The Zombie Game (19 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Aboard the
Royal Princess
Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

5:16 a.m.

TIME PASSED IN SILENCE
until dessert was served. Farok continually looked at his watch. It was obvious he had a definitive time schedule. At last, he abruptly stood, and his servants brought out a magnificent brass pitcher.

Farok and the jihadis shared a traditional cup of Arabic tea, made with exquisite care, while Farok gave instructions, first to his men, and then to us.

He shook his fist as he looked at me. “You
will
make that phone call.
Exactly
as I have demanded.” He clapped his hands. One of the guards brought a machete. He threw it on the dining table. “If you fail to comply, my men will hack your pretty one’s face until you do so. Any questions?”

I didn’t respond.

He nodded at Raman, the jihadi leader, and the four men stood and stationed themselves around the table. “These men will keep all their weapons trained on you as long as you’re on this boat. You will not escape me this time.”

Farok clapped his hands and stood. The four servers followed him out of the room, which confirmed my suspicion that they were his bodyguards.

The jihadis directed us to the stern railing and aimed their guns at us. I asked for two chairs, and they complied. Raman gave the cuffs to another jihadi, who snapped them on me. I’d hoped that Raman would have been the one to place the cuffs, as I was desperate to pick his pocket of that critical phone with Roy Perkin’s phone number. But Raman always stayed an arm’s length away.

We watched as Farok and his men got on the helicopter and flew away, leaving Keyes and me aboard the
Royal Princess
with the five jihadis.

Aboard the
Royal Princess
Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

5:32 a.m.

I turned my back on the jihadis and whispered to Keyes. “Did you learn anything when Farok addressed them?”

“Yes. He told them that when this mission is over, they’ll work on this boat until they are chosen for the proper mission for their sacrifice.”

“Who’s operating this boat?”

“He told the jihadis that the boat will be on autopilot until he returns with his crew to drive it to a safe mooring dock.”

“Did he say where we are now?”

“Didn’t say, but we left the
Ana Brigette
at one and landed here at four. That’s three hours flying time. The helicopter flies at 196 miles per hour, so that’s the right distance to be close to Miami. Puerto Rico would have taken less than an hour, Mexico another two hours, and Panama another hour.”

“So your guess is Miami.”

“Yep. And it’s a big target.”

“And if the Pope extends his stay, like Farok says, there’ll be even more people in the area.”

I looked at the horizon for any recognizable features to tell us where we were. Keyes looked as well. The sky was still dark, and we were about five miles away from the lights on the shore, too far away to identify the city. Time was passing rapidly, and I had to talk with my only CIA contact, Roy Perkins.

The American-speaking jihadi appeared confident and happy. I started talking to him. “Where are you from in America?”

No answer.

“You know you’re going to die at 6:30, in just an hour.”

He frowned, looked me in the eye, and then looked away.

“I’m from North Carolina. You ever been there?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked around at the others. I was getting to him.

“You know, the great Emir is a coward. And a liar.”

The boy showed interest.

“Fred. I’m going to call you Fred. You remind me of a childhood friend of mine, Fred. He was a nice kid. Fred and I did things together, like ride our bikes to the lake in Garner. We’d take our fishing poles and fish. Never anything big, just blue gills about as big as my hand.”

Keyes listened. Her hands were not cuffed as mine were. There was no need to restrain someone moving as slowly as Keyes. The jihadis were two arm lengths from me, but with the five guns so close, I couldn’t do anything ... yet.

“Hey, Fred.”

He looked at me.

“What would you do if you weren’t committed to the grand Emir?”

He didn’t answer, but looked more vulnerable.

“Someday, I’d like to introduce you to my two sons. They’re five and eight. Neat kids. They love to go fishing. Do you fish?”

This time, he shook his head.

“I always wanted kids, and I was so happy when they were born.”

No reaction.

“Don’t you want to have kids some day?”

Fred took a deep breath but remained silent.

“Our parents really don’t understand us, do they?”

He raised his head and almost spoke, but stopped himself.

“A couple of months ago I started some bad habits—smoking, drinking, swearing.
My wife’s mother threatened to take custody of my kids if I didn’t shape up. So I came to Haiti to pull myself together. I want to go home and see those kids. But you know what? The Emir wants to kill me. He’ll keep me from ever seeing my children again, and my sons will grow up without their father. And he’ll prevent you from having your own children, because you’re going to die at the same moment I will.”

Fred shook his head and finally said something. “No. I’ll live long after you die, and maybe I will go back to Kentucky. Someday.”

Raman yelled at Fred, and he stopped talking.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Aboard the
Royal Princess

5:38 a.m.

TIME WAS FLYING BY,
and my mind was racing:
Thirty-five minutes before I talk to Perkins. Forty-five minutes before the bomb blast. The call to Perkins will likely be too late to halt the bomb detonation. We have to do something, even if it goes sideways. I need to get Perkins’ number from the phone in Raman’s pocket.

The eastern horizon was red from the approaching dawn, and the sun was to the back of us. We were facing west. The city lights were now within a mile of us.

Keyes leaned on her elbow and sat up. “Look! That’s the Continuum at South Beach. We’re entering the Miami harbor!”

The jihadis turned to see what she was talking about, all of them except Raman. He kept his eyes glued on us.

“What?” I asked.

“The Continuum,” she repeated. “It’s a forty-floor condo on South Beach in Miami.”

I kept looking out the sides of my eyes, waiting for Raman to turn. But his focus was on me.

“So you guessed right,” I said to Keyes.

“And there’s the Portofino! A high-rise condo. I’ve stayed there before!”

I looked to the front of the yacht. We were entering a channel.

“This inlet is called Government Cut,” Keyes said. “It dead-ends in the center of Miami, right next to the American Airlines Arena. The Pope, if he’s in Miami, can’t be far.”

I raised my eyebrows. Farok had picked a target in Miami that would affect a lot of people.

Keyes pointed to the right and whispered, “There’s a Coast Guard station on that island just beyond the Portofino.”

We were still moving at a fast clip. “The Coast Guard will be alerted to our speed and come to our rescue.” But as I said this, the yacht slowed to five knots.
Damn. How does a boat without a pilot know when to slow down?

“We’ve got to get that phone from Raman,” I whispered.

Aboard the
Royal Princess

5:40 a.m.

I looked frantically for escape opportunities. With me in handcuffs and with five automatic rifles aimed at us, it wasn’t looking good. My only weapon at the moment was my gift of gab. Maybe I could convert Fred to an ally.

“Hey, Fred. Did your dad ever take you fishing?”

He shook his head very slightly ‘no.’

“When this is all over, I want you to visit me in Carolina. We’ll go fishing. I’ll teach you to fish so you can teach your own kids someday.”

He almost smiled.

Aboard the
Ana Brigette

Caribbean Sea

5:47 a.m.

Lars had been moved to the room occupied by James and Keyes before their departure. Jakjak was his roommate. They had explored escape opportunities all night, but had come up with nothing. Now they heard the distinct grinding of engines driving the hydraulic lifts. Then they heard the hinged doors over the rocket launchers groan, slowly opening.

Someone topside barked orders, and Lars and Jakjak heard a single guard come to their door.

“I think there’s only one,” Lars said. “It’s now or never.”

The guard swung open the door to see Lars standing there, rickety and feeble. He stepped forward to grab the Captain and Jakjak popped out from behind the wall and threw an explosive right jab. The punch connected perfectly with the guard’s nose, knocking him to the floor.

Lars immediately stepped over the man and started hobbling down the corridor. Jakjak was right behind him. They could hear the stunned guard groaning and coughing.

Halfway down, Lars darted left and opened a hatch marked “Emergency”: The lifeboat.

The tiny vessel was more like a pod than a boat. It looked very much like a toy submarine, cylindrical and completely enclosed. Jakjak opened the door to their escape vessel and helped Lars inside. He slammed the lifeboat’s hatch shut. They both heard the man down the hall shouting. Lars reached to his right, grasped the release handle, and heaved back. The orange lifeboat broke free and shot down the steep ramp like a roller coaster dropping down a hill.

The two passengers inside the pill-shaped lifeboat felt their stomachs sink. The boat flew out of the back of the ship like a torpedo. They were falling through empty air now. Jakjak hugged Lars tightly, trying to protect him as Dr. James had instructed. They both braced their feet in front of themselves, and then
boom!

The jarring entry into the water of the lifeboat occurred simultaneously with the deafening roar of missiles launching.

Matthews Town

Inagua Island, the Bahamas

5:47 a.m.

Fifteen thousand feet above the sparsely populated island, a white blimp with a four-finned tail floated lazily along on its tether. The balloon, a Tethered Aerostat Radar System (TARS), carried a thousand pounds of surveillance radar that continually monitored activities on the Atlantic Ocean below. At that moment, disturbing signals were being recorded and instantly relayed to the United States.

Headquarters

North American Aerospace Command

Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado

5:47 a.m.

The Air Force technical sergeant’s eyes went wide as she tried to comprehend what her computer monitor was telling her. The screen, which three seconds earlier had been a clear picture of the southeastern United States, and a good portion of the Caribbean, was now lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. The normal display switched to a focused look at a twenty-five-mile-wide corridor, and highlighted two, very small, yet relatively fast, items. They were flying in loose formation and heading north from a location out in the Atlantic, about 400 miles southeast
of Miami
.

TSgt. Samantha Cimarron had seen this before, hundreds of times, but only in the simulator. It took her just three seconds to realize that these were inbound cruise missiles.

It took Cimarron another two seconds to confirm that her computer was properly relaying data to the early-warning networks of US Northern Command (USNORTHCOM) and the Department of Homeland Security (DHS).

While she watched the system automatically assign a target number to the moving object, she surprised herself when she heard her own voice in her headset: “Bogey! Repeat: Bogey! Track number 1477457, 408 nautical miles southeast of Miami. Speed: Mach zero point eight-three. Altitude: 80 meters and leveling out. Heading northwest, course, 315 degrees. Confirmed launch plume. We have two inbound cruise missiles, same course, same altitude.”

Thirteen and a half seconds into the event, Cimarron knew she had just initiated a series of actions that would involve every level of government, from local to state to federal, all the way to the White House. She imagined that the President, the Vice President, and the Speaker of the House were already being advised to move to cover.

Cimarron’s headset now picked up the voice of her senior watch officer barking orders.

Cimarron switched her channel selector to the Air Force Command and Control network just in time to hear the initial scramble order
: “Baker Zero One. Baker Zero One. Bogey. Bogey. Launch director. Launch sequence Tango Bravo. Over.”

The response came loud and clear: “Baker Zero One copies launch sequence Tango Bravo. Baker Zero One out.”

Cimarron checked her system and noticed that the 482nd Fighter Squadron at Homestead Air Force Reserve Airbase, Florida, had received the alert and was now launching two F-22A Raptors, call signs Spad 01 and Spad 02. In an earlier life, the technical sergeant had worked in a fighter squadron that had an alert commitment. Now, she could envision three pilots running to their fighters while crew chiefs positioned themselves to help strap them in, pull boarding ladders away, and clear wheel chalks. Three jets would start up, engines screaming, but only two would taxi and launch. The third jet would be ready to take the position of any jet that developed an issue that might keep it from continuing the mission.

After a short time, Cimarron’s headset captured a new voice: “Spad flight bogey dope.”

That told her the F-22s were airborne and needed an initial update on the incoming missiles. The F22s’ internal systems would eventually sync up with the network, but for now they needed the ‘dope’—real-time information about the situation.

Cimarron pushed the transmit button and announced to all on the network: “Bogey. Track 1477457. Now 322 nautical miles southwest of Miami. Level at 400 feet. Speed: point eight-three Mach. Call Tallyho.”

After a short pause, Cimarron heard the reply she was waiting for: “Spad Zero One copies. Will call Tallyho.”

An intelligence analyst’s voice came over the speakers. “Suspected target is Miami, maybe American Airlines Arena.”

“Holy shit! The Pope is giving Mass there at 06:30 hours,” another voice chimed in.

Samantha heard someone gasp. Then her commanding officer came on, “Cut the chatter. The suspected launch platform is Danish hospital ship
Ana Brigette
. Position twenty-one degrees, thirty-one minutes north; seventy-five degrees, twenty-five minutes west. Suspect ship has changed course to 089 degrees and has increased speed to twenty-one knots.”

Aboard the
Royal Princess

5:48 a.m.

A boat moved from the Coast Guard station a mile away and appeared to be coming toward us. The jihadi leader shouted to his men. Two of the jihadis picked up Keyes to carry her away. I stood and shoved them into Raman. As the others grabbed me, Keyes’ hand slipped into Raman’s pocket. Just then, one of the men carrying Keyes tripped, and Keyes’ weight ripped Raman’s pocket as she pitched forward. The phone fell to the deck. I dropped to my knees to grab it, but Raman’s boot stomped on my hand. He grabbed the phone as the others jerked me to my feet.

I was ready to put up my end-game fight when Fred shook my shoulder. “It’s alright. They’re taking her to the pilothouse. They have machetes and are ordered to hack up her face if you don’t cooperate. You and I will stay here to greet the Coast Guard.”

He reached down and took off my cuffs.

The Coast Guard boat approached at high speed and then slowed and sidled up to the yacht. One of its men stood and looked over the boat as we passed. He waved his hand and said, “Welcome to Miami Beach. Where are you headed?”

“I think we’re going to tie up near the American Airlines Arena, if we can. The Pope keeping you busy?”

I felt the point of a knife barely penetrate the skin of my side. If not for the machetes ready to slice up Keyes’ face, I’d have said a lot more.

The middle-aged coast guardsman said, “He’s planning another Mass this morning. The press wasn’t informed until six o’clock last night, and now everyone in the world knows about it. We can’t let you get that close with your vessel.”

That’s strange. Farok knew yesterday that the Pope would be here for Mass today. How did he know before the press was informed?

The captain of the vessel stepped out of the pilothouse suddenly and shouted. “We have to go!”

“You don’t to want inspect?

“No! We have inbound missiles!”

“Missiles?”

The coast guardsman looked at me and shrugged as the boat’s engine suddenly revved up, and the vessel took off, arcing around in a sweeping turn.

Aboard the
Royal Princess

5:49 a.m.

The other four jihadis came on deck, their rifles hidden under towels. They cuffed me and pushed me to the rear of the boat.

“Is my friend alright?”

“She’s fine. She had to go to the ladies’ room, so they left her in the bathroom.”

I looked at the pilothouse for Keyes, but couldn’t see her. I glanced at my watch. I had ten minutes before I’d speak to Roy Perkins.

Maybe they’d make a slip. Fred was my biggest hope. He wasn’t as hard core as the others. Maybe he’d give me the break I needed.

Aboard the
Royal Princess

6:19 a.m.

The sun was a little higher. I was frantic. I looked everywhere to find a weakness in the guards that would allow even the slightest opportunity for our escape.

Fred finally spoke. “The Emir instructed us to be certain you made your call promptly at 6:20. It is time.”

My hands were in cuffs behind my back as Raman held the cell phone to me.

“How the fuck can I talk on a cell phone with my hands tied?”

Fred spoke to Raman in Arabic. Raman unlocked my handcuffs. It was then I understood why the American jihadi was included in the group: He was the interpreter.

With Raman’s four men standing with their guns pointed at me, they led me to the stern and handed me the phone.

They were silent.

I held the phone to my lips but hesitated. “My last wish is to have my own countryman do the honor of killing me.”

Fred talked to Raman, and he nodded. All the men stepped back, and Fred moved forward with his gun raised.