Dale Brown - Act of War

“I thought you said…!”

“Fuck what I said, asshole. I secured them the best I could.”

“Damn you!” Ruiz holstered his pistol and turned his binoculars toward the dam. He and Pereira had already hidden about a hundred kilos of high explosives in various sections of the dam, getting ready to blow it up in the next couple days; they had planned to plant another fifty kilos, but that was going to be impossible now. They had no desire to make martyrs of themselves, so the plan was to get safely away first—but now it looked like that was not possible either. Sure enough, he saw several dozen soldiers running toward the dam, with a helicopter starting to move into position. Ruiz turned back toward the PME soldiers. “Why didn’t you tell us…?”

“Because then we couldn’t capture you before the dam blew, assholes,” the soldier said. Ruiz turned. Pereira was still pointing his pistol at the first soldier, but the other two soldiers now had their M-16 rifles aimed at them. “Drop your pistol, Pereira, or my comrades will open fire.”

“You bastard,” Pereira breathed. “You’ll be the first to die if there’s any shooting.”

“You won’t be able to spend all the money you’ve been squeezing out of both sides if you’re dead,” Ruiz reminded him.

“Don’t be stupid, both of you,” the soldier said. “You don’t want to die out here lying in the mud and bushes—neither do I. I take you in, I get the reward money for capturing a saboteur, I get the hell out of the state, and you have Zakharov and your other supporters spring you from prison. Everyone keeps a clear head and we get out of this alive.”

“The TransGlobal Energy security forces won’t let us live,” Pereira said. “They’ll interrogate and torture us, then dispose of us.”

“I’ve notified your buddy Zakharov to arrange with the PME and the state tribunal to take you into custody right away—TransGlobal won’t get their hands on you, as long as you do everything I say.” He looked overhead. One of the TransGlobal Energy security force helicopters that had been patrolling the northwest face of the dam was now slowly heading in their direction. “They’ll be watching everything we do, and if you resist, they’ll likely kill you. Do as I say, and I will stay in control of this situation. Now drop the guns and let’s go.”

“Jorge?” Pereira asked in a low voice. “I think I can tag at least two of them…you might be able to get away…”

“No,” Ruiz said. “We tried. Put the gun down.” Pereira reluctantly dropped his pistol.

The PME soldier radioed to the TransGlobal security chief that he had two prisoners and was going to take them to the security force headquarters in Cascavel. The helicopter kept on approaching, very slowly, staying at least fifty to sixty meters away. They could now see a TransGlobal security officer sitting in the helicopter’s open right-side doorway, wearing sunglasses and a headset, with what appeared to be a hunting rifle with a large telescopic sight affixed, safely pointing out the door but not upraised or aimed at anyone on the ground.

“He will not hesitate to shoot you in the head if you resist, Ruiz,” the soldier repeated. “Those TransGlobal sharpshooters are damned good, I must admit. Now, first, hand over the detonators to the explosives you set on the dam.”

“Your greed has destroyed you,” Ruiz said. One of the other soldiers had climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and started it up; the other lit up a cigarette, cradling his rifle in his arms.

“Shut up and hand them over, Ruiz,” the leader said. He nodded to the third soldier, then motioned with his head toward Pereira. “Handcuff that one and search him.” The soldier nodded, then slung his rifle over his shoulder as he took a deep drag of his cigarette and reached in a rear pocket for handcuffs.

Pereira used that moment of distraction to move. The first soldier may have been anticipating his move, because he had the gun trained on him the entire time, but Pereira was quick and managed to get a hand on the pistol…but he wasn’t quick enough to keep him from firing. Pereira was hit in the right shoulder. He cried out and rolled to his right, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grabbed the second soldier’s rifle out of the front seat. Struggling through the pain, he flicked off the safety and tried to level it at the first soldier, but he had lost all strength in his right arm.

“Too late, Pereira,” the first soldier said with a smile. The helicopter was hovering, now less than forty meters away. The shooter in the door had already raised his rifle and was taking aim. Pereira thought about trying to dive atop Ruiz before the gunner took them both out, but just then he saw the gunner’s body buck and a puff of smoke jet from his rifle’s muzzle…

…and the first soldier’s head disappeared in a cloud of red gore. The heads of the two other PME soldiers disappeared seconds later. Three head shots, three kills, from forty meters away, in about three seconds. Whoever was in that helicopter was a damned good shot, Ruiz thought.

The gunman in the door motioned for Ruiz and Pereira to follow, and then the helicopter translated to a wide spot in the construction road a few hundred meters away. Ruiz supported Pereira as they trotted over to it. The gunman was aiming his rifle toward them, scanning over their shoulders for any sign of pursuit. As they approached, the gunman took his sunglasses off…

…and when Ruiz saw that it was none other than Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, a wave of relief washed over him: saved once again by Yegor Zakharov, the guardian angel of GAMMA.

The sharpshooter helped Pereira into a seat in the helicopter and fastened his seat belt for him. “Muito obrigado,” Ruiz shouted over the roar of the helicopter’s jet engine. Instead of trying to respond over the noise, Zakharov motioned with his right thumb as if pressing a button—he was telling Ruiz to detonate the explosives. “But they are not all planted yet!” he shouted.

“Are you crazy?” Zakharov asked, shouting. In a flash of motion, he raised his Dragunov sniper rifle to his shoulder, aimed toward Ruiz, and fired. Ruiz felt as if he had been slapped in the face by a red-hot paddle as the muzzle blast pounded him…but he wasn’t hit. He looked over his shoulder just as another TransGlobal Energy Security Force Jeep, with a headless driver behind the wheel, careened into a tree about seventy meters behind him. “Blow whatever you got out there and let’s get the hell out of here!” Zakharov shouted. His voice was serious, but he was smiling, like a father admonishing his young son for swearing moments after scoring the game-winning goal.

Ruiz needed no more prompting. He withdrew a small detonator from his pocket, punched in an unlock code, and hit a red button, holding the unit aloft to be sure its radio signal got out cleanly. But Zakharov wasn’t going to wait. He shouted, “Either it will work or it won’t, Jorge. Let’s go!” then lowered his rifle and grabbed Ruiz by the front of his shirt, pulling him headfirst into the chopper. His feet had barely left the ground before the helicopter lifted off…

…and the helicopter was barely a kilometer away when the first charge went off, followed quickly by three more. Ruiz and Pereira had hidden four twenty-five-kilo charges on various parts of the dam, designed not to cause a catastrophic failure—they would not have been able to hump in enough explosives to do that, unless they were nuclear devices—but to weaken the structure enough that work on the reactor units would have to be stopped while the dam was inspected and repaired. That could take months, maybe years, and cost TransGlobal millions—hopefully.

Ruiz looked at the dam as best he could while he fastened his safety belt and donned his headset. “I couldn’t tell if all the charges went off or if the face was damaged,” he said. “All that work for nothing.”