SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (25 page)

"Omar, what happened?" Abu had twisted round from the wheel to stare in astonishment at the carnage.

"The bastard tried to kill me," he shouted, his body fired up with adrenaline, as it always was after a near brush with death, "He went the way of all enemies of Islam."

"And Wasef? Him too?"

Nasriri lowered his gaze and saw the body lying in the bottom of the boat. Wasef Bakhtari, one of their older fighters, a taxi driver from Jalalabad, lay dead.

"I wasn't aiming at him."

"It was a ricochet," Hosni Sadat said, his voice bitter, "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

There was silence in the cockpit as they considered the tragedy. It was a disaster for Wasef. He'd been one of the dedicated soldiers of Allah, determined to demonstrate his faith by becoming a shaheed.

"His body must go back aboard the ship for a proper burial," Abu said quietly, "It is the least we can do for him."

"No!" Nasriri glared at them, "There is no time. Toss the bodies into the sea. It is time to go to our martyrdom. We cannot wait any longer."

"But..."

"Over the side. Now!"

They hesitated a few moments and then obeyed. Both bodies slid into the water. Hakim's disappeared almost immediately, but Wasef's floated close to the boat, like an accusation, a stark reminder to them all of what they faced. Abu stared at it for a few moments, appalled by the enormity of leaving a comrade in such an undignified way. It was contrary to all the laws of Islam.

Yet what can we do?

He gazed beyond the body, looking further inshore, and it was then he saw the boat.

"Omar! There is a boat there. I don't like the look of it."

Nasriri followed his pointing finger. It looked fast, and he could see the men on board. Yet it wasn't a coastguard or police vessel.

Is it coincidence it is out here? Maybe they are just fishing, but it's a lot of boat just to catch your dinner.

He nodded to Bakr. "Start moving toward the shore, and keep an eye on it. If it follows us, lose it. They told us there is no boat can catch us, so if they look to be a threat, use the speed and lose them."

"Yes, Omar."

He engaged the forward gear and pushed the throttles forward. The boat moved away in a surge of power that caught them by surprise and threw them backward.

"Careful," he snarled.

"Sorry, Omar. I'm not used to it."

He looked at the speed indicator. They were moving at twenty knots, skimming across the surface. It was exhilarating, yet at the same time precarious, as if at any time they could hit a wave and tip over. He throttled back to fifteen knots and looked across at the other boat. It was moving toward them.

"Faster, you damn fool!" Nasriri cursed, "Don't slow down. You must go faster! Quickly, head straight to the Hudson River. It is time for our martyrdom. The moment is here, my brothers. Nothing can stop us."

They held on grimly as Bakr pushed the throttle forward, and the boat picked up speed. It was like riding a rollercoaster; the digital indicator hit twenty, thirty, forty, and then fifty knots. He gripped the wheel, knowing both fear and excitement. Nothing could stop them, nothing!

They were on their way to Paradise.

She smiled at Clay. He was staring at Liberty Island through binoculars. The President's yacht was approaching, and the crowds buzzed with excitement. He took his eyes from them and looked at her.

"You want to take a look?"

"Gee, thanks, Clay."

"No sweat. I'm going to the hot dog stand. I'm starving. You want one?"

"No, I'm okay, thanks."

 
They exchanged smiles, and she put the glasses to her eyes. President Anderson came into view. He was steering the slow-moving yacht toward the dock. He was about five hundred yards away; a few minutes and he'd step ashore. Even though she wasn't an American, she felt proud of this moment, proud of what it stood for, freedom, the rule of law and democracy. She could only pray they'd grant her citizenship so she could become a part of this. In addition, that she'd live long enough to enjoy it.

Her purse was heavy on her shoulder, but the knowledge the tiny .357 H&K automatic was inside reassured her. She started to pan the binoculars around, enjoying the color and excitement of the crowd. Balloon sellers, ice creams, hot dogs, and then her blood ran cold.

Hidalgo. He’s here. He must be following me. I have to get away. Where’s Clay?

She moved the glasses again, but then she saw him and felt alarmed. He was moving toward Hidalgo. Did the Colombian assassin know who he was? Then she felt her legs buckle. Clay walked straight up to Montez's hit man, and they shook hands. She was shaking and lost the image as the binoculars moved in her hands. She nearly dropped them but recovered. She found them again, and as she watched the two men, she had a blaze of realization. They looked similar, so similar they could even be related.

Hidalgo was older, his face thinner and darker from exposure to the long hours of sunshine in Colombia. Clay's face was more rounded, smooth, less swarthy. The resemblance was unmistakable; they had to be cousins at least. It all clicked into place. She'd thought she was using Clay, when all along he'd been using her to track her movements. It was no wonder Hidalgo was here. Clay only had to call him. As she watched them, they looked up, and Clay saw her watching through the binoculars. He said something to Hidalgo, and they started toward her. She dropped the binoculars and ran.

* * *

"They've seen us!"

Will slammed the throttled forward, and the Avanti began to pick up speed. They started to follow the H&Z, but the other craft was picking up speed.

"Christ, she's fast."

Will pushed the throttles all the way to the stops. Nolan watched the speed indicator hit fifty knots, and they were still accelerating.

"So are we," he shouted back, impressed by the power of the Avanti.

"We'll see," Will grunted. He gripped the wheel and steered the craft so that it seemed to thread a path between the waves.

Nolan raised his assault rifle. There was no need for pretense, not any longer. The chase was on.

"We're gaining on her. As soon as anyone has a chance of a good shot, take it." He looked at Will, who was shaking his head. "What is it?"

"They have a lot more power than we do. I told you, Chief, that thing goes like a bat out of hell."

"What can we do?"

"Pray they overturn. The guy at the wheel doesn't know his business, so it's possible. Then again, if he speeds up, we've lost him."

"Take him now. Try and ram the bastard." He looked at the rest of them crouched in the cockpit, watching the target boat. "You all ready? We'll open fire as soon as we're close. If we ram her, with any luck she'll sink."

"Or we will," Brad murmured.

He ignored him and watched the wave-filled gap growing smaller as they neared the other vessel. The man at the helm was having trouble keeping his skittish boat on a straight course, and behind them, their wake was a crazy pattern, a bunch of curves where his boat continually went off the intended track.

"He's probably hitting sixty knots," Will shouted, "We're doing fifty-five, and we're all out. If he gets the hang of it, we've lost him."

"Roger that. Open fire!"

He held the butt off the AK tucked into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Despite Nolan's sniper skills, there was no chance of precision shooting. Both boats were plunging around the waves, pitching, corkscrewing. There was no way to anticipate and lead a burst of fire into the target. It was a time for 'spray and pray.' He emptied the magazine at the distant boat, and the others opened fire, Vega, John-Wesley, and Brad with their AKs. Then Eva joined in, firing careful, single aimed shots with the Tokarev.

Two of their bullets punched holes in the fast boat, but none hit a vital component.

"Keep firing, punch some holes in the hull. That'll slow her down," he shouted.

They reloaded and fired again, and again. A man on the target boat was returning fire with an AK, the same weapon they were using and with similar results. Nothing. Then he noticed the hostiles were starting to pull ahead.

"You have to get nearer," he shouted to Will, "They're gaining."

"I'm working on it, but I told you, we don't have their speed."

"Yeah. We have to stop them. Everyone aim at the helmsman."

The fired again, clip after clip, but the other craft was pulling away. Slowly, erratically, but there was no question. They were getting the hang of it, and the boat was skimming over the waves, picking up speed every second.

"Keep following," he ordered Will, "We may get lucky."

Ryder was still firing single aimed shots, trying to anticipate the complex physics between the movements of the two vessels. One of his shots hit the guy on the wheel, and the boat veered suddenly and nearly went over, but he recovered control.

"Nice shooting, John-Wesley."

"Not nice enough," he growled, as another bullet cracked out of the barrel of his rifle, "He sweeps away his enemies in an overwhelming flood, and he pursues his foes into the darkness of night."

"Right." He looked at Will. "We're losing them."

"We are that. I'll stay on their tail. Who knows what'll happen?"

He heard John-Wesley intone, "Nearly, nearly, keep it like that, motherfuckers. Lord, I will smite them, and leave their bones to decay in the dust."

Nolan stared at him for a moment, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a religious ecstasy of hate.

Shit, he's getting worse. Even so, I hope his God is listening. We need all the help we can get.

* * *

"I'm hit!"

Nasriri looked at Bakr. He was the only man with any knowledge of small boats. If he died, it would be difficult for one of them to take over.

"Can you keep going?"

A pause. "I think so." Then he laughed, a loud cackle that made them all look up, "After all, the worst that can happen is it kills me."

He glanced at him nervously. The last thing he wanted was for his number two to break down in hysterics. "Hold it together, Abu. Not long now."

"I will manage." His eyes were screwed up in agony, "It hurts, Omar."

"Where did the bullet hit?"

"In my stomach."

Nasriri moved across to him and looked at the blood pooling on the deck boards, draining into the bilge.

"Just a few minutes more. Allah is watching over us, Abu. He is here, with us."

"It hurts."

"Just a little longer."

He looked at the pursuing boat. They were further away.

Good, they
’
re too slow to interfere.

"Abu, increase speed. We must get clear of that other boat."

"I will try."

He'd been clutching his stomach with one hand. He lifted the bloody hand to the throttle, and once more the boat surged forward. Nasriri watched the speed indicator. Seventy knots. Then he glanced behind; the boat was dropping back.

"You're losing them!"

"It's hard to steer a straight course, but I will do my..."

He didn't finish. A bright, red blotch blossomed on the side of his head, next to his ear. His hands fell from the wheel, yet the boat kept going. He realized in an instant that Abu was dead. Moreover, the craft was starting to turn, back toward their pursuers, and tilting up on one side.

I have to
do something, now!

He dropped the AK and lunged for the wheel, simultaneously tossing Abu to the side. He shoved the steering over, increased the angle of the tilt, and moved it back the other way. Slowly, the craft began to right itself, but when he looked across, they were nearer. Much nearer.

His remaining men, Nazo, Ahmad, and Hosni, were staring at him, frozen. He nodded to the AK-47 lying on the deck.

"Ahmad, pick up the weapon. You must return fire and stop them getting nearer."

The man nodded and grabbed the gun. Nasriri pulled back on the throttles. He had to regain control, and as soon as they were on an even keel, he pushed them forward again. As he did so, he hit a huge wave head on, and tons of water cascaded over them. He cursed. His attention was on the boat behind them, but his lapse cost him another man.

"It's Nazo. He's gone," Hosni gasped, "That wave, it...no, Ahmad, no!"

The other man had leapt into the churning wake of the powerboat in an effort to save his friend. Nazo Tokhi was waving his hands, shouting for help.

"The stupid bastard," Nasriri snarled, as he swiveled his head to look, "Why did he do it?"

"He can't swim."

"Idiot. We must keep going, Hosni. We're nearly there."

The other man didn't reply. Nasriri ignored him and stared through the cracked windshield in triumph. The inlet to the Hudson was in sight. They were there. He looked at the small box screwed to the dashboard of the powerboat. It wasn't standard equipment but had been fitted by the engineer of the MV Rezam. There was a simple hinged cover. When he lifted it, he'd see a button inside one inch in diameter, recessed deep inside a protective ring, so it couldn't be pressed accidentally. When he pressed that button, they would be seconds from Paradise.

He looked forward again as another big wave smashed into them, and this time the boat reared up like a spooked horse. His hand raced for the throttle, and he pulled back, but as soon as the prow smacked down onto the water, he opened it up and picked up speed again.

* * *

He watched her hiding in a thicket about a hundred meters away. Stupid bitch, she was wearing a distinctive bright-colored zip jacket. He'd have spotted her a kilometer away. He pointed her out to his accomplice.

"Cristobal, circle around behind her. This time I don't want any mistakes. I'll arm the detonator."

"You got it. I thought I'd be sorry to see her go, but lately, that puta is getting on my nerves. Trying too hard to be Anglo. Motherfuckers, what's wrong with Colombians?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "Get moving."

"What about the USB stick?"

"I talked to the Jefe. He said to finish the job today. We'll tear her apartment to pieces afterward. It can't be far away. Don't worry about it, just make sure she doesn't leave this park."

"There'll be more than a few when that boat detonates," he chuckled.

A couple of people stared at him. "Quiet, Cristobal."

The man who'd used the first name 'Clay' for his assignment to befriend Esperanza loped away. Hidalgo took out the innocuous looking cellphone and switched it on. The signal showed full strength, which was no surprise. He'd checked it twice in the past week. After all, the death of a President was not something to be left the vagaries of chance.

He smiled; it was Señor Montez's idea, and a good one. His boss didn't trust the camel jockeys to do the job right. Sure, they'd drive the boat in toward the target, but at the last minute, they wouldn't be the first suicide bombers to change their minds or screw up in some way.

It had been simple to persuade the engineer on board the MV Rezam to install a little gadget, unseen by the Afghans. A modified cellphone, connected to the detonator. When Hidalgo pressed the programmed numbers, 911, it was goodbye Mr. President. The powerboat was nowhere in sight, so he took the time to search around for the girl. She'd vanished, but she wouldn't be far away. Cristobal would find her and kill her.

Pity, she's a nice looking girl. Nevertheless, her death is overdue. She needs to be put out of harm's way so we can recover what belongs to Señor Montez.

He glanced around, but there was still no sign of her. In the distance, he heard a new sound. SWAT helicopters flying out to the mouth of the Hudson. It meant they'd noticed the powerboat heading in and were rushing to respond. It was expected, but they'd be too slow, much too slow.

No way can they stop them, not now.

* * *

Ryder fired again and again. He seemed to have the range and deflection angle sorted, and bullet after bullet whacked into the fast moving powerboat. He missed anything vital, tearing chunks out of the hull, splintering the upper works. And then a solid hit.