Читать книгу Primary Directive - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

In the haze of approaching dawn, the Mark IV river patrol boat knifed slowly through the calm waters of Lake Gatun.

Lieutenant Manuel Horst stood on the observation post above the cockpit and scanned the lakeside with his binoculars. The night shift had always been his favorite since enlisting in the Panama Special Boat Unit—much better than monitoring the hustle and bustle of day traffic through the canal. The regular pattern of buildings and twinkling lights of the coastal town of Gamboa came into view and Horst stopped on them a moment before lowering the binoculars.

“Slow to one-third, Specialist,” he called down to the cockpit.

The pilot acknowledged the order and immediately the boat engine rumbled down from twenty to fourteen knots.

A flash of sunlight on metal caught the lieutenant’s eye. He squinted in that direction, but didn’t see any movement or ships, then remembered the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. He scanned slowly across the shoreline off Gamboa and spotted a periscope.

Horst descended to the main deck once they were under way and rallied his men. He ordered his best gunner to man the .50-cals and the radioman to contact headquarters with a request for reinforcements. A submarine operating in the Panama Canal Zone without permission was a serious offense against U.S.-Panama treaty stipulations, not to mention a violation of at least a half dozen right-of-way regulations.

As the PBR drew nearer and the sun broke on the horizon Horst could see the sub had surfaced. It looked rather tiny, maybe twice the length of their own boat, and it didn’t have lines of any particular grade Horst recognized. That ruled out the submarine as U.S. surplus given to Panama or a military prototype. Horst’s eyes stopped when he spotted a wicked-looking weapon of an unfamiliar make on the forward prow. Before Horst could point it out to his crew, however, a hatch at the base of the mount opened and a man in dark fatigues emerged. The guy took up position behind the large weapon and swung it in their direction.

Horst shouted to his machine gunner, but the warning came too late. A cloud of smoke and flame belched from the muzzle of the massive weapon as the report cracked through the air. One of the .50-cals blew apart a moment later and sent large, razor-sharp shards of metal whistling in all directions. The gunner screamed as several lodged in his body. One piece of shrapnel cut through a neck artery and blood spurted from the gaping wound left in its wake.

Horst ducked in reflex action and shouted at the pilot to turn the boat starboard, then ordered another crew member to man the 20 mm chain gun. He then rushed forward to help the wounded gunner. As he reached his man, Horst heard the antimaterial weapon boom again followed by the sickly sound of shattered glass. He didn’t bother turning to make a damage assessment; he already knew they’d hit the cockpit. Horst managed to get a bulky dressing from the sideboard-mounted med kit pressed against the gunner’s wound before the sudden spin of the boat knocked him off balance.

Horst looked at his gunner. The young man’s eyes stared wildly back at him but the guy still seemed to have enough sense to keep the bandage pressed against his throat. The light in the man’s eyes dimmed quickly, though, and Horst figured he had maybe a couple of minutes before the blood loss rendered him unconscious. Horst jumped to his feet and rushed to the cockpit. As he reached the body of the pilot slumped over the wheel—the boat had now taken on a listing spin as the pilot had been turning it when struck by the antimaterial rifle—Horst heard the 20 mm chain gun rattle into action. That would keep that bastard’s head down long enough for his team to regroup and mount a counteroffensive, although Horst wondered how much they could do with two men down and one of their primary weapons neutralized.

Horst felt the pilot’s neck for a pulse but didn’t find any. He pulled the body off the seat and laid it gently on the deck, then directed his voice to the radioman belowdecks. “Send position priority! We’re under heavy small-arms attack by submarine of unknown origin! Request reinforcements now! ”

Horst then turned his attention out the view port as he swung the wheel to get the boat under control. He powered into a heading that put the port stern moving away from the sub at a forty-five-degree angle. That would give Vega on the chain gun a decent field of fire while minimizing exposure of the PBR to more barrages from the antimaterial gun. Horst never heard the report of the weapon that fired it, but there was little doubt of the consequences when a 104 mm shell landed smack-dab in the center of the prow just rear of the .50-cal turret. Wilson, the gunner, never had a chance as the explosion ripped his limbs from his body. The skin-searing heat—Horst could feel it even through what remained of the cockpit windshield—traveled belowdecks far and fast enough to turn the vulcanized rubber soles of Horst’s boots mushy. Horst heard the agonized screams of Bolidez as the flames reached the radioman.

As Horst turned the wheel hard astern so the boat headed back toward the submarine before the fire reached the steerage equipment, he heard the chain gun stop, knew that Vega no longer had a decent firing position. A moment later the man burst into the cockpit.

“What the hell are you doing, Manuel?” he demanded.

Horst had known Vega since childhood. They were well past military formalities. “If we’re going to die today, Maldo, then we’re going to take a few of these bastards!”

The familiar crack of the material rifle made Horst clench his teeth. Vega had already left the cockpit and a moment later he could hear his friend open up with their squad weapon, an Enfield SA-80. The antimaterial shell hit somewhere beyond the boat and the delay of the gunner having to reload had bought Horst the time he sought. There was no way they could stop the boat from ramming them now.

Through the cracked glass Horst could make out more shadowy figures spreading out across the submarine deck. His heart beat fast and heavy in his chest as the wink of muzzle-flashes and cap-gun-like reports began to sound from the myriad of automatic weapons being fired. A cold lump formed in his throat when the sounds of the SA-80 ceased and a moment later he watched the body of one of his best friends sail past and hit the deck with a dull thud. Horst could barely see through the tears that welled in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to give up.

No way will my men have died in vain, he thought.

Horst never heard the shot that killed him—never really felt more than a brief pain and the flash of light from the 104 mm shell—and he never knew he’d brought his boat to within twenty meters of the submarine before it exploded.

And he would never know of the legend he would create this day.