24 Declassified: Storm Force 2d-7
Page 33
He shouldered his rifle, drawing a bead on Jack's back — then saw the strip of white cloth hanging from his target's left arm, the CTU identifying tag.
He swung the rifle toward the other fugitive, the one in the lead. That one was too far away for the rifleman to make out whether he wore the white cloth strip.
Rain was falling so heavily that it brought down visibility to a minimum; the rifleman had barely, just barely, seen Jack's identifying strip of cloth in time.
Not knowing whether the man in the lead was CTU, the rifleman decided not to risk a shot.
* * *
Thanks to Jack's warning earlier via the satellite phone in Dooley and Buttrick's car, CTU had managed to forestall Vollard's planned onslaught in all three theaters: the suicide barge on the river, the hit try on Minister Fedallah in Riyadh, and the merc force's assault on the tank farm.
CTU had had two SWAT teams on the scene at the PRP, plus some mobile, auxiliary roving backup squads. Spotters were posted at selected vantage points, their sightlines covering 180 degrees on the landward side. Even with visibility reduced to a minimum by wind and rain, they had seen the three-vehicle convoy coming eastbound on River Road.
The invaders had chosen the stealth approach, one that would take them through the dump yard into the truck container lot.
Jack, seeing a bulldozer parked nearby, had the idea of herding Vollard's team right where CTU wanted them. He and Hathaway had climbed up into the dozer's open cab, mounting the machine gun to the left of the driver's seat.
A squad of CTU sharpshooters, ace marksmen all, climbed up on top of the container boxes that formed a corridor from the edge of the dumping grounds to the tank farm. It got pretty hairy up there at times when the wind gusted, threatening to blow them off the rooftops.
Vollard's force had cut a breach in the fence and filed across open ground to the near end formed by the corridor between two lines of parked trucks. It was a logical choice, providing as it did the best cover against being seen by observers and allowing a close approach to the tank farm.
As soon as the last merc bringing up the rear had followed the others into the corridor, Jack fired up the engine. Using both hands to work the floor-mounted gear switches, opening the throttle, he'd maneuvered the dozer behind Vollard's men, coming at them.
Hathaway had deliberately aimed the machine gun for the ground just short of the invaders, not wanting to risk tagging one of the bombs they were carrying and triggering an uncontrollable, unpredictable blast that might endanger defenders as well as attackers.
Bulldozer and machine-gun fire had herded the merc force deeper into the corridor.
The idea was to put them square in a crossfire of CTU sharpshooters, deadly marksmen who could pick their shots and neutralize the enemy with precise head and body shots that would avoid hitting the munitions they carried in their field packs. The corridor was a kill box.
CTU sharpshooters fired with deadly accuracy, decimating the enemy force. There was still a risk of a stray slug tagging a munitions pack and setting off a blast. A hot round would have no effect on the plastic explosives blocks; it was the detonators and mostly the thermite bombs that were the big threat.
Jack planned to cut off the snake's head, but he hadn't reckoned on the cat-quickness of Vollard. The merc man had gone up and over the bulldozer, getting clear of the chute and making his break.
Jack recovered quickly, taking off after him. The chase was on.
* * *
Vollard ran toward the tower, the outlying rampart of the tank farm; Jack following. Here in the open, beyond the shelter afforded by parked trucks and the solidity of the bulldozer cab, the full force of wind and rain made itself felt.
Winds blew in from the south, coming across the river and sweeping north, whipping driving rains before it. Some of its force was broken by the tank farm that stood between it and the running men. Wind funneled through the gaps between the oil storage tanks, creating a venturi effect that magnified their force.
As soon as Jack was in the open, the wind hit him like an invisible force field, fighting him. He leaned forward, almost double, charging head-down into the torrent.
He still wore the work gloves to protect his aching hands. Time enough to pull them off when the shooting started.
Vollard reached the first barrier, a bundle of waist-high, horizontal pipes that stretched across the field at right angles. It was supported on a stand that kept the bottom of it a foot or so above ground level; the space was too small to duck under, he had to go over the top.
He bellied across the uppermost pipe, flopping down on the other side. Rising, for the first time since beginning his flight he dared to look back. He saw a figure about a dozen yards away, closing on him.
He failed to recognize the newcomer, but the strip of white cloth tied to the other's upper arm was a sure cue that it wasn't one of his men. Behind the pursuer, a couple of dozen yards back, several more figures were making for the tank farm.
Vollard drew his pistol, holding it in a two-handed grip, bracing it against the top of the pipe to steady it. He blasted a couple of shots at the lead pursuer.
Windborne rain reduced visibility; even at these close quarters, his target was a blur. The figure fell forward, flattening facedown on the ground. Vollard exulted; he'd tagged his man!
Then the other fired from a prone position, a round angling past Vollard's head.
Jack had peeled off the gloves and pulled his gun. The time to start shooting was now. He'd placed his return fire very carefully, aiming it upward at a high angle that would pass harmlessly through the gaps between the storage tanks. He had no desire to accidentally put a bullet into a pipeline or tank and possibly trigger the very blast he'd labored body and soul to prevent.
The shot served its purpose, goosing Vollard into motion. The merc turned and ran; Jack jumped up, following.
Jack angled to the left instead of continuing straight-on, to avoid approaching from the direction in which Vollard had last seen him, using the element of surprise to avoid running into a bullet. He threw himself over the pipeline, coming down on the other side.
He saw Vollard climbing a metal stairway that led to the first level of platforms and catwalks. Appraising the situation, thinking quickly, Jack continued on his leftward tangent, closing on a second metal staircase about fifty feet left of the one Vollard was mounting.
Jack was winded, panting for breath. He was in good condition, but in the last few hours he'd been knocked unconscious and beaten. Merely making the dash from the dozer across open ground in the face of storm-force winds and rain to the tank farm had required a supreme physical effort.
Taking several deep breaths, he gripped the stairway's metal railing and started climbing. Rainwater cascaded over the stairs, trying to tear his feet out from under him and trip him up.
He reached the top of the stairs, where a platform stood, the hub of a network of catwalks radiating out in several directions. To his right, he saw Vollard come back into view; the merc leader was stymied, boxed in.
Jack's quick scan of the framework of platforms, stairs, and walkways had indicated that the tower platform was a dead end, off by itself and isolated from the rest of the framework. He'd guessed right. Vollard was cut off. Jack blocked his only access to the network of metal webwork binding and linking towers and tanks, pumping stations and pipeline hubs.
Vollard had hoped to lose himself and elude his pursuers in the intricate, multileveled tangle. To do so now, he'd have to come through Jack. Let him try!
Jack refused to let Vollard take the initiative and make the next move. He made it first, starting along the catwalk toward the tower where Vollard lurked. Winds buffeted him, slamming into him with body-blow force.
Shots sounded, Vollard firing at Jack.
The storm was impartial, taking no sides. The same winds that sought to tear Jack loose from the catwalk also slammed Vollard, knocking off his aim, making it impossible for him to draw
an accurate bead on Jack.
His bullets went wild. The closest he came was a round that spanged the steel safety railing of the catwalk; metal sang and shivered, generating an impact that Jack could feel up to the elbow of the arm whose hand clutched that rail. It didn't do his sore hand any good, either.
He kept on coming, closing in, holding his fire, waiting for a clean firing line for a killing shot.
Perhaps Vollard had emptied his clip; he stopped shooting and dodged around the platform that skirted the tower, disappearing around the curve. The platform was an apron that made a 360-degree ring around the tower; Vollard had vanished on the far side, the one facing riverward.
Jack stepped onto the platform, crouched almost double, gun arm stuck out in front of him, free hand clutching the rail. No tanks or other obstructions stood between him and the terrific force of northbound winds.
He decided on a quick change-up, abandoning the safety rail at the outer edge of the platform and darting inward, flattening himself against the curving metal wall of the tower. Hugging it to keep from being windblown across the platform.
He reversed position, so that not his front but his back was now flattened against the tower. Sidestepping, he edged around the tower toward the windward side.
As he rounded the curve that put him in the direct path of the storm, the wind became an ally, pushing him back against the tower and helping to hold him in place. He inched farther along, looking up.
On the windward side, a vertical metal-rung ladder was bolted to the side of the tower, rising straight up for sixty or seventy feet before accessing an upper platform level.
Vollard clung midway up, his free arm hooked through a rung to hold him in place, gun hand pointed downward at the platform below. He'd expected his pursuer to come along the outer rim of the platform, where the safety rail provided some protection against being blown away. Instead, Jack had come along the inner rim, back flattened to the curving tower wall.
A flash of motion glimpsed in the corner of his eye alerted Vollard that the showdown had come.
He and Jack opened fire, Jack's first shot coming perhaps a split-second before Vollard's, both squeezing off a rapid-fire burst of rounds.
Vollard, caught unaware by his foe's unexpected change of position, missed his target, his rounds sailing clear of Jack and hammering the floor of the platform beyond him.
Jack fired straight up along the ladder, pumping slugs into Vollard hanging fifty feet above him. Emptying his clip into the other.
Vollard's hold broke; he pitched forward, falling free.
A streaming, screaming blast of wind caught him in midair, swiping him to the side. The wind screamed. Vollard was silent, no sound escaping him as he took the big dive.
His trajectory caused him to hit the catwalk rail, thudding against it with an impact that Jack felt through the soles of his shoes right up to his knees.
Vollard bounced off, cartwheeling into space and dropping another twenty-five feet before slamming into the ground below. With a thud that was clearly audible to Jack, even above the winds.
Jack reloaded before starting down. It was a matter of routine. Vollard was done. The steel safety rail he'd struck on the way down was bowed and crumpled.
Jack climbed down to solid ground, fighting wind and rain to cross to Vollard, who lay in a heap near where a T-shaped pipeline rose out of a concrete platform.
Crouching down beside the body, Jack turned him faceup. His bullets had tagged Vollard in a leg, the belly, and on his left side under his arm, drilling him through the chest. Vollard's open eyes lay unblinking as rain pelted his face.
A CTU agent came up beside Jack. He put his mouth close to Jack's ear and spoke loudly to be heard over the storm. He said, "Which one is that?"
Jack's thoughts were not of Vollard, but of those who'd been lost along the way, men like Pete Malo, Hathaway, Topham, and Beauclerk; real patriots who'd risked all and sacrificed all, not for personal gain, for money, but for that most intangible thing of all: an ideal, a dream of freedom and a hope that the nation might perhaps, at its best, embody that ideal.
Thinking that Jack hadn't heard him, the agent said, "Who was he?"
Jack said, "Who was he? Nobody, just a hired gun.
"Now retired," he added.
24. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
Hurricane Everette never did make landfall at New Orleans or even the Gulf Coast. At the last moment, it changed course, veering on a path that ultimately sent it crashing full-force into Cuba.
Epilogue
CTU arranged for Havana and Caracas to learn enough select details of the Paz/Beltran affair to cause a serious breach in the alliance between their two countries.
Society pages bannered the forthcoming nuptials of Susan Keehan. The bridegroom: Gene Jasper, a security expert who was leaving EXECPROTEK for a seat on the board of several Keehan-owned corporations.
Floyd Dooley and Buck Buttrick became nationally famous as "Hero Cops Who Thwarted a Terror Plot." Their ghostwritten autobiography spent several months on the best-seller list and was optioned by a Hollywood studio to become a major motion picture, which was never made. Dooley went on to run for the post of Louisiana Parish sheriff; narrowly defeated, he went on to become a front man, spokesperson, and greeter for New Orleans's newest and most lavish gambling casino. His partner, Buck Buttrick, became the host of a popular fishing show on an outdoors-oriented cable TV network.
A week or so after Hurricane Everette, a body washed up on the shores of the Mississippi River. It was identified as that of Arno Puce, Corsican gunman and member of Vollard's mercenary force. Among the contents of his pockets was found a medallion bearing the likeness of Saint Barbara. It quietly became the property of a young assistant at the parish morgue, who palmed it when nobody was looking and took it home. He figured it might be some kind of good luck piece.
* * *
In Saudi Arabia, the Rub' al-Khali, the Empty Quarter, is a bleak wasteland so forbidding, so unremittingly hostile to human life, that even the most hardened, desert-dwelling Bedouin tribes give it a wide berth on their wanderings.
Not long after the failed assassination attempt on Minister Fedallah, an air-conditioned Cadillac car was driven deep into the Quarter, as far as it would go before its gas tank registered empty. It stood inert in the middle of a sun-blasted flat, several hundred miles from the nearest human habitation.
Its occupants were two members of Fedallah's Special Section and Prince Tariq.
The pair of escorts treated Tariq with the impersonal politeness of the executioners that they were.
Presently, the vault of white-hot sky was broken by a flyspeck, a blur of motion that resolved itself into a helicopter that closed on the site where the Cadillac stood.
It touched down long enough to pick up the two Special Section men before lifting off, leaving Tariq marooned in the middle of a desert hell without so much as a drop of water.
Fedallah had neutralized the threat posed by the Prince, and the Prince himself, while still obeying the prohibition that his royal blood not be shed.
Before twenty-four hours had passed, Tariq had truly experienced the "mouthful of sand" that Fedallah had once promised as the fate of those who defied the will of His Majesty, Supreme Master of the House of Saud.
At the end, his brains boiling in the cauldron of his skull, Tariq realized to the full the truth of the old saying:
If you strike against the king, strike hard!
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