Rogue Threat (53 page)

“Eagle five, this is the vice president. Over.”

“This is Eagle five. Go ahead.”

“It’s time. Get in position and knock this thing down. Go for the forward portion of the airplane,” Hellerman commanded.

“Will comply. This is Eagle five assuming attack position.”

On the screen, the operations group in the command center saw a quick rushing of land, losing sight of the Sherpa, as Eagle five turned the jet to close in on its tail. But then the Sherpa came back into view. It was closer now. The pilot had pulled up parallel with the airplane and was only a few feet away from the Sherpa’s wingtip. The mesmerized faces of the operations group could plainly see the face of Peyton O’Hara huddled over the cockpit, straining to see beyond the windscreen in the night.

“I salute you,” the pilot’s voice came over the radio speakers. Then the Sherpa was gone from sight for the moment.

The pilot’s voice again broke the deathly silence. “Going to guns.”

Hellerman watched, waiting for the image of the Sherpa to reappear on the screen.

Chapter 66

Northern Virginia

“Now what, Zach?” Matt shook his drugged and exhausted brother, then muttered, “Unbelievable.”

“Hey, Matt, we’ve got an F-15 out here on our flank,” Peyton said.

“What’s he doing?”

“Saluting me, I think.”

“That’s either good news or bad news.”

Matt looked at the bomb timer. It had thirteen seconds to go . . .

00:32 . . .

00:31 . . .

00:30 . . .

“Okay, Peyton, I just want to tell you in case this thing doesn’t work out that I’m really very proud of you, and I want to thank you for helping me get my brother back. If we die here in a few seconds, well, we saved him, and now we’re saving others. That’s not a bad way to go.”

Peyton turned and watched the countdown.

00:03 . . .

00:02 . . .

00:01 . . .

The digital readout flashed zeroes for a few seconds and then began an upward count:

00:01 . . .

00:02 . . .

00:03 . . .

Matt and Peyton stared at the nuclear bomb.

“Now cut the other wires. You have fifteen seconds while the bomb tries to close the loop through the wires you cut, then it will reverse course and confirm the loop through the sending wires. If it can’t confirm the loop, it won’t blow up. I think.”

Zachary’s head rolled on the back of the Sherpa floor as he spoke.

“Damn it, why didn’t you tell me that?” Matt flashed with anger.

“You were too busy sucking face with your girlfriend. Now cut the wires, man.”

Matt scrambled for the knife, unable to find it, wasting precious time.

“Come on, Matt, hurry,” Peyton said.

“Found it.” He fumbled with the knife and grabbed both sets of wires, slicing them and then looking at the black box. The number fourteen frozen on its face.

The bomb sat idle in the back of the Sherpa. A few seconds went by, and they started to laugh. It was nervous adrenaline. For all Matt knew, Peyton was about to fly the plane into the Blue Ridge Mountains, but at least they had beaten Ballantine.

Then they heard the loud report of machine-gun fire.

“He’s shooting at us!” Peyton said, banking the plane hard to the north.

“Where are we?” Matt asked her.

“We’re about twenty miles from Hellerman’s dirt strip. We’ll never outlast this guy. He’s in a fighter jet, for crying out loud.”

“Take it low. Take it as low as you can go. He won’t want to use Mavericks on us because he thinks the nuke is still live. He has a problem flying slow enough, so he’ll have to keep circling and trying to get behind us.”

Peyton pushed the airplane into a near-vertical dive, tracers ripping past the fuselage. The lower she flew, the less accurate the fire. She tilted the wings and followed the grid coordinate she had punched into the navigation system. It was as simple as lining up two small arrows, unless there was an F-15 fighter jet trying to shoot you down, she mused.

“Okay, what are you, about fifty feet off the ground?” Matt asked.

“Forty,” she said.

“Okay, push it to about twenty,” he said.

“I’ll hit telephone wires at twenty. No way.”

Another burst of machine-gun fire shot past the windscreen. Two rounds caught the right wing.

“Good thing we’re low on gas,” Matt said. “That’s where the main tank is.” He pointed at the two holes in the wing next to his seat.

“Speaking of gas, I’m getting the low-fuel warning again,” she said. The engine began to sputter, as if cued.

“How far?” he asked.

“Five miles, five damn miles! And we would be home free, but this jackass is going to shoot us down—that is, if we don’t fall out of the sky first!” she shouted.

Matt looked at her for a moment, then said, “Feel better?”

“Yes, actually,” she said, shaking her hair behind her head and shaking off the fear.

They saw the F-15 race overhead and then pull upward, spiraling in the sky, and then loop behind them.

“Okay, here it is. He’s not missing this time,” Matt said. “You’re going to need to zigzag a bit, like a running back, you know?”

“
This
airplane!
You
grab the handles and zigzag this bitch,” Peyton hissed.

“Okay,” Matt said, grabbing the steering column and yanking hard to the right about the time the F-15 spat a 20mm burst at them.

“See, it’s not so hard,” he spat through gritted teeth.

“Damn you!” Peyton shouted, regaining control of the airplane and leveling the wings. She put on the night-vision goggles that Ballantine had stashed on the dashboard.

“One mile. One mile. Okay, line up the arrows. One mile. There it is. There it is. We’re going to make it,” she said.

Peyton banked hard once, in the same style Matt had previously, avoiding another wide spray of machine-gun fire. Then the engine began to sputter and cough. They were out of fuel.

“Six hundred yards. Six damn football fields!” she shouted. “Keep going. Get going, baby. Please keep going!” Peyton pleaded with the faltering machine.

“He’s lined up on our tail, flat on our tail, Peyton. Do something!” Matt yelled, leaning out of the door and looking back. He could see the F-15 slowing almost to a stall, appearing to hover like an angry hornet. Then he saw a violent burst of machine-gun fire again.

The Sherpa rocked and swayed hard to the left and then came back to the right, its wings groaning beneath the stress of evasive maneuvers. Then the plane bucked and pitched hard to the right, pieces of sheet metal and hardware ripping off the light frame.

“We’re hit, we’re hit!” Matt shouted.

“I think I’m hit,” Peyton said, looking down at her hip. Blood was seeping onto her pants. “Damn it, I’m hit.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, just land this thing,” Matt said. “He’s going back around for another turn. We’ve got a window.”

“I’m hit, Matt. I’m hit bad, I think,” Peyton gasped, holding onto the controls, pushing the nose of the airplane lower. Her eyes were getting heavy.

“Hang in there, Peyton. We’re going to be okay.”

The plane banged hard into the ground, lurched upward, and then banged hard again, thrusting Matt’s head into the ceiling. The wheels found purchase, though, and leveled the ride out.

She had found the runway and was guiding the plane as far north as she could toward the mansion. About one hundred yards away, the engine quit, and the plane coasted a few more feet before whipping into a tight ground loop and coming to a stop.

“Come on. Hurry, Peyton. Let’s get Zachary and get out of here,” Matt said.

He opened the sliding door to the Sherpa and pulled Zachary forward.

“I’m okay, Matt. Let’s grab Peyton. Nerves of steel she’s got, man.”

Zachary wobbled, leaning on Matt, but able to control himself as he walked. They moved as quickly as possible to the other side of the fuselage and opened Peyton’s door.

Peyton slumped into Matt’s arms, unconscious. He pulled her from the cockpit, feeling her blood on his hands as he reached around her waist. He needed to get her to a doctor quickly and remembered that Meredith had mentioned that Hellerman always kept a medical team at the alternate command post. It only made sense.

Matt and Zachary carried Peyton away from the Sherpa about the same time they heard the F-15 thunder overhead with a deafening roar, a proud hawk circling its wounded prey. As they rounded the corner behind the mansion toward the three cottages that housed the alternate command post, Alvin Jessup stood in the dim light, holding a pistol.

“Halt or I will shoot you dead. And you know that to be true.”

Matt and Zachary held Peyton, her gasps for air becoming weaker and fainter by the second.

“Alvin, it’s me, Matt Garrett. This is Peyton O’Hara, and she needs a doctor, now.”

“Step a little closer. Carefully,” Jessup said.

They walked about ten steps, carrying Peyton.

“Who’s that other guy?”

“That’s my brother, Zachary,” Matt said. “He was supposed to be dead, but he’s not, clearly.”

“What happened?” Jessup said, lowering his pistol.

“It’s a long story. We need a doctor.”

They were about fifty feet from the front door of the alternate command post. Jessup waved them forward toward the front door.

“Come on, let me help you,” Jessup said, holstering his pistol and taking Zachary’s place in helping to carry Peyton.

As they stepped onto the threshold of the alternate command post, Hellerman turned from his position near the large screen. He watched them as if it was the first time he realized the Sherpa had landed in his back yard. The camera images had been so fleeting, and with the pilot having to loop around so frequently, he had lost track of the Sherpa’s actual location.

It was an awkward pause, but one that was very telling to Matt.

“I need a doctor for Peyton. Zeke, can you help me out?” he said. Jeremiah looked at Hellerman and then back at Matt.

“Absolutely.” Zeke motioned to Jock Evans. “Jock, take Peyton to Doc Bell in the clinic right away. He’s on call, resting in cottage two. Make it quick.” Matt stared at Hellerman as he felt Jock gently remove Peyton from his grasp.

“Good to see you, man,” Jock whispered. “Good job up there.”

Matt kept his eyes on Hellerman and said, “Thanks, man. Take care of Peyton. She’s hurt bad. Don’t let me down.”

“We got her, man. She’s with us.”

The alternate command center had gone strangely quiet, like a standoff in Dodge City, Kansas. Matt and Zachary Garrett squared off against the vice president.

Who would draw first?

Matt heard more commotion over his shoulder. Then he heard Dave Palmer, the national security adviser.

Matt stared at Hellerman and felt Palmer’s hand rest on his shoulder.

“Matt, Meredith told me to get right down here, but she wasn’t able to tell me why,” Palmer said.

“Why couldn’t she tell you everything? You in on this, too? Who are you, Brian Jones?” Matt accused, stepping back from Palmer. Brian Jones was a founding member of the actual rock group, the Rolling Stones.

“No, Matt. She didn’t have time to tell me everything she wanted to. But she did manage to say, ‘Tell Matt I really do love him.’”

No one in the room said a word, Palmer’s message serving to silence the entire staff. The muted sounds of radio squawk boxes and fluttering images of rapidly changing television screens created a surreal atmosphere. There were volumes of activity but no movement. Sound everywhere, but silence. The blinking eyes of the televisions fluttered and faltered as if to faint at the information.

Meredith was dead.

Chapter 67

Fort Sherman, Panama

Frank Lantini surveyed his stockpile of weapons. The AK-47 was merely a stage prop. What he had been able to smuggle into the Central Committee’s hideout was impressive.

He had a .300 Whisper sniper rifle, an M4 carbine with noise suppressor, two Beretta pistols, and enough ammunition to go down fighting. By his math there were nine primaries, each with a security detail of one guard and one interpreter. That was 27 people he needed to kill, but he thought that the interpreters might run, so 18, best case.

If he had any connections left, he would have simply called in a JDAM strike onto his location, annihilating this terrorist base camp as well as ending his own misery.

Lantini had served honorably in the Air Force in military intelligence and then had worked his way through the labyrinth of the CIA until he was nominated and confirmed as the director. Not an overly political man, he did maintain a deep and unwavering belief that Islamic extremism was the equivalent threat to democracy that Nazism had posed in the middle of the 20
^th
century.

His witting participation in the Rolling Stones endeavor last year had been a huge mistake, but one he had been compelled to make. Literally, he’d had a gun held to his head when Matt Garrett’s calls to receive kill chain approval on al Qaeda senior leadership came into his office. Despite the threat, he almost gave the approval.