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“How many rounds do you have left?” Juan asked Linc.
“Two magazines, but at this rate I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”
“I’m down to one on the rifle I borrowed from our friend who let us in here.” A chop from Linc’s hand had dealt the guard a blow that would have him woozy for days. That still left enough men to beat them by attrition alone. There was no chance they’d make it all the way back to the Humvee. They had to find another way out.
Even if they concentrated on one door and made a break for it, the only way off the ship was by sea. They’d be sitting ducks for anyone taking potshots from the dock.
However, they did have one possibility on this very cargo deck.
“Remember how gouged the floor in the warehouse was?” Juan asked.
Linc nodded. “Sure. The treads on the armored vehicles will tear concrete like that to shreds when they turn. The tanks weigh upward of sixty-five tons.”
“Which means they have some gas in them. How hard do you think it would be to drive this?” Juan said, jerking his thumb at the M1 Abrams next to him. It was the tank closest to the dock side of the ship.
Linc was used to Juan’s improvisation, so he didn’t even blink at the suggestion. Instead, he said, “We’ve got to get the cargo door down first.”
“So you’ve driven one?”
“I sat in the driver’s seat of one back in the old days. A buddy of mine in the SEALs used to be a Marine tank driver. It looks pretty simple. Motorcycle-type handles for steering and acceleration, and a brake pedal. Not much different from my Harley.” Linc kept a customized Harley-Davidson in the Oregon’s hold for day trips at ports of call.
“So that would be a no.”
Linc smiled. “I learn quickly.”
“I like your attitude. Only one problem.” Juan pointed at the battery-powered emergency lights that were on overhead. “I’d bet they cut off the power so the door won’t go down.”
“That is a problem. Even a tank can’t smash through a ship’s hull.”
“But y
ou did see the crates as we ran down here?”
A look of understanding crossed Linc’s face and he turned to squint at the other side of the hold. Two metal shipping containers were placed end to end along the wall. Each of them was marked with yellow warning placards that said “EXPLOSIVES.”
They held the ammunition for the armored vehicles. This really was a full-service smuggling operation. No sense in buying tanks that didn’t come with ammo.
“Keep me covered,” Juan said. “I’ll be right back.”
He felt extremely confident in Linc’s ability to protect his flank. Linc was an exceptional sniper, and even in the dim light he could take down any sailor who tried to rush in as long as he still had a round in the chamber.
Juan sprinted between the tanks, keeping his head low as he ran. He felt the shock wave of bullets passing overhead, but they were few and hastily aimed thanks to Linc’s expert covering fire.
Juan crouched behind the last tank and saw that the end of the freight container was exposed to the sailors at the stern door.
It was also locked.
A sizable padlock was looped through the handle. Either the North Koreans or Venezuelans didn’t trust the sticky fingers of their dockworkers.
Juan hitched up his pant cuff and accessed the hidden compartment in his combat leg. He’d leave the pistol and knife there for now. The plastic explosive and detonator were what he needed.
The small amount of C-4 would take care of a padlock easily enough.
He removed the explosive from its package and readied its detonator.
“Give me ten seconds on the stern door!” he called out to Linc.
“Roger that!”
