Piranha

“But Admiral, that’s why I was about to call you. The Dolos has just cast off.”

“What? You gave them permission?”

“Yes. You told me that you would capture them at sea, so I thought . . .”

Ruiz was steaming. She had idiots working for her. But she kept her voice calm.

“Lozada, do whatever you can to slow them down. If they leave Venezuelan waters before we get there, capturing them would cause an international incident.”

“At once, Admiral!”

“And use any information that Gao can tell you about the ship. It might give you a tactical advantage.”

“Excellent suggestion, Admiral. We will do everything in our power to keep them from leaving.”

“I want regular updates about its location.”

She hung up, and strode back onto the bridge. She checked their position. They were still forty miles from Puerto La Cruz. At their present speed, they would reach the port in a little more than an hour.

The Mariscal Sucre, a Lupo-class frigate, was the pride of the Venezuelan Navy. It was armed with a 127mm forward gun, eight Otomat Mark 2 surface-to-surface missiles, and twin Mark 32 triple torpedo tubes. Ruiz had no compunction about unleashing her arsenal on the spy vessel no matter how well armed or how defenseless it was.

She just had to make sure they got there in time.

“Captain Escobar,” she barked to the ship’s commander, “I don’t care if you burn the turbines out. Give me all the speed you can muster.”

After a smart “Aye, aye,” Ruiz could feel the ship vibrate from the increased output, matching the adrenaline coursing through her system. She had never been more ready for a fight, and there was no way she would be denied her victory.

Juan and Linc had the cargo bay’s stern door covered, occasionally taking shots to keep Dominguez’s men from pouring through. The bow door was still locked tight, with a chain looped through the handle, but they could hear someone hammering away at it on the other side. It was only a matter of time before it was breached.

Bullets pinged off the armored vehicles around Juan and Linc as sailors with assault rifles poked their heads through the door to fire off a few shots. None came close. It was as if the men were simply trying to keep them pi

Juan guessed that was exactly their plan. The Venezuelans had the high ground because the doors on either end, one toward the bow and one toward the stern, were at the top of the three-story-high hold, with stairs leading down to the floor, where the vehicles were lined up in eight rows of four. It was a stalemate; Juan and Linc couldn’t leave and the Venezuelans couldn’t charge down the exposed stairs.

“How many rounds do you have left?” Juan asked Linc.

“Two magazines, but at this rate I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”

“I’m down to one on the rifle I borrowed from our friend who let us in here.” A chop from Linc’s hand had dealt the guard a blow that would have him woozy for days. That still left enough men to beat them by attrition alone. There was no chance they’d make it all the way back to the Humvee. They had to find another way out.

Even if they concentrated on one door and made a break for it, the only way off the ship was by sea. They’d be sitting ducks for anyone taking potshots from the dock.

However, they did have one possibility on this very cargo deck.

“Remember how gouged the floor in the warehouse was?” Juan asked.

Linc nodded. “Sure. The treads on the armored vehicles will tear concrete like that to shreds when they turn. The tanks weigh upward of sixty-five tons.”

“Which means they have some gas in them. How hard do you think it would be to drive this?” Juan said, jerking his thumb at the M1 Abrams next to him. It was the tank closest to the dock side of the ship.

Linc was used to Juan’s improvisation, so he didn’t even blink at the suggestion. Instead, he said, “We’ve got to get the cargo door down first.”

“So you’ve driven one?”

“I sat in the driver’s seat of one back in the old days. A buddy of mine in the SEALs used to be a Marine tank driver. It looks pretty simple. Motorcycle-type handles for steering and acceleration, and a brake pedal. Not much different from my Harley.” Linc kept a customized Harley-Davidson in the Oregon’s hold for day trips at ports of call.

“So that would be a no.”

Linc smiled. “I learn quickly.”

“I like your attitude. Only one problem.” Juan pointed at the battery-powered emergency lights that were on overhead. “I’d bet they cut off the power so the door won’t go down.”

“That is a problem. Even a tank can’t smash through a ship’s hull.”

“But you did see the crates as we ran down here?”

A look of understanding crossed Linc’s face and he turned to squint at the other side of the hold. Two metal shipping containers were placed end to end along the wall. Each of them was marked with yellow warning placards that said “EXPLOSIVES.”

They held the ammunition for the armored vehicles. This really was a full-service smuggling operation. No sense in buying tanks that didn’t come with ammo.

“Keep me covered,” Juan said. “I’ll be right back.”

He felt extremely confident in Linc’s ability to protect his flank. Linc was an exceptional sniper, and even in the dim light he could take down any sailor who tried to rush in as long as he still had a round in the chamber.

Juan sprinted between the tanks, keeping his head low as he ran. He felt the shock wave of bullets passing overhead, but they were few and hastily aimed thanks to Linc’s expert covering fire.

Juan crouched behind the last tank and saw that the end of the freight container was exposed to the sailors at the stern door.

It was also locked.

A sizable padlock was looped through the handle. Either the North Koreans or Venezuelans didn’t trust the sticky fingers of their dockworkers.

Juan hitched up his pant cuff and accessed the hidden compartment in his combat leg. He’d leave the pistol and knife there for now. The plastic explosive and detonator were what he needed.

The small amount of C-4 would take care of a padlock easily enough.

He removed the explosive from its package and readied its detonator.

“Give me ten seconds on the stern door!” he called out to Linc.

“Roger that!”

“Now!”

Linc concentrated his fire on the stern door, keeping the gunmen pi

Juan darted to the container door and mashed the C-4 onto the padlock. He stuck the detonator and pulled the firing pin, which would give him ten seconds to get cover.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled.

The blast echoed through the hold. The padlock was blown to pieces.

This time, Juan didn’t wait for the cover fire. The guards would be too surprised at the explosion to pop back in right away. He ran over to the container, unhooked the latch, and flung the door open.

Metal boxes were stacked up to his eyes for the length of the container. The boxes closest to the end were marked “M829A2.” It was a sabot round. Juan knew the designations of every round the M1 Abrams used because the Oregon had an identical 120mm smooth-bore ca

Sabots were uranium-depleted penetrator rods that were designed to go through tank armor. The shell around it was discarded as soon as it left the gun barrel. It would be no use to them. They would make a neat Coke-can-sized hole in the hull, and through anything else within a mile’s range, but not near big enough for a tank to crash out.