Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

Pitt rapped his knuckles against the trash bin. “I need you to do a little dumpster diving while I round up some transportation. We could use an empty bottle or two, and perhaps a small open container. I’ll be right back.”

Before she could answer, he rushed back to the barracks building and stepped to the front side. A short distance away, the storage garage was still open and the gas-powered utility cart parked in front. Pitt lingered near the side of the building as a truck loaded with explosives rumbled past on its way to the barge. Once it passed, he crept toward the open garage. Voices sounded from inside, where a pair of mechanics were overhauling a truck engine.

Pitt ignored the men and approached the cart. Releasing its emergency brake, he pushed it past the open garage door. The cart rolled easily, and the mechanics didn’t notice the sound of crunching gravel under its tires. Pitt pushed it past the building and up to the dumpster.

Summer’s head popped up from inside, a look of relief on her face when she saw that it was her father.

“Any luck?” he asked.

Summer nodded. “Three empty rum bottles, a coffee can, and a pair of rats that nearly gave me cardiac arrest.” She passed the containers to Pitt, then leaped out of the dumpster like an Olympic high jumper.

Pitt held up the empty rum bottles. “They didn’t even leave us a last shot.”

“I’d trade

a case of rum for a hot shower.” Summer wiped her hands on the borrowed fatigues.

Pitt had Summer stand watch while he went to work. He opened the utility cart’s hood and located a rubber fuel line. Pulling it from the carburetor, he let the gas drain into the coffee can, then transferred it into the rum bottles, filling each half full. He reinstalled the fuel line, then sliced several lengths of cloth from his camouflage jacket. He stuffed these into the bottle tops, completing a trio of Molotov cocktails.

“Truck coming,” Summer whispered.

They ducked behind the cart as an empty truck rumbled to the pen for another load of explosives. Once it passed, Pitt stood and placed the bottles in the back of the cart.

“The dock’s clear,” he said. “Let’s get down there before the truck comes back.”

“How are we going to light the bottles?”

“Get behind the wheel and hit the starter for a second when I tell you.”

As Summer slid into the driver’s seat, Pitt gathered some dry leaves and sticks and placed them in the coffee can. A thin layer of gasoline sloshed at the bottom, ensuring fuel for the fire. Pitt picked up the can and carried it to the cart’s engine. He pulled a spark plug wire, dangled the end inside the coffee can, and motioned for Summer to turn the key.

A blue spark spit from the cable end and ignited the fuel in the bottom of the can. Pitt jammed the wire back onto the plug and jumped into the passenger seat with his canned campfire. Summer restarted the cart and drove down a short hill to the dock.

The barge was still tied up, with the tug astern. Summer drove onto the dock, thankful there were no soldiers nearby. Several men were working around a crane that was loading the barge with crated explosives. Others were positioned aboard the barge, securing the crates.

“See if you can get us past the crane without stopping.” Pitt hid the coffee can and bottles at his feet.

Keeping her head down, Summer maneuvered the cart past the stacked crates and around the crane. The soldiers were too busy loading the barge to pay any attention, save for the crane operator, who looked askance at Pitt’s ill-fitting uniform. When Summer had made it past two stacked crates of explosives, Pitt told her to pull over.

Partially concealed by the crates, he grabbed a bottle and lit the rag with his coffee can fire. Stepping to the edge of the dock, he hurled it toward the center of the barge.

The bottle shattered against the top of an open bin, sending a shower of flame over the top sack of ANFO.

Pitt had barely hopped into the cart when he heard someone yell, “Hey!” Just in front of them, two armed soldiers appeared.

“Go,” Pitt whispered.

Summer floored the accelerator, aiming the utility cart at the two men. The first jumped clear but the second hesitated. Summer clipped him in the thigh, sending him reeling to the side.

Pitt turned to see the first soldier regain his balance and raise his rifle. Quickly lighting the next rum bottle, he flung it to the ground in front of him. The glass exploded in a small fireball that engulfed the soldier’s legs. A short burst of gunfire riddled the back of the cart before the soldier dropped to the ground and rolled to douse the flames.

“Where did they come from?” Pitt asked.

“I think they were loafing on the other side of the crate. Tug’s just ahead.”

Pitt lit the final Molotov cocktail and flung it at the last stack of crates on the dock, engulfing it in flames.

Summer skidded to a stop in front of the tugboat and they both hopped out of the cart.