Armageddon Conspiracy bl-1

by John Thompson

  Jenkins shook her head, knowing she wasn’t going to try and take him down physically, not here. “Shit!” she snapped.

  Lucas glanced back. “You steer. Get me close enough to jump on.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  Lucas smiled as he turned back to the radar screen. “Runs in the family,” he said.

  SIXTY-SIX

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  MAGGIE OPENED HER EYES, TRIED to blink away the pain and dizziness and get a sense of where she was. She was on her side, on a large bed, her hands cuffed behind her back, her knees drawn up in a fetal position. She’d been dragged down some stairs, but she couldn’t say how long ago. Ten minutes? An hour? She’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for a while, but she had to find her bearings and make a plan.

  A man lay facing her on the other side of the mattress. His eyes were open but glazed over, his mouth slack with either hopelessness or defeat. He was thin with sandy hair, midfifties she guessed. Like her, his hands were bound behind his back. He had to be Prescott Biddle.

  At the other end of the room, a woman paced the floor, talking on a cell phone, moving in and out of Maggie’s line of sight. She was surprisingly beautiful, blonde, midthirties, but her mouth was curled in a tight scowl.

  Suddenly, Biddle stirred. “Anneliës,” he said plaintively. He rolled over, threw his legs over the side of the mattress, and struggled into a sitting position. “For God’s sake, let us go!”

  The woman closed her phone and spun. “Shut up!” she cried with icy fury, and then she stepped over and hit him across the mouth with the back of her hand.

  Biddle’s head snapped sideways at the blow. “You told me not to come,” he persisted. “You knew! You’ve always known! How could you do this to me?”

  “I’m warning you,” the woman whispered in cold fury. “I will kill you if you say more!”

  “Why? You’re afraid I’ll tell Sayeed? Well I will!”

  The woman grabbed Biddle by the shirt and jerked him off the bed and onto the floor. She slammed her foot on his chest and stood over him, her back turned to Maggie.

  Maggie struggled desperately to remain conscious. Through a fog of pain she watched the woman pull a long folding knife out of her blue jeans, flick it open with a snap of the wrist, and place the point at Biddle’s throat. The woman’s back was still turned as Maggie shifted across the bed.

  “Not one fucking word!” the woman was saying to Biddle. The boat hit some rougher water, and she straightened and groped for the bedside table to steady herself. Maggie shifted further and pivoted so her feet pointed off the side of the bed. The yacht shifted again, causing the woman to brace her knife hand against the ceiling. With a furious effort, Maggie rolled onto her back, balancing painfully on her bound wrists, her vision blurred. She brought her knees to her chin then exploded with every bit of strength she possessed, firing both heels at the woman’s kidney.

  Even as she struck she knew she would miss. The boat’s roll caused the woman to turn slightly, so that the full force of Maggie’s kick missed the vital kidney and instead exploded against her spine. A dull crack sounded as Maggie’s heels hit full force.

  No! Maggie thought. Struggling not to black out, she cocked her legs again, expecting the woman to jump to her feet and attack with the knife. She was about to die, but she would go out fighting.

  She waited like that, teetering at the edge of blackness. Finally, she looked around. Had it been five seconds? Thirty seconds? A minute? Where was the woman? She heard a horrified cry, “Mein Gott!” and the sound of something dragging.

  Maggie shifted her shoulders to the edge of the mattress. First she saw Biddle lying on his side, and then she shifted further and saw the woman. She was lying where she had fallen beyond the foot of the bed, propped on her elbows, staring in horror at her legs where they lay splayed like discarded toys. “Help me,” Biddle mumbled, as the woman flashed Maggie a look of hatred mixed with fear. Maggie glanced at the floor between them and saw the knife.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  BRENT DROPPED TO HIS HANDS and knees and groped about the stern beneath the fuel lines until his fingers touched the squirt gun. He threw the sling over his head then moved toward the bow. The FBI woman had the wheel. As he moved past her, he shouted, “You have any matches?”

  She looked at the oversized child’s toy hanging around his shoulders. Whatever her thoughts, she held them back. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a gold lighter. “It should still work.” As he took it, she looked at his bloody arm and shook her head.

  Brent climbed into the bow, holding the forward rail with his good hand and peering into the fog. The water directly ahead was flattened, a sign they were very close. Suddenly, there was sound, a rumble of exhaust as the yacht hit a swell. It seemed near enough to touch, and a second later the stern materialized out of the mist.

  They closed the last few yards, and Brent recalled the yacht’s schematic, how the stern had a platform right at the water line. When he jumped, he’d only need to clear a low safety rail.

  He glanced back at the FBI agent, nodded to signal that he was ready, and then crouched, timing the rise and fall to the pitch of the swells. Finally, he leaped. He cleared the rail, but felt his stomach wound tear as he pitched forward into the bulkhead. He hit hard, going momentarily lightheaded.

  After a few seconds he struggled to his feet. He glanced back, but the Whaler was already lost in the fog. He groped with his left hand and brought the pistol out of his trouser pocket. He tried to hold it in his right hand, but gave up because his arm shook too badly.

  On both sides of the hull stairways curved to the main deck, while in the center a watertight door led into the crew’s quarters and engine room. He was certain the terrorists and their hostages would be either above or forward, so he crept up the starboard stairs until he could scan the deserted deck area. The salon was directly ahead, the sliding glass doors open, the interior pitch black.

  He closed his eyes and pictured the salon and dining area immediately forward, then the stairs leading down to the staterooms or up to the bridge, then forward of that—the galley and lower cockpit. Maggie was there somewhere, but she would be guarded, and he was outnumbered. Attempting to sneak in would leave his back exposed. Surprise and confusion could help even the odds, but only a little. He wracked his brain to remember details about the large boats he and Harry had helped work on. A single possibility came to mind. It involved terrible risk, but he had no other choice.

  He backed down the stairs and went through the watertight door in the aft bulkhead. Inside, dim floor lights lit the passageway. He crept forward and checked the crew’s sitting room and sleeping rooms to make certain they were empty. At the end of the passage, he opened a second watertight door, and the roar of diesel engines spilled out.

  He located a light switch, flipped it on, and saw the two massive engines, a spotless floor, and rows of switches with red and green lights along the walls. Left of the door he found what he needed, a valve marked with a brass plate reading “Halon Cut-Off.” The fire extinguishment system was meant to be on at all times, except for when the system was repaired or recharged. He twisted the valve closed.

  He moved forward, past the tanks that held the diesel fuel, hesitating as he thought again about Maggie and his slim odds. A voice came to him over the shriek of the engines, as though Harry were right there shouting in his ear. She’d do the same thing in your shoes. She’d never let those bastards anywhere near Manhattan.

  A workbench stood along one wall with several large piles of oily rags on a lower shelf. He gathered the rags and piled them in the forward portside corner, and then he pulled out the plug on the water gun and emptied the remaining gas. Drawing the pistol, he fired two shots into each of the fuel tanks. Immediately, diesel fuel began to leak onto the metal floor. Finally, he took out the woman’s Zippo and tried to make it light. He struck it once, twice, three times, blew hard
on the striker, and finally got a tiny guttering flame, but it was enough. He held it near the rags, and the gas-soaked pile erupted. As soon as it did, he sprinted back down the passage and out the watertight door.

  He raced up the stairs to the main deck, ignoring the pain in his stomach and arm, then hurried into the darkened salon. A bar curved out from the wall to his left, just as in Maggie’s diagram, and he ducked behind the partition, knowing he had only seconds before an alarm brought one or more of the terrorists. If things happened according to his plan, the rag fire would begin to burn the fiberglass, and once the temperature became sufficiently high, the diesel would ignite. He had some time—by his estimate maybe ten minutes—until the diesel caught and the whole lower section of the boat was engulfed in flames. That was his window to get Maggie out of there alive.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  ABU SAYEED COULDN’T DECIDE WHETHER to shoot Mohammed or hug him. Downing the helicopter might have been the worst thing they could have done, but it had also been brilliant. There had been little noise and no explosion because the missile had not flown far enough from the launcher to arm itself, but clearly it had destroyed the helicopter’s engine. Had the crew had time to radio? He doubted it. From the sound of the rotors just before Mohammed fired, they’d been too low over the water to do anything.

  Nonetheless, he had continued his slow pace, running as close to shore as he dared, keeping Naif and Mohammed on the flybridge to listen for more helicopters. He stared at the GPS and glanced continuously at the radar, set now at a thousand yards to detect the presence of large ships that might be attempting to block the river, and then he cut it back to a hundred yards to navigate directly ahead. So far, nothing. Allah was protecting them.

  A moment earlier when he’d reduced the radar’s range, something had appeared to be very close on their stern, but when he looked again it was gone or mixed up in the shore clutter. He knew that for several minutes after Mohammed fired the missile he had paid little attention to the screen, but he also knew he was growing tired. Stress affected everyone, and sooner or later imagined enemies began to appear in the darkness. Calm, he cautioned himself.

  It was time to change tactics. They had been creeping for a long time. With the helicopter destroyed, their enemy was momentarily blinded. Now was the time to charge ahead, past Rikers Island, under the Triboro, and then down the east side of Manhattan. They would fire the weapons as they went. Damage would be slight, just some random explosions and few people killed. But by tomorrow, New York would be a city of refugees with whole sections rendered uninhabitable for years. Imagine the effect when his enemies had to abandon a huge swath of their most important city!

  Abu Sayeed gripped the throttles, ready to feed power to the engines when a warning light on the control panel indicated a fire in the engine room. He raced onto the flybridge and shouted for Mohammed.

  SIXTY-NINE

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  BRENT CAUGHT THE MOVEMENT, NO more than a shadowy flicker in his peripheral vision. Someone was on the rear deck. Where had they come from? With a sick feeling, he realized there had to be a ladder he’d overlooked, and at least one of the terrorists was now behind him. In another moment yellow smoke began pouring out the aft section of the yacht, which meant the man had opened the watertight door.

  He needed to get to the engine room because everything depended on the fire crippling the yacht. But what about the other terrorists? Would they follow the first man? Based on Maggie’s satellite pictures, he’d assumed there were three, but what about Biddle? Was he a prisoner or an ally? There was no time to worry.

  He crept out of the salon and strained his eyes in the darkness. The rear deck appeared empty, so he hurried down the stairs. Blinding smoke belched from the watertight door, but if the terrorist had done his homework and knew where the halon cut-off valve was located, he would still be able to find it and turn it back on.

  Brent took a deep breath, squatted low, and went in. As he reached the engine room door, he spotted a shape in the smoke, a man fumbling along the port bulkhead for the halon valve. Brent’s lungs burned as he aimed his pistol. Shoot! He commanded his finger to pull the trigger, but it wouldn’t obey.

  The man bent down to take a choking breath, and in that same motion he turned toward the door. His eyes went wide in surprise as he saw Brent. A machine gun of some type was slung over his shoulder and hung at his chest, and faster than Brent would have thought possible, it was in the man’s hands.

  Brent pulled the trigger three times, the bullets knocking the man back into the smoke. He took a reflexive breath, feeling the smoke sear his lungs. He started to cough, then backed into the passageway where the air was better and took several deep breaths. Finally, he crept forward again, toward the heat of the spreading fire. The man lay unmoving. Brent bent over him and jerked the machine gun free.

  He moved back down the passage with the machine gun aimed at the open watertight door. Outside, as he sucked greedy lungfuls of clean air, the engines suddenly stopped, their mechanical racket and vibration going utterly still. Brent moved to the bulkhead, and from somewhere forward, he heard a voice. He inched up the stairs until he spotted the ladder he’d missed earlier, and then he waited. Very soon a pair of feet appeared on the upper rungs. A man started to descend, facing outward, his gun sweeping the area.

  Brent backed down the steps, through the watertight door and into the crew’s sitting room where he hid behind the door. A second later the man came into the passage. “Mohammed?” he called.

  Brent heard him take a deep breath then start toward the engine room. He waited until the man walked past, and then he stepped into the passageway, put the machine gun’s metal stock to his wounded shoulder, and ignored the wrenching pain. “Freeze,” he cried. “Hands in the air!”

  The terrorist raised his hands to shoulder height and turned very slowly, first only his head, a second later his shoulders. A machine gun similar to Brent’s hung from a sling around his neck. His expression showed neither surprise nor alarm. In spite of the thick yellow smoke Brent recognized his assailant from the parking garage. “Where is she?” he demanded. “The woman.”

  The terrorist said nothing. “Where is she?” Brent said again.

  The terrorist shook his head imperceptibly. Brent had been sighting down the barrel of the machine gun, but he raised his head slightly. “You’re going to tell me, you sonofabitch,” he said, just as the terrorist moved.

  The man was extraordinarily quick. Because he didn’t reach for the machine gun, Brent hesitated, and the knife seemed to appear from nowhere, just an instantaneous flash in the smoke. At the last possible instant Brent threw himself sideways and pulled the trigger. The knife hit, clipping his ear where his throat had been a half second earlier. The terrorist’s machine gun was already in his hands, but Brent’s burst tore into his legs.

  Brent rushed forward, ignoring the warmth of fresh blood on the side of his face. He grabbed the man’s gun and jerked the sling free of his shoulders. The man was conscious although from the amount of blood, Brent’s shots had clearly caught an artery.

  “Where is she?” Brent demanded.

  The terrorist looked up at him and shook his head.

  “Tell me!” Brent shouted. He put his foot on the man’s mangled thigh and pressed.

  The terrorist arched his back in agony, and air hissed through his teeth. But he said nothing.

  Brent straightened up and looked down. The man was bleeding to death, but one of his hands was busy with something on the inside of his belt. Suddenly, Brent saw the blade of a second knife. He aimed at the man’s chest, but the terrorist’s hand never paused. “Game’s over,” he said, then pulled the trigger.

  SEVENTY

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  WHEN THE BOAT’S POWER SYSTEMS went dead, Abu Sayeed froze in the silence and listened. The wind and rain had slackened. He could hear the faint slap of waves against the hull. Seconds
ticked past as he waited for some sign from Naif. Nothing happened for nearly a minute, but then came a muffled coughing sound, the bark of a silenced machine gun. A moment later, a second burst. When Naif still did not call out, Abu Sayeed assumed the worst. Where had his enemies come from? How had they gotten on board? When? How many?

  With no time for hesitation or regret, he moved to the flybridge. The boat was on fire, its engines dead. They were rudderless and drifting with the current. He would never reach Manhattan, but he would wound America all the same. One by one he would launch the Strellas. After he’d sunk his poisoned harpoons deep in his enemy’s hide, he would try and escape with his hostages.

  As he knelt beside the weapons crates, his mind raced with his contingency plan. He’d use each of the hostages, Anneliës as well, to trade for time or whatever he needed. Every warrior had to die—he had no regrets if it came to that. The Americans might eventually destroy him, but first he would strike a great blow for Allah.

  He picked up the launcher, activated the system, and waited for the tone to indicate the passive infrared homing was operational. It needed only a few seconds to come on line, but the missile wouldn’t fire without the tone. It had a range of nearly three and a half miles. He planned to fire in the direction of LaGuardia Airport.

  The tone was beeping faster, building toward a solid whine that would indicate the homing device was active, when something moved in his peripheral vision. He swung his head and saw a partial silhouette and the barrel of a gun at the top of the stern ladder. He lay the launcher down and reached for his Heckler & Koch, but a burst caught him twice in the abdomen and knocked him backward.