A long pause. The radio squelched.
“American Coast Guard, we have need of your help.”
“Zaitsev, state the nature of your emergency.
A shorter pause.
“Our engine chief, he is very sick.”
All the hairs on the back of Gage’s neck stood straight up. He hurried down the stairs. Something about the timbre of the Armenian’s voice struck him as odd, strained. Quinton paused in dinner preparations and turned to listen. He gave Gage a frown. They both felt the same weird vibes.
Gage logged onto the computer and quickly accessed the list of registered merchant vessels. Within seconds he had an answer. Merchant Vessel Zaitsev was three hundred feet of Russian fish processing boat that normally plied the waters beyond the Bering Straights.
“M/V Zaitsev, can your clarify the nature of your medical emergency?”
Gage mentally praised the ensign for keeping the man talking, getting as much information as possible.
Damon peered out of the laundry room, a load of clean towels draped over his forearm. Gage glanced over to meet the kid’s troubled look. Frankie edged up close beside him.
“My chief engineer has sharp pains in his chest.”
“Zaitsev, what is your location?”
A pause. Gage thought he heard yelling in the background.
“We are forty-five degrees, thirty-three point fifteen north and one twenty-six, zero five point forty-eight west.”
Quinton arched his blonde eyebrows and coughed. The ship was less than fifty miles offshore, running almost parallel to them.
Their direct phone line rang three seconds later.
Gage snatched it off the recharging cradle.
“We’ve got the coordinates and are on the way,” he answered and hung up.
Frankie and Damon burst into action. Gage turned to Quinton.
“I don’t like the sound of this. Be cautious.”
“Caution’s my middle name, mate.”
* * * *
A fine mist clung low to the ocean’s surface as Stella plied the thick air. It was twilight; the orange globe of the sun dipping lower on the horizon before it disappeared completely. In the water below Gage watched a small humpback whale sound and dive to the murky depths. The whine of helicopter rotors did little to drown out his unease. He could hear the chatter of Damon and Quinton as they discussed their potential patient.
Damon decided to use the litter. Anyone suffering from a possible heart attack didn’t need the unnecessary stress of crawling into a basket. Ahead in the distance, the low clouds parted and the decrepit rigging of a rusted ship came into view.
“I have visual contact,” Gage announced.
Frankie had already begun an intercept course.
“Ready at the hoist,” Quinton reported.
Gage stared through the reinforced glass window. The closer they approached the target, the more wary he became. The call appeared straightforward enough; language barrier excluded. Over the years they had run hundreds of medical assistance calls, many of which included foreign freighters under strange and suspicious circumstances.
This call didn’t feel right.
Years of military training formed the backbone of his suspicious nature. Skepticism wasn’t easy to turn off.
Frankie pulled them into a tight hover beside the ship, whipping the water below into a frothy white stew. Gage felt his gut clench. They were sitting ducks in the helicopter.
Defenseless.
Gage turned, craned his neck to see behind them. Two of the Zaitsev’s crew, clad in rubberized yellow overalls, waved them closer and hunkered down to avoid the rotor wash. He stayed alert, ran through possible scenarios in his head and glanced again at Frankie. She was totally focused on keeping them stable. He frowned and listened intently as Damon got ready to descend.
“Ready for hoist power.”
“Affirmative.”
Quinton sent Damon and the litter down simultaneously. The kid hung on like a monkey, feet poised on the carabiner that attached litter to cable. The moment he hit the slippery wet deck, his gloved hand disconnected the cable’s quick-release. He was on his own now and free to work his medical magic.
Quinton hoisted the cable back up.
“Boom stored. Clear for forward motion.”
Gage gave Frankie the thumbs-up signal. With a flick of her wrist, she backed the helicopter off a few hundred yards, affording him a better opportunity to view the ship. Every visible inch of the Zaitsev came under Gage’s intense scrutiny. His expression hardened into a dark scowl.
He noted the lack of functional lights and lifelines, the two battered lifeboats that wouldn’t last five minutes in heavy seas. His eyes roamed over the cracked windows in the pilothouse and a radar system more appropriate for a maritime museum than a working fishing vessel.
Massive piles of old nets cluttered the deck. They had been sewn and repaired countless times. The ship was exactly what one would expect from an aged fleet that lacked the funds for proper upkeep.
Gage blew out a deep breath and glanced over at Frankie. She was deep in concentration, keeping them stable at hover.
“What’s taking Damon so long?” Quinton’s voice filtered through their headsets.
“Unknown,” Gage responded. He grimaced at the glowing numbers on his thick wristwatch.
“What’s the frown for?” Frankie’s voice pierced through the headset.
“Fifteen minutes, seven seconds. Way off his average,” Gage responded.
“Maybe there were complications,” Frankie said.
“Damon is one of the fastest working medics in the Guard,” Quinton answered.
“Try hailing him,” Frankie ordered.
Before he could, the radio crackled and a faint, “clear for pickup” sounded. Gage strained to hear more but there was only a moment of white noise before radio silence.
“Was that a roger for pickup?” Quinton asked. “I don’t see any movement on deck.”
Gage looked down. Quinton was right.
“I don’t like this,” Gage spoke.
A metallic glimmer caught his eye. Four men surfaced on deck carrying a litter.
“There they are,” Quinton said. “Ready for pickup.”
Frankie toggled the controls and maneuvered them back to the ship.
“Ready for hoist.”
Gage peered out the window, observing as the litter was lowered and a victim placed inside. As Quinton hoisted it up, Damon clung to the cable, a tentative hold Gage would have ascribed to the less experienced. The litter was spinning wildly.
From the corner of his eye, Gage caught a trace of movement on the ship’s deck. He turned and saw a twist of arms and legs, a struggle in the bulkhead doorway. He simultaneously keyed his mike and motioned to Frankie.
“Quinton, drop the litter! It’s a trap!”
Too late.
A low warning cry sounded from the back of the helicopter. Gage spun just in time to see their patient fire a taser dart into Quinton’s broad chest. Two barbs blasted across the small space and impacted below his left collarbone. Quinton collapsed in a fetal position. The helicopter lurched slightly under Frankie’s surprised hands.
“What the hell!” she exclaimed.
An imposter, dressed in Damon’s jumpsuit, stepped over Quinton’s coiled body. The barrel of a taser gun came up to stare Gage in the face.
“Do exactly as I say and I will spare your life.”
“What do you want?” Frankie yelled.
Pseudo-Damon smiled at her, showing a slight space between his crooked front teeth. He kept the taser trained on Gage. “You will land on the ship at once. If you activate the emergency transponder or key the microphone to contact your cutter station, your co-pilot will die.”
Frankie darted a quick look at Gage, taking stock of their situation. On the floor, Quinton started to move, slowly regaining control of his stunned muscles. His eyes were glassy but focused. She knew he heard every wor
d. There was an instant of hesitation before she worked the sticks to spin them around.
“Don’t do it,” Gage ordered. His eyes never left their aggressor.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“This is a government vessel. You know the rules.”
“He’ll shoot you,” she answered.
“He’ll do it anyway. Do NOT submit.”
Frankie stared a moment at the hijacker.
“Do not submit,” Gage repeated and flicked a hand signal to Quinton.
Frankie turned her head and very slowly lowered them down to the steel deck of the ship.
An unarmed man clambered aboard. Gage strained for a better look at the newcomer. He thought there was something oddly familiar about the lanky, dark-haired man with the cadaver-thin face. Like a rocker or druggie, every scrap of clothing he wore was black, contrasting sharply with his pale features. He carried a heavy black case and leather satchel that banged against his hip with each awkward step. The man yelled over the roar of helicopter noise at one of the hijackers.
“ГДЕ МОЙ ПОМОЩНИК?”
Gage translated the words in his mind. “Where is my assistant?”
The bastard who shot Quinton answered the question.
“ОН СКОРО БУДЕТ”
“He will be here soon.”
Gage took a calming breath. His peripheral vision blurred before coming into focus. A name popped clearly into his head.
Dimitri Arhepov.
A memory from the past. Gage had seen his picture many years ago — a Russian computer genius for hire. The man was on every Customs and Immigrations hot list in the world. Apparently he had found new employment in the United States.
“What have you done with my rescue swimmer?” Frankie yelled.
A taser veered to stare her in the eye, wielded by a brute with arguably the worst acne scarring Gage had seen in his life. Gage made a close-fisted hand signal to her. Keep silent. Not surprisingly she ignored it.
“Where is my rescue swimmer?” Frankie demanded again.
“He will be safe as long as you comply with our demands.”
Gage’s mind ran over the possibilities. God help him if Frankie wouldn’t shut up. Women! They were going to be the death of him. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his back. He signaled her again to keep quiet. Miraculously, this time she obeyed.
Another hijacker approached them, accompanied by a pinch-faced, frail looking kid in his mid-twenties. Gage stared at the youngster and committed his face to memory.
Two hijackers and two Russian computer hackers.
Gage mulled over their chances. He’d been in worse predicaments. Not bad odds really, especially if Quinton could provide a little help at just the right moment.
He knew he could count on Quinton’s assistance if there was any possible way the Aussie had strength to swing a fist. At the moment, however, Quinton was cramped into the space behind Gage’s co-pilot seat. His pale head was hung low, his breathing shallow and regular. It wouldn’t take long for him to recover. Time was their enemy now. They had to stall.
Their unwelcome guests stowed the empty litter and settled down in the back. Seatbelts snapped into place. The hijacker Gage targeted as their leader shouted above the rotor noise to Frankie.
“You will lift off now.”
Her glare pierced the man. “Where?” she yelled back.
“I will give you coordinates momentarily.”
“I need to know where to go,” she shouted.
“North.”
Chapter 21
WALKING THE WALK
Dark shadows silhouetted the land mass ahead. Stella was sluggish with the added weight in back. Gage glanced over to see the determined set of Frankie’s jaw outlined in the dimmed interior of the cockpit. Her jerky movements on the controls, designed to sicken those in the back of the helicopter, almost made him smile. She might be under coercion but she was far from giving up control.
They were instructed to land in a clearing west of the interstate highway. A waxing moon cast the landing zone in an eerie glow. Gage could see activity below. Three darkly clothed figures scrambled from the wind and debris churned up by the helicopter, shielding themselves behind two large vans. He turned his head enough to see Quinton. His breathing was regulated, eyes closed, body preternaturally still and saving strength for the time it would be needed.
Gage knew Quinton’s ears missed nothing. Hearing was the last sense to go and first to return. He scanned the forward console. All panel lights were normal. He chanced another glance over his left shoulder. Everyone in back looked airsick.
Frankie’s erratic flying had paid off.
Arhepov and his scrawny assistant wouldn’t pose a problem. They weren’t there to brawl. Whatever computer system he had been hired to hack, mixing it up with the goons in a fistfight wouldn’t be part of the program.
So, what was the program?
Someone had gone to great expense and danger to hire Arhepov. Talents like his didn’t come cheap. Despite his questionable taste in clothing, the man was reported to be worth millions. Gage searched the forested area around them for any sign of exploitable weakness.
As Frankie lowered them to the clearing, Gage emptied his mind of all thoughts and felt a great, cool numbness wash over his skin. There was only one mission now.
Take back Stella.
Frankie crunched them down rougher than usual and turned to glare at the man that held a taser on Gage.
“You will shut down the engines,” he ordered.
“The engines need two minutes to cool down,” she snapped. “I can’t shut them down before then.”
“You have two minutes. No more,” he replied and tapped his watch.
She glared a moment longer and flipped the switches. Stella’s rotors slowed to a dull thump, thump, thump.
Gage closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, taking comfort from the familiar hydraulic smells permeating the cabin. The next few minutes would decide everything. When the opportunity presented itself, he had to be ready to act. He wouldn’t fail his team this time. Too much depended on it. Frankie would need him. He couldn’t let her down.
Gage licked a thin layer of sweat from his upper lip and scanned the edges of the clearing once more. He refused to blink. Bad things could happen in the blink of an eye. It didn’t pay to have your eyes shut when the shit hit the fan. Through the cushion of his seat, Gage could feel the synchronous rap of fingers tapping out a code. Quinton was ready.
A cloud of organic debris flew up to cradle the helicopter. When the blade rotation stopped, three figures descended upon them. Gage shook his head. Five armed opponents against two. Dicey but doable.
Frankie bounded out of the helicopter. She tore off her helmet and started in on their captors. “Where the hell is my rescue swimmer?” Her gray eyes were liquid with violence. “Hey,” she pointed a finger in the nearest face. “I’m talking to you!”
A beefy hand motioned Gage out of the cockpit. Staring down the non-wavering barrel of a gun, Gage grimaced, feeling the advantage of timing and patience slip away as Frankie stirred up trouble.
None of the men gave her more than an irritated scowl. Frankie repeated, “What did you do with my rescue swimmer?” She cornered the closest hijacker and jabbed her gloved finger into his burly chest. His disdain made it clear she was not considered a threat.
Gage and Quinton were not treated with the same disregard. A guard was assigned to each of them. Muscle-bound, anabolic steroid types. Both were close enough to throttle but Gage didn’t dare make a move yet. Not until he could get Frankie clear of danger. She wasn’t helping matters by nipping at their captors like a terrier.
Gage glanced around. Arhepov and his assistant were being ushered into the closest van. The remainder of the hijackers were consolidating their supplies, moving stacks of crates from one vehicle to another. He tried to get Frankie’s attention, signal her to shut up. The leader paused in giving instructio
ns to his men and turned to Frankie.
“Captain Moriarty, restrain yourself or you will never see your missing crewman alive again.”
Frankie yelled above the noise of their activity. “You went to a lot of trouble to steal my helo. If you want my cooperation, you better tell me what you’ve done to Damon.”
Gage looked over his shoulder at Quinton. The Aussie had been unsteadily moving from the helicopter and was now staring at Frankie. For the first time he realized the danger her furious temper put them in. When Frankie was really mad, there wasn’t much that could make her back down.
The stocky leader took an ominous step toward her, brandishing a short coil of nylon rope that made Gage’s heart leap. “You are in no position to issue me an ultimatum, Captain. I do not have time for further argument.” The man turned to speak directly to Gage. “Lieutenant Adams, you will pilot the helicopter while my men watch over your captain.”
Gage wasn’t surprised he knew their names. Too much money was involved for them to have skipped their homework. He couldn’t afford to wait much longer.
“Who the hell are you?” Gage demanded.
A nefarious smile. “Call me Yuri.”
“Where am I going?”
“One kilometer northeast of the hydroelectric plant. I will give you exact coordinates when we are in the air.” He motioned to Frankie. “If you make the slightest course deviation, she will be executed.”
“You lay one hand on her,” Gage spoke icily, “and you’ll lose the ability to piss standing up.”
Yuri’s nostrils flared at the insult. One of the goons tried to give Gage a brutal shove but he sidestepped the blow and stood firm.
“You will comply with my orders.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Gage sneered.
“Let me remind you of who is in charge.” He motioned to the man guarding Quinton.
Frankie sprang into action, getting right up in Yuri’s face. “I’m the pilot, not him! He can’t fly his way out of a paper bag. I always have to cover for his ineptitude.”
The leader mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.
“Adams is a hazard,” Frankie raved. “I’m the pilot you need for this job.”
Guarding the Coast Page 23
