Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  “No shooting in the aircraft now, love. Not with the explosives we’ve loaded.” He points to the crates in the cabin. “No, I’m afraid your end will not be so tidy. Once we kick you out, it will be the sharks, I think. That is, if the sea snakes don’t get you first.”

  I think back to Mike’s comment about a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But it’s so much worse than that.

  “But for the sake of speeding things along, since you’re in a bit of a state over the condition of Mr. Amicus, you may tend to your leader and your boys can return to the business of repairing.”

  I nod slightly to Lego and he does the same in acknowledgment.

  As he and Messy turn to go, Jonas adds, “And here.” He walks forward and reaches into Collin’s rucksack, pulling out a canister. “More oil.”

  “Thorough,” I say disgustedly.

  He pushes me forward. “Make it quick. You’ve got five minutes.”

  I grab the med bag and kneel next to Animal, who immediately tries to talk.

  “Shhh,” I whisper. “I’m going to stop the bleeding, okay?”

  My hands are shaking as I undo the fasteners to the medical kit. I look at my right glove, the one hiding the push-to-talk switch. I hadn’t considered using it earlier, when I was talking with Jonas. Maybe if I’d pushed it, Eric could have heard something, realized something was wrong. But I can’t stop to press it now. Not with what I’m doing. Not if I want any chance of stanching the bleeding.

  What else? I have a gun—Captain Plank’s 9mm Beretta—tucked in the pocket of my survival vest. But as soon as the thought enters my head, I know it’s a non-starter. Jonas has a gun aimed at my back and even if I could manage to unzip my vest, pull the gun out, turn, aim, and fire before he pulled the trigger, Bartholomew would probably just laugh as he watched the attempt. He stands now on the ship’s deck just beyond the aft ramp of the helicopter, overseeing the loading operations, with a clear line of sight to me and all that I’m doing.

  Stop it with the gun and radio, Sara! You need your mind on what you’re doing!

  I finally get the straps undone, laying the kit open, and turn to Animal. I unzip his survival vest, pulling his arms through the sleeves, which reveals a flight suit saturated in blood. Okay.

  I pull on the zipper to his flight suit, opening it until I see the wound in his side, or maybe it’s two. God, there’s so much blood. Reaching for the ample supply of dressings from the med bag, I apply them directly over the site, holding them down to keep the pressure on.

  “Three minutes!” Jonas announces.

  I clumsily roll Animal’s body to wrap the bandages around his torso and secure the dressings. I finish tying the first bandages in a tight knot, but the dressings are already soaked through. Oh, no …

  “Two minutes!”

  “Sara,” Animal whispers with effort.

  I look into his eyes. There is no fear in them whatsoever. If I had to describe the expression on his face, I’d say he looks pissed.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re right,” he says, wheezing. “He needs you.”

  I nod.

  “Can’t fly…” Animal’s breaths are coming more rapidly and shallow now.

  “I understand.”

  He moves his lips like he wants to say something else, but I touch them gently.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” I whisper. “Just hang on, okay?”

  The plan that’s taking shape in my mind is a long shot. But Animal just reiterated what I’ve been thinking. Can’t fly. Can’t fly …

  44

  My head snaps up when Lego and Messy arrive back in the cabin. I don’t ask for permission, but set them to work. Their hands are filthy with engine oil, so I have them hold Animal in a position where I can wrap the bandages more tightly around his torso.

  “One minute!”

  I add layer after layer of dressings until, finally, they remain dry on top. In the background, the loading operations continue. The whole time I’ve been with Animal, men have walked back and forth carrying boxes and crates, strapping them to the floor.

  “Okay, that’s it!” Jonas says.

  I place my hand over Animal’s heart, giving him a small smile before rising.

  His tenacious response is communicated with his eyes, which are blazing with determination. If I had to guess, he’s saying, Give ’em hell!

  “Let’s move him here,” I say to Lego and Messy, motioning farther inside the aircraft.

  We turn him so his body is running lengthwise with the cabin, slide his legs under the troop seats, and lay him next to the bulkhead.

  “You,” Jonas says, pointing at me. “Sit here and don’t move.”

  He directs me to the crew chief’s seat next to the main cabin door. The seat itself faces aft, so I have a clear view down the entire cabin.

  “You two,” he says, motioning to Lego and Messy. “I assume we’re operational?”

  “Yes,” Lego says curtly.

  Jonas points to the cargo. “Make sure that gets strapped in.”

  Lego and Messy grit their teeth and start to work. Collin has resumed guard duty, having followed Lego and Messy inside after their repairs, now standing mid-cabin with a gun trained on both of them.

  When Jonas leaves my side, I finally have space to think. Okay, what next? We’re going to finish loading, we’ll turn up, we’ll fly until he’s satisfied that the engine is working, and then we’re shark food.

  I rub my still-gloved hands across the pant legs of my flight suit in an attempt to wipe off the blood, but snag the push-to-talk button against the pocket zipper on my thigh.

  The radio. I didn’t have time to use it before, but I do now … which also means I have time to retrieve the gun from my vest. But then what? Shoot Collin? Bartholomew stands just beyond him, not ten feet further. And the Middle Eastern men—I count eight—who move back and forth through the cabin all carry guns at their sides. The notion of me pulling off some gunslinging miracle surrounded by eleven armed men and who knows how many more onboard the ship is ludicrous.

  So I go back to the radio. Best to let Eric know what’s happening. I start to press the switch, but realize I can’t do this without being overheard. Okay, okay, okay. Think.

  The idea that pops to mind … well, never in a million years did I think I’d actually need this.

  When you grow up in a Denning household, you learn certain things—things most kids don’t learn. The military alphabet, for one. I didn’t learn A, B, C, D. I learned Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. I also learned the Manual of Arms. I practiced with Ian in our backyard and could complete the entire sequence by the time I was ten. And to covertly communicate with Ian? Morse Code. We played games in our tree house, tapping away and communicating in silence to the befuddlement of the neighbor kids. And, of course, I had to do all these things again once I entered the Naval Academy.

  And now, I’m going to use Morse Code officially for the first time ever, and I pray that among the roster of languages Eric keeps tucked in his head, Morse Code is one of them.

  I move my hand discreetly behind my back and press the push-to-talk button with my thumb.

  “S-O-S,” I key using dots and dashes. “S-O-S,” I repeat.

  “Sara?” Eric’s voice runs thick with alarm. “Sara, what is it?”

  “S-O-S,” I key.

  “SOS? What’s happened?”

  “E-N-G-I-N-E-F-A-I-L-U-R-E.”

  “Engine failure? Where are you?”

  “O-N-D-E-C-K.”

  “But you reported ops normal.”

  “F-O-R-C-E-D-T-O-S-A-Y.”

  “Forced? You were forced? Who forced you?”

  “J-O-N-A-S.”

  My body quakes with adrenaline at the sound of Jonas’s voice. “Ah, what’s this?” he asks, entering from my left, through the main cabin door.

  “Jonas?” Eric’s voice is frantic. “Is he there with you now?”

  I press and hold the push-to-talk butto
n, hoping Eric can hear whatever happens now.

  “Take off your helmet,” Jonas orders.

  I comply and he pulls my hair aside with an aggravated yank.

  “Ahh … naughty girl,” he says, shaking his head. “Take off your gloves.”

  When I do, he reaches for the press-to-talk button and presses it himself. Leaning close to my ear, he says, “Hello, Romeo. The little lady is going off line now. And by the way, she’s going to pay for this.”

  The slap across my face that follows is such a shock that the cry escapes before I can stop it.

  “Sara!” Eric screams. It’s the last thing I hear before Jonas rips the radio from my ear—rips it apart, actually—and throws it across the cabin.

  Lego and Messy stand glaring as I put my hand to my stinging cheek.

  “Okay, my pretty, you may take your seat and we’ll be on our way,” he says, pointing to the cockpit.

  “Eric will find us,” I say. “He’ll fly right here.”

  Jonas starts laughing. “My dear, your Romeo is over one hundred miles away at the moment, searching for a submarine that doesn’t exist.”

  That’s why the targets were so far apart. They had to keep Eric and the SEAL team clear.

  “He’ll radio for help,” I say. “He’ll send backup. This will never work.”

  “We’ll be long gone before any help arrives, I assure you.”

  Jonas reaches for my survival vest and removes the radio clipped to my front pocket. He relieves Messy and Lego of their radios in the same manner.

  “Can’t have you calling for help again. Now, get in.”

  I breathe a small sigh, knowing I still have Captain Plank’s pistol tucked safely inside my vest pocket, out of sight. For what use, I don’t know. But at least I have it.

  Before I turn to enter the cockpit, I notice something. The radio Jonas pulled from my ear and threw across the cabin is no longer on the floor. I glance up to Lego and Messy and we share a brief look before I take my seat.

  “All right, boys,” Jonas says. “Time to resume your aircrew duties, if you please.”

  Jonas climbs into the seat next to me.

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He reaches across the cockpit and unzips my survival vest. I watch, deflated, as he removes Captain Plank’s gun.

  “I was there when Mr. Plank told Mr. Amicus you were to have this,” Jonas says, turning the gun in his hand. “Something about how impressed he was with your ability to perform under pressure. Your courage and bravery,” he says mockingly.

  Jonas allows himself a hearty laugh. “What a disappointment! Love, you’re supposed to use this!” he says, waving the gun in front of my face. “Bloody hell, what the fuck are you carrying it for if you’re not going to use it!”

  My heart falls … I’m about to start up this aircraft and fly him and his team away from here, following his instructions to the letter, enabling this assassination attempt to go forward. I haven’t put up the valiant fight, nor have I attempted even one small act to thwart his attempts at hijacking this aircraft.

  My god. What would Captain Plank say? Or Lieutenant Colonel Tyson? Or anyone else in the briefing room that day who was sizing up my ability to perform under pressure.

  Jonas accurately reads what I’m thinking. “I would pose the same question as Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he says. “You know, that part about keeping your head together when it mattered. Would you say you’re succeeding?”

  I stumble, lost for an answer. “I … I don’t know.”

  “I think not,” he says. “Which is exactly what I was counting on.”

  He tucks the gun hastily into his waistband even though he wears a vest containing a thousand pockets.

  “Knew you wouldn’t disappoint,” he says with a smile. “Now, start it up.”

  And here I go again, without hesitation, flicking the switches for the battery and starter units.

  But Sara, you do have a plan. It’s a long shot, but you have an idea. It’s just not time yet.

  “Yeah, right,” I mutter to myself.

  The engines fire up and the rotors begin to spin. Jonas orders Lego and Messy to open the engine cowling to ensure their hose repair is holding. After they report in the affirmative, I scan the gauges, all of which show normal readings. Although I doubt they were able to repair the wiring for the caution panel light and the oil pressure gauge. Wait, check that. Messy is a flat-out genius when it comes to electronics, so there’s every chance he did indeed fix them.

  “Messy, are the gauges…?”

  “Yep, ma’am, those are good readings there.”

  Incredible.

  Before we lift, Jonas reaches to the radio switch and turns it off. He also turns off our transponder. Damn it. The transponder provides automatic radar identification to anyone who’s interrogating, like air traffic controllers or other aircraft or ships. He has just shut off the only way we can positively identify ourselves.

  “After you lift, stay overhead the ship,” Jonas says. “No higher than fifty feet.”

  As we ascend, I suck in my breath as the tips of the rotor blades pass within a hair’s width of the upper decks.

  “Let’s move it,” Jonas commands. “Clear to go.”

  I exhale once we’re clear of the superstructure, and turn the aircraft to arc around the front of the ship. I’m flying with fifteen souls onboard—three SAS members, eight “civilian” men, Lego, Messy, Animal, and me.

  “Ma’am, am I clear to get up for the post-takeoff checks?” Messy asks.

  “No checks are necessary,” Jonas says. “We’re only ensuring flyability.”

  “Uh, sir, I beg to differ,” Messy says. “Since you’ve gone around cuttin’ things, I’m a little more concerned than usual.”

  Jonas pauses here, thinking through the request. “Okay, you may do your checks. One false move, though, and my man Collin pulls the trigger, explosives or no.”

  “Fuck, you think I’m gonna mess with shit? Take the helicopter down in a blaze of glory just to stop your sorry ass? Fuck no!”

  “I’m surprised at your attitude, Mr. Messina. Very un-American.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been watchin’ too many cowboy movies,” Messy says. “So can I get on with this?”

  “You may proceed.”

  “Roger that. My expendable ass is up.”

  In any other situation, the beauty of the sunrise would have captured my full attention. Pale blues have given way to purples and pinks, the sky now spotted with wisps of cloud that scatter above a flash of orange.

  As I fly circles in the light of this new sunrise, the enormity of the yacht comes into clear focus. Three decks rise above the flight deck, including the patio area I noticed earlier, and two decks run underneath. Where the waterline meets the hull at the most aft end of the ship, a flat wooden deck runs across it—a loading platform.

  Below the level of the flight deck, but above the waterline, the outlines of several hatches are visible along the hull. The longest must span at least forty feet. I suspect it’s the entrance to a cargo bay of some sort. Next to it, a twenty-foot cutout in the hull houses the pontoons of a Zodiac. The opposite side of the ship is structured similarly, but with extra space for a small motorboat stored just adjacent to a second Zodiac.

  Judging by the churning roil of white water constituting its wake, the ship is headed somewhere fast. Oddly, it still travels toward Kuwait, even though the ports are closed.

  “Drop to ten feet and stay there,” Jonas says.

  The longer we fly, the more assured he becomes that the engine is indeed working as advertised. He feels comfortable going lower and there’s a reason he’s doing it. He’s hoping our radar signature will get lost in the noise of the waves below us.

  I scan the horizon for any hint of land, but see none. Based on the maps we consulted during the brief, we’re over twenty miles from shore. And the threat of sharks, sea snakes … very real. I’ve heard many tales from fellow helicopter
pilots who have watched hammerheads cruise in schools by the hundreds just under the surface in the Gulf. And the sea snakes? They’re regularly spotted feeding on the remains of deceased livestock, tossed overboard from the cargo ships that were transporting them.

  Which leads me to thoughts of what’s going to happen next. Jonas is going to kick the four of us out of the aircraft. If we’re high and fast when he does so, we may not survive the fall. Which, of course, is what he wants. Poor Animal. Even if we’re low and slow, he still might not survive the jump. Although, I would have to say that if anyone could survive in the state that he’s in now—one, possibly two bullet wounds to the abdomen—it would be him. Tough as nails, Animal.

  Other options? Well, the crazy plan I’ve been thinking about since I bandaged Animal is the only thing I’ve got. And it’s an awful plan because I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.

  If I want something else, I only have about five minutes, probably less, to figure it out.

  45

  “You know, ma’am, we have some un-fucking-believable luck with foreigners, don’t we?” Messy says.

  I hope he’s prolonging his post-takeoff checks. A little stalling now would definitely help.

  “I mean, fuck, remember that Italian exchange pilot?” he says. “What was his candy-ass name? Alfredo Francesco Ciarro Signori? Remember that guy? Fuck, I thought he was off. Really off. But he doesn’t hold a candle to these guys.”

  “Cut the chatter, Mr. Messina,” Jonas warns.

  What on earth is Messy talking about? Italian exchange pilot? We’ve never worked with an Italian exchange pilot. Alfredo Francesco—

  And then I feel it. That subtle shift in the aircraft when the automatic flight control system shuts off. I look for the caution light, but it’s not on. The AFCS is definitely off, though. Off … It’s off. Alfredo Francesco Ciarro Signori … A … F … C … S.

  Messy was telling me the AFCS was off. But it wasn’t off when he said it. He told me before it happened. Which means he just shut it off. And he must have done it past the junction that sends the signal to the caution panel so it wouldn’t light up. He turned it off and nobody knows but the three of us, because Lego would also recognize it instantly.