Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

Pitt walked toward them, trying to appear casual as he tightened his grip on the assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

Noting his approach, one of the soldiers spoke rapidly to his companion, then darted out an opposite exit, fearful he was about to be caught goldbricking. The other soldier extinguished his cigarette and stood at attention.

Pitt approached quickly, asking from a distance, “Cigarillo?”

The soldier reached into his pocket before realizing something was amiss. The approaching man was taller than any soldier he knew, his uniform was several sizes too short, and his craggy face was too mature for his rank.

Rather than extending a hand for the cigarette, the stranger jammed his rifle into the soldier’s chest. Before he had a chance to react, Pitt commanded him, “Drop your weapon.”

The guard nodded and let his rifle slip to the floor. Pitt nudged him toward the door and told him to open it. The door was unlocked. The guard twisted the knob and flung it open. Summer was seated on a bunk inside, visibly working to free her bound wrists. She froze, then did a double take as Pitt entered with the guard ahead of him.

She gave him a tired smile. “You join the Revolutionary Armed Forces?”

“The Boy Scouts wouldn’t have me.”

Keeping his gun leveled on the guard, Pitt handed Summer his penknife. “You okay?” He noted the light cut on her cheek.

She nodded. “Received some idle threats from our host but was otherwise stuck here counting flies all day.”

“I think you’ll need his cap and jacket.” Pitt motioned toward the guard.

Summer appropriated his attire. “What do we do with him?”

“Tie him up. You can use those bedsheets, but start with this.” Pitt handed her the shoulder strap off his rifle.

She wrapped the man’s wrists together behind his back, then stripped the sheets off the bed. She secured one around his elbows, then shoved him on the bed and tied his ankles together with the other. She finished the job by gagging him with a pillowcase.

“You did that very well,” Pitt said.

“I’ve had a bit of experience on the other end lately.”

Summer slipped on the guard’s jacket and hat. Before they exited the room, Pitt retrieved the man’s weapon from the floor and handed it to his daughter.

“I’ve never fired one of these.”

“You won’t need to. Just act like you know how.”

They exited the building by the rear stairwell and ducked behind a dumpster to reconnoiter the dock.

“How do we get out of here?” she asked.

“The tug.”

Summer looked at her father and shook her head. “Why don’t we just sneak down the coast and find another boat? They’ll be all over us here.”

“Because of the thermal vents. They’re loading explosives aboard the barge right now in preparation for blowing the next two vents. We can’t let that happen.”

Summer had heard that firm tone in her father’s voice before. She knew there would be no changing his mind. And, rationally, he was right. If the Cubans blew up the thermal vents, it would cause an environmental catastrophe of untold proportions. They had to be stopped and there was no time to spare.

She just wished the job could fall to someone else. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Try to ignite the explosives on the dock—or on the barge. If we’re lucky, maybe we can sink the barge with it. During the confusion, we’ll slip out on the tug.”

“And if we’re not lucky, we’ll be blown sky-high?”

Pitt smiled and shook his head. “The explosive they’re loading, ANFO, has a low volatility. Getting it to blow requires a secondary detonation. The best we can hope to do is ignite it and hope it burns like crazy.”

“‘Crazy’ is the operational word, all right.” She noticed her father’s calm demeanor and her fears fell away. “Okay, what can I do?”