Piranha by Clive Cussler

bay had stopped in their tracks, watching the tank with caution as its jet engine roar filled the hold.
    Juan put on a headset hanging next to the commander’s station.
    â€œYou with me?” he said.
    â€œLoud and clear,” Linc responded. “It’s a tight fit but comfy. Like sitting in a recliner. I can’t see much, so you’ll have to let me know when to move.”
    â€œBelieve me, you’ll know.”
    Juan secured one shell in the magazine and loaded the other into the breech, a process as easy as shoving the shell in and slamming the back closed, which allows the Abrams to fire six rounds a minute.
    Once the 1500-horsepower turbine warmed up and was at full speed, he settled into the gunner’s seat. The sailors outside the tank had climbed on and were banging at the hull futilely trying to get inside.
    Juan grabbed the two sticks controlling the turret and tested them out. The turret spun on its axis as easily as turning in his office chair. The guards outside tumbled off and ran for cover.
    He put his eyes up to the gunner’s sight and pointed the cannon directly in front of them at a five-degree down angle. His finger rested on the trigger.
    â€œGet ready, Linc,” he said. “This is going to shake you a bit.”
    â€œLet’s get out of here.”
    Juan pulled the trigger.
    The gun fired with a thunderous blast, rocking the Abrams backward, and was followed instantaneously by an even bigger explosion as the shell blew out the hull of the tanker.
    The gaping hole now in the side of the ship sucked the smoke out, letting the lights from outside filter in.
    â€œLet her rip,” Juan said into his mic.
    â€œYou got it.”
    For a moment, the tank remained stationary as it tugged on the tie-down chains, but Linc gunned it and they snapped loose. The Abrams launched forward, its treads chewing the steel floor of the hold.
    When the tank reached the gaping opening, its armor bent the jagged steel edges back as if ripping through an aluminum can.
    The Abrams plunged six feet down onto the dock, slamming Juan into the seat when the tank hit the concrete.
    The Abrams charged forward across the fifty feet separating the ship from the warehouse, Linc putting on speed as it approached the building’s garage door. It blasted through without slowing, sending the door flying across the bare warehouse floor. The sequence was repeated when they ripped through the front door on the other side of the building. Getting through the chain-link fence wouldn’t be any harder.
    â€œUnless the Venezuelans can find someone to drive one of those other tanks,” Linc said, “there’s not much they can do to stop us.”
    Linc’s comment gave Juan a devilish idea. “Hold up when we get to the fence.”
    Linc pulled to a stop at the fence. Sailors outside surrounded them, peppering the side of the tank with bullets to no effect. Juan flipped through the manual until he found what he was looking for.
    He keyed on the external loudspeaker and addressed the men outside in Spanish. “Hello out there, amigos. I just want to give you fair warning. Anyone who doesn’t get off that ship in the next sixty seconds is going to have a very bad day.”
    He let go of the mic switch and spun the turret around until it was facing back the way they’d come. Through the two destroyed doors of the warehouse, he had a perfect view of the interior of the cargo hold.
    He set the sight dead center on the ammunition container.
    One of the sailors outside saw what was about to happen and yelled into a walkie-talkie. Men began careening in panic down the tanker’s gangway.
    â€œI can’t see anything from up here,” Linc said, “but are you planning to do what I think you are?”
    â€œMight as well wipe out their smuggling operation while we have the chance,” Juan answered.
    â€œI’m all for that. Saves us another trip.”
    Juan