Overtaking her would be difficult, although not impossible. But wouldn’t it be faster to return to the airport, fly to San Luis Obispo, and drive to the flyspeck coastal town to which Kolodenkova might — or might not — be running?
Schmidt calculated the travel time: Twenty minutes to the general aviation terminal. A half hour to get flight clearance, and quite possibly more. Another twenty minutes taxiing on the runway. Forty-some minutes flying time followed by another hour on country roads. Just shy of three hours if I’m lucky, considerably longer if I am not.
He’d keep to the highway — it would be as fast, possibly faster. Besides, there was no guarantee his prey was on her way to San Carlos do Cabo. She just as easily might be running for any one of the thirty-plus marinas between San Francisco and San Diego.
I have no desire, he reflected, to be trapped in an airplane, thirty thousand feet and three hundred miles from the woman when one of my teams locates her.
When, not if.
Make no mistake: they would find her. A dozen truckloads of men were speeding down the coast from San Francisco. Another two dozen were sweeping up from the south. Soldiers would be peeling off at every marina and boat basin along the way. Kolodenkova was in a vise.
“Milksnake, you said the computer estimates our driving time is more than three hours. How much more?”
“Tree hours and twelve minutes, she say.”
“Oh, I believe we can do better than that.” Johan Schmidt hammered the accelerator to the floor.
“Oakland Approach, this is five - seven - juliet - november - bravo. We have a problem.”
“57JNB, is this a mayday?”
“Negative, Oakland,” Scott McKenzie said, credibly imitating the laconic tones of a veteran Air Force pilot as he lied to the San Francisco Bay Area’s Air Traffic Control center. “Just an intermittent indicator on my landing gear.”
Charlie hated it, hated every bit of it. Scott had no role in this. He should have run for cover as he’d been ordered. Instead — as anxious about Irina as his old man, and as bullheaded — he’d followed Charlie onto Sam’s Gulfstream. Now, goddamnit, he was up to his neck in all the trouble in the world.
“57JNB, hold at flight level two-two-zero; repeat: twenty-two thousand feet. I’m clearing a runway for you at SFO,” an affably unflappable voice, another routine day in one of the nation’s busiest air spaces, don’t worry, Captain, we have these little hiccups all the time.
“No need, Oakland. My computer is telling me it’s a sensor problem.”
“Computers can be wrong.” A slow drawl, peaceful and calming.
“True, but pilots get the blame. Especially when there’s a VIP passenger on board.”
“According to your Air Force designation, he’s a level three, a real heavyweight. Okay, 57JNB, you’ve got my attention. What’s your suggestion?”
“I want to show my bigwig how the best of the best handle things.”
“Negative on that. I won’t have any cowboy stunts in my airspace.”
“I don’t do the Wild West. Look, Oakland, I’m turning over the Pacific north of Santa Cruz. I’ll make a descent into Monterey, take a low pass over the runway with my wheels lowered. If I’ve got landing gear trouble, the tower will see it.”
The moment of truth, Charlie thought, either ATC buys this fairy tale or somebody’s going to start scrambling fighter planes.
The controller paused, mulling the proposal over before agreeing, “Sounds reasonable. I’m handing you off to Monterey Approach, 57JNB. If you’re damaged, I want you back up here. We’ve got more and better emergency crews and equipment.”
“Roger that, Oakland Center.”
“Good luck, cowboy.”
Charlie let himself breathe again. Scott blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. The plane’s pilot, sitting in handcuffs on the flight deck floor, said (not for the first time), “You two are going to jail.” No threat, just a simple statement of fact.
The copilot, a major also frowning in handcuffs, added, “The nine-eleven laws will put you in front of a military tribunal; jail is the most lenient verdict you’ll get.”
Charlie corrected him, “Verdicts are the decision of the jury. Sentences are what the judge hands out.”
“With a military tribunal there isn’t a whole lot of difference.”
“Point taken.” Charlie glanced back into the cabin. Sam, white with pain, was still pinned to his seat. “Scott, can you see the Monterey airport yet?”
“Look for the green and white flashing light,” the pilot drawled. These guys, Charlie thought, are the most imperturbable guys in the world. I guess if you spend your life driving thirty tons of iron at supersonic speeds, nothing scares you.
“I know that,” Scott shot back.
The pilot sighed. “You two fruitcakes — do you have a story, or is this just a joy ride?”
Charlie thumbed his automatic’s safety. “You’re doing that pretty well, Colonel. Most people wouldn’t have noticed you’re about two feet closer to the controls than you were five minutes ago. Too bad I’m not most people. Scoot your butt back into that corner unless you want me to get riled.” The pilot complied. “Stay put from now on, okay?”
“I’ll be the prosecution’s lead witness.”
“Not if you try something stupid again.”
“Dad, I see the airport.”
Wincing at the pain clawing his ribs, Charlie bent forward. “Take it slow and easy, Scott. Do it like a professional would.”
Scott nodded crisply. Charlie couldn’t help being proud. His son knew how to fly puddle-jumper prop planes. Handling an infinitely more complex twin-engine jet required qualifications he simply did not have. However, he was doing fine — at least as far as Charlie could see.
Of course he had a little help. The copilot, encouraged by a pistol tickling his neck, answered Scott’s every question. On the other hand, the copilot, like the plane’s captain, wanted nothing more than to get the aircraft down safely. That was always a pilot’s first priority. Unfortunately his second, in this particular case, would be to put Charlie and his son behind bars for the rest of their natural lives.
If I can get Irina, if I can get that damned computer disk back, we’ve got a chance. If Schmidt finds her first, then Scott’s going to be a jailbird just like his father. Goddamn goddamn, goddamn!
“Monterey Tower, this is 57JNB. Has Oakland Center briefed you on my situation?”
A woman’s voice, laid back tones, full of quiet confidence, not the least hint of worry. “Affirmative, 57JNB. You’re cleared for descent.” She pronounced it “dee-scent,” same as every other aviator in America.
“Where’s the landing gear on this thing?”
“It’s the lever marked to look like a little tire,” the copilot muttered, “right next to the —”
“Got it,” Scott said.
Charlie heard the whir of the hydraulic system, a hatch opening, the undercarriage lowering. He felt a modest, but nonetheless perceptible, deceleration. Unnoticeable on a big commercial jet, lowering the wheels altered the smaller plane’s aerodynamics. Scott kicked the throttle up to compensate. The additional power wasn’t enough; an artificially feminine computer voice complained, “Sink rate! Sink rate!”
“Goose it,” instructed the copilot. “And get your nose up. Okay, now work the flaps…” The computer went silent. “…and keep your airspeed at a hundred and ten knots. A twin-engine jet isn’t a Piper Cub. This plane can land at one of those puppy’s top speed. Look, prior to touchdown be sure to arm your spoilers and deflectors. Then as soon as you land, power up —”
“We’re not landing,” Charlie snapped.
“You will sometime.”
“I stand corrected. Thank you.”
He peered out the windshield. Out to sea — ten miles he guessed — a sullen concrete wall spanned the ocean. Massive fog bank. Half mile high. Runs as far south as the eye can see. What lay ahead of the airplane was a different story
. The coastal landscape was verdant green, emerald green, greener than a green bottle. The air had become a delicate golden haze, late afternoon fog condensing over water, ethereal mist filling the sky. Each minute water droplet caught light from the lowering sun, tiny prisms refracting the fires of descending angels. Charlie flew through heaven.
The Heads Up Display isn’t a problem, Charlie thought. That’s a surprise. I always figured a HUD system projecting all that data on the windshield would be distracting. But instead you barely notice it.
“57JNB, I have visual.”
“I’m coming in at eight hundred feet. Give me a status on my landing gear.”
“Pull into a right turn over the runway, put yourself in a circle around the tower.”
“The indicator just cleared, Monterey. I think we’re fine.”
“Just follow my instructions, 57JNB.”
“Roger, ma’am. You’re the boss.”
Charlie was amazed at the speed of it. As many times as he had flown, he had never flown like this — standing in a cockpit, looking out the windscreen of a jet on its descent above, over, beyond an airport, and it was all in the blink of an eye.
“57JNB, your gear appears to be down. Circle around, make another pass, raising your wheels on the approach.”
“On my way, Monterey. To repeat, my indicator’s cleared. I’d say the computer was right — nothing but a sensor glitch.”
“They’ll do that.”
The sea below the plane was slate. Scott banked before turning out again into the startling glory of the Pacific sun.
Another rocketing flight over a small airport, and the encouraging voice of a ground controller, “You’re A-OK, 57JNB.”
“Thanks for your help, Monterey. I’m going back to my flight plan.”
“Next time stop by to visit. We’ve got good eats in this town.”
“You’ve got a deal…Hang on, Monterey…What…yes, sir. Certainly, sir…Monterey, I’ve got a request from my VIP passenger. He’d like a quick tour of Big Sur. With your permission, we’ll head south from here before vectoring back east.”
Charlie whispered a prayer. This was the second phase of his hastily improvised plan. Success or failure hinged on the Monterey controller’s response.
“I’ll give you an affirmative on that. We’re still VFR — better than a thousand-foot ceiling with three miles horizontal visibility. Stay below eighteen thousand feet. There’s a lot of traffic at higher altitudes, not a good place for the tourist trade.”
Whew!
“I’m going to give my passenger a thrill. One thousand feet, the scenic route. Then I’ll start my turn at San Carlos do Cabo, if that meets your approval.”
“If your level three is happy, I’m happy. You’re cleared to proceed as requested. But you’re going to need to switch to IFR south of here. Repeat, that’s Instrument Flight Rules, Captain. Meteorology reports everything is socked in below Big Sur. And be careful when you make your turn, there’s restricted airspace down that way, missile range out of Vandenberg, and you don’t want to drift into it.”
“I read you.”
“If your indicator acts up again, don’t even think about coming back this way. That fog is rolling in here too, and this time of year it moves faster than you’d believe.”
“Roger that, Monterey. Five - seven - juliett - november - bravo over and out.”
Charlie could already see the Big Sur coast — stippled orange, a fractured wall of rusted rock, waves exploding at the feet of fortress cliffs. It stretched eighty miles, a handful of villages clinging to the sides of a highway that washed out every year or two. There was no place to hide. If Irina was on that road, Route 1, he’d see her. Or at least he’d see an aquamarine Toyota Camry and pray to God that she was behind the wheel.
If she wasn’t…
I got it wrong. She didn’t mean she was running for San Carlos. Or worse, she did, and she’s already arrived, and there’s no way I’ll know because the whole damned coast down there is fogged in. Then what the hell do I do?
“Okay, dad, what do we do next?”
Schmidt was down on the flatlands now, driving a tediously tame road. Big Sur, ah, that was more to his liking: a rollercoaster highway of fishhook curves, saw-toothed cliffs, death just over the guardrail — a place where a man could test his mettle, determining with gratifying exactitude the extent of his competence under the unbelieving eyes of happy holidayers in their station wagons, insufferably arrogant bicyclists, shocked commercial travelers, all those placid sheep gaping as he wove among them, and more than one of them timidly skittered onto the shoulder, fierce mortality foremost in their domesticated minds.
And the sea. The sea!
Those waves crashed with such almighty power that the spume hurled itself hundreds of feet high, speckling his M-Class’s windshield, blinding him for the barest few seconds while he savored the audible fright of soldiers who should have been braver. It was a moment to remember, a memory to relish.
The posted speed limit had been fifty miles an hour. Johan’s heart rate remained constant, even when his speedometer ticked over the hundred mark, and if a man could not command his own body, what hope had he of commanding warriors?
True, he had a good tool for the mission. The Mercedes M-Class handled well, although it was no Gelandewagen, merely the sort of vehicle driven by simpleton civilians who thought manliness could be purchased with 3 percent APR financing. Nonetheless, its German parentage showed, superb engineering, and he’d never doubted its performance for a moment — just as he had never doubted his own.
At the moment Samson and Delilah provided him with background music, the chorus hailing Dagon’s rebirth as blind Samson was led to the temple. It was glorious, a melody most suitable for a triumphal victory march.
When triumph came his way, he might play it again.
However, he’d begin celebrating success with that famous bacchanal, the orchestra en forte, hot orgiastic rites, these being an appropriate accompaniment for what would be, in the end, a blood sacrifice.
Presuming a suitable burnt offering could be found.
An open question, that. Kolodenkova was as elusive as ever. Schmidt’s armed and efficient troopers had taken up position at virtually every marina from San Diego to San Francisco. The result: no sighting, not the least hint of her whereabouts. For the moment, she was off the radar.
But nothing to worry about. Everyone knew what to look for. A four-door Toyota Camry from Budget Rent A Car. An odious aqua in color. California license 34RCB684.
A gentleman named Scott T. McKenzie had rented an Intrepid from Hertz the night before, rented it in distant Chico, California. The following morning, he’d also rented the Camry.
Two cars, one renter? A renter with an Arizona driver’s license, who signed himself “Doctor”? It was Charles’s whelp, Schmidt was certain — all the more so because a Piper Cub registered to an Indian Health Service physician was parked on the tarmac at Chico’s small airport.
How helpful that information would have been if he’d known it earlier. But of course, federal bureaucrats are slow to correlate the data they download each day from credit card companies, car rental agencies, airlines, and all the rest. Moreover, while there was a watch-list posting for Charles McKenzie, unfortunately there was none for his son. It was, Schmidt allowed, an understandable oversight — although nevertheless nettlesome.
Still, he reflected, he need not be overly concerned. He had solid ID on the girl’s car. And, within — he glanced at his dashboard clock — a half hour, no marina would be without a full complement of watchmen.
Including the last, and most remote: tiny San Carlos do Cabo.
Would she be there? Schmidt’s intuition told him she could be nowhere else. His men were patrolling the length of the coast, each and every one of them on the lookout for a blue-green Camry driven by a woman. Indeed, they had intercepted a few. Happily there’d been only one embarrassment — a minor incident of the sort
that could be assuaged with cash. Just another expense to be added to the invoice he would submit…when?…certainly no later than tomorrow morning. Whereupon Samuel, or rather his proxy, Maximilian Henkes, DefCon Enterprises’ chief executive, would proffer full payment.
“Dagon se révèle! La flamme nouvelle,” sang the chorus. The God awakes; the fire is reborn. Schmidt tapped his fingers in beat with the tune.
“What’s our position and ETA, Milksnake?”
The Yemenite blinked, momentarily baffled by the acronym for estimated time of arrival. “Tree-boint-six miles from de turnoff. Den eleven-boint-one to de village.”
“Just to verify: there is no other access to San Carlos except for that one road, correct?”
“Yes, suh.”
“A roach motel,” Schmidt whispered, speaking only to himself. He tilted his head over his shoulder, “Pit Viper, I’m dropping you a couple of klicks from the turnoff. I want you to take up position near the access road. Stay out of sight. Have your weapon cocked and locked, but don’t show it unless you have to.”
“Should I stop traffic, sir?”
“Negative as regards anyone going in. Should you see Kolodenkova driving toward town, let her pass. Vehicles coming out are a different story. If you spot an aquamarine Camry, destroy its tires. Don’t worry whether she’s the driver, just open fire. In the event you inadvertently ventilate an honest citizen’s Goodyears — well, we’ll deal with it later. Anyone else who’s leaving the town — let them pass unless it’s a lone woman. Every woman on her own is to be intercepted and interrogated. Am I understood? Good. One more thing: I want you in constant radio contact with me. Apprise me of anything and everything you observe.”
“Yes, sir,” Pit Viper replied. Schmidt heard the satisfying snap of a rifle magazine being slapped home. A much more professional soldier than Milksnake. Formerly of the French Foreign Legion, I believe, a fine training ground for gentlemen of our calling.
“You other three back there, Bushmaster, Python, and Krait — the facilities at San Carlos should be in our favor, an open field of fire. I expect little more than a parking lot and a single walkway down to the boat slips. A town of San Carlos’s size is unlikely to offer much in the way of amenities — no concession stands, no workshop, I’d be surprised if there’s as much as a ship’s chandlery. I imagine there’ll be a chain-link fence along the waterline, separating the slips from the land. It probably will be topped with razor wire, even though grand theft sailboat is not an oft-committed crime. The gate will be locked, but the lock will be a joke. If Kolodenkova has a set of picks, she’ll be through it in thirty seconds. If not — well, she’s been trained how to clear taller fences than anything she’ll find in a flyspeck fishing village.”
Whirlwind Page 31
