Judgment at Alcatraz Dave Edlund (detective books to read TXT) 📖

He shrugged. “They say this is a two-man weapon system. But we trained to load, aim, and fire with only one person.”

She slapped him on the shoulder and ran back down the slope to Leonard’s hide.

Chapter 15

As the Coast Guard cutter bore down on the island, the .50-caliber pedestal-mounted machine guns fore of the super structure came into view. Behind each gun was a Coastie wearing a bright orange floatation vest.

“I need you to slow down that cutter,” Sacheen whispered, only inches away from Leonard’s ear. “Create a diversion so they can’t use their speed and mobility against us.”

His eye was glued to the telescopic sight on the rifle, his finger slowly applying pressure to the trigger. The police Zodiac was still circling seven hundred to eight hundred yards away. It was a long shot, but easily within range of the Barrett. The three police crewmen busied themselves between talk on the radio and glassing activities on Alcatraz.

Boom!

The sharp report startled Sacheen, but not Leonard. His shoulder absorbed the recoil, just as it had the hundreds of times he’d fired the weapon on his remote ranch on the Duck Valley Reservation, honing his marksmanship to the point that he could hit a man-sized stationary target at one thousand yards, eight out of ten tries.

The semiautomatic action of the Barrett chambered another round. A second later, he fired again.

Sacheen trained her binoculars on the police boat. Dense black smoke emanated from the second outboard engine, and the craft was drifting. One of the air-filled buoyancy cells was rapidly deflating. The crew was absorbed in emergency activity. While one was talking on the radio, the other two seemed to be franticly assessing the seaworthiness of their boat.

Leonard fired again. The round punctured another buoyancy cell, imparting a severe list to the small boat. As one, all three police officers pitched over the side into the cold bay water.

“There’s your diversion,” Leonard said. “The cutter has no choice but to stop and fish those officers out of the water.”

She smiled. “Perfect.”

s

From her concealed location next to the old military chapel, the rifle reports sounded muffled to Danya. She surmised the shooter was on the far side of the barracks building. She raised the binoculars again, in time to see a bullet take out the second outboard engine on the police Zodiac. Time to leave her cover and enter the conflict.

The most direct route to the far side of the barracks was back through the sally port to the main path. But with five or six armed guards busying themselves on the dock, that route was a nonstarter. Another option was to skirt the rear of the barracks. The ground behind the building rose steeply, held in place by a retaining wall forming a slot, or narrow path just wide enough for building maintenance. Tracing the top of the wall, the walkway to the parade grounds was elevated almost to the roof of the barracks. She reasoned that if she followed that slot, it was unlikely anyone would see her unless they were on the trail directly above. If that were to happen, she’d be trapped. Although far from ideal, it was the best option she could come up with.

More rifle shots provided encouragement to move. Fortunately, the back wall of the barracks was devoid of windows. She advanced in a low crouch. Far above her head, and much farther to the right, was the massive concrete cell house atop the island. The slot she was moving in limited her field of view, and she still had no definitive idea where the sniper was positioned.

Before she reached the end of the building, the rifle shots ceased. She paused and dropped to a knee, scanning above and behind while listening for sounds of danger.

Nothing appeared out of place, and she resumed her advance. As she neared the end of the building, a wing of the barracks extended across her path, forcing her to detour. At the corner of the structure, she paused again, searching for the presence of danger. All seemed normal, and then she heard a swoosh!

Like the gunshots, the sound originated from some undetermined location in front of her position.

s

The Coast Guard cutter was already slowing. It circled around the disabled Zodiac as the captain maneuvered between the island and the police officers treading water. He reversed engines and brought his boat to a full stop, using the hull and large super structure as a shield from further gunfire while three Coasties threw life rings overboard. The crewmen then walked the lifelines to the stern of the boat, where a ladder was mounted to the hull.

On the bow, the machine guns were aimed toward the ferry dock.

“Seaman,” the captain said. “Fire a short warning burst into the water, near the edge of the ferry landing.”

The Browning M2 machine gun burped for a second, sending a half-dozen shells into the bay water, and a fountain of spray high into the air.

The cutter was drifting, its bow coming around fully to face the island only seven-hundred yards away.

“Recovery complete,” a junior petty officer reported to the captain. “We have all three men safely onboard. No injuries.”

A streak of fire and white smoke lanced out from the plateau halfway to the top of the island. Two seconds later, a thunderous explosion engulfed the pilothouse. Dagger-like shards of glass from the windows were blasted inwards. The razor-edged fragments sliced through clothing and flesh, killing two, and injuring the captain.

The blast took out most of the bridge controls and electronics. Unable to change engine speed, the boat limped forward. Fortunately, steering was still operational.

In unison, both machine guns cut loose, aiming at the origin of the rocket. The Coasties fired short, controlled bursts. The rapid, staccato reports were deafening, and masked all other sounds on the cutter. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the gunfire stopped.

The boat bobbed on the water while the crew took stock. On the stern deck, crewmen led