Chapter Sixty-One
THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER was quiet, calm after the earlier storm.
Walker crouched beneath the camo netting draped over the Eagle, the tailgate lowered to form a makeshift workbench. Spread across it were supplies from Home Depot and Cabela’s. Under the muted glow of his headlamp, the workspace looked improvised but surgical.
Tonight’s charges would be heavier, made with more ammonium nitrate and additional powdered aluminum, mixed into three green Scepter MFC jerry cans.
He had used garage door openers at Dorado and to trigger the Kimbel ambush. But this was different. These charges were bigger and he would need to be farther away when they blew.
He remembered the lessons from his sensitive site exploitation courses at Harvey Point. Tonight, he would put them to use. This mission was aimed at destroying the enemy’s infrastructure; multiple charges, placed with precision and synchronized to detonate in sequence.
Walker checked the wiring one last time.
Each jerry can was fitted with a mechanical kitchen timer wired to a nine-volt battery and an Estes-model rocket igniter.
When the timer expired, the circuit would complete, igniting a match head embedded in steel wool, a homemade fuse that would light the improvised detonator and provide the molecular shock to set off the main charge. Crude, but reliable.
He packed the timers into waterproof Rubbermaid sandwich containers, sealed them with duct tape, and tucked them into the jerry cans. Then he placed all three into a dark green cooler, strapping it shut with paracord.
The Agency playbook was etched into his mind.
First, find a source. The source would give up a name.
The name would lead to surveillance of a broader network.
Watch. Learn. Understand their tactics and note their resources.
Take off the leaders’ heads, then strangle the supply lines in one coordinated strike.
After that, turn on the lights and stomp cockroaches.
He slipped into his wet suit and smeared black camo paint over his exposed skin and hair. His belt held his fixed-blade knife and Staccato pistol.
He secured the jerry cans with paracord and clipped the cooler to the last can.
Then he switched off the headlamp and scanned the quiet battlefield of Chalmette.
Crickets chirped. A quarter moon hung low, partially veiled by clouds.
Light winds. He would have preferred worse weather for a night amphibious interdiction op, but he was on the clock.
The waterproof bags were now flotation devices. He tested the water scooter and then ferried his arsenal to the water’s edge.
He muscled into his fins and pushed his gear into the river. The current caught him immediately, the river pulling at him like a living thing.
He used his fins and the angle of the water scooter to navigate.
It took a while to adjust course considering the bulk of his equipment, but he would be coming back lighter.
Walker kicked steadily so the scooter would not have to do all the work, his fins pulsing through the dark water.
The jerry cans and cooler drifted with him, deadly flotsam drifting on the Mississippi.
Tonight would put a serious dent in his enemy’s operation.
As he got closer to his target, Kimbel’s dying words echoed in his head: You have no idea what you’re up against.
Neither do they.
Ahead, close to the steep shore, he spotted the first set of pilings beneath the pier. He cut the propulsion device and kicked against the current to remain stationary while reconning the target.
The hulking silhouette of the Nectar Sugar Refinery loomed just up from the dock.
The rust-streaked silos, skeletal catwalks, and the massive conveyor towers that fed raw cane into the processing lines were prominent against the night sky.
Sodium vapor lights cast a jaundiced glow over the dock, where a bulk cargo ship sat moored, its hull towering like a fortress wall.
A hummingbird logo was stenciled below the bridge windows.
The factory was feeding America’s addiction to sugar, and something else: opioids.
Walker had the Dorado manifests and had seen the pallets. He had read stories in Connor’s journals of kids twitching and dying on ER gurneys. Connor had been documenting all of it. He was trying to stop Snowball before it became the next fentanyl.
Stay focused on the enemy’s resources within tactical reach.
There it was, right in front of him.
He maneuvered beneath the dock pilings and waited. No movement. No sentries. Just the low hum of machinery and the distant clank of metal.
Walker removed his fins and clipped them along with the Seascooter to the piling with one-inch webbing. The gear bobbed gently in the eddy, ready for exfil.
He reached for the ladder bolted to the dock’s underside and climbed with practiced efficiency.
At the top, he crouched low, eyes sweeping the refinery grounds.
The air smelled of molasses and rust. At this hour, the plant was shut down.
A conveyor belt stretched overhead, designed to feed cane into the processing tower.
Even now, at 0200, steam hissed from a nearby vent.
He pulled on the paracord, bringing the jerry cans up to the dock.
From there, he moved quickly, low and deliberate, hugging the shadows between the silos.
First target: the centrifuge building, where refined sugar was separated and dried. He placed jerry-one behind a steel support column, wedging it into a recess near the electrical conduit. From the cooler, he retrieved the timer and armed it, setting it to detonate in ten minutes.
Second target: the boiler house, a squat brick structure with aging pressure tanks and exposed piping. Walker ducked beneath a catwalk, climbed a short ladder, and placed jerry-two behind a rusted valve cluster. He set its timer for twelve minutes.
Final target: the loading dock, where pallets of bagged sugar were staged for shipment. He crept past a forklift, parked and silent, and tucked jerry-three beneath the dock ramp, behind a stack of pallets. Fourteen minutes.
Each placement was surgical. Each timer staggered. The sequence would cripple Nectar’s core operations, their refining, power, and distribution.
Walker retraced his steps, slipped back to the dock’s edge, and climbed down the ladder. He reattached his fins and connected the cooler to the dry bags. He then activated the Seascooter and kicked back into the current, moving into deeper water.
He rolled onto his back. The refinery loomed behind him, a rusting beast of industry. He swam to a buoy, clung to the cable to steady himself against the current, and watched.
The first fireball erupted from the centrifuge building with an orange bloom that lit the riverbank like a sunrise.
Minutes later, a deeper explosion tore through the boiler house, sending a plume of steam and debris skyward.
The final blast ripped through the loading dock, scattering pallets and igniting a brief inferno. Metal groaned. An elevator tore loose as a silo toppled, knocking another over like a set of flaming dominoes.
Walker floated in silence, watching Nectar burn.