Retribution Road Jon Coon (best android ereader TXT) 📖

900 MPA was making broad sweeps across the bay. All found nothing.

Senator Benson’s Learjet landed at George Bush International. They parked the aircraft and the three men were met by Texas Rangers in a four-wheel drive pickup. Gabe’s gear was quickly loaded, and they were in the air for the short flight to Baytown.

They landed at the company’s heliport and were escorted into the executive offices. The senator introduced himself and asked how the shutdown and evacuation were progressing. The news wasn’t good.

“It takes days to shut this place down and it takes a lot of personnel for that to happen,” the chief engineer informed them. “We’re doing it, but I hope this isn’t another one of those phony bomb scares. It costs a fortune to get this place back online.”

“Believe me, we’re all going to be praying this is one of those phony scares,” the senator replied. “Because if it’s not, if it’s what our intel suggests, this entire operation could be nothing but a grease spot by morning. Do everything you can to get your people out of here as fast as you can. And if you can head those tankers we saw when we flew in back to sea, I’d do that right now.”

“We’ve already made the calls. Unfortunately, when the ships tie up the crews tend to scatter. After weeks at sea … well, you understand. But we’re doing everything we can.”

“Good. We’ve got military and emergency services on standby. Anything else you can think of, just ask.”

It was nearly 2100 hours, nine P.M. The sun was setting, and Gabe was antsy. The scenario he imagined worked better at night. “I can’t imagine they’ve got any kind of diver lockout on those subs. That means one or both will have to surface to pick up the crew who scuttles the boat with the Semtex, and I’d want to do that in the dark, wouldn’t you?”

“Makes sense,” the engineer said.

“So, where would be the best place to do that?”

“The channel’s not well lit at night. The ships have their own lighting so—”

“Let’s get back in the air. I don’t want to give them a pass to get out the back door unnoticed.”

Tom agreed. Senator Benson said he was going to stay by the phones and would relay any news.

Back in the air, Gabe assembled his dive gear and put on a wet suit. The scooter Tom had arranged for was in its case strapped into a seat. Gabe felt ready. He had a small toolkit in his leg pocket and a cave light wrapped and ready on his right arm. In his left pocket were waterproof flares, and on his left arm, his dive computer. The pit of his stomach was churning. He tried to control his breathing to stay focused.

They flew a grid over the ship channel. There were four ships in all, three ahead of the Maroon Trader. “How many of those came in today?” Gabe asked.

Tom made a call and learned only the Maroon Trader.

“If they came in with her, why wouldn’t they just stay with her. They know she’s fully loaded. If they can ignite that oil, this place is toast, even if the initial blast doesn’t destroy it all.”

“Sounds right,” Tom agreed.

“Let’s get shooters on that helipad and more along her starboard side. If they surface a sub here, we might get lucky.”

“How do you think they would detonate it?” Tom asked.

“I don’t think a remote radio detonator would be reliable at that depth. The sub is going to be flooded. Semtex 10 is completely waterproof, so all they’d need is a waterproof timer that can set off an electric cap that fires Primacord pigtails to number 8 caps. Pretty simple. I’m a simple guy. That’s the way I’d do it.”

They flew another pass and saw officers with semi-auto rifles running down the dock to board the ship.

“Good. That makes me feel better,” Gabe said. He checked his watch. Ten thirty. They’d been in the air an hour. “I could sure use some coffee.”

Tom got up and went forward. He returned with a thermos and handed it to Gabe.

As Gabe poured, he looked away from the water. He filled the metal cup, tightened down the cap, and handed the thermos back to Tom.

“Thanks. Please thank whoever you stole that from.”

When he looked back at the ship, a dark-green sub, a hundred feet long and barely visible, was surfacing tightly beside the tanker’s hull.

“There!” Gabe shouted and spilled the coffee. “Get us down there, and tell your men to blast that sub with everything they’ve got.”

Four divers surfaced, and crewmen from the sub threw lines and pulled them in. The gunners on the tanker were running the hundreds of yards from the bow to the stern, and as yet, not a shot had been fired.

“Shoot! Shoot!” Gabe shouted, and Tom grabbed an AR-15 and opened fire. The movement of the chopper rendered his firing ineffective, but he emptied one clip, flipped it, and slammed in the other. The chopper dropped to thirty feet, and Gabe put on his mask and fins. He yelled, “Cease fire!” and jumped.

Gabe pointed his fins as straight down as he could and held his mask firmly in place. The impact flooded the mask anyway, and as he sank toward the bottom, he cleared his regulator and then cleared the mask.

The water was dark and dingy. He slowed his descent and turned on the cave light. He checked his computer and read the depth at sixty feet and still dropping. At ninety feet, he could see the tanker’s keel, and as he continued down, the vague outline of the other sub became visible. The hatch was open, and it reminded Gabe of a huge mousetrap.

On the surface, the three divers from Sebastian’s crew scrambled up the side of Cristóbal’s sub and down the hatch, like mullet trying to escape a hungry dolphin. Sebastian was the last to board, and as he pulled down the hatch and secured