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“Sam, if you can still hear me, the train’s only about ten minutes away from Abqaiq,” Grim said. “We’re ru
“Okay. We’re on the train. We’ll get it done.”
“You’re breaking up now. I didn’t get—”
Static broke over the subdermal as a gust wrapped around the tank, rattling the undercarriage.
When he was about two-thirds of the way down the container, he took a deep breath. “All right, Briggs. Hold fire.”
“Holding.”
Fisher reached up, slapped a gloved hand on the bottom rung of the upper deck’s railing, then, hanging by one hand, he drew his Five-seveN and swung up a leg, latching it around a support post. As he forced himself back onto the upper deck, sliding on his belly, he brought up his pistol and watched as the agent chanced another look.
Bang. Fisher shot him in the eye. “Briggs, move up!”
The wind was so fierce now, the sand battering them so violently, that Briggs could only stagger his way across the deck, keeping both hands latched onto the railing.
“We’re too slow!” Fisher shouted.
“I know! I know!”
Four MOIS agents and one rogue GRU agent. That was Fisher’s initial threat assessment. Two down. There should only be three remaining, but there was no telling yet if the MOIS agents had brought in more recruits.
That was until the next three began firing at them, even as they descended the next ladder to continue moving up the train.
“That’s not the rest of them,” Briggs shouted.
“No, we’ve got more than we thought.”
“Shit. Let me get an active sonar reading. Okay, there it is. Picked up those three, maybe a few more near the front, but the signal’s weak, too much downtime between bursts.”
“We’re nine minutes from Abqaiq,” said Fisher.
“Then we get up there, and it’s guns blazing! We got no choice,” Briggs said.
“There’s another railing that runs low along the wheels,” said Fisher. “I think I can make better time using that one. Same deal. You cover, I move up.”
“All right, but my way’s faster.”
“I agree. Your way will get us killed faster.”
Briggs frowned.
“Let’s do it.” Fisher slid around the side of the container and stepped onto the lower railing, merely a thin bar and protective skirt for the wheels. The grab irons were too high to reach, and there was no way he could balance himself on that rail without hand supports and with the train dieseling hard at sixty-five miles an hour, so he clutched the rail, then allowed himself to fall forward, swinging beneath it, ankles latched, and he began a swift, hand-over-hand approach, with the cacophony of the wheels at his side until he reached the midsection, the wind passing under the container and coming in short bursts, the sand hissing and getting into his mouth, ears, and nose. Ignoring the blood rushing into his head and the fire in his pectoral muscles, he grimaced and slid even faster.
Briggs’s machine gun cracked another a
And suddenly, one, two, three agents were dropping away from the train, smashing into the dirt, wiping out below Fisher, and flailing into the darkness.
“Three down. Let’s keep moving,” said Briggs through the subdermal.
“I told you, same plan,” Fisher snapped.
“I know. I accidently killed them as I was trying to distract them.”
“Yeah, right, hang on, I’m coming.” Fisher reached the end of the container, then swung himself up between the cars as Briggs descended the ladder to join him.
“It’s a long way to the front,” said Briggs. “But we’re clear for at least another five cars. Visibility is shit. Come on, come on.”
Fisher hauled himself up the next ladder and clutched the railing with both hands. His boots actually lifted from the tank several times, and it felt as though a construction worker were holding a sandblaster to his cheeks. When he glanced to the right, he couldn’t see anything save for the swirling phosphorescent sand via his night vision, and he wouldn’t dare remove the goggles.
Briggs was right behind him, hunkered down, pistol in one hand, the other sliding across the railing.
The next gust slammed Fisher into the railing . . .
And when he looked back to check on Briggs, the man was gone.
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—begi
They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off ru
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 co
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.