pressing the release button, she extended the collapsible tube to its full length. As the sights popped up, the firing button was revealed. Spreading her legs slightly for a better stance, she aimed for the third floor corner and pressed the button.

A double volcano of flame and smoke erupted from both ends of the lightweight tube, the back blast extending for a dozen yards across the trawler and out to sea. A sharp stiletto of flame lanced from the front port, and the 66 mm rocket streaked away.

The rocket punched straight through the bulletproof windows then exploded inside, engulfing the entire third floor in a roiling chemical hell storm.

“Yee-haw!” shouted Chung as Fields shot a second LAW rocket into the building.

“Again,” said Narmada. “We need the lab leveled.”

“Whatever you say, sir.” Chung lifted a Carl Gustav from the open case of launchers on the deck.

Sliding in a napalm rocket, he hit the ground floor once more, the blast spreading outward from every broken window. The building started to sag, then tilt, wide cracks opening in the stucco siding.

Lieutenant Fields added two more LAWs into the crumbling foundation. The double blast did the trick, and the entire laboratory complex collapsed inward, throwing up a wild display of bright embers and swirling smoke.

Fire engines could now be heard, closely followed by the wail of police sirens and ambulances.

“Send in the tank,” Narmada said, lifting a LAW from the case. “I’ll handle these fools.”

The front of the modified trawler slammed onto the pristine white beach, and a LAV-25 armored personnel carrier, or APC, rumbled out of the hold and onto dry land. Charging forward, the driver smashed aside the white stone tide wall and everything else in its way.

When the LAV-25 reached the ruins of the Maxwell laboratory, the driver started moving around the rubble in concentric circles until the armored prow clanged into something very hard. Burning timbers fell away to reveal a squat, armored vault.

Like a soccer player maneuvering a ball toward the goal, the tank driver pushed into the heavy cube, knocking it out of the growing inferno and bringing it to rest safely on a relatively undamaged patch of parking lot.

Sirens screaming, three police cars, followed by fire trucks and ambulances, squealed into the parking lot.

From his position on the trawler, Narmada sent two LAW rockets directly into the cluster of emergency vehicles. Suddenly, the rear of the tank slammed open and out came a group of men wearing fire-resistant suits and driving a small forklift. They had a little trouble getting the safe onto the prongs, but it was finally accomplished, and the steel box was loaded with extreme care into the rear of the APC. The fit was tight, but the intel had been good, and the rear doors closed firmly.

Chung, Fields and Narmada watched the tank drive back toward the trawler.

“Keep an eye out for jet fighters from Gitmo,” warned Narmada, swinging up a Sidewinder missile launcher and activating the radar.

“Gitmo?”

“Or Miami. They’re both close enough to do a recon.”

However, the empty sky remained clear as the APC trundled back into the ship, and the landing hatch was cycled back into place. Leaving the harbor, the trawler headed directly out to sea.

* * *

SUDDENLY, CHUNG GAVE a cry and staggered backward on deck, his shoulder gushing blood.

“Impossible!” Fields gasped, squinting into the darkness toward the coastline.

A second later, wild gunfire erupted onshore, the bright flashes of a small-caliber pistol strobing on the beach. The shots seemed wild, erratic. But another incoming round hit the door to the wheelhouse, and a third zinged off a brass stanchion.

“Bastard got me,” Chung grunted, slapping a hand on top of the wound. “Filthy stinking islanders...”

“Did you really expect them not to shoot back?” asked Narmada, sounding almost amused.

“I thought we’d taken them all out!” Lieutenant Fields shouted.

Chung, stumbled to a weapons chest, pushing aside a Redeye and a LAW to triumphantly extract a very old four-shot rocket launcher.

“Clear the deck!” he screamed, then started shooting, not caring if there was anybody behind him to be obliterated by the back blast.

Soon, a wall of flames spread across the beach, and Chung tossed the rocket launcher overboard with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Get below and see the doc,” Narmada said, still watching the sky.

“I’m fine.” Chung winced as his arm moved.

“No, you’re not, and that was an order, not a request.”

Scowling darkly, Chung paused, then nodded and started toward the nearest hatchway.

“Sir...” Lieutenant Fields began.

“Long story, Lieutenant,” replied Narmada. “Suffice it to say that unless he draws a weapon and points it at me, my personal debt to Chung will never be canceled. Good enough?”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

The nameless trawler was just reaching the horizon, the fires on the beach disappearing below the waves, when the night was cut by the loud siren of a Coast Guard cutter streaming in from another Key. Without pause, Narmada and Fields both opened fire, and the cutter vanished.