Using forward-looking infrared (FLIR), the “little birds” searched for warm bodies out in the clear and then zeroed in on the windows of the truck’s cab.
They circled for two or three minutes, but the only heat signatures they picked up came from the box in the back where the thin fiberglass shell revealed four separate figures as well as a larger square inanimate object that seemed to be emitting heat. The object rested on the forward center section of the bed, up near the cab.
As the snipers hovered in place, the larger Blackhawk put the NEST team down in the middle of an intersection cleared by the police. They dropped their duffel bags with their gear and asked one of the officers to load them into patrol cars and to follow them to the site. They took only their tool belts with the basic implements needed to get at the bomb. As soon as the empty bird lifted off, the next chopper, carrying the hostage rescue team, used the same controlled intersection and deposited the agents.
Together the two teams jogged east down the street toward San Diego Bay and the box truck parked two blocks away.
The snipers circling in the air overhead asked the NEST team about the wisdom of firing through the fiberglass shell of the truck’s back half.
The answer came back in a flash, negative. Depending on the source of detonation and whether the people inside could trigger it, a loose round in the wrong place or a ricochet and they could set off the device.
Alim folded the stock back on the Kalashnikov, unzipped the front of his overalls, and slipped the assault rifle inside to conceal it. He held it with his right hand by the pistol grip with one finger on the lever between safety and full automatic.
Afundi moved to the other side of the street, into the shadows, and slowly walked back toward the truck. Halfway down the block he stopped and set up under some trees, behind a parked car.
Because of the deep shadows inside the truck he couldn’t see far enough into the open back end to make out what was happening.
Alim checked his watch and knew he was now at the point of no return. He either had to break and run for the car to get across the bridge at near-light speed, or take his chances on entering the truck to reset the timer. It was one or the other. The single certainty was that he couldn’t wait any longer.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Herman finally realizes that what he needs is leverage. He grabs the wooden panel from the side of the crate and looks at it. It is heavy, made of South American junk wood, something called Ipe, hard as iron and almost as strong.
He slides the wooden panel up under the tie-down rail a few inches from where Nitikin’s hands are chained, puts his foot against the inside wall of the truck’s box, and lifts with all of his might. The washer and bolt holding the section of rail in place from the outside of the box pops through the fiberglass. Herman grabs the loose section of railing and bends it back. A second later Yakov is free.
Maricela tries to grab her father to hug him. She wants to wipe the blood from the side of his face but instead the old man goes down on his knees and moves toward the opening in the crate.
I get out of his way, figuring if anyone can do it, he can. I watch him as he stretches his arm to the end of the barrel and strains with his fingers to turn the breech plug. I can see the pain on his face as his fingers are rubbed raw by the metal.
Herman drops from the back of the truck and runs around to see if there are any tools in the cab of the truck, but I hear him pulling on the doors. Both of them are locked. Next he starts pounding on the window trying to break it, but he can’t, at least not with his fists. A few seconds later he’s back in the truck shaking his head.
“Lemme try,” he says.
I tap Nitikin on the shoulder and point to Herman. We want to get the man with the brawn in there. The Russian backs out of the opening in the crate and Herman squeezes into it. He tries to turn the plug, but it’s frozen tight. None of us can get a grip on it or sufficient leverage to turn it.
“Ask him what happens if we pull wires?” I say.
Maricela puts the question to her father, who quickly shakes his head. I don’t have to wait for the translation. I can tell by the look on his face that this is not a good idea.
“Be careful of wires,” I tell Herman.
Just as Alim started to break cover to head for the truck, the ear-splitting rush of noise overhead sent him ducking back into the shadows under the trees. The helicopter streaked through the sky, cut an arc directly over the truck, and proceeded on a direct course toward the naval carrier.
For a second Afundi thought it was probably just part of the festivities in the harbor, but a moment later a man in black combat gear with a rifle rushed from in front of a house a few doors down. Another broke cover farther on. They both approached the truck from the same side. Suddenly another helicopter moved in and hovered overhead no more than fifty yards in front of Afundi’s position. The sound of the rotors and whine of the turbine engine drowned out every other noise. It also gave Alim just the opening he needed.
He pulled the rifle from his overalls, unfolded the stock, and pushed the safety lever all the way down, setting up for single shots. Alim took careful aim and squeezed off a round. He watched as one of the men in black fell to the ground ten feet out from the truck. Quickly he moved the muzzle and acquired another target and faster than he could think he dropped it.
The noise of the helicopter and the beat of its rotors lay like a blanket over the sound of Alim’s shots as he picked off two more. By now the pavement behind the truck was littered with bodies.
“Where is it coming from?” one of the snipers asked.
“I don’t know.” They were baffled. “It could be coming from the back of the truck.” The element of surprise was gone and so was the initiative. The order was given to pull back and a few seconds later the helicopter dipped its rotors and disappeared out over the bay.
As I watch a guy in military gear go down just beyond the open door to the truck, I think he has tripped. But as I stand and look, I notice that he isn’t moving. When I see the other two go down, I know someone is shooting but we can’t hear them because of the noise of the helicopter.
Maricela sees what is happening and starts toward the door. I grab her and pull her back.
Behind me Nitikin is shaking his head. Then Herman comes out from inside the crate.
“No use,” he hollers. “We need something to turn it.”
I put Maricela’s back against the inside wall and tell her to stay there, not to move. Her dad comes up to take care of her, and I join Herman by the open crate.
“Any ideas?” I say.
“No.” I can see the fear in Herman’s eyes. The only saving aspect is that when it happens, it is likely to be so quick that none of us will even feel a thing. If I had a phone at this moment, I would call Sarah and say good-bye.
Suddenly the roar of the helicopter is gone and all I hear is the plaintive cry of Maricela as she calls my name. By the time I turn and look she is pointing out the back of the truck toward her father, who is outside on the ground running.
I scurry across the bed of the truck on my hands and knees until I land flat on my stomach at the open door. Trying to present the smallest target possible, I watch as the Russian reaches one of the bodies prostrate on the pavement behind the truck. He bends over, fumbling with something on the man’s belt.