78

Knuckles tapped Jennifer’s leg with his foot, getting her attention. She pulled out a foam earplug from her right ear and he said, “One target remaining, and it’s headed our way. Get eyes out.”

She picked up a ten-power combination range finder/binocular, scanning from the tip of the international port down to where they lay. Knuckles did the same through the scope on the Barrett, seating the weapon into his shoulder. The two seamen behind them shifted uncomfortably, unsure if they were supposed to do anything.

They’d met the FBI pilots at gate three, right off of Interstate 564, and were surprised to learn that they’d already coordinated to get them on the bridge of an aircraft carrier. The FBI had whisked them to pier five, the berth of the gigantic USS George Washington aircraft carrier. They’d jogged down the pier toward the gangway and were stopped by a master-at-arms petty officer and two seamen acting as shore patrol.

The petty officer said, “I need to see your badges before letting you on board the ship.”

The special agent showed his, prompting the petty officer to look at Knuckles and Jennifer expectantly. Knuckles showed his US Navy CAC card, and the petty officer said, “That’s not going to get you on board. What about her?”

Frustrated that the idiot was asking for badges while Knuckles was standing in front of him holding what amounted to a semiautomatic bazooka, he said, “Look, she’s with me, and we’re going to the bridge. If we wanted to do anything harmful to this ship, I’d just shoot all three of you right now.”

The petty officer’s eyes went wide, and he began to bluster. Knuckles said, “Get out of the way.”

The petty officer put his hand on the butt of his pistol, and Knuckles said, “You draw that thing, and you’ll reap the consequences.”

The petty officer backed down but said, “These two will accompany you at all times.”

Knuckles said, “Fine by me,” then pushed him out of the way. The seamen followed with a smirk, apparently liking what Knuckles had done. Halfway up the gangway, Knuckles turned and said, “You guys know the quickest way to the bridge?”

The first seaman nodded, and Knuckles said, “Take the lead.”

Eight minutes later they were on a platform on top of the bridge, the flat top of the aircraft carrier landing deck far below. Knuckles extended the bipod of the Barrett, getting it into position, and Jennifer began to range target reference points from the Lafayette River to their location.

Knuckles finished establishing his firing position, satisfied, and asked, “What do you have?”

Jennifer showed him a crude drawing she’d made, saying, “TRP 1 is the last gantry crane of the first set on the international port. Distance 2,935 meters. TRP 2 is the first gantry crane of the second set at the international port. Distance 1,956 meters. TRP 3 is the final pier of the international port, the boundary one with the Navy base. Distance 1,030 meters.”

Knuckles smiled and said, “Very good, commando. Let me see the reticle you’re using.” She passed the binoculars over, saying, “It’s got night vision, so I’ll probably be the one who sees him first.”

Knuckles brought the binos up to his eyes, seeing an MRAD reticle just like the one in his scope, with hash lines that could be used to measure distance for windage and drop of the bullet, as well as guide him into the target from her calls.

He handed it back to her, looked over his shoulder at the two seamen, and said, “You guys have any ear protection?”

“We work on a carrier. I think we can handle it.”

Knuckles said, “Suit yourself.” He didn’t mention that the Barrett was about the loudest rifle he’d ever fired, with the muzzle brake actually providing a small concussive shock wave.

He went behind the scope, making sure he could find the TRPs without the aid of night vision. He ranged each with the scope, getting a point of focus for rapid acquisition, then settled in to wait, feeling the breeze off the ocean.

Every thirty seconds, he and Jennifer alternated scanning the river, looking for signs of a Jet Ski. Knuckles realized it would be hard to locate the target early enough if the attack was at the international port. They’d be on an attack run before he could engage, and if they hit the first section of gantry cranes, his weapon didn’t even have the range to reach. Luckily, there were no ships berthed at the first section, and the odds were that they wouldn’t simply attack the port cranes. He was hoping they would be drawn in by the mighty United States Navy.

An hour into the overwatch, Pike’s call had come in. Knuckles alerted Jennifer, removed his Bluetooth, and put in an earplug, willing his heart rate to slow. He began scanning the dark water, looking for any sign of a wake, breathing like a metronome. In—out—in—out, methodically getting into a hypnotic rhythm he wouldn’t break until the mission was done, his pulse rate dropping with each breath.

He reached the end of his search zone and returned the scope to the far side, starting over in a methodical sector scan, clearing each bit of water. Next to him, louder than necessary, Jennifer said, “Target! TRP 2, up nine, right seven.”

He swiveled to TRP 2, put his reticle on the center, and scanned the distance she’d called. He found the target. Robotically, he said, “Target acquired. Ready, ready.”

She said, “Send it,” and the rifle boomed, a blast that rippled the air around them, the buttstock slamming into his shoulder. He heard the two seaman shout but ignored them, waiting on his spotter. She said, “Up three, right two.”

He’d failed the lead and the elevation. The bullet had landed behind the Sea-Doo. He adjusted his aim point, then said, “Ready, ready.”

“Send it.”

BOOM.

“Up one, right one. He’s inside a thousand.”

BOOM.

“Elevation good, left one. Knuckles, he’s coming right at us. We’re his target.”

Knuckles ignored the stray chatter, focusing on the reticle and her call.

BOOM.

“Hit!”

The Sea-Doo continued driving straight at them. Jennifer said, “He’s still coming. That was a hit, but he’s still coming.”

Knuckles said nothing, breathing out, focusing all his energy into not having any energy, turning his body to stone. He broke the trigger one more time.

The night sky was blistered by an explosion, the Sea-Doo disappearing in a fireball that caused Jennifer to duck her head.

When she looked up again, she saw the water on fire, less than four hundred meters from the ship.

Knuckles dropped the buttstock, looked at her deadpan, and said, “Target down.”

She grinned at him, then punched him in the arm, saying, “Were you just trying to scare me? Waiting until I wet my pants?”

He smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. “That was good spotting, Koko. Might need to upgrade your callsign.”

She took the compliment, then said, “That was some phenomenal shooting.”

He stood up, saying, “Yeah, you’ll never see Pike make that shot.”

She gathered up the range finder and stood with him, saying, “I’ve seen him do something better.”

He said, “What? Rome? Bosnia?”

She grinned and said, “No. Not on an operation.”

He folded up the bipod legs, knowing that she was ribbing him because of his pushback in the past about their relationship. He rolled his eyes and picked up the weapon, saying, “I do not want to hear it.”

She laughed and turned around, seeing the two seamen cowering in the corner with their hands over their ears.

Knuckles said, “Thanks for the help.”

The first seaman nodded. When he made no attempt to rise, Knuckles glanced at Jennifer, then said, “We can find our own way down.”