Armageddon Conspiracy bl-1

by John Thompson

He felt rage and surprise, and his guts were on fire. He fired wildly toward the top of the steps. He backed into the cockpit, lifted his shirt, and saw two small holes. There was little blood, but he sensed the damage. He fired again through the open door, and then ignored the searing pain as he darted down the steps toward the lower deck. His only thought now—the hostages.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  MAGGIE STRUGGLED TO FOCUS. THE knife was everything. The other woman was clawing at the carpet, trying to pivot around her dead legs in order to reach it. Biddle, too, had rolled on his side and was backing toward it. Maggie knew her life depended on getting there first, but she was terribly tired. The cabin lights had gone out then other lights had come on, but these were dim, soothing as nightlights. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

  With all her effort she swung her legs off the bed and tried to stand. Her knees buckled. She went down hard, her shoulder striking a dresser. The pain gave her a few seconds of clarity.

  She realized the room was filling with smoke, also that Biddle was about the grab the knife. She kicked him in the back, rolling him away and onto his stomach. Then she turned on her side and slid backward, groping blindly. The plastic cuffs had cut her circulation, and her fingers felt almost lifeless. She grasped the knife and tried to slide the blade inside the loop that bound her left wrist, only to lose her grip. Biddle was kicking at her, but she ignored him and kept struggling. The other woman was clearly injured, but she, too, was moving closer, her hands outstretched. On her fourth try Maggie managed to work the blade into the loop and began to saw.

  The smoke was growing thicker. Her lungs burned. Biddle’s foot lashed out and caught her painfully in the thigh, but she didn’t stop. Finally, the left loop began to loosen. She sawed harder, and at last her hand came free.

  The woman was trying to grab her legs as Maggie struggled to her feet, fighting dizziness and confusion, in some part of her brain knowing she had a concussion. She wondered if the boat was sinking. She had to escape, but first she needed air. Portholes were set into the hull on both sides of the stateroom, above the built-in dressers. She clambered onto one of the dressers and began frantically unscrewing the brass wing nuts around a porthole.

  “Cut me loose!” Biddle rasped. “Please!”

  Maggie ignored him and kept working. She was on the verge of blacking out when she managed to swing the porthole open. She shoved her face into the opening and pulled clean air into her lungs. Her head had barely starting to clear when the stateroom door opened and closed again.

  She looked around to see the man who had beaten her. He was leaning against the door clutching his abdomen. A machine gun dangled from one hand. As she watched, he fell to one knee, and then struggled to his feet. A dark stain was spreading across his torso.

  He squinted at the woman on the floor as if he couldn’t understand why she was down there, and then he staggered past her and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His eyes moved to Biddle. “Get up!” he groaned.

  Suddenly, Biddle seemed to come alive. “You betrayed me!” he shouted then began to cough.

  “This was never for your God,” the other man wheezed. “It was always for mine.”

  “Well, where is your God now?” Biddle demanded.

  “Here,” the man said as he shoved his machine gun into Biddle’s face. “Get up!”

  Biddle’s brief resistance seemed to flag as the terrorist grabbed hold of him and dragged him slowly to his knees. The terrorist sat back on the bed and took a deep breath, seeming momentarily overcome with pain, but then he swung his eyes up to Maggie.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  BRENT STOOD AT THE TOP of the stairs and strained his eyes into the twisting yellow smoke. It gouted upward, scalding his lungs. The fiberglass was burning unchecked now, the fire already eating through the bulkhead separating the engine room from the staterooms.

  The rest of the yacht was empty, which meant Maggie was down below in the smoke, along with at least one terrorist. Brent was sure he’d wounded the guy, but maybe not so badly that they guy wasn’t down there waiting in ambush. It didn’t matter. At some level far below reason he knew Maggie was alive, which meant he was going after her.

  Over the roar of the flames and the sucking air he heard the yacht groan, the sound coming from somewhere deep in her bowels, as if the fire was literally tearing her apart. He shuddered, knowing that once the diesel started to burn, no one below decks would have a chance.

  It brought his lifelong nightmare charging back. He saw burning walls. He saw his father and Harry, both trapped by impenetrable flames, both knowing they were about to die horrible, excruciating deaths.

  The next thing he heard was the sound of laughter and then Harry’s voice. No one lives forever, little bro. In spite of his terror at dying the same death, Harry’s words made him smile. His whole damn family had been insane, he thought, beautifully and irretrievably nuts.

  With that, he took the deepest breath possible, getting too much smoke and too little good air, and he stumbled down the stairs, immediately blind, unable to even see his hand on the railing. The railing became too hot to grip even before he found the bottom step. His lungs were wild with the need for a fresh breath, and his eyes were on fire. The smoke was thick as wood, completely disorienting, but he moved instinctively away from the heat.

  He moved by touch along a short passage, finding several open doors but then a closed door at the end. Voices came from the other side. He could hold his breath no longer, and he expelled the acrid air. His reflexive gulp of smoke made him double over with coughing.

  Knowing that he had no other choice, he threw open the door and stumbled inside, slamming the door behind him, his choked lungs heaving. His eyes were partly blind with tears, but he made out a blonde woman on the floor. He recognized Biddle’s thin shoulders and blond hair where he knelt in one corner, And the man he’d shot sitting on the beds pointing a gun at a fourth person, a woman, who was kneeling beside an open porthole Maggie! He saw it but could do nothing, as coughing drove him straight to his knees.

  The coughing also saved his life because the man on the bed swung his gun, firing an awkward one-handed burst that would have cut him in half. Brent fired instinctively, just as he was wracked with more coughing and gagging.

  As his lungs slowly recovered, he tensed, expecting bullets to tear into him, but they never came. Finally, he raised his head and saw the terrorist sprawled across the bed, unmoving. He used his last dregs of consciousness to crawl toward the porthole. At that point, he recognized the woman on the floor, but his mind was too numb to register shock. She made a feeble grab for his gun, but he shoved her away. The air near the wall was slightly better, but when he tried to take a deeper breath he doubled up again with coughing.

  “Come on!” Maggie’s voice came to him.

  It took everything he had to grab the edge of the dresser and drag himself up, but after a second he felt Maggie’s hands on his head as she forced him to the porthole.

  For several moments they clung there, gripping the edge, greedily sucking the clear air. Along with oxygen came the fresh realization that they were out of time. Any second the diesel would start to burn, and there would be no escape. He turned an, saw the blood in Maggie’s hair and on her face. The way she clung to the porthole told him she had nothing left.

  “Wait here,” he mumbled. He was close to passing out, but he took one more clean breath and climbed off the dresser. He pulled the dead terrorist onto the floor then jerked the spread from the bed, dragged it into the head, and put it under the shower. He prayed the pressure tank still worked as he turned the spigots and got an answering sputter of water. With the spread soaked and heavy, he staggered back into the stateroom.

  With a last lungful of good air, he lifted Maggie over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry an, started to pull the blanket over them.

  “Take me with you!” Biddle said in a choked wh
isper. “Please!” He was still on his knees in the corner.

  Even if he wanted to help, Brent knew there was no time. Maggie’s weight was nearly unbearable, and already his knees threatened to buckle. He stumbled to the door, his only thought getting her away from the fire.

  “Lucas!” Biddle cried, his voice rising to a high pitch.

  Brent raised the corner of the spread just enough to glance back. Biddle’s hands were free, and he was trying to pull the machine gun sling over the dead terrorist’s head. The woman Simone or whoever she really was had her arms wrapped around Biddle’s legs.

  Brent jerked open the door and plunged blindly down the passage, following the wall with his left hand, desperate to reach the stairs. Ahead, the orange glow of flames glimmered, and steam already rose off the thin fabric, which felt hot enough to ignite.

  Don’t let the stairs be burning, he prayed. When he finally gripped the banister in his left hand, it nearly blistered his flesh. He ignored the pain and stumbled upward, feeling the steps shudder, saying to himself, someone in this family has to make it out. His foot hit the top step. He somehow found the strength to keep going, up the next set of stairs to the bridge and then out the door into the open air of the flybridge, where he fell to his knees.

  From the decks below, over the roaring of the flames, a sudden scream rose and fell away. He’d never know what happened, but he knew no one could have made it up the stairs behind them.

  He rolled Maggie gently from his shoulder, and they rested side by side on their hands and knees, pulling the night air into their seared lungs. After a moment, he raised his head and looked around. The fog had lifted slightly, and he could see the Whaler about fifty yards off the stern. He got to his knees and waved and saw the boat start forward. With the fire spreading, they couldn’t risk going down the stairs and through the salon to the aft deck. It meant they had to go down the aft ladder to reach the stern, where the Whaler could pick them up.

  “Come on!” he said as he pulled Maggie to her feet and led her to the stern. Her eyes kept closing as if she was unable to stay awake. “I’m going down first, then you come. I’ll catch you if you fall.” He shouted the words as if volume would help keep her awake. “Can you do it?”

  She nodded, and he started down the ladder. The descent seemed to take forever, the pain in his arm making it nearly impossible to grip the rungs. Maggie followed, each movement precarious. Brent knew he could never hold her if she fell.

  As he reached the bottom, he heard a sound and turned, thinking the woman FBI agent or one of the helicopter pilots had come to help. Instead, he saw Biddle stagger from the burning salon at least he thought it was Biddle. His face was soot black, one side distorted by raw blistered skin. He was weaving, smoking like a piece of overdone meat, but he held the machine gun in his hands. He opened his mouth, and some garbled words came out.

  Brent glanced up. Maggie was still on the ladder, halfway down, struggling to stay conscious. Biddle swung the gun in Brent’s direction. “Messiah bringer,” he croaked this time, his voice no longer human. He was probably ten feet away, too far to charge with any hope of success. Brent felt the hard shape of the railing at his back. He could throw himself over the side and live, but he stayed rooted in place. He wasn’t leaving Maggie.

  He gathered what was left of his strength and prepared to launch himself at Biddle. He knew what it meant. Harry’s voice came to him. Been there, done that.

  He bent his knees to charge when the first shots came.yFortunately, he felt nothing. It was a good way to die, he thought.

  • • •

  After what seemed like forever, his muscles began to relax, and he turned his head to see the red-haired woman in a shooter’s crouch at the stop of the port staircase. Biddle had disappeared, blown backward into the flaming salon by her gunshots. The agent came over, moved Brent aside, and helped Maggie. Together they hobbled down the stern steps to the Whaler.

  The yacht was drifting sideways on the current. Up ahead a line of flashing lights charged toward them. It came from what looked like an entire fleet of boats.

  Brent could see Coast Guard boats and police boats and helicopters in the air. There would be doctors for Maggie. Most of all, there would be firemen on fireboats, Brent thought. God, how he wanted to see the firemen.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  AN HOUR LATER, BRENT SAT in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask pressed to his face. Every few seconds another question came, and he would pull the mask away to give a hoarse reply. All around a myriad of lights flashed on ambulances, fire engines, S.W.A.T., and FBI vehicles. Nearby, at an old industrial pier, Biddle’s yacht still belched smoke into the clearing sky, and every few moments a jet would roar past on its descent into LaGuardia.

  The ambulance attendants wanted to take Brent directly to the hospital, but the red-haired FBI agent he’d pulled from the river insisted on questioning him first. Now, he was giving her his story for the second time.

  An ambulance had already taken Maggie away Brent had insisted on that before he’d say a word. The attendants said she appeared to have a concussion, hopefully nothing more. Brent had also learned that Steve Kosinsky’s wound was apparently serious but not life threatening. He would be back at work in a month or two.

  Now, as hard as he tried to answer the agent’s questions, he had to admit that much of what happened remained a blur. The two moments that existed with clarity were personal and mattered to him alone. They had come when he’d stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the smoke, and when he prepared to charge Biddle’s machine gun. Both times he’d known he was going to die. As much as he’d wanted to live, there had been no regrets, and he’d realized suddenly how it had been for Harry and his father and Fred… and even for his mother. It was his choice, and for all of his family, it had always been just that a choice.

  EPILOGUE

  MORRISTOWN, NJ, SEPTEMBER 6

  BRENT WAS BENT OVER, HANDS on his knees, sweat pouring from his scalp and down the sides of his face as the August sun pounded his back and scorched the baked grass. Spread before him, some kneeling, others squatting, two even prone on the ground, a squad of thirty-six young men sucked the burning late afternoon air into oxygen-starved lungs. Brent had run the wind sprints right along with them, and now he waited several seconds before he finally relented and blew his whistle to end practice.

  Today was the last of the pr-season two-a-days, and Morris County Prep’s varsity football team was going to have a pretty good season if physical conditioning had anything to do with it. Brent had come close to breaking half the members of his squad over the past few weeks, but he could already see a tremendous difference. His boys were going to be able to hit and keep on hitting right through the final seconds of the game.

  His boys, the thought made him smile. As he watched them trudge off the practice field toward the locker room, he heard a familiar voice behind him. “How are your pansies today?”

  He turned to see Fred in a ragged pair of khaki shorts and the Morris County Prep tee shirt Brent had given him. “They’re going to beat up all the other pansies,” Brent replied.

  “Some pansies have to be the toughest,” his uncle said. “Might as well be yours.”

  Brent smiled. Fred had been appalled when Brent accepted the job. “A private school?” he’d screamed when Brent told him. “You want me to go down to the firehouse and tell the guys you’re coaching at a private school?”

  In spite of his apparent horror, Fred hadn’t missed a day of practice, often bringing jugs of cold water and even giving whispered words of encouragement when a kid was down from exhaustion and didn’t want to get up.

  Brent couldn’t have cared less that it was a private school. He only cared that he’d be teaching math and had a head-coaching job and that the whole package seemed tailor-made. From the day the news hit the papers that Prescott Biddle had helped terrorists plot the assassination of the President, t
he money had flowed out of Genesis Advisors like oil from a ruptured tanker. The remaining partners had been delighted to buy Brent out of his contract in return for a promise that he wouldn’t sue them.

  Now, even after paying taxes on his severance, there had been enough to buy Fred a small house with a well-landscaped yard in Fort Meyers, Florida and a bungalow for himself in Morristown. Fred had initially told Brent he was a fool and refused to have anything to do with the house, but Brent knew that sometime around mid-November, when his garden had died for the winter, Fred would relent and start driving south.

  Maggie was back at the Morristown Police Department. She’d had enough deskwork, she said. She liked people too much and loved working cases. She was determined to remain a cop until she stopped working, whenever that would be. Maybe she’d be a cop forever, which was fine with him.

  Last night he’d taken her to dinner to give her the ring and finally pop the question. They were never going to live on a fifteen-acre estate in Far Hills or Mendham, but so what? He had what he needed. He’d had it the whole time, just hadn’t been able to see it.

  In classic Maggie style, she hadn’t said yes, at least not right away. “Couple things come to mind,” she’d said after she’d taken a sip of wine.

  “Like?”

  “It sure took you long enough.”

  Brent nodded. “We’ve discussed that.”

  In the weeks after the raid on Biddle’s estate they’d talked night after night about their lives and their futures, and he’d slowly convinced her that something had changed for him. He’d made a choice, finally realizing that choices themselves were more important than outcomes and that choices came from either strength or weakness. He knew his father and Harry had made strong choices. His mother had made a weak one. It helped him stop believing some kind of incurable defect permeated his bloodline.