Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

But that was only part of the problem. She was confident another group of tourists, those who’d already begun touring the cell house, were also being held as hostages in the former maximum-security prison. Two groups of civilians at two locations was a nightmare scenario. Any attempt to forcibly execute a rescue would quickly degrade to a bloodbath.

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In the courtyard between the ferry dock and the barracks, Vernon was overseeing preparations for launching the drones. He had just a small group of gunmen under his direction, most having been assigned to keeping an eye on the two groups of hostages. Several of the largest cases were open, revealing many quadcopters and radio controllers. Another case, uniquely yellow, was nearby. It would remain closed until the drones were ready to fly.

Meanwhile, armed with a Barrett M82 .50-caliber rifle, Leonard had set up his sniper hide about halfway up the slope that extended from the dock and courtyard, to the parade grounds. He was positioned next to the largest tree, a trunk two feet in diameter, with his body concealed behind deciduous shrubbery. The heavy rifle rested on a bipod and was fitted with a high-power telescopic sight. From his position, he had an unobstructed view of the ferry landing and the bay beyond.

His eye was close to the scope, his lips drawn tight. His body was rigid, and he remained motionless, even as Sacheen joined him.

“What is it?” she whispered, when she was close to his side.

“A Coast Guard cutter is sailing in our direction.” His face remained glued to the eyepiece.

Sacheen looked out across the bay and spotted the white bow wake created by the white and orange vessel approaching fast.

“Sooner than I’d thought,” she said.

Leonard removed his eye from the scope and faced her.

“It’s a small patrol boat,” he said. “Probably from the base on Yerba Buena Island. It lacks any large weapons. Still, it will have two bow-mounted .50-caliber machine guns. And a crew of ten or more men with light arms—rifles, shotguns.”

“They won’t dare fire upon us and risk harming the civilians,” she said.

“They would not do so knowingly, I agree. However, they don’t know where the hostages are being held. And they could wreak havoc on the fleet of drones. Should you have the men move the drones to cover? Maybe up to the cellblock? It has thick concrete walls.”

She shook her head. “At the rate that cutter is approaching, we don’t have time to move the drones.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I need time to get the Folgore recoilless rifle positioned and loaded. You have to slow them down, maybe with a distraction.”

A wicked grin formed on Leonard’s face.

“I can do that.”

She ran down the slope and across the courtyard. Stopped before one of the sentries. He was a mountain of a man, standing six-and-a-half-feet tall, and weighing 275 pounds—all muscle.

“Charlie, help me with the Folgore. We need to position it up there.” She pointed to the parade ground above and behind the barracks. “We’ll set it up behind that pile of rubble. We have to hurry.”

Charlie slipped the sling of his MP5 over his shoulder, and grabbed the handle of a long black packing case. Most men would have struggled with the weight, but not Charlie. He lifted the case with ease before balancing it on his shoulder. Sacheen grabbed a smaller container that held four high-explosive rounds, and jogged up the slope to the elevated parade ground, passing Leonard on the way.

She reached her destination first, and selected a V-shaped recess where two large piles of rubble merged. The low heap of rocks and broken concrete was formed when the government bulldozed the former correctional officer’s residential apartments, which had been located on the parade grounds. The entire prison facility might have been demolished had it not been for the creation of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area in 1972—the congressional Act that brought Alcatraz under the administration of the National Park Service.

Carrying the heavier load, Charlie was only seconds behind her. He placed the container on the hard surface with a grunt, and flipped open the latches, then threw back the lid. Before him was a long dark-green tube with a bulbous flare that marked the rear end. An optical ranging and sighting system was mounted near the middle of the tube. A tripod was clamped to the tube just in front of the sight, and the legs were folded forward in line with the eighty-millimeter barrel. With both hands he pulled the recoilless rifle from the foam padding. Once the legs were splayed, the tripod supported the weapon and allowed full movement side to side, as well as elevation.

Sacheen dropped to one knee and sighted along the length of the barrel.

“Good,” she said. “We can fire on anyone approaching the dock.”

The mounds of debris were twenty-feet wide and extended ten feet beyond the rear of the recoilless rifle. Nothing was going to shoot through that.

“Do you know how to operate this weapon system?” she said.

Charlie nodded. “Yes,” he said, in a raspy baritone. “We’ve been trained to handle every weapon we have. And we all can fly the drones, too.”

It was a goal both Leonard and Sacheen had insisted upon—redundancy at every level. Losses were not only possible, but likely, and success meant that each team member had to be able to do the job of any teammate that might fall.

“Good,” she replied. “See that Coast Guard cutter?” She pointed across the bay.

It was close enough now to distinguish details, even without the aid of optics.

Charlie nodded.

“It’s coming for us,” she said. “When it nears the island, they’ll throttle back the engine and slow. When it’s within range, you are to fire upon it. Aim for the pilothouse first, then for the gun mounts on the bow. If you have any rounds left, try to blast a hole in the hull at the water line.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“I can’t stay here