by Peter Telep
The only leak in Sekani’s operation had come from the bald-headed black man who had been working as a liaison/courier between them and their supply chain. He had been eliminated, and now all was in place.
Destroying a bridge that spanned the Thames River would result in thousands of deaths and a crippling effect on the state’s economy. However, there were other consequences, much larger and more symbolic ones that the infidels would discover in the hours following the attack.
Sekani finished zippering up his jacket, then pulled his cap farther down over his ears. It would be good to get off this cold and windy river. Some warm tea in his belly and a soft pillow were in order. His men would take care of the rest, and Sekani would watch the spectacle from his hotel room in New London.
He rubbed his eyes, started his boat’s motor, then signaled to the others. For just a few seconds, he was a boy again, fishing along the Euphrates, watching as his father pilot the boat with a narrowed gaze and the wind tossing his hair. Living among the infidels had drawn the life from Sekani, and his only solace was in knowing they could not steal his memories, not these, not the peace they brought through Allah’s will.
His father would visit him again this evening and say how proud he was of the men, of Sekani, of the jihad. The Mujahideen had returned, he would cry. The bridge would fall and the sword would rise toward the heavens.
* * *
Josh and Corey had spent time in Colombia and Honduras interdicting drug smugglers alongside the DEA; thus, they knew exactly what lay out there, half-submerged, with a conning tower like the dorsal fin of a killer whale. To Johnny, it was just a small submarine, but to them, it was a “narcosub” that should not be underestimated. They had witnessed firsthand the level of sophistication, stealth, and maneuverability these craft provided. Many of them had been designed by Russian engineers contracted by the Colombians. They were constructed under the triple canopy of the jungle, smuggled down through rivers barely deep enough to permit their passage, and released into the ocean to do the Cartels’ bidding.
More curious was exactly how the submarine had wound up in these waters. Clearly, it had not sailed on its own and run the risk of refueling along the way. It had somehow been here all along or been delivered.
As the two boats raced toward it, a hatch atop the conning tower popped open, and a figure switched on a flashlight and signaled three times.
Corey abandoned his blanket and worked his way back outside and toward the minigun station. Willie jumped on the fifty caliber and told Josh if he wanted to bring the boat around, he would be happy to “lighten their load.”
“We need to get in there from the flanks,” Josh told him. “Corey’s got no shot, and neither do you—without hitting Nazari’s boat.”
Johnny’s breath turned shallow. In his mind’s eye, he scowled at each of the jihadis they had lost—LaPorte, Shammas, and Rasul—along with the snipers and that agent in Detroit. They had all died before he could learn the truth. Nazari was the only one left with answers. They could not lose him, not after coming this far.
Now Johnny felt Daniel’s weight against his arms as he held his brother and listened to his dying words: “I’m sorry, Johnny. It’s my fault. I should have...”
“You should have what?”
Daniel’s lips moved, but his words were drowned out by the incessant and familiar barking of three dogs...
Johnny considered what he had asked of his friends—to leave their families and loved ones behind. To sacrifice everything—even their lives—for the truth. They had tried to let him off the hook, but he had dragged them into this. If he let them down now, how could he look them in the eye without suffocating from the guilt?
He thought of Elina and what he had put her through, the tears and the worrying and the burden of comforting their grieving nieces. Moreover, if he had not pried into Daniel’s murder, her dogs would still be alive—her precious dogs. And his.
At last Johnny thought about who he was—a United States Marine—and what he stood for—the greatest country on Earth. Oorah.
Suddenly, he could breathe again.
There it was. That son of a bitch on the boat would not get away. He would be captured, interrogated, and punished. The Marines had arrived and had the situation well in hand.
Coursing now with adrenaline, Johnny gaped as the men in the rear boat opened fire, rounds striking in thumps and sparks, a few caroming up and across the windshield like insects scuffing the ballistic glass.
Josh tugged on the wheel, cutting forty-five degrees to starboard, trying once more to give Corey the angle he needed on the other boat.
Seeing this, the jihadi driver broke to starboard himself, continuing to shield Nazari’s Intrepid with his own.
“He knows what we’re doing,” shouted Josh.
Willie charged away from the .50 caliber, came into the wheelhouse, and seized his big MCX MR from a rack.
“Don’t miss,” Johnny told him.
“With all this bouncing around, it’ll be a miracle if I even get close,” Willie answered. “But I’ll give him something to think about.”
Johnny watched as Willie came up behind Corey and slipped beside him, exploiting the minigun’s blast shield for protection as he stared through his scope.
The MCX MR cracked, and Johnny thought he spotted a spark leap across the other boat’s console. He blinked hard and squinted back into the night vision goggles as Willie fired again, this round tearing into the windshield at the boat driver’s shoulder.
At the stern, the jihadis broke into automatic fire, waves of it, and Josh veered to port, steering Willie and Corey away from the fray.
Abruptly, Willie shoved his rifle into Corey’s hands, then darted back to the stern and took up the .50 caliber, whirling it around and finally getting a clear and open line on that boat. The big gun chugged like a freight train, hurtling lead that chewed hungrily into the fishing boat’s hull. Josh would have described the damage as a dozen blows from Mjölnir—“that which smashes,” better known as the hammer of Thor. While hot brass spilled across their deck, jihadis on the other boat leaped overboard while a few others crumpled to the deck, missing arms, legs, even a head, as the Intrepid continued in its turn with only the driver’s ghost at the wheel.
“Hold fire!” Johnny ordered. “Corey, get inside! We’re going in hot!”
Nazari’s Intrepid was approximately five hundred meters out from the submarine and closing fast. Johnny counted at least seven men onboard, including Nazari himself, who was crouched near the controls, along with the other two jihadis from the Lexus.
Josh broke into a zigzagging advance, trying to keep the gunmen guessing, but those 7.62 mm rounds kept chipping away at the hull, converting armored plates into gemstones that shimmered in the half-light. The closer they drew, the more intense the fire became, and it was then, during that torrential onslaught, that Johnny recognized the simplicity of their mission and what they must do. He recalled a seminar Corey once gave about narco sub limitations and vulnerabilities. Slow submerged speed, limited battery capacity, and no watertight compartments.
“Get us between them and that sub,” he told Josh, then turned to Willie. “And when he does, you get on the fifty and put some nice holes anywhere in that sub, you hear me?”
“Roger that, boss!” Willie answered.
Johnny regarded Corey. “You get on the minigun. Keep your fire on Nazari’s boat, right on the waterline. We’ll scoop them out after it sinks.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Cory slid to the back of the wheelhouse, ready to dodge to his station.
Hurtling themselves through the incoming fire, they came up behind their prey, just as the Intrepid drew within twenty meters of the submarine.
Without warning, the gunfire tapered into nothingness.
Willie let out a snicker. “Ha! Look at that. They’re out of ammo!”
“Are they really?” asked Corey. “I’m not sure. They just stopped firing.”
The driver killed the trio of Mercurys, and the Intrepid whispered toward the sub, its wake as quickly swallowed by the gulf.
Josh allowed them to coast forward, and Johnny glanced worriedly in his direction. “What the hell now?”
“I don’t know.”
Johnny lifted his night vision goggles and squinted. Jihadis were scrambling on the deck, and through the group came Nazari and his two buddies. They leaped over the side and began swimming fiercely around the boat, toward the sub.
Out near the stern, one of the jihadis clutched his AK and waved at Johnny and Josh. His comrades surrounded him, all with their arms raised high in the air.
“I don’t believe it,” said Johnny.”
“Neither do I,” Josh said. “These Hajis don’t surrender.”
The Marauder motored closer to the fishing boat, coming within fifty meters, then Josh turned to come around them, in pursuit of Nazari.
A man on the Intrepid pushed his way to the front of the group and swung a loaded RPG onto his shoulder.
Johnny looked back to Corey, but his friend was gone—having already manned the minigun. Corey was about to open up when the RPG flashed—
And The Marauder’s bow ignited like a supernova.
Chapter Forty-Four
“They wanted this to be a wakeup call for America, and despite our best efforts, they still got what they wanted.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Were it not for the five foot swell that had lifted the fishing boat at the last second, Johnny and his friends would be dead.
The jihadi with the RPG had been targeting the wheelhouse, but his sights had drifted, and the rocket struck across the bow, where armor plating protected the multipurpose compartment below deck.
Johnny yelled for them to get down as a tremendous ball of roiling flames swelled over the windshield. The concussion wave struck in peals of thunder rattling through the boat and sucking air from the wheelhouse.
With his ears ringing and feeling as though he had just been sucker punched with a roll of quarters, Johnny clambered back to his feet, in time to glimpse a mushroom cloud of fire with burning debris shooting through it like bottle rockets, leaving contrails arcing to form petals of smoke.
As the flames clawed higher, tiny crowns bubbled along the fires, turning dark brown like scabs that vanished and reappeared. The stench of melting rubber and hydraulic fluid had Johnny gagging. And then, as fires turned in on themselves, coiling into rings of gray-and-black smoke, Corey yanked open the wheelhouse door. He was coughing and bleeding from minor shrapnel wounds to his neck and forehead. He seized a fire extinguisher from the wall and charged back to his station, blasting the bow with white foam.
Josh was already assessing the damage over the radio. A portion of the boat’s superstructure had been torn apart, the bow door assembly was a mangled mess, but the explosion had not breached or compromised the integrity of the hull.
While he continued his report, Johnny burst outside to man the M240 while Willie got on the .50 caliber machine gun. Together, they unleashed hell on that last boat, its hull freckled with so much fire that Johnny gave it five minutes before it sank. A few of the jihadis dove overboard, while the rest never made it that far.
The moment they stopped firing, Josh blurted out that he still had power. With the bow smoldering and a gaping hole appearing in the armor plates just above the water line, he banged the throttle and took them around a widening half-circle of debris, some of it still burning in pale yellow puddles.
Corey had the submarine in sight, with Nazari and his cohorts about ten meters away and swimming with a ferocity that impressed even Johnny. The submariner who had signaled remained in the conning tower and was now armed with an AK-47 instead of a flashlight.
As he caught sight of The Marauder, he opened up, and Johnny shouted for Corey to get busy. Salvos of minigun fire not only sheered that man in two, but they chewed through the conning tower then across the bow. A few tracers strayed wide to thump and hiss into the water.
Another man appeared in the battered tower, pushing past the body of his colleague and bailing out with a rifle in hand. He was followed by another crewman who remained there and squeezed off a few rounds. Corey responded with a withering volley of his own. The submariner slumped in the hatch, while the other man who had leaped in the water tugged himself onto the bow. He yanked a pistol from his holster and jammed it into his head. The shot echoed.
Fearing Nazari and his buddies might do likewise, Johnny hollered for Josh to throttle up while he tugged off his boots. He switched on his radio and made sure his headset was tight. “Hey, boys, Johnny here, radio check. Do me a favor. Keep an eye on me.”
As soon as they came within ten meters of Nazari and his associates, Johnny hit the waves. Memories of his swim qualifications, especially the one he needed to become a Reconnaissance Marine, drove his arms and legs to work in perfect concert. His breathing grew measured. And his prey drew near.
* * *
The old horse barn in St. Bernard, Louisiana reeked of manure, but there was nothing Achmed could do about that. He had not arranged for this safe house, nor was he responsible for any of its unpleasantness. His job was to impart his wisdom as an old mujahedeen fighter in Afghanistan and coach his cell of young men toward sudden and magnificent jihad.
Parked inside the barn were two Ford F59 food trucks with twenty-foot long Morgan Olson bodies. Trucks like these had become “hip” or “chic” among the infidels during the past decade, each offering homemade sandwiches and tacos and cupcakes, the thought of which turned Achmed’s stomach. And so it had seemed fitting, ironic, and clandestine that he and his men would deploy these symbols of American gluttony to communicate Allah’s will.
The first truck offered Blue Bayou Catfish, and splashed across its sides were blue-and-black logos of bewhiskered fish dressed like rap music stars wearing gold chains and sunglasses. The second truck featured a chorus line of dancing pigs to summon an appetite for gourmet pulled pork created by some infidel named “Bubba.” The interiors of both trucks had been gutted and replaced by Baktar-Shikan Missile Systems seated on their tripods and recently delivered to them from out west. Each truck housed two complete systems, along with sixteen missiles. New hatches had been cut into the driver’s side of each truck to account for the exhaust. Each truck contained a three man crew: two missile operators and a driver. All six men were now assembled before Achmed as he gave them their final briefing:
The Blue Bayou Catfish truck was heading to nearby Chalmette and the ExonMobil Refinery. The truck would approach on West St. Bernard Highway, cross St. Claude, the railway tracks, then enter the unguarded parking lot. There the crew would raise the side panels and destroy the refinery plant processing center, along with as many storage tanks as possible.
Concurrently, the crew of Bubba’s Pulled Pork would drive to Bell Chase. They would approach from Levy Road and park across the street from the Phillips66 Alliance Refinery. From that location, they would carry out their attack at nearly pointblank range.
Achmed grinned to himself as he imagined local law enforcement staring slack-jawed at missiles being fired from trucks painted with cartoon characters.
For his part, he would remain behind and in control of two remote detonators. His crews were unaware that their trucks were wired with explosives. Once finished with their tasks, Achmed had been charged with martyring them, after which he, too, would be wrapped in the virgins’ arms.
* * *
Johnny had locked his gaze on Nazari, who, along with his two men, continued to swim toward the submarine. Nazari’s colleagues continued drifting behind their leader, once again acting as shields.
Josh switched on The Marauder’s high-powered spotlight. The laser-like beam swept across the waves, found the three escapees, and painted them a garish white.
While Johnny kicked harder to close in, a gunshot split the air, the round striking the swells with a ho
llow knock not a meter from Nazari’s head.
With a gasp, Johnny craned his head toward the boom.
Willie was balanced atop the gunwale, his shoulder resting on the wheelhouse as he leaned into his MCX MR, one eye eclipsed by his scope. The suppressed rifle thumped once more, the round piercing the water an arm’s length from Nazari’s men. In unison, they ducked under the waves.
“Hold fire,” Johnny ordered over the radio. He assumed Willie was only trying to slow them, but even a single misplaced round could hit Nazari.
Just ahead, the high value target himself reached the sub and hauled himself onto the rolling and slippery deck with the aid of a mooring line left trailing in the water. He crawled to the submariner who had shot himself and shoved the corpse over the side to get past him. Once he reached the conning tower, he rushed up the ladder and dragged the other dead man out of his way before disappearing through the hatch.
Desperate now, Nazari’s accomplices reached the sub, whirled back, and drew pistols. The jihadi on the right fired two rounds at Johnny, then his slide locked open as a casing got caught there in a stove pipe malfunction. The guy on the left began emptying his magazine, the water alive with splats and plops.
“All right, Willie, give ‘em Hell!” Johnny ordered.
Willie engaged the men, his surgically placed rounds beating in time with Johnny’s pulse. The jihadis sloughed away from the submarine and floated prone in the water, their heads like buoys rising and falling until they disappeared beneath the waves.
Johnny swam the last five meters to the sub. Using the same line that Nazari had, he scrambled on deck and inched his way carefully across the slick surface toward the ladder. Up near the hatch, his nose crinkled as he struggled to identify a faint odor.
“Hey, guys, I smell something in there—like chlorine.”
“Aw, shit, Johnny,” Corey began. “We probably hit the batteries and seawater’s gotten in there to contaminate them. It’s mixing with the lead-acid. How bad is it?”
