Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  I said, “Knuckles, you get to Norfolk.”

  Brock waved a hand, saying, “Wait a minute. I can get another man to shoot.”

  “You said you only had one team.”

  “Only one sniper team, but we’re all trained. I’ll send another team to Norfolk.”

  I said, “No way. Knuckles is the best shot I know. He’s going.”

  Brock became indignant, saying, “Hold on here. This is an FBI operation. I can’t let some . . . military cell operate on US soil. I don’t even know who you guys are.”

  I turned to him quickly, snatching him up by the collar and leaning him back. I said, ever so slowly, “He’s a SEAL-trained sniper that’s taken lives behind the scope. I don’t have time for the dick measuring. He’s going.”

  Brock nodded rapidly, and I knew the mantle of command had just been passed to me. I said, “Give me a man to send with him.”

  Jennifer came running up with another computer, saying, “We’ve received the boat ramp information.”

  I said, “What’re we looking at?”

  “The closest one is the Haven Creek Boat Ramp. It’s literally a mile away. The next is in the opposite direction, across the bridge on the other side of the Lafayette River. There are two more on the peninsula, but they’re both private marinas. I don’t think they’ll use them.”

  “Okay, Brock, you take the one across the river. Give me two men, and I’ll take the one close by. We passed a Toyota Tundra truck, gray, hauling Jet Skis on the way in, and I think that was them. They’re probably already in the water, but if they’re not, take them out.”

  He said, “I’m running out of men. I can’t send someone with Knuckles and cover all the bases.”

  “I need your authority to get Knuckles onto the Norfolk naval base and give him a spotter for his shots.”

  “If you want an assault element, I can’t spare someone. Either you lose the men you want, or he does.”

  I considered, then said, “You still have someone on the airfield?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I have the pilots, but they’re all HRT special agents as well.”

  “Get them to the piers. Tell them to tell whoever’s in charge of security that an FBI sniper team is on the way.”

  I looked at Jennifer and said, “You’re going with Knuckles. You’ve done enough long-range work that you know what he needs.”

  She nodded, then turned to Knuckles, saying, “You work just like Pike? Same calls?”

  “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”

  Carly watched the exchange, slightly amazed, finally understanding where Jennifer stood.

  A man came running in toting a weapon that looked like an assault rifle that was on steroids, with an enormous scope and a muzzle brake that you could cook a steak on. The Barrett fired the same caliber as a heavy machine gun, could reach out to two thousand yards, and was designed to take out vehicles, bunkers, and other hard targets. The Barrett was not as accurate as other sniper systems designed to kill humans, but it would get the job done.

  Knuckles said, “You have tracer rounds for that thing?”

  “We have marking rounds, but they aren’t match grade. They aren’t nearly as accurate.”

  “I’m going to be shooting into the black of the ocean. I need them for my spotter. Load me up with two mags.”

  The man raced out of the room and Knuckles said, “Jenn, let’s go hunting.”

  They left the room at a trot, and I said, “Where are my men? We’re losing precious time.”

  Brock called the remainder of his team into the room and began giving orders, telling them the mission and the suspected vehicle. He finished with, “Dingler, Jesus, you’re with Pike here. Take his orders as you would with me.”

  Dingler and Jesus didn’t look too happy, but they came over to me, waiting on a command. I said, “Tell me Dingler is a callsign.”

  He scowled, and I said, “Sorry. Load up in the Hyundai rental that you found when you got here.”

  Carly said, “What do you want me to do?”

  I pointed at the weapon Knuckles had left behind and said, “Can you shoot that AKM?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m weapons trained from the farm.” She saw my expression and held up a hand, saying, “Knuckles has already told me how disgusted you guys are with my people saying that, but at the very least, I can get a sight picture and make this weapon fire.”

  She removed the magazine, jacked the round out, did a functions check, then reloaded, putting the weapon on safe. I nodded and said, “You’re coming with me.”

  76

  The final contingent of HRT assaulters and my small team raced through the backyard to the basketball court, the HRT guys loading up in a high-speed Suburban worthy of their body armor, weapons, and night vision goggles. Carly and I loaded into our Hyundai Sonata, worthy of our Taliban AKs. Jesus and Dingler looked absolutely disgusted at their direction in life.

  I said, “You two in the back, no seat belts. Get ready to get some, because these guys are killers. I’ve already had a firefight with them once.”

  They loaded and Dingler said, “Where was that?”

  “Morocco.”

  They took that in and realized the weapons and the car weren’t indicative of the skill. I started rolling, and without a command, Carly started navigating.

  Good. She’s learning.

  Jennifer had said the boat ramp was only a mile away, and that may have been so as the crow flies, but the drive was one left and right after another. Eventually we hit a two-lane highway that wasn’t in the heart of a neighborhood, and I floored it.

  Carly said, “It’s a half mile ahead. Be careful. If you don’t make the exit, you’ll be on the bridge and have to travel all the way across before you can turn around.”

  I said, “Give me a countdown.”

  “A thousand meters . . .”

  “Eight hundred . . .”

  “Six hundred . . .”

  I asked, “Right exit or left?”

  “Left. Four hundred . . .”

  I was doing eighty miles an hour on the small highway when headlights passed me. In the blink of an eye, I recognized a Toyota Tundra truck, gray. But without a trailer.

  I slammed on the brakes to slow down enough to maintain control, then yanked up the emergency brake handle and jerked the wheel, sending the car into a classic Rockford Files J-turn and throwing everyone into the windows. I immediately floored the vehicle, now headed the other way.

  From the back, Dingler shouted, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “The truck just passed us. Get ready to assault. I’m going to PIT him. When he spins out, you two deploy and lock down the driver.”

  Incredulous, he said, “How the fuck do you know it’s the truck? You don’t even have a license plate. You can’t just ram a civilian because you think it’s a bad guy.”

  I gained on the truck, now back to eighty miles an hour. I said, “Yes, I can.”

  Carly just held on, unsure of how she should respond. Support her new organization, or support what she’d been told her entire life was the way things worked? She opted for silence.

  Thankfully, the road was deserted, and I gained on the truck rapidly. When I came within fifty yards, the driver goosed the accelerator, and I saw him throw something out of the window. I knew I was right.

  I pulled into the left lane and jammed the gas pedal to the firewall, hearing the engine scream in protest. I slowly gained on him, until my right axle was just behind his left rear tire.

  I said, “Get ready. When he spins out, I’m slamming the brakes. Get on him.”

  I torqued the wheel to the right, hammering my front end into the rear of the truck. Because of the empty pickup bed, the vehicle was front heavy, and it didn’t take much.

  I ground against the truck like a NASCAR drive
r trying to put someone into the wall, and Carly, on the passenger side, practically crawled into my seat to get away from the impact. I kept pushing, and we raced down the road locked together. Suddenly, the truck’s rear tires broke traction, and he spun completely around, sliding through the shoulder and throwing up gravel and smoke.

  I regained control of my vehicle and looked in the rearview, seeing the truck in a ditch, nose in, the rear wheels spinning in the mud, the driver struggling to get back on the asphalt.

  I slammed on the breaks and shouted, “Out, out, out!”

  I flung open my door and leapt to the pavement. The FBI guys beat me to the punch, impressing me. By the time I was on the street, they were running toward the truck with their guns up.

  I sprinted behind them with my pathetic AK raised. I saw the driver kick the door open and fall into the road, then jump up, raising a pistol.

  No!

  Before I could say anything, both of the FBI men fired, shredding the body with multiple rounds. I had to give it to them, they could shoot, but that guy dead was the last thing I wanted.

  Dingler kicked the terrorist’s weapon away while Jesus provided cover; then they began searching him. I entered the cab, ripping through it but finding nothing. I went to the bed and saw three backpacks. I hollered at Carly, saying, “Get this stuff into our trunk. We don’t have time to search it now.”

  She began unloading and I ran to the FBI team. They finished searching the body, Dingler standing up with a passport and wallet. I said, “I wanted him alive.”

  Defensively, Dingler said, “He had a weapon.”

  I sighed and said, “I know. I know. You made the right call. But I still wanted him alive.”

  Dingler passed what they’d found, and I said, “No cell phone? Where’s his phone?”

  “He doesn’t have one on his body. Maybe it’s in the truck.”

  I remembered the driver throwing something out the window and realized it was the handset. He knew it was the end game and that his phone would break open whatever cell was still operational. I said, “No. It’s in the bushes somewhere back there. We don’t have time to look for it.”

  Carly came forward carrying the rucks and I said, “We need to move.”

  We ran back to our car, loaded the rucksacks, and then went flying back to the dock. Carly gave me directions again, and I broke at the exit, circling around and seeing a narrow lane dropping down into the river. A trailer was jammed sideways right where the water started lapping the concrete. On top of it was a single Sea-Doo.

  I slammed the brakes and leapt out, running to the trailer. I stood for a moment, then said, “They’re on the loose.”

  Jesus said, “We need to call this in. Let Brock know we have the launch point.”

  I nodded and said, “Do it.” I looked at Carly and said, “Tell Knuckles on our net.”

  I went to the Sea-Doo and opened the hatch at the front, expecting to see four shaped charges wired to explode. I saw an empty container. And got an idea.

  “Carly, how long is this river?”

  “Three kilometers. Maybe more, given the bends.”

  I shouted at the FBI guys, “Help me get this in the water.”

  They ran over, manhandling the watercraft until we finally had it floating. Dingler said, “What are you doing?”

  I said, “Chasing them. Get on.”

  He balked, saying, “Whoa, no way.”

  “Jesus, get on here.”

  He looked at Dingler, and Dingler said, “We aren’t boarding that with you. You’re a target once you go. You’ll get killed by friendly fire.”

  I had no time to argue with him. Every second we waited, the enemy was getting closer to the kill. And truthfully, I was growing tired of his shit.

  “Carly, get your weapon.”

  She grabbed her AKM and waded into the water, then slid onto the back, no questions at all. Dingler looked embarrassed. I said, “Give me your NODs.”

  He handed over his night vision goggles and I said, “Jesus’s too.”

  Jesus passed them across, and I gave them to Carly. Dingler said, “What do you want us to do?”

  I tossed him the keys to the rental, saying, “Do your FBI shit with the guy dead on the highway. Search the bags. Find the phone. Do whatever it is you do at a crime scene.”

  He said, “What are you going to do?”

  I fired up the watercraft, secretly glad for the practice the day before, and said, “What I do best. Kill terrorists.”

  77

  I’d considered letting Carly drive, leaving me to do the shooting, but Carly had never been on one of these before yesterday, and had certainly not operated any vehicle under night vision. I decided that the driving would be the more difficult task, and that proved correct as soon as we started moving.

  Initially, I drove slowly, getting a feel for controlling the watercraft with my NODs. It was tricky, because the houses on the shore were all illuminated, with most having some sort of vapor lamp next to a dock that caused the NODs to white out. I found that if I stuck to the center and looked straight ahead, I could manage it.

  I said, “How are you doing back there?”

  “I’m okay. It took a second to get these goggles on right.”

  “Can you use your weapon?”

  She said, “Yes, if you don’t throw me off.”

  “Okay, hang on. We’re going as fast as this thing can move.”

  I felt the AKM pressed into my back as she wrapped her arms around me, and I punched the throttle—and boy, could that thing move. Much more powerful than the ones we had rented, the acceleration startled me. The bow flew up high, and the watercraft began skipping across the river so quickly I had to throttle back or risk missing a bend in the river and running straight into a bank.

  I found a happy medium and settled into a rhythm of gunning the engine for a short time, assessing what was ahead, then gunning again. I had just finished a run and was preparing to scoot forward yet again, when I caught something dark on the water about a hundred meters ahead. Maybe a log, or a boat that had drifted loose. I puttered forward, staring intently, and it passed by a light from shore. It was moving under power.

  I said, “Carly, I think I have one to my front.”

  I felt her shift, leaning back and bringing her weapon up. She said, “What are we going to do?”

  I goosed the engine ever so slightly and began to close in on whatever it was. Under the NODs, I could see a figure turning around. It wasn’t a night fisherman in a johnboat. It was a Jet Ski.

  I released the throttle, letting the watercraft drift forward, and could now hear the one to my front. He’d probably done the same thing, hearing me, but he couldn’t see in the dark.

  I said, “I’m going to race right up to him full throttle, then let up just as we get to him. When we drift by him, you blast him with the AKM. Hit the man, not the Sea-Doo. Don’t wait for our Jet Ski to stop, because he’s going to react.”

  She said, “Uhhh . . . okay.”

  I said, “Just put that baby on auto and let it rip.”

  “Which side?”

  “Right side. You ready?”

  I heard nothing but felt her moving, adjusting her seating position and bringing her weapon up. She said, “I need to rest the muzzle on your leg.”

  “Do it. Just don’t pull the trigger.”

  I felt the barrel slide up my leg, then her left arm wrap around my waist and her head tuck into my back. She said, “If this isn’t flying by the seat of our pants, someone needs to define that for me.”

  I said, “Here we go,” and punched the throttle. The bow rose and we closed the distance in the span of seconds. Twenty feet back, I released, and we sank back into the water, sliding past the target. In the green image of the NODs I saw the startled expression on the man’s face. Car
ly rotated to the right, raised the weapon, and began firing. The noise was deafening right next to my ear. I leaned to get away from the muzzle blast and saw the rounds stitching the water in front of the target.

  I screamed, “You’re to the front! You’re to the front!” She let off the trigger, adjusted her aim, and the target hammered his throttle, getting out of the kill zone.

  Shit. Weapons training my ass.

  I shouted, “Hang on,” and gave chase. I felt Carly wildly grabbing with her left hand, and I worried that she’d dropped the weapon, but then the hand released and the barrel appeared next to my shoulder. I got right behind the target, seeing the second Jet Ski ahead of it, now also at full throttle.

  I settled into the sweet spot of flat water in his wake, and we closed the distance. I got about twenty meters behind him, the spray from his machine splashing both of us and making it hard to see with the NODs.

  Carly started firing again, this time single rounds. On the third squeeze of the trigger the Jet Ski jerked hard right, flinging the driver off. I raced over to it, circling, and saw the man in the water trying to swim with one arm.

  I said, “Finish him. The other one’s getting away.”

  Carly aimed the weapon but didn’t fire. I said again, “Finish him.” Nothing happened. I jerked the rifle out of her hands, pointed it at the guy’s skull, and broke the trigger. His head snapped back, and he rolled over in the water, facedown. I handed the weapon back to her and said, “Get ready. We’re going after number two the same way.”

  I waited until I felt her left hand on my waist, then gave the Jet Ski the entire throttle. We began going so fast we were airborne as much as we were in the water, skipping across the wavelets in the river like a flat stone tossed by a child.

  The target to our front was now easy to make out under the night vision, because he, too, was going as fast as he could, and the wake stood out like chalk on a blackboard.

  I thought there was no way we were going to catch him, but we inexorably closed the distance, and I realized it was because he was driving blind. He didn’t have the advantage of night vision and couldn’t maximize the velocity of the watercraft.