allow him to successfully complete his mission. Yet not so much so as to interfere with his getaway; his, and his troops.
Hurricane Everette did not affect his mission plan greatly; he'd always planned to approach by land. His primary target was the vast field of oil storage tanks and the web of pumps and pipelines enmeshing it. The target area was at the foot of the Point, solidly on the mainland.
The storm would not affect the explosives, either. The bombs would be triggered by automatic timing devices, rather than by remote, radio-controlled detonators.
Now, two hours after leaving Pelican Pier, Vollard gave the order to attack. The time had come; the strike was on. The force was on the move, closing in on their objective.
His twelve-man force was divided into three SUVs. The tall-sided vehicles had a high center of gravity that made them particularly susceptible to being blown over by powerful blasts of wind. But the SUVs were roomy, with space enough for four or more fully equipped troops, complete with weapons, gear, and field packs of explosives.
The winds hadn't reached gale force yet; with any luck, the bombs would be planted and the mission completed well in advance of the storm's peak.
Vollard rode in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Rainwater sluiced nonstop across the windshield, side and rear windows; it was like driving through a car wash several miles long. Water streamed along the gutters, pooling in the low spots in the road. No real flooding yet. The SUVs' raised carriages helped, minimizing the danger of drowned, stalled engines.
The three-vehicle convoy cruised the riverfront, coming up to the Point. An impressive sight, this technopolis, one that not even the deluge could wholly subdue.
Looming up against the black backdrop of the river, it looked like a lunar colony out of a science fiction dream.
Rows of oil storage tanks, giant silvery cylinders and globes, were laid out on a grid of avenues and side streets. The tank farm was wrapped in a web of multilevel platforms, catwalks, valve hubs and clusters, junction boxes and pipelines. Avenues were lined with rows of streetlamps; the tanks themselves were bathed by floodlights.
The downpour screened the scene, veiling it, dimming the lights, making them hazy, glowing blurs. Blacktopped rainy streets shimmered with wavy bars and bands of reflected light.
The Point was approached by a broad thoroughfare, a four-lane avenue leading up to the main gate. The entrance was secured by several guardhouses manned by a squadron of security police.
Vollard could have taken them out by main force, but why bother? It was less risky to avoid them than to eliminate them. Why force the front door when it was so easy to enter by the side?
Intelligence precedes attack. Vollard had made a study of the site, photographing it from various angles, clocking the routines of patrols and shift changes, gaming a variety of mission plans at the Pelican Pier base to map out the optimum angle of attack.
The Point was on the north side, left bank of the river. River Road highway ran east-west along the shoreline. The massive complex was on the south side of the road. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence bordered the property, walling it off from the mainland.
West of the fence lay a football-sized field that served as a dumping ground for the Point. The final resting place for obsolete hardware and old junk that was less expensive to leave in place to rust and rot, rather than to recycle it or have it carted away.
It was heaped high with sections of pipe eight feet in diameter; old wooden electric cable spools; mounds of V-shaped metal brackets and X-shaped support metal braces; piles of rubble consisting of broken-up pavement and concrete; and similar castoffs.
The dump was fenced in and gated, not so much to discourage thieves, who were uninterested in the rubbish, as it was to keep out kids, who'd think it a great playground, where they could break their fool bones and necks, and their parents could then sue the company for big bucks.
It was unguarded, even by junkyard dogs; it was unlit. It was perfect for Vollard's plan.
Now the three-vehicle column pulled off River Road, turning right onto a gravel road leading up the dump yard gate. The machines turned off their headlights, leaving on their parking lights.
One of Vollard's men got out and used a bolt cutter to snip open the padlocked chain securing the gate. He opened it wide and the SUVs drove in.
A dirt road led inward to the depths of the dump, mounds of rubble rising on all sides. The bleary glow of the PRP complex's lights underlit the bottoms of low-hanging clouds sweeping in northward from the river.
The SUVs halted deep in the dump site. Eastward, beyond the fence and inside the Point complex, stood a vast lot filled with big rig trailers and container boxes. The trailers were empty; the truck cabs were parked elsewhere, in a more secure motor pool.
Directly south of the container lot stood the tank farm, the tract of oil storage tanks that was the target for tonight.
Vollard and his men were outfitted for the weather in waterproof ponchos.
The rain slickers were worn over their field packs, similar to knapsacks but more heavy-duty, laid out on a lightweight, tubular aluminum frame allowing the bearer to carry weighty loads. Those packs were filled with blocks of plastic explosives, detonators, and thermite bombs.
A macabre but effective touch, the mercs' assault rifles were weatherproofed by latex condoms covering the barrel muzzles to prevent water getting inside them. The troops also toted green khaki satchels with shoulder straps, containing spare clips of ammunition and grenades.
The relentless rain rendered night-vision goggles useless; it was impossible to see through lenses ceaselessly soaked by nonstop rain. High winds would have ripped them off their faces, too. So they had to forgo them.
Most of them carried commando knives worn in hip sheaths, in case any old-fashioned throat slitting was required.
A couple of mercs began working on the chain-link fence with bolt cutters, opening up a gap big enough for several of them to pass through abreast.
Vollard wasted no time on inspirational speeches, saying only, 'Time to earn our pay.'
Through the gap in the fence they filed, twelve mercs plus their leader. Vollard was first through the gap; he led from the front. Always.
Now they were in the geometric gridded maze of truck box containers, acres of them. Rain drummed on the rooftops of empty containers, setting an unholy racket rising up on all sides. Water sheeted down the sides of the big boxes; rivulets streamed through the gravel lot.
The force followed an east-west aisle eastward. They had not gone far, when Vollard noticed on his right in a cross street a big yellow bulldozer. It had not been there on the most recent recon mission performed by his scouts the day before.
What of it? There was always plenty of movement around an industrial site.
Typical of the Americans to leave a valuable piece of construction equipment out in the middle of a hurricane; childish, extravagantly wasteful. Shrugging, he thought no more about it.
The containers were laid out in a grid. On the north-south lanes, the south view opened on the tank farm. Rows of cylindrical oil storage tanks, looking like round silver pegs driven into the earth.
The tanks would be mined in hexagonal cluster patterns, with each central, mined tank igniting the adjacent tanks, blowing them up; they in turn would blow up their neighbors, and so on, until the whole field went up like a string of firecrackers.
In a sense, the bombs themselves were a kind of detonator, trigger mechanisms that would unleash the incredibly greater potential energy of each tankful of oil.
The storm would only increase its fury. Oil and water don't mix. Drenching rains would do nothing to suppress the conflagration, but only help spread it. High winds, rather than snuffing it out, would fan it to greater fury, like a stream of oxygen fueling an acetylene torch.
When they blew, the devastation would be awesome. Spectacular.
