board began the attack by trying to hit Sandor before resorting to tactics that would destroy the speedboat in the process.
As the shots were fired Sandor dove to the deck, then crawled the rest of the way toward the cabinet and flung the lid open.
Meanwhile, the two men shooting at Sandor had some sort of long-range rifles, and they were not sparing the ammunition. Fortunately, they were still not aiming low enough to damage the boat.
Sandor was on his knees, rummaging through the store of armaments that were on hand. There were automatic rifles—likely the same variety as those being used against him. There was a grenade launcher. He found some sort of primitive flamethrower. And, most critical to his predicament, there was a rocket launcher with one projectile in place and a second wrapped and ready to go.
“You,” he said to the Mexican, “what would their orders be?”
“How would I know?”
“You can do better than that.”
“To blow your head off, what do you think?”
Sandor nodded. “I’ll try not to take offense. What I want to know is whether they’re willing to shoot up this boat in the process.”
The man managed to roll onto his side just enough to have a look at his captor. “Not at first. They’ll try and take you down. But they’re not going to stay with that for long, man. Too many federales in these waters.”
“As if the local authorities would care about some drug runners shooting at each other.”
The Mexican shook his head. “They don’t give a shit about narcotics; they’re here to protect the oil.”
————
Monter’s men were rapidly losing patience. There was no purpose in firing if you’re not allowed to hit the boat and you can’t see the man on board.
“Report in to Monter,” the pilot told them. “We could be here all day waiting for him to show himself.”
The man on his left spoke into the radio and Monter instantly responded. “What have we got?”
The man explained their situation.
“So it really is only one man?”
“That’s all we’ve seen. We came at him, he ducked down, now we’ve circled around, no sign of him.”
“You have no shot at all?”
“Not without shooting at the boat. And we don’t know who may be on there with him.”
“Not our problem,” Monter said without hesitation. “Anyone stupid enough to be captured deserves what he gets.” He paused. “Any chance you can board? You have a three-to-one edge.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“He fire at you yet?”
“Not yet. Like I said, we circled back once we were in range. I don’t think we hit him, but he’s laying low.”
Monter hesitated. It was an expensive boat and he was in no mood to have it blown to pieces.
“What if he finds the weapons on board?”
Monter had apparently lost four men already this morning. “All right,” he said. “Take a run at him. He returns any fire, you lower your sights and get this done. We don’t want the Armada on our backs, and you’re too close to the southern rigs to stay out there for long.”
————
The Venezuelan navy, officially known as the Bolivarian Armada, serves as both coast guard and naval force, with authority on all waters surrounding or within the country. They run frigates along the coasts and engage in regular maneuvers to protect the nation’s oil industry.
Sandor’s concern, other than the obvious goal—to avoid getting shot—was the risk of being captured by the Venezuelan government. Given Adina’s relationship with Chavez, it was no understatement to say that Jordan Sandor would never be heard from again if he was taken prisoner within the borders of this country. Once the Armada arrived, the capture of these drug runners would seem like a misdemeanor arrest compared to the apprehension of an American intelligence agent.
Sandor worked quickly to arm the rocket launcher; then he set it down beside him and reached for the satellite phone again.
“Go ahead,” Bergenn
As the shots were fired Sandor dove to the deck, then crawled the rest of the way toward the cabinet and flung the lid open.
Meanwhile, the two men shooting at Sandor had some sort of long-range rifles, and they were not sparing the ammunition. Fortunately, they were still not aiming low enough to damage the boat.
Sandor was on his knees, rummaging through the store of armaments that were on hand. There were automatic rifles—likely the same variety as those being used against him. There was a grenade launcher. He found some sort of primitive flamethrower. And, most critical to his predicament, there was a rocket launcher with one projectile in place and a second wrapped and ready to go.
“You,” he said to the Mexican, “what would their orders be?”
“How would I know?”
“You can do better than that.”
“To blow your head off, what do you think?”
Sandor nodded. “I’ll try not to take offense. What I want to know is whether they’re willing to shoot up this boat in the process.”
The man managed to roll onto his side just enough to have a look at his captor. “Not at first. They’ll try and take you down. But they’re not going to stay with that for long, man. Too many federales in these waters.”
“As if the local authorities would care about some drug runners shooting at each other.”
The Mexican shook his head. “They don’t give a shit about narcotics; they’re here to protect the oil.”
————
Monter’s men were rapidly losing patience. There was no purpose in firing if you’re not allowed to hit the boat and you can’t see the man on board.
“Report in to Monter,” the pilot told them. “We could be here all day waiting for him to show himself.”
The man on his left spoke into the radio and Monter instantly responded. “What have we got?”
The man explained their situation.
“So it really is only one man?”
“That’s all we’ve seen. We came at him, he ducked down, now we’ve circled around, no sign of him.”
“You have no shot at all?”
“Not without shooting at the boat. And we don’t know who may be on there with him.”
“Not our problem,” Monter said without hesitation. “Anyone stupid enough to be captured deserves what he gets.” He paused. “Any chance you can board? You have a three-to-one edge.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“He fire at you yet?”
“Not yet. Like I said, we circled back once we were in range. I don’t think we hit him, but he’s laying low.”
Monter hesitated. It was an expensive boat and he was in no mood to have it blown to pieces.
“What if he finds the weapons on board?”
Monter had apparently lost four men already this morning. “All right,” he said. “Take a run at him. He returns any fire, you lower your sights and get this done. We don’t want the Armada on our backs, and you’re too close to the southern rigs to stay out there for long.”
————
The Venezuelan navy, officially known as the Bolivarian Armada, serves as both coast guard and naval force, with authority on all waters surrounding or within the country. They run frigates along the coasts and engage in regular maneuvers to protect the nation’s oil industry.
Sandor’s concern, other than the obvious goal—to avoid getting shot—was the risk of being captured by the Venezuelan government. Given Adina’s relationship with Chavez, it was no understatement to say that Jordan Sandor would never be heard from again if he was taken prisoner within the borders of this country. Once the Armada arrived, the capture of these drug runners would seem like a misdemeanor arrest compared to the apprehension of an American intelligence agent.
Sandor worked quickly to arm the rocket launcher; then he set it down beside him and reached for the satellite phone again.
“Go ahead,” Bergenn
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