Whirlwind

by Joseph R. Garber

  “Nearest squad’s an hour away, sir.”

  “I am aware of that. Tell them to move as briskly as they can.”

  “Will do.”

  Schmidt peered into, but not through, a maddening fog. Where was she? Hard to tell. He’d parked to the left of her Camry. Milksnake exited the Mercedes’s passenger side, circled the Toyota, and had been standing to its right when — nice shooting, young miss — she’d switched off his lights. Odds were, she was somewhere in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc beginning at the Camry’s front bumper, and ending at its rear. She couldn’t be to his left. His M-Class would have blocked her line of fire. Nor, now that he thought about it, was she behind him. There was nothing there but the flat expanse of a parking lot under Python’s surveillance — and if Python had seen her, he most certainly would have opened fire.

  “Python, Milksnake is down. Did you happen to see a gun flash a few seconds ago?”

  No answer.

  “I repeat. Python, did you observe a muzzle flash?”

  Something’s not right. A warrior’s instinct, a chilly tickle along the spine, the stuff of which goose bumps are made. You didn’t know what was wrong. You only knew danger was near. That’s when your testicles tightened up.

  Schmidt slid down in his seat. “Python, I asked you a question.”

  He fingered the radio from its cradle, clipping it to his belt. Raising his right hand, index finger stretched, he drew two circles in the air, first pointing to a fog-shrouded picnic bench, second to a fire-charred driftwood log a dozen yards away. The Mercedes rear door snicked open; Bushmaster and Krait slid to the ground, preparing to dash for cover.

  “Python, please respond.”

  He slipped his pistol into his belt — a Beretta U22 Neos with an extended barrel. It would give him the accuracy he wanted, nail-driving accuracy, but not the knock-over power he needed. Carrying low-caliber weapons on this mission had been a mistake. Thank Samuel for that.

  “Python?”

  Pumping his fist three times, Schmidt whispered, “Go!” Bent low, two mercenaries darted into a broken field run. As they did, he threw open his own door, rolled prone on wet asphalt, snaking out of sight beneath the Mercedes.

  He listened.

  Listening was an art. What you could not see, you might hear. All he desired was single telltale footstep on wet pavement. Instead he heard…

  …a dispute of seagulls, birds bobbing in the marina’s water…

  …the cowbell clang of loose boat fittings blown in a rising wind…

  …snapping signal flags hung from a pretentious yachtsman’s mast…

  …a woman’s voice, almost musical, crooning from his radio. “Hello. You must be Johan Schmidt.”

  Well now, that’s an unwelcome surprise. “Where’s Python?”

  “A big man? Not so good-looking? Is this the one you call Python?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will not be speaking to him again.”

  No longer a tingling down his backbone, but rather a skeletal finger drawing its nail from his neck to his buttocks. “Pit Viper, I need you here. I need you now.”

  “Sir, I must be four miles from your position —”

  “On the double, Pit Viper. You know I don’t like repeating orders.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  “Mr. Schmidt, he will not get here fast enough, I think.”

  Good voice. She probably sings well. A mezzo, I should say. “You would be Irina Kolodenkova, would you not?” His mind raced, sifting alternatives, choosing the psychological weapons he needed rather badly at this particular moment.

  “I am she.”

  Paul Linebarger, 1954. Psychological Warfare. The definitive text. Rule one: use courtesy to unbalance your enemy. “Irina…I may call you Irina, may I not?…I have all the time in the world.”

  “There were five of you in your car. Now three remain. It took me only a minute. I think the rest of you will not take much longer.”

  The guard shack! How clever. She was hiding inside. When Python entered…what did she use?…a knife, perhaps, although a handgun pressed against the chest produces a sufficiently muffled report that I would not have heard it, not in this fog. And then…why then, when Milksnake stepped out on recon, she had a sweet shot from a concealed position.

  Belly-crawling toward the Mercedes’ rear axle, he spoke softly and politely, “I know it is trite of me to say this, Irina, but in all candor things will go better for you if you surrender now.” The kiosk was twelve yards away, Python’s lower legs slack through its open door. She’s long gone. Once she had Python’s radio, once she saw us ducking for cover, she darted off somewhere. Where? Anywhere. Step a few paces back in the fog, and you’re invisible. Right now she’s out there circling. Ah, but circling in which direction?

  “Surrendering when you have your opponent where you want him — this is poor practice, is it not?”

  Artificial. Her English is a little too perfect. She doesn’t use contractions. That’s a flaw — although not one I can use to my advantage.

  “I hope you won’t hold this against me, but you’re being foolish. I…we…my men and I have tracked you down, Irina. You thought you were running for a place where we couldn’t find you. But instead, we were right behind you, knew exactly where you were going. We’ve been a step ahead —”

  “You have made a mistake, Mr. Schmidt.”

  He didn’t like the way she said that. It sounded as if she thought she was the one in control here. He’d need to disabuse her of that fallacy. “Oh?” he asked sharply.

  “You have come to the place where I wanted you. You have come as I planned. Everything you have done has been anticipated. You behaved as I wanted you to, doing what I knew you would.”

  “That’s absurd.” She’s taunting me, trying to prick my temper. Well, child, two can play that game.

  “Do you think that I am so simple a little girl as to have left a clue to my whereabouts on Charlie’s answering machine? If so, you insult me. I said what I said for your benefit, Mr. Schmidt, not Charlie’s. I chose the words Saint Charles quite carefully. It was rather subtle of me, do you not think? A phrase that might be innocent, or might contain a hidden meaning — did you not feel quite proud of yourself when you deciphered it, Mr. Schmidt? Did you not say: ah-ha, now I have her?”

  Was she really so cunning? Or was she merely improvising?

  “You think yourself the hunter. This is not correct, Mr. Schmidt. You are the hunted.”

  “57JNB, this is San Luis Obispo Control. I want an explanation of your shenanigans, and I want it now!” That, thought Charlie, is one air controller who definitely is not cool, calm and collected.

  “San Luis,” Scott replied, slow and easy, “my apologies. I’ve got an aunt in San Carlos and was just doing a flyby to say hello.”

  The controller’s voice evidenced neither belief nor patience. “Bullshit! The coast is socked in. Pea soup fog.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “57JNB, either you will give me an explanation or I will scramble a Marine Corps intercept.”

  “Well, it’s like this —”

  “My radar shows you turning over the Pacific. Your altitude is…good God, man! What the hell is going on up there?”

  “I can explain —”

  “Explain it to the marines, Captain. I just hit the red button.”

  Oh, hell! There’ll be no sweet-talking our way out of this.

  “But —”

  “But me no buts. Barnstorming at unsafe altitudes in IMC conditions near restricted airspace — you’re in deep shit, buddy. You’re going to a military base under F-15 Eagle escort. Now get that plane up above the weather pronto.”

  “I don’t think I want to do that, San Luis.”

  “Your alternative is an AIM-120 up the tailpipe.”

  “They can’t see me in the fog, I’ll be —”

  Charlie lunged for the microphone. His son had made a fatal mistake. An AIM-
120 was a fire-and-forget air-to-air missile. Initially guided by inertial data from the aircraft that launched it, once it was in range of its target, its onboard radar kicked in. Visibility was not an issue. The pilot didn’t have to see his foe, didn’t have to get closer than forty-six miles before bang, you’re dead! The air traffic controller would know that — and, therefore, know he was not talking to the Air Force colonel who was designated as captain of this aircraft.

  “You’re not the pilot!” the ground controller hissed. “You’re a fucking hijacker!”

  Charlie, hoping for the best but expecting the worst, answered, “Technically speaking ‘commandeer’ would be a more accurate —”

  The man in the control tower wouldn’t let him finish the sentence. Charlie couldn’t blame him. “Okay, Mohammed, or Osama, or whatever the hell your name is, kiss your raghead butt good-bye.”

  I have to play my high cards. Correction, high card. Singular. “Check my flight designation. I’m carrying a level-three passenger. The White House national security advisor is aboard this plane.”

  “If you knew your ass from your elbow, you’d know the president inked an executive order — even if the hijacked plane is Air Force One with him aboard, you and your kind get blown out of the sky. No more World Trade Centers, asshole!”

  Charlie gave the copilot a questioning look. The major nodded. “Standing orders. Either you put this plane down now or someone is going to put it down in pieces.”

  “San Luis, call off those interceptors. I can explain this.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. You’re on your way to hell, and I’m one proud American to be sending you there.”

  “How long?” Charlie asked the pilot.

  “They’ll be wheels up in under five minutes. Even if they’re coming out of Camp Pendelton, it will only take ten or fifteen minutes to get in range. An AIM-120 clocks Mach four. A minute after the pilot fires, forty-five pounds of high explosive are going to detonate on this aircraft’s fuselage. Mister, you’ve got two choices. One is surrender. The other is die.”

  There’s a third choice. There’s always an alternative. And, God help me, I know what it is. Faking it every step of the way, he forced himself to sound calm. “How much fuel does this plane burn in five minutes?”

  The captain’s answer was more reflex than anything else. “At fifty-seven pounds a minute, two hundred and eighty-five pounds. Why?”

  Charlie had been eyeing the controls, marking out buttons and levers and switches that looked…interesting. He bent forward, his index finger brushing a touch-screen panel. He cursored down, then tapped Enter. Bitching Betty began squawking, “Fuel loss. Fuel loss.”

  Of all the sins on my soul, dumping jet fuel over the Pacific Ocean may be the one I most regret.

  Smiling, showing his teeth, he put his face close to the copilot’s. Very softly, very sincerely, he whispered, “When the gauge shows four hundred pounds, I’m unlocking your handcuffs and giving you control of this plane. You won’t have enough juice to get to an airport. You’ll barely have enough to land. By which time, by God, you had better have come up with a solution to my problem. Because if you don’t then you — and I — and all of us — are going to die together.”

  Utter disbelief: “You’re crazy!”

  “In my profession we call this forcing a resolution. Major, either we are going to flame out at two hundred knots an hour, or you are going to figure out how to help me. There is no middle ground.” Bitching Betty bleated again, “Fuel loss! Fuel loss!” Charlie showed his teeth. “And how the hell do you turn off that damned annunciator. If it doesn’t shut up, I’m going to shoot it.”

  “Sir, uncuff me now.”

  The major’s face — a little pale, a little sweaty — told Charlie all he needed to know: he’d won. “Nope. We’ve still got twelve hundred pounds to go.”

  “I’ll do what you say. Just…damnit, sir, you have my word.”

  “I trust no one who has a choice.”

  “The switch there, the yellow one, upper right. It’s marked EVS.”

  “And what might that stand for?”

  “Enhanced Vision System. Real-time infrared, I can see…we can see what’s down there.”

  Well now, that calls for a stern rebuke. Charlie nudged him behind the ear with the pistol. “Sonny boy, you’ve been holding out on me. That makes me grumpy. Believe me, you don’t want me grumpy. So if you’ve got any other little secrets up your sleeve, now would be a real good time to speak up.”

  “Fuel loss! Fuel loss!”

  The copilot swallowed hard. “Your son’s been drifting.”

  Charlie didn’t like the sound of that. “Explicate.”

  “Just take the cuffs off me. I’ll tell you everything.”

  With throaty menace: “You’re going to tell me everything anyway, aren’t you?” Oh, yes, he thought, that was nicely done. It takes a lot to put one of these Air Force boys into a panic. This one’s getting close.

  Scott hit the EVS switch. The plane’s Heads Up Display projected a quivering electronic horizon across the windshield, the empty Pacific seen — or more likely inferred — by infrared detectors. Charlie was taken aback; he’d expected the computer image to be pale green, a color too often seen through a night scope; instead it was red-orange, the hue of hot work, and he didn’t like the implication.

  The copilot spoke rapidly. “I’ve been watching the Flight Management System display, sir. Your son…Scott’s a good enough pilot, but he’s flying this plane like it’s a single-engine prop job — navigating off compass headings, not the FMS. We’ve got strong westerlies off the ocean — enough to nudge us a little off course. Unless you understand the HUD readouts you don’t even notice.”

  Scott had completed his turn inland. Charlie glanced up at the infrared display. Still a flatline horizon. No sign of the jagged coast. The Gulfstream’s technology was impressive, but it wasn’t magic; nothing could see through a fog as thick as this. “What’s our position? Our real position.”

  “Twenty nautical miles off shore and zero-point-eight miles north of your target area. Sir, please quit dumping fuel.”

  Tempting. At least it would shut up that blasted computer. “Scott, you’re part of this.” Damnit all! “What do you think?”

  “Keep dumping, dad. There must be a dozen ways the major can get the upper hand. He could put the plane into a spin or —”

  The copilot shouted, “A spin! A passenger jet! Holy Christ! Do you think I’m as crazy as you are?”

  “Adjust your course, son. Aim her a little south, just like the man said. Major, you’re not taking the helm until the both of us have no alternatives left.”

  Bitching Betty’s complaint had changed. Now the computer warned, “Low fuel. Danger. Low fuel.”

  Wiggling backward, trading hand signals with Bushmaster and Krait, Schmidt tallied up all the facts he knew about Irina Kolodenkova, and all that he had deduced. On balance, he concluded, it was enough to tip the scales.

  She’s too poised, too self-contained. I believe a little attitude adjustment is called for. “Irina, what did you think about that rodeo rider, Mitch Conroy?”

  No static, no interference, the radios worked fine in the fog. “Why do you ask?”

  Schmidt’s lightweight tropical slacks and shirt were soaked wet and cold — colder still with a stiff breeze off the ocean. He pressed a numb finger down on his transmit button. “Because I killed him. With a knife. It was delightful.”

  Her inflection was unchanged — distant and polite. “Charlie will hurt you for that.”

  Well, that didn’t work. “Charles is not going to be hurting anyone. I beat him until he looked like grape jelly.”

  “That only would have made him angry.” Mockery in her words.

  He was moving slowly — low profile, silent, damp clothing turned grey, camouflage on the parking lot’s asphalt. She’d never see him. Nor would she see Bushmaster and Krait, both of whom were, like him, belly-crawli
ng toward the marina fence. That was the safest place. With their backs to the water, they’d be able to cover the entire field of operations: Bushmaster to his right with a rifle pointing at two o’clock, Krait on the left aiming at ten o’ clock, and he himself in the center, high noon. “On the contrary. When I beat a man, I make sure he knows he’s beaten. The objective is not physical pain, it’s psychological pain. Humiliate your opponent, and you unman him.”

  “Charlie is more of a man than you shall ever be.”

  She was out there somewhere, somewhere in the fog, stealthily making her way toward him. Fine, let her be the hunter. The ignorant woman didn’t have enough sense to know that she was merely saving him the trouble of stalking her. Nonetheless, he gnawed his lip.

  “That was a rather obvious ruse, young lady.” He knew himself to be a humorless man; still he tried to imitate an amused tone of voice. “The sort of offensive ploy Charles would assay — a tiny prick from a small needle to goad your opponent. You’ve learned something from him, haven’t you?”

  “Everything, Mr. Schmidt. I have learned everything from Charlie.”

  Schmidt snorted derisively — although, truth to tell, unnerving her was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. She was, he supposed, a bit stronger than he had expected. “I’d like to ask you something about your ingenious lie. With your permission, of course.”

  “What lie would that be?”

  “That you laid a trail, that you lured me into coming to San Carlos. That is the lie to which I refer.”

  “Are you so vain that you cannot admit that I — as Charlie would say — have outfoxed you?”

  Another annoying gibe. He tightened his jaw. You’ll pay for that piece of arrogance. “Nonsense. You came here to steal a boat, a sailboat to be precise.”

  Her laughter was cold, inhuman — perhaps even frightening, he supposed. For a moment it actually discomfited him. But, of course, she was only acting.

  “To steal a boat? What ever for, you foolish man?”

  Nettled by this inexperienced neophyte with no field expertise whatsoever, a raw recruit wet behind the ears, this mere girl talking down at him, he shot back. “To escape, of course. To escape to Mexico. Then make your way home to Russia.”