by Nathan Combs
Talking to himself as much as asking a question, Tyler said, “What does the fact that they have no security mean?”
Chris and Callahan and Johnston grinned.
“Right. It means no one’s expecting trouble. Looks like we have carte blanche. I’ll update Wade, we’ll catch some z’s, check out the airport tonight, find suitable watch positions, and begin observation tomorrow morning.”
Wade, Randal, Stuart, Bill, and Cole were going over the battle plan in the Powwow Room when Tyler called in.
“Good work. No. There’s nothing new here. Keep me posted, Ty.”
Bill was in the head when the call came in, but he caught Wade’s last words as he came out. “Was that the Squaw Man?”
“That was Tyler.”
“Squaw Man.”
Clearly annoyed, Wade said, “You can call him that when the two of you are practicing your impression of a couple of twelve-year-olds, but I prefer Tyler.”
“What got your panties in a wad?”
Wade shook his head slowly. “Bill…I am not in the mood.”
One look at Wade’s face and Bill knew he meant it. “Okay. Got it. I’ll rephrase. Was that the guerilla in the midst?”
Wade grunted. “Yeah. They’re on station.”
Tyler and Chris had the first watch. In a grove of trees, under camouflage netting on the top of a decaying mobile home on Bockhot Road, Chris peered through the 20x scope while Tyler dozed. A thousand yards from the main airport terminal and three miles from their base of operations, movement caught Chris’s eye. He watched for a minute, then nudged Tyler. “You might want to take a peek at this, Ty.”
Tyler sat up, shook the cobwebs, then slid behind the scope. “Troops. Looks like they’re training.”
“Yeah. How many you think.”
“I’m guessing…maybe 1500?”
For the next six days, the four-man team watched the Texas Nation train on the tarmac: marching, running, practicing hand-to-hand combat, and performing dry-fire exercises. On the seventh day, the training was upgraded. The nation began practicing armored assaults with air support from both Black Hawks and the Little Bird. Troops poured out of transports and Strykers supported by Bradleys, dropped from the Blackhawks, and raced across the tarmac, attacking an imaginary enemy.
Chris was skeptical. “They couldn’t conduct a successful attack on a Hooters restaurant, Ty. They suck.”
Tyler laughed. “Yeah, they do for sure, but I still have to call it in.”
Ty keyed the sat phone and gave his report to Wade. “They upgraded their training regimen this morning, Wade. There’s no doubt they’re planning an invasion. They’re raw, but they have numbers. I counted forty troop trucks, eighteen Strykers, and eight Bradleys, plus two Blackhawks and the Little Bird. The pilots are good. They’re definitely ex-military. They have half a dozen tankers and miscellaneous support vehicles sitting on the tarmac. Instructions?”
“Stay with it for now. I’m guessing Kirilov will have them practicing an assault soon.”
“They’re modifying the airport control tower on the southwest corner. They could be simulating New Fort Terminus.”
“Probably right. We have to assume Kirilov has sat maps of our area. Anything else?”
“How’s Bill doin’, boss?”
“You know Bill. Oh…wait…I forgot. You guys are officially the Guerillas in the Midst.”
“Ha, ha. Well, that’s original.”
The daily grind came to a screeching halt the next day. During the nightly patrol of the refinery and ships, Tyler nearly bumped into a guard at the refinery office.
Damn, he thought while backing slowly away. He stealthily made his way to the docks.
Guards were posted at the gangways of the ships and a pickup patrolled the pier. At sunup, Callahan reported a drone in the sky over the airport, snipers on the terminal roof, and a Humvee patrolling the perimeter.
After comparing, the team knew something was going on, but they weren’t sure what it was. “Something’s up, Wade, but I’m positive it has nothing to do with us. They do not know we’re here. It’s not a big deal, but I thought you should know.”
“Roger, Ty. We planted a seed that we have operatives inside, so Kirilov’s probably covering his bases. And speaking of Kirilov, have you eyeballed him?”
“Yeah, he watches the training daily from an elevated platform next to the terminal building. It’s a thousand-yard shot, but Chris says it’s no prob if you give him the green light.”
“The minute you blow the refinery or take that shot, you’re outta there. Taking out the leaders isn’t on the agenda right now unless they mobilize.”
“Roger that, but when they’re done training, we might not get another chance.”
“Understood.”
Tyler and Chris sat in the kitchen of the house they had commandeered, noting that the first two weeks on station, not a single drop of rain had fallen. The earth was parched. But that had changed, and it changed dramatically. Overnight, the daily temperature increased by ten degrees, and the humidity became oppressive. Like a switch had been flipped, storms rolled in off the Gulf daily. Banks of early morning fog hindered visibility, forcing them to use thermal imaging part-time to view the Texas Nation training regimen. They were also running low on food and would soon be forced to scavenge or steal.
Tyler turned to Chris. “Either way, we jeopardize the mission. We can’t scavenge because of the drones and patrols, and if we break into homes, we tip them off. Thoughts?”
“In retrospect, food’s the one thing we didn’t account for. I did an inventory this morning. We have a week remaining. Ten days if we do half rats.”
McNulty stood beside Kirilov as he watched the teams practice their assault.
“How long is this going to continue, Misha?” McNulty said.
“Until they become proficient at it.”
“They look pretty good to me.”
“They are not.”
“They’ve been practicing for two weeks.”
Kirilov didn’t respond.
“This is your area of expertise, Misha, and I certainly do not intend to interfere or attempt to pressure you into change. However, it would certainly be beneficial to be kept informed and updated on your schedule.”
Kirilov cringed internally every time McNulty pronounced schedule, shed-u-al. He stared at him for a second, then grunted and nodded. “Tomorrow morning, we will begin live-fire exercises and practice an assault on the tower complex.”
“Excellent, General. Excellent. May I ask if you have considered upgrading your timetable?”
“I have not. Storms roll in daily from the Gulf. Attempting a crossing at this time of year could scuttle the entire operation.”
“I understand, but it seems to me that instead of crossing the Gulf, you could send them overland. They could parallel the first wave, go south, and still attack from the west.”
“Yes, that is true, but the risk of discovery and therefore the risk of failure increases. We will wait until October.”
“We had no choice, Wade. We were searching for food and had to take out a patrol we bumped into. We hid the bodies, but it won’t be long until the alarm’s sounded.”
“Okay. Mission update. It’s 2100 hours. Blow the refinery and the ships. As soon as the timers are set, get out of Dodge.”
“What about Kirilov?”
“You can’t do both.”
“Yeah, we can. We have the squad leaders’ radio and ID. If anyone calls him, we can handle it. By the time they figure out something’s wrong, it’ll be too late. Kirilov’s on the platform at 0800. We can stagger the timers starting at 0900. That gives Kirilov an hour to get into whatever they’re doing. When the first charge blows, we’ll take him out, and Chris can put a few rounds into the choppers at the same time. Keep ’e
m grounded. The staggered explosions will add to the confusion and give us time to evac.”
“What about the drones?”
“They’re not armed, and if the birds are down, we’ll just outrun pursuit.”
Wade thought for a minute. “Okay. Do it.”
Callahan and Johnston crawled through the muck in a driving rain toward the heart of the refinery, the FCCU (Fluid Catalytic Cracking unit). When they were 100 feet away, they split up, Callahan heading for the FCCU and Johnston to the gas and diesel storage tanks.
Johnston set charges on the valves of gas and diesel tanks on the northwest and southwest corners of the tank field. One gas and one diesel tank would explode at 0905, and one of each again at 0910.
Callahan wasn’t familiar with the FCCU, but someone at New Fort Terminus was, and Wade relayed the best place to set the charge. Ten feet from his objective, Callahan caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turned his head slowly, and locked eyes with a guard staring right at him.
Shit!
In the time it took the guard’s brain to register what he was seeing, his blood was spurting from his severed carotid artery.
Callahan looked around.
Other than the sound of rain pattering off the FCCU, it was silent. He dragged the body back to a small shed, stashed it, and hurried back to the cracking unit. With the charges placed, he set the timers for 0900 and rendezvoused with Johnston.
“We can’t leave the body there. Someone might come looking for his ass. Come with me and hoist him onto my back. We’ll drop him when we clear the area.”
Immediately after Wade gave Callahan the info on the FCCU, he asked Tyler if the ships were single hull or double hull.
“I don’t know, boss.”
“How old are they?”
“They’re all pretty rusty, but then they’ve been sitting there for years. They’re huge. I’m sure the middle one’s the gas tanker. Pipes are running to the tank yard and hoses are hanging over the dock. They look like they’d connect to a tanker truck.”
“All right, assume all three ships are double-hulled. It’s going to take a lot to rupture them. Is anyone aboard?”
“Not that I can see. There’s a guard at each gangway and two guys driving around in a pickup.”
“Okay, there should be a switching station that feeds the oil from the ships to the refinery.”
“Yeah…I know where that is. I can set charges there, no prob.”
“Good. Mine the switching station and then get in the water. The weakest spot of those ships is the hull, dead center, in the middle of the bottom. That’s a tall task without a rebreather, so set the charges amidships as far below the waterline as you can. If the hulls rupture, it’s a bonus, if not, you’ll screw up their output by taking out the switching station.”
Chris kept watch while Tyler set the switching station delivery charges for 0920.
“Ready to get wet, Chris?”
“Not really. Let’s get it over with.”
Two cold hours later, the charges on all three tankers were set for 0930.
Tyler helped Chris climb shivering out of the water. “Holy shit, Chris, I’d never make it as a SEAL.”
Chris chuckled. “Yeah, me neither. I’m freezing. Let’s get the hell outta here.”
By 0630, the rain had stopped, but a steady southwest wind was blowing at twenty miles an hour. Dark thunderheads lurked menacingly over the Gulf.
The team was ready at 0700.
Chris and Tyler lay concealed under a tarp on top of the trailer and hidden in a shed fifty yards away, Callahan and Johnston waited in the pickup.
“Man, I don’t know, Chris. That’s a hell of a shot on a good day. Is it even possible in this wind?”
“Gonna be difficult, but Kirilov’s on the platform like clockwork at 0800. We’ll decide then.”
Just before 0800, it started to drizzle. At 0801, Kirilov appeared with two other men.
Tyler was on the spotting scope, and next to him, Chris was looking through his sniper scope.
Speaking just above a whisper, Tyler said, “From Randal’s description, I’d say the fat guy’s McNulty. That means the skinny shit is Shelton. Damn! We should have set charges on the platform.”
“Yeah, like we could’ve accomplished that, Ty.”
“Right. Nice thought, though. So…whaddya think?”
Chris replied, “No way I can take a shot now, but we have an hour before the first charge blows. Let’s wait and see.”
“Okay, how’s this? When the first charge goes, all three of those assholes are gonna look in the direction of the blast. They’re gonna freeze for a few seconds, right?”
“You would think.”
“So, one second after the explosion, you take the shot. If you miss, it’s no big deal. We’ll boogie. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Ty, but I get your point.”
At 0900, a fireball rose into the sky in eastern Corpus Christi. One second later, the sound of the explosion reached the airport, and at 0900 plus one second, Chris touched off a round from his silenced .50 caliber BMG. Chris repositioned the rifle and fired three more times at the Blackhawks and the Little Bird readying for the live fire assault on the control tower. The rotors on all three birds stopped spinning and powered down.
Using the cover of the ditch, Tyler and Chris ran to the pickup. Johnston had the rear door open and they jumped in, then Callahan floored it. One minute later, as they were turning onto Highway 44, the first of the gas and diesel tanks erupted and another fireball rose into the morning sky. Within seconds, eastern Corpus Christi was covered in thick, black smoke. The concussion from the blast rocked the eastbound truck.
Tyler and Callahan laughed.
Callahan yelled, “Holy shit.”
Johnson said, “Goddamn,” then pumped his fist. “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Chris said, “Chill out, children. We aren’t home free yet, get in the smo—”
Before he finished the sentence, the explosion from the second set of tanks lit up the morning sky. In seconds, another black cloud rose hundreds of feet into the air, followed by a thunderclap that shook the earth.
Tyler grinned. “Man, those guys are gonna be pissed.”
One second after the first explosion, Kirilov knew what had happened. In that same second, the bullet from Chris’s .50-caliber BMG hit McNulty. His body was thrown to the platform, and his right arm thudded onto the tarmac below.
Shelton stood like an idiot, mouth agape, staring at the fireball, and then looked at McNulty, who was lying on his back, staring at the jagged stump where his right arm used to live.
Kirilov pushed Shelton down as he dropped to the deck himself. He screamed at the troops below the platform, “Pick up that arm and call medical. Inform them we are coming in with wounded.”
The pain hadn’t registered with McNulty’s brain yet as he sat up, a bewildered look on his overly white face.
Kirilov took off his belt and put it on the stump, stemming the flow of blood.
Seconds later, the pain said hello, and McNulty started screaming, “Jesus H. Christ! What the hell? Where’s my fucking arm? Oh, God. Oh, my God!”
Kirilov looked at his troops, then at the choppers. All three birds were powered down. A rotor blade on the Little Bird hung from the hub like the broken wing of a gull. He started barking orders. “Cancel the exercise. Get a drone in the air immediately.”
Shelton stood, mouth agape. “What the hell is happening, General?”
Kirilov’s face was impassive as he said, “We are under attack by the same incompetent Floridians you wish to invade.”
“How…how is that possible?”
“I have told you these men are professionals and that—”
The switching s
tation blew in an impressive, deafening roar.
Shelton sat down hard on the platform, his mouth bobbing open and closed.
Kirilov nodded to himself. “I believe your refinery is history, Mr. Shelton.”
Any remaining blood drained from Shelton’s face, leaving him impossibly white. He also looked like he was going to cry.
In a calm voice, Kirilov said, “I expect one more explosion.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The tankers.”
Four minutes later, the northeast section of Corpus Christi erupted in a fireball that looked very much like a nuclear blast. The refinery and the tank farm disappeared as though they never existed, and nearly every structure within a half-mile radius was flattened. Multiple secondary detonations followed. The thunderclap was eardrum shattering. After reaching its apex, the concussive blast sucked everything loose, back into the raging fireball, and what little remained of the tankers came into contact with the bottom of the Tule Lake Channel.
Seconds after the ships went down, the drone was in the air, and Kirilov teased the joystick to toggle it north. The wind off the Gulf was pushing the massive smoke cloud north and west, and it covered the land like a sinister black fog, effectively negating the drone’s camera. After several minutes, he handed the controls to the regular drone operator and instructed, “Look south and east.”
Kirilov stood on the platform for several minutes, watching his troops bunching around the tarmac like sheep. He turned in time to watch the bulk of McNulty being carted off on a stretcher with one man carrying his severed arm.
Since all three of his choppers were down, Kirilov did the only thing he could do. He ordered a pursuit vehicle with a man-portable drone to go northwest, get ahead of the smoke-bank, and then head east fifty miles. Even though he was confident they would find nothing, he felt obligated to make an effort.
This will not end well for us. He stared east for several minutes and then headed for medical to check on McNulty.
Visibility inside the smoke bank was near zero, but the team was at the very northern edge, and Callahan could see well enough to drive. By the time they hit Robstown, they were ahead of the smoke and headed east on I-69. They connected with I-37, and minutes later, the pickup was northbound on US-77, heading toward Victoria at 100 miles an hour.
