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“Linc, I think there’s going to be a blackout on this side of the harbor pretty soon.”
Without hesitation, Linc answered, “Yes, those telephone poles look very unstable. They should be replaced. I’ll help them with the demolition.”
Linc swerved off to the side of the road and aimed for the nearest thick wooden pole. The Abrams snapped it like a twig and it fell across the road, its power line sparking on the asphalt. The streetlights were immediately snuffed out, leaving only the illumination from the tank.
The Abrams continued along the roadside until they’d knocked over half a dozen poles.
“Nice driving,” Juan said. “That should give us at least a few minutes’ breathing room while they try to get those Humvees around them.” With no parallel street and rocky terrain behind the houses lining the road on one side and water on the other, the soldiers would have no choice but to clear the obstacles before they could resume the pursuit.
The rumble of the tank’s treads had brought out residents from their homes. The astonished onlookers made Juan feel like they were cruising down the street inside a parade float.
When they got to the end of the road, Juan used his phone’s GPS to guide them up the bushy slope. The Abrams faltered briefly as its treads tore at the dirt for purchase and then climbed the hill, flattening shrubs and small trees along the way.
In two minutes they had reached the apex of the hill, where in the daytime they would have had an expansive view of the Caribbean. The cloud cover obscured the full moon, making it impossible to see the archipelago of small islands three miles away that formed a natural breakwater protecting Puerto La Cruz and La Guanta from storms.
But Juan could make out the lights on the stationary Oregon far below them, three hundred yards north of the rocky coastline. Max had put the ship exactly where Juan was expecting to see her.
Juan popped open the hatch and climbed out of the tank, glad to get a breath of fresh air after being saturated with the stench of burned gunpowder. Linc cracked his hatch and pulled himself up. He stretched his beefy arms wide.
“That space was definitely not designed for someone like me,” he said.
“Is anything designed for someone like you?” Juan said as he phoned the Oregon.
Linc shook his head. “Why do you think my Harley is customized?”
Juan’s phone clicked and Max came on the line. “So that’s your Plan C, huh?”
“We like to travel in style,” Juan replied. “Are you ready to fire?”
“Eddie’s on deck with the Comet and has you in his sights.”
“Then let her rip.”
Comet was a company that designed line-throwing rockets required on ships by the Safety of Life at Sea convention, or SOLAS. They were used as fire safety lines to people who’d fallen overboard, and they could also send lines to other ships for passing back towlines or supplies.
Comet’s normal product fired rockets with a range of two hundred and fifty yards, but the Corporation had asked them to double that range.
Juan spotted a flash from the Oregon and a red teardrop of flame flew at them. Eddie’s aim was dead-on. The torch arced high over their heads and down the other side of the hill. The rope line landed right across the tank’s turret.
Linc wasted no time knotting it around the Abrams’s gun barrel to anchor it. He gave Juan the thumbs-up when it was tight.
“Tell Eddie that he was right on the money,” Juan said to Max. “We’ve got the line hooked up.”
“We’ll get it tied onto a crane at our end.”
The rope line went taut as Eddie reeled it in. The Oregon’s thrusters would keep the ship in place so that the line wouldn’t go slack or snap.
Juan motioned for Linc to go first. Linc climbed onto the tank, wrapped the strap from the assault rifle around the rope, and looped each end around his wrists.
“Remember,” Juan said, “we’re a lot higher than the Oregon, so you’re going to have a good head of steam when you get there.” Eddie had half inflated a couple of rafts to cushion their landing, but it would still feel like a wrestler’s body slam. Juan let Max know that Linc was on his way.
Linc nodded and stepped off the Abrams’s front end. Zip lines for tourists are made of heavy steel cable so they will remain taut under load, but the nylon line had much more flex to it and sagged under his weight. He walked down the hill until he was suspended from the rope and gravity took over.
Juan’s eyes were drawn away from Linc’s progress when he heard the sound of vehicle engines. Headlights came to a stop at the end of the road several hundred yards away. Doors slammed as soldiers piled out and scrambled up the hill. It would be simple to follow the trail of destruction the tank had left in its wake.
Flashlights bobbed as the soldiers climbed. Officers shouted orders to take them alive, but Juan guessed those orders would be countermanded if they saw he was about to get away.
Max called to tell him that Linc had made it, and not a moment too soon. The clouds had parted momentarily, revealing the tank’s silhouette in the moonlight. The soldiers had spotted the Abrams and were sprinting toward it, their rifles at the ready.
