by Peter Telep
Fisher sloughed off his shirt to expose his tac-suit. Behind him, Briggs held up their machine guns. “Our business isn’t exactly oil.”
Hammad’s eyes flared. “Holy shit, holy shit.”
“Exactly,” said Briggs. “We’re just asking for a little help.”
“Don’t shoot me. Please.”
Fisher snorted. “Are you kidding? Today’s your day to be a hero. You up for it or what?”
Hammad was visibly trembling now. “My boss will kill me if I put even a scratch on the helicopter.”
“It’s cool,” said Briggs. “I know you can do this.”
Hammad gestured to a picture of two little girls taped just above his instrument panel, two gems about five and six years old. “They need their father!”
“I know,” Fisher said. “So do we.”
The man’s eyes were burning now. “Who are you?”
Fisher tensed. “We’re the passengers you’ll never forget.”
“Maybe you’re the terrorists!”
Fisher tapped a few keys on his OPSAT, bringing up some digital photographs of his daughter Sarah when she was nine. He held up his wrist for the pilot to see. “That’s my daughter. She’s all grown up now, but she still needs her father. And her father needs you. So let’s get this done. For all of them. Okay?”
Hammad pursed his lips, swallowed, then took another look at Briggs and Fisher.
Briggs put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “We have faith in you, Hammad. More than you know.”
After taking a deep breath and reaching out to touch the photograph of his girls, Hammad said, “I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t,” Fisher assured him. “Now take us a mile or two south, and get us up high, another thousand feet.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the pilot muttered, banking sharply, then gaining altitude, the chopper buffeted hard by a sudden gust that left Fisher’s stomach about thirty feet below.
“Continue nice and wide,” said Fisher. “Anyone on the train spots us, they’ll think we’re heading to the port.”
“I understand,” said Hammad. “You’re not the terrorists, then, right?”
“I know it’s hard to tell who the good guys are these days, but Allah’s on your side.”
“Yes, always.”
Hammad kept several pairs of binoculars on board for sightseers. Fisher grabbed a pair and focused on the train, just a metallic serpent chugging forward across the broad plains of desert. Twin headlights reached out into the gathering dust. Fisher panned up toward the haboob and regretted that decision.
The storm was a living, breathing creature of wind and sand, consumed by hunger and unaffected by politics, religion, or any other differences men used to justify killing each other. It was motivated only by the laws of physics, a perfect killer.
“All right,” Fisher told Hammad, shaking off the thought. “Come back around and descend hard and fast. You’re like an old fighter pilot in World War II, coming in to strafe the enemy, got it?”
“Holy shit, yes. I got it.”
Briggs had finished stripping down to his tac-suit and was double-checking their pistols and spare magazines. He handed Fisher his Five-seveN and SIG P226, then holstered his own weapons. Next he handed Fisher his submachine gun with attached sling and clutched his own tightly to his chest.
“Good to go,” Briggs said over the intercom. “Nothing beats the smell of factory-fresh ammo in the evening.”
Fisher almost smiled, then glanced to Hammad. “You’re doing great. Keep descending. Okay, now over there, we need to get lower, that’s right, bank right . . . right . . . descend again! You see it now?”
Hammad swooped down like a vulture, then he pitched the nose and descended even more aggressively. Fisher found himself clutching the seat with one hand as they came within five meters of the desert floor before Hammad pulled up and leveled off to check his altitude. Not two seconds later, he descended a few more meters.
“That’s how to do it,” Fisher said. “That’s perfect. You could be a military pilot.”
“Yeah, man,” said Hammad, sounding only half as confident as Fisher.
The helicopter was on a straight and level path directly behind the train, with the rail ties ticking by. Despite being jarred by the train’s wash, Hammad kept them less than two meters above the railway, with only the caboose container’s tiny red taillights as a reference point.
Their approach was about as stealthy as Fisher could’ve hoped for, but he still wasn’t sure how loud the locomotive and HEP car were and if they’d been noisy enough to conceal the chopper’s engine and rotors to anyone posted outside the train. The plan, of course, was to go in ghost.
Fisher lifted his binoculars. The tank cars themselves were as expected—long black cylinders with well-rusted bellies and ladders both fore and aft. There were grab irons mounted to the sides and narrow, flat upper decks with railings that allowed maintenance workers to pass from car to car.
“Okay, great job, Hammad,” he said. “Stand by to get us up top.”
As Fisher unbuckled and climbed toward the backseat, ready to give Hammad his final instructions, gunfire ripped across the canopy—
And suddenly Hammad was jerking the stick, throwing Fisher backward.
“Get above the last car!” shouted Briggs. “Don’t pull away!”
“He’s shooting at us!” cried Hammad.
Fisher crashed into the backseat and then whipped his head around, catching the barest glimpse of a man posted between the caboose and the next tank car. He repeatedly swung out from the side of the train, single-handedly firing his rifle, the muzzle flashing—but oddly not a single round struck the chopper. Was he the world’s worst shot?
Fisher squinted for a better look.
“Oh, you’re kidding me!” cried Briggs.
In that instant oil began spraying across the canopy, mixing with the swirling dust and clouding Hammad’s view as the agent continued spraying the oil container with bullets, releasing more streams of oil.
“Pull up now!” Fisher cried.
Hammad shook his head. “I can’t see!”
The oil kept splashing and bleeding off, the streaks beginning to blur like a kaleidoscope. One false move by the pilot, and they’d either plow into the back of the train or smash into the tracks—and Fisher’s imagination took him through both of those scenarios in an instant.
“Come on, Hammad, do it!” Fisher cried, slapping his palm on top of the pilot’s and ready to take over if Hammad backed out.
Hammad’s eyes bulged. “Okay, I got it!” He gasped, shuddered, then pulled back and brought them above the oil spray, coming directly above the container car. He was leaning forward now, staring through a meager opening on the canopy no more than twelve inches wide and not yet stained with oil.
“Here,” shouted Briggs, handing Fisher his pair of trifocals.
With his goggles on, Briggs threw the latch and yanked open the door.
The wind literally screamed into the compartment.
And the sand came in needle-like torrents.
Hammad coughed and cried, “Hurry!”
“Just hold position!” Fisher told him. “You’re a hero today, my friend!”
“Holy shit, yes!”
Briggs leaped from the chopper and hit the container hard, falling forward, sliding for a second, then latching onto one of the railings. One hand slid loose and he was thrown back by both the train’s velocity and the storm, but he leaned forward and returned that hand to the rail.
Ignoring the desert blurring by and the sand beginning to rip through the rotors, Fisher couldn’t help himself. He chanced a look at the sandstorm—perhaps a quarter mile away and barreling toward them.
Oh my God . . .
The diminutive train and even tinier chopper lay directly in the path of what resembled a thousand-foot-tall tidal wave as murky and thick as the ocean itself.
Chilled, Fisher flicked his gaze back on the oil
container, focusing on his upper deck landing zone.
Then, with a curse that really meant no, I’m not too old for this shit, he pushed away from the helicopter and plunged two meters to the top deck.
As his boots made impact, they gave way on a thin coating of oil that had whipped up from the rotor wash and was dripping off the railings.
He hit hard on his rump and began slipping off the deck, a hairsbreadth from being blown right off the container—when Briggs’s hand latched onto his, just as Fisher went swinging off the side and across the oil-slick surface.
Suspended now, Fisher caught another glimpse of the man who’d been firing at them, illuminated in the pale green glow of his trifocals. He was an Iranian MOIS agent, Fisher assumed, with balaclava tugged over his head, Kevlar vest strapped tightly at his chest and waist, and baggy combat trousers. Two pistols were holstered on his right side, one at the waist, the other on his lower hip. The rifle was an AK-47—and it popped again as Briggs dragged Fisher up and onto the deck.
Another salvo cracked from the AK, and Fisher swung back toward the chopper.
Hammad was just pulling away, taking heavy fire now from the agent, rounds sparking and ricocheting off the fuselage, a few punching into the side window.
Salvo after salvo tracked him.
He banked hard to the right. Too hard. Blood splashed across the side window. He lost control of the bird—
And before Fisher could open his mouth, the helicopter flipped onto its back, pitched slightly, then crashed with a thundering explosion into the desert behind them, the flickering fireball sweeping into the rising gale. Secondary explosions lifted into the first, with contrails of black smoke instantly shredded by the sand.
With the picture of Hammad’s little girls abruptly and permanently etched in Fisher’s memory, he gritted his teeth and sprang to his feet.
Thoughts of payback did not blind him with rage, but the anger did trigger a massive adrenaline rush. There wasn’t a combatant in the world who could stop him now.
He raced across the top of the container car, reached the end, and just as the agent glanced up from his perch at the foot of the ladder, Fisher unleashed a volley of 9mm NATO rounds directly into the bastard’s head, punching him back and sending him tumbling off the train.
“Sam, duck!” cried Briggs.
Fisher dropped to his haunches as more gunfire whirred over his head. Two cars up, another agent had mounted the ladder, placed his elbows on the top of the container, and begun trading fire with Briggs, whose submachine gun fire drove the man back behind the tank.
“Keep him busy,” cried Fisher, who crawled forward, slid under the upper deck railing, seized one of the grab irons, then allowed himself to slide down, off the right side of the container. He descended on two more grab irons until he was able to latch both hands onto the base of the upper deck railing. Now, with his legs dangling freely, he worked himself sideways across the deck, concealed from the agent’s view, while Briggs squeezed off another volley of suppressing fire, the MPX booming over the rattle and clack of the train.
Fisher continued slipping across the container until he reached the end and once more shifted down to the grab irons. He lowered himself between the cars, crossing over the coupler receiver hitch and reaching the next ladder.
Three more rounds cracked overhead, these from the agent, and Briggs answered with another triplet of fire.
“Almost there,” Fisher told Briggs.
“Roger, let me know.”
Fisher scaled the ladder and once more began skimming his way across the side of the container—
But without warning the train lurched forward, thundering at what must be full speed now, the diesel locomotive running at least sixty-five miles per hour. Fisher felt his grip falter and he tensed, fighting to pull himself higher and keep moving, each release of his gloved hands coming in smooth, practiced strokes. All those pull-ups and all that French Parkour training focusing on using momentum to breach obstacles always paid off.
“Sam, if you can still hear me, the train’s only about ten minutes away from Abqaiq,” Grim said. “We’re running out of time here!”
“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 announcement, but then footfalls thundered across the top of the container, followed by another exchange of gunfire—
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—beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart.
They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs bounded forward, made his jump, and landed behind Fisher. They both crouched down to spy the end of the tank. No response from anyone ahead. Now they would make some time.
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.
