Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  The river began to widen, and I knew we were close to the ship channel. I came within seventy meters and shouted, “Start shooting!”

  I heard, “What?”

  “Start shooting! He’s going to get away!”

  If he made it to the channel, I’d have to break off, because as far as I knew—hoped—there was an armed flotilla on the lookout for two Jet Skis. I knew for a fact that there were at least two snipers doing that.

  Even as I gave the command to fire, I saw it was a waste of time. The greatest shooter on earth couldn’t make this shot, hitting a moving target, in the dark, from a platform that was both hurtling forward and slamming up and down. The only way to kill him would be to close the gap as much as possible, then slow down.

  I felt the barrel slide off my leg and shouted, “Never mind, never mind.”

  She cinched back onto me, and I valiantly tried to catch him. He reached the outskirts of the channel, leaving behind the houses and entering the industrial port areas. The open water and lighting gave him confidence, and he increased his speed. He reached the head of the estuary and went right, now at full throttle.

  I pulled up short, sliding in the water with the engine on idle.

  Carly said, “What are we doing?”

  “I can’t follow him into the channel; that’s just asking to get shot. We look like the terrorists.”

  I put in my Bluetooth, turned on the encryption in my cell phone, and said, “Knuckles, Knuckles, this is Pike, you copy?”

  “This is Knuckles. Go.”

  “One down, one still coming. He went right. He’s coming to you.”

  “Roger all.” That was it. Nothing more. The voice was calm and robotic, filling me with confidence. There were very few people on earth who could do what Knuckles was about to attempt, but he was one of them.

  I pulled off my goggles, turned around to Carly, and saw that she was as white as a sheet. I didn’t know if it was from the cold water or fear. I said, “You okay?”

  She nodded hesitantly, then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t . . . take the shot.”

  I said, “Don’t sweat it. It was a lot to put on you. I didn’t grab the weapon because I was angry. I did it to spare you. Shooting a man who’s trying to kill you is one thing, but that was different. I understand it’s not easy.”

  I saw relief float across her face and realized she thought the terrorist had escaped because of her hesitation. She said, “Thank you.”

  I said, “You did fine; don’t worry about the other guy. That’s Knuckles’s problem now.”

  She nodded again, but without a lot of confidence, and I wondered if she was second-guessing what I had done. I said, “You understand why I took the shot, right?”

  Her voice became firm, “Yes, yes. It was the only choice with the other man getting away. The man I hit was still mobile, and the weapon was still running. I just . . . I mean . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  She trailed off and I said, “I know. I’ve been there.”

  We sat in silence a moment; then she said, “Can we go back at a normal speed?”

  I chuckled and said, “Sure,” then noticed her goggles were missing from her head. I asked, “What happened to your NODs?”

  “I threw them into the river.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never fired a weapon using night vision. When I tried to shoot the first time, I couldn’t even see the sights. I was spraying blind. That’s why I missed. I ripped the NODs off and started shooting single shots using the sights.”

  I’d never even thought to ask if she could shoot wearing NODs. To me, saying you were weapons qualified and not being able to do that was like saying you were a naval aviator and not being able to land on a carrier. Even so, I was slightly impressed. “You hit that guy in the dark?”

  She smiled and said, “I aimed at the jet of water coming out of the tail, then just raised it an inch. Trust me, it was luck.”

  I turned the Sea-Doo around and started heading back to the boat ramp. I said, “First rule of the Taskforce—there is no such thing as good luck. It’s always your incredible skill. If something goes wrong, however, there is certainly such a thing as bad luck.”

  She laughed and I said, “I’d start working on that bad-luck thing when you tell Dingler you lost his four-thousand-dollar government-issued night vision goggles.”

  78

  Knuckles tapped Jennifer’s leg with his foot, getting her attention. She pulled out a foam earplug from her right ear and he said, “One target remaining, and it’s headed our way. Get eyes out.”

  She picked up a ten-power combination range finder/binocular, scanning from the tip of the international port down to where they lay. Knuckles did the same through the scope on the Barrett, seating the weapon into his shoulder. The two seamen behind them shifted uncomfortably, unsure if they were supposed to do anything.

  They’d met the FBI pilots at gate three, right off of Interstate 564, and were surprised to learn that they’d already coordinated to get them on the bridge of an aircraft carrier. The FBI had whisked them to pier five, the berth of the gigantic USS George Washington aircraft carrier. They’d jogged down the pier toward the gangway and were stopped by a master-at-arms petty officer and two seamen acting as shore patrol.

  The petty officer said, “I need to see your badges before letting you on board the ship.”

  The special agent showed his, prompting the petty officer to look at Knuckles and Jennifer expectantly. Knuckles showed his US Navy CAC card, and the petty officer said, “That’s not going to get you on board. What about her?”

  Frustrated that the idiot was asking for badges while Knuckles was standing in front of him holding what amounted to a semiautomatic bazooka, he said, “Look, she’s with me, and we’re going to the bridge. If we wanted to do anything harmful to this ship, I’d just shoot all three of you right now.”

  The petty officer’s eyes went wide, and he began to bluster. Knuckles said, “Get out of the way.”

  The petty officer put his hand on the butt of his pistol, and Knuckles said, “You draw that thing, and you’ll reap the consequences.”

  The petty officer backed down but said, “These two will accompany you at all times.”

  Knuckles said, “Fine by me,” then pushed him out of the way. The seamen followed with a smirk, apparently liking what Knuckles had done. Halfway up the gangway, Knuckles turned and said, “You guys know the quickest way to the bridge?”

  The first seaman nodded, and Knuckles said, “Take the lead.”

  Eight minutes later they were on a platform on top of the bridge, the flat top of the aircraft carrier landing deck far below. Knuckles extended the bipod of the Barrett, getting it into position, and Jennifer began to range target reference points from the Lafayette River to their location.

  Knuckles finished establishing his firing position, satisfied, and asked, “What do you have?”

  Jennifer showed him a crude drawing she’d made, saying, “TRP 1 is the last gantry crane of the first set on the international port. Distance 2,935 meters. TRP 2 is the first gantry crane of the second set at the international port. Distance 1,956 meters. TRP 3 is the final pier of the international port, the boundary one with the Navy base. Distance 1,030 meters.”

  Knuckles smiled and said, “Very good, commando. Let me see the reticle you’re using.” She passed the binoculars over, saying, “It’s got night vision, so I’ll probably be the one who sees him first.”

  Knuckles brought the binos up to his eyes, seeing an MRAD reticle just like the one in his scope, with hash lines that could be used to measure distance for windage and drop of the bullet, as well as guide him into the target from her calls.

  He handed it back to her, looked over his shoulder at the two seamen, and said, “You guys have any ear protection?”

  “We work
on a carrier. I think we can handle it.”

  Knuckles said, “Suit yourself.” He didn’t mention that the Barrett was about the loudest rifle he’d ever fired, with the muzzle brake actually providing a small concussive shock wave.

  He went behind the scope, making sure he could find the TRPs without the aid of night vision. He ranged each with the scope, getting a point of focus for rapid acquisition, then settled in to wait, feeling the breeze off the ocean.

  Every thirty seconds, he and Jennifer alternated scanning the river, looking for signs of a Jet Ski. Knuckles realized it would be hard to locate the target early enough if the attack was at the international port. They’d be on an attack run before he could engage, and if they hit the first section of gantry cranes, his weapon didn’t even have the range to reach. Luckily, there were no ships berthed at the first section, and the odds were that they wouldn’t simply attack the port cranes. He was hoping they would be drawn in by the mighty United States Navy.

  An hour into the overwatch, Pike’s call had come in. Knuckles alerted Jennifer, removed his Bluetooth, and put in an earplug, willing his heart rate to slow. He began scanning the dark water, looking for any sign of a wake, breathing like a metronome. In—out—in—out, methodically getting into a hypnotic rhythm he wouldn’t break until the mission was done, his pulse rate dropping with each breath.

  He reached the end of his search zone and returned the scope to the far side, starting over in a methodical sector scan, clearing each bit of water. Next to him, louder than necessary, Jennifer said, “Target! TRP 2, up nine, right seven.”

  He swiveled to TRP 2, put his reticle on the center, and scanned the distance she’d called. He found the target. Robotically, he said, “Target acquired. Ready, ready.”

  She said, “Send it,” and the rifle boomed, a blast that rippled the air around them, the buttstock slamming into his shoulder. He heard the two seaman shout but ignored them, waiting on his spotter. She said, “Up three, right two.”

  He’d failed the lead and the elevation. The bullet had landed behind the Sea-Doo. He adjusted his aim point, then said, “Ready, ready.”

  “Send it.”

  BOOM.

  “Up one, right one. He’s inside a thousand.”

  BOOM.

  “Elevation good, left one. Knuckles, he’s coming right at us. We’re his target.”

  Knuckles ignored the stray chatter, focusing on the reticle and her call.

  BOOM.

  “Hit!”

  The Sea-Doo continued driving straight at them. Jennifer said, “He’s still coming. That was a hit, but he’s still coming.”

  Knuckles said nothing, breathing out, focusing all his energy into not having any energy, turning his body to stone. He broke the trigger one more time.

  The night sky was blistered by an explosion, the Sea-Doo disappearing in a fireball that caused Jennifer to duck her head.

  When she looked up again, she saw the water on fire, less than four hundred meters from the ship.

  Knuckles dropped the buttstock, looked at her deadpan, and said, “Target down.”

  She grinned at him, then punched him in the arm, saying, “Were you just trying to scare me? Waiting until I wet my pants?”

  He smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. “That was good spotting, Koko. Might need to upgrade your callsign.”

  She took the compliment, then said, “That was some phenomenal shooting.”

  He stood up, saying, “Yeah, you’ll never see Pike make that shot.”

  She gathered up the range finder and stood with him, saying, “I’ve seen him do something better.”

  He said, “What? Rome? Bosnia?”

  She grinned and said, “No. Not on an operation.”

  He folded up the bipod legs, knowing that she was ribbing him because of his pushback in the past about their relationship. He rolled his eyes and picked up the weapon, saying, “I do not want to hear it.”

  She laughed and turned around, seeing the two seamen cowering in the corner with their hands over their ears.

  Knuckles said, “Thanks for the help.”

  The first seaman nodded. When he made no attempt to rise, Knuckles glanced at Jennifer, then said, “We can find our own way down.”

  79

  Dawn was slowly arriving, with the Norfolk Navy base security lights blinking out one by one from the illumination of the rising sun. The area around pier five was a nuthouse, with enough police cars spinning their lights to make someone think Charles Manson was on the loose.

  I’d told my team to hang back in the shadows and let the FBI take the lead, and they were more than happy to do so. All of them were currently sitting in our rental car, the radio on some random pop station. I could see Jennifer and Knuckles slumped over, asleep. Carly was still awake, probably running our last action through her head over and over again.

  I would love to have joined them, but I was waiting on Brock to finish whatever he was doing with the gaggle of vehicles from about fourteen different agencies. They were probably all arguing over who had jurisdiction.

  Carly and I had returned to the dock, skipping right by the Sea-Doo and the body, and had then sat around waiting on an FBI explosive ordnance disposal team. In the meantime, Dingler had asked me to retrieve the body, and I’d said, “Not my job. I just kill them.”

  As far as I was concerned, he could go get it himself. He did, dragging the body back with our Sea-Doo. We’d searched it, finding another passport and a cell phone. A waterlogged, worthless cell phone.

  Eventually, EOD had arrived, and I’d hauled one of them back to the floating bomb. When we got there, he said, “I can’t work on it out over the water.”

  “Okay. Get on it and drive it back.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy, and I said, “It’s not going to go off. I chased that thing at full throttle, watching it bounce up and down.”

  He stared at it for a moment, and I said, “Let me guess. You want me to drive it back, but only after you’re clear of the area.”

  He shook his head and said, “No. It’s just that I’ve never driven one of those things.”

  I said, “I’ll do it.”

  “No, you won’t. I’m not letting anyone get near that thing but me. Show me how it works.”

  That was more like what I thought he’d say. EOD guys weren’t in the business of being afraid of a bomb. I gave him a quick class, and off we went, puttering back to the boat ramp. By the time we got there, Brock was on station, asking me to come back to the Norfolk naval base. I got my rental keys from Dingler and tossed them to Carly, telling her to follow us because I had to do some gentle persuasion with Brock.

  We started driving, and he said, “You pulled it off. That was some good shooting, and Dingler says you’re borderline psychotic for going after them with the last Jet Ski.”

  I said, “No. Dingler’s borderline psychotic. And it was your sniper who took the shot.”

  “What?”

  “We were never here. You take the credit from the moment you ‘found’ the safe house until you stopped the attack.”

  “No way. I’m not taking credit for something I didn’t do.”

  “Yes, you are. We had nothing to do with this. Frame it however you want. Make it vague, I don’t care, like ‘elements of the FBI blah-blah-blah,’ or ‘a combined effort with multiple federal agencies discovered, blah-blah-blah,’ but under no circumstances will you mention the females or what Knuckles and I did.”

  “The press is going to want to know. They’re going to start tearing this apart.”

  “Come on. They’ll take whatever you give them, especially when you answer every damn question with, ‘I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.’”

  He looked at me and said, “This isn’t right. I can’t take the accolades for something I didn’t
do.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s exactly right. Trust me.”

  “Dingler refused to get on with you. Now I’m going to say he was the one who took out the Sea-Doo?”

  I said, “I’m way ahead of you. I figured you’d need some proof, so I left his night vision goggles at the bottom of the river.”

  “You did what?”

  “Don’t you see? Of course he was there; how else would his NODs get there?”

  “You dumped his NODs in the river? Do you have any idea how sensitive those things are? They’re a controlled item, for God’s sake.”

  I looked shocked and said, “Me? Talk to your man. He’s the one who left them.”

  He quit talking to me, spending the rest of the drive to the Navy base muttering to himself. When we arrived at the pier he saw the cluster of cars and must have immediately assumed someone was trying to take over, or maybe it was SOP for anyone in a three-letter agency to get sucked into a meeting to compare badges, because he took off running to the scrum. Either way, I’d been waiting ever since. I’d let the others try to catch some rack time but was afraid to do so myself. You never know what you’re going to miss by taking a nap.

  I saw Knuckles sit up in the passenger seat and walked over to the car. Jennifer was asleep in the back, and I was glad to see that Carly had also finally closed her eyes.

  Knuckles rolled down the window and pointed behind me, saying, “Looks like the meeting’s over.”

  I turned around to see Brock headed my way. I said, “About time.”

  Knuckles exited the vehicle, and Carly woke up. She followed, gently closing the door so as not to wake Jennifer. Brock reached us and said, “Okay, I think I’ve sold your plan. September eleventh is helping us out. The story is about the past and how we’ve gotten our act together for the future. Thank God we stopped it. They’re going to have a press conference in an hour. DHS will take the lead, then let the port authority speak, then me, then the sheriff’s department, and probably the Navy as well. DHS wanted to know what the hell happened, and I told them the basics of where the action had taken place but said I haven’t finished talking to my men. They bought it.”