Kenyon scrutinized both maps. He pointed to three storage tanks in a row near the bottom of the sketch. “We’ll wire these.” He gathered his thoughts and then pointed to a group of four tanks to the east. “We won’t touch these.”
As Pierre started to protest after Lance translated, Kenyon held up a hand. “Hear me out. They’re too far from the rest and away from our direction of travel.” He indicated a group of fourteen tanks in two lines running to the northeast. “As soon as we have these wired, we’ll blow the first three. That will bring security to that location and keep them busy. Then we’ll wire these last eight to the north and blow the group of fourteen. Once we’re safely in our getaway cars, we’ll blow the last ones. Does that make sense?”
Pierre looked dismayed as Lance translated and hovered his hand over the group of four fuel tanks that would be left untouched.
Kenyon read his thoughts. “Don’t be greedy,” he said with humor. “Blowing those is a needless risk.” He straightened up. “This fight just became real for you. You’re in it now. Some of your men could die tonight.” He locked eyes with Pierre. “You could die. We’ve got to mitigate risk, get in, blow what we can, and get out. That’s how you’re going to be around for the next operation and the one after that…” He waved his hand in a circular motion to indicate a continuing string of missions.
“I understand,” Pierre responded after Lance had translated. “We should go very early in the morning when the fishing boats head out to sea. We’ll be among them, and then divert to the quay by the depot.”
Kenyon considered that. “We need at least two hours of darkness.”
“I’ll get some of my fisherman friends to start their day early.”
“You might need to overpower some guards and cut some phone lines.”
“We can do that.”
30
Two hours before dawn just over twenty-four hours later, a fishing boat belonging to a friend of Pierre’s navigated into the current upstream of the fuel depot and held steady. Lance, Horton, Kenyon, Pierre, and the five partisan fighters of the first night’s mission crouched behind the wheelhouse with three additional men and two women. The vessel was soon joined by a fleet of fishing boats that took up positions around the first one, all of them with their running lights on. They started downstream.
Lance had observed the partisan group of men and women as they had rehearsed during the day, and he was pleased with what he saw. Several men, like Pierre, made their livelihoods by navigating the waves daily as fishermen. The others were farmers who regularly worked the fields. All were lean and physically fit; the women too. He didn’t know how the latter related to the men, and he chose not to inquire. All wore looks of zeal tempered by a realization that the war had come to them.
Having women present and participating in combat operations made Lance uneasy. Doing so had never before occurred to him, and he did not like the idea. Pierre explained their role, and the women were eager to do their part, so Lance accepted the decision to include them without further objection. His uneasiness persisted, but he was gratified that one of them spoke broken English.
Her name was Elena. She was small and curvaceous, having been chosen partly for those attributes. Her blue eyes over a ready smile would brighten any room, but she was also strong and athletic, her blonde hair currently held in place against the wind by a tight scarf. The other woman enjoyed similar characteristics but did not speak English.
The moon had begun its ascent and cast its reflection on the dark water, further illuminating the boats. The fuel depot came into view, and for the first time, Lance saw that the huge tanks were set well back from the water’s edge. A seawall of sorts, built from stacked stones, ran for several hundred feet along the bank. The field behind lay wide open with no cover or concealment all the way to the dimly lit storage tanks. Two guardhouses stood close to each end of the quay.
Lance’s heart pounded harder.
When they had navigated a quarter of the bulkhead’s length abreast of it, the boat’s owner choked the engine. It sputtered. He pointed the vessel toward the quay and manipulated the choke enough to power it there. Then he doused the motor.
The men crouched on the dark deck below the sides of the boat. Elena jumped out. The fisherman tossed her a rope. She tied it off and started up the bank to a gravel utility road that paralleled the river.
A door slammed on one of the guardhouses. Peering out of the darkness, Lance watched as Elena spoke with a sentry. They headed for the guardhouse. The other woman jumped from the boat, climbed the bank, and started toward the opposite end.
Two of Pierre’s men slid over the side of the boat onto the bank. Crouching low and staying close to the water, they moved swiftly in opposite directions.
Meanwhile, the women had entered the guardhouses at their respective ends of the service road. Pierre’s two men reached positions just below them. After the women disappeared inside, the men crept up the short, shallow grade. Arriving in front of their separate doors simultaneously, they jerked them open. Inside, they were met with the same scene: the women bent over the unconscious guards who had succumbed to the effects of chloroform applied by charming women ostensibly seeking help.
Working together quickly, the
