by AJ Tata
“Good evening, citizens of America. I apologize for interrupting this broadcast, but you all are about to die, and I wanted to be the first to tell you,” Ballantine said in a thick Middle Eastern accent. He watched himself on the television screen upon which the digital camera sat. His face was dark and sinister. His black eyes burned with the hatred that he wanted the American people to see and understand. They will finally comprehend, he thought. Their lives had been so easy and protected. These people would finally understand some of what his people and other Arabs had endured for many years.
“Right now your country’s intelligence apparatus has no idea where I am, and so far they have been unable to stop any of our attacks, except the one in Tallahassee, which is of little consequence. Make no mistake, we are very happy with our progress. And you should know that our success would not have been possible without the cooperation and assistance of a very high-level United States government official.”
Ballantine looked at Admiral Chen, who was nodding in agreement.
“Tonight we will begin to unleash attacks on your forces around the world in Iraq, Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan, Somalia, Yemen, the Philippines, Germany, and many other places, as well as here in your homeland. Yes, I said here in your homeland. I am amongst you. Why, you ask, have I stolen your satellite time and forced my message into your homes?”
He paused for effect.
“Because I want you to feel the fear that every Arab feels every day. I want you to know that we are in your country and that your government is not only incapable of stopping us but has betrayed you through the cooperation of Mr. Ronnie Wood.”
Ballantine stared hard at the camera, pausing again, selecting his words carefully.
“Tonight begins the final destruction of America. This country all of you love so much will collapse upon itself because you are weak. We attacked your country on September 11, the Day of Independence, as we call it. All you could do is send a small force to Afghanistan, of all places, to martyr some of our freedom fighters. And then we lured you into Iraq to set the conditions for this phase of our operation. Your military campaign was as unimpressive as your lack of popular support for your war. Very few wanted to leave their comfortable lifestyles and make a sacrifice. Well, I tell you tonight that you all will sacrifice.”
He looked away and then back at the camera.
“Prepare to die.”
Those words were the cue to the cameraman to cut off the digital camera.
“Very well done, General,” Admiral Chen said.
“Thank you, Admiral. Do you think I have their attention?”
“Certainly, but these people, as you say, they are weak.”
“If others could be so lucky to have half the blessings and freedoms of the Americans . . .” Ballantine muttered.
“We should begin.”
“Yes.”
Ballantine stood and walked, feeling liberated. Perhaps this was how the American soldiers felt as they were unleashed from the border of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait during the two Gulf Wars. Like the Americans had done, he was now advancing toward the objective after months, even years, of waiting.
As Ballantine followed Admiral Chen to the launch deck of the Fong Hou, though, his most savory thought was that surely his live broadcast would bring Matt Garrett back into his lair. There was only one person who could deliver Mr. Garrett to the Fong Hou, and surely he would succeed. Zachary Garrett would serve his purpose as bait.
Ballantine watched Chinese sailors rig the crude nuclear bombs inside the payload housing in the domes of the Predators. He approvingly walked from Predator to Predator, briefly inspecting the handiwork of the Chinese engineers. The bombs looked like small black boxes with a few protruding wires. The sailors locked each bomb into place, using metal clasps and bungee cords. The only difference Ballantine could make out between the nuclear bombs and the chemical bombs was the size of their housings. The nuclear bombs were about two inches larger in diameter.
“Please have your sailors bring Mr. Garrett to my Sherpa, and activate the nuclear bomb on board,” Ballantine said to Admiral Chen.
The admiral looked at Ballantine and smiled. “You are brave warrior, Ballantine.”
Minutes later, Zachary Garrett walked through the small metal door, hands bound behind his back, ducking his head as he was pulled by one captor and pushed by the other. His footsteps rang like shots in the dim flight-operations dungeon of the ship.
“Mr. Garrett, so nice of you to join us,” Ballantine said as the sailors walked Zachary to the Sherpa. Ballantine walked over to the small airplane, resting his hand on the fuselage and looking a bit like Charles Lindbergh might have after his successful flight.
“Can’t say it’s my pleasure,” Zachary said through gritted teeth. In addition to securing his hands behind his back, his captors had shackled his feet with chains. He still wore the tactical clothing from the jump, including his lightweight, tan combat boots.
“Yes, well, you will observe these eighteen Predators, all loaded with nuclear or chemical bombs, fly off of our aircraft carrier and attack your country. Then, if our timing is good, and I think it is, you will watch me kill your brother,” he said. “And then you and I will take a little flight.” Ballantine enjoyed describing the events to Zachary Garrett.
“Let me ask you a question, Ballantine. Kind of a last request kind of thing,” Zachary said, his words echoing in the chamber.
“Anything, but we don’t have much time,” Ballantine said.
“Why couldn’t you just accept defeat? We beat you in the Gulf War. You were wrong, we were right. The whole world rose up against you,” Zachary said, stalling for time, taking in his surroundings, observing what was going on around him. Though, he also was truly uninterested in Ballantine’s response.
“Not the whole world,” Ballantine said. “There are many countries who despise you, and we are allied against you. The war never ended. You have seen only the beginning.”
“Yeah, but who else is there? You guys hate the Iranians more than you hate us. There’s maybe the Chinese. These guys look sort of Chinese, don’t you think?”
“Of course, there is China, North Korea, Angola, Colombia, Serbia, and others. I believe the American term for this is blowback, no? Then, of course, there’s this,” Ballantine said, sweeping his hand across the ship’s interior deck, “which is only part of China’s contribution.”
“Really,” Zachary said. “Since we’re all going to die here, why don’t you enlighten me as to the genius of your plan?”
“We’ve wasted enough time. I’m not sure what you’re trying to do, but events will happen much too quickly for any of your friends to respond, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ballantine said sharply. “Next time you see me, your brother will have a knife to his throat. My brother died coming to rescue me, and yours will die coming to rescue you.”
“Sweet justice, it seems. But then what?”
Ballantine stopped and turned. “Nothing else matters, Garrett. Nothing else matters.”
He stepped away as two guards held Zachary. The ship surgeon produced a syringe and clicked it twice with his index finger. “This will keep you docile.”
Zachary watched through bloodshot eyes as the doctor rolled up his black shirt sleeve and slipped the needle beneath his skin without the slightest pinch.
Only seconds passed before his vision narrowed and his head grew too heavy to hold up. He felt his mind swoon a bit and began hearing dislocated voices saying the words, “Predator One,” “Predator Two,” “Hellerman,” “Signal to go,” “Radio,” and so on.
“In the Sherpa,” Ballantine ordered.
The voices floated around as two people maneuvered him into the cargo compartment of the Sherpa and placed a large, black box next to him. He watched as best he could as the sailors drilled and filed for several minutes, using power drills to screw long bolts into the floor, countersinking the device. Then he watched as they connected wires fro
m the box to what appeared to be a timer.
Though drugged, he instinctively knew he was staring at a nuclear bomb.
Chapter 52
Chesapeake Bay
With one hand grasping the rusty iron bar of the hull ladder and one foot still on the rail of the Boston Whaler, Matt Garrett was looking over his shoulder at Blake when his cell phone began to vibrate.
“Garrett,” he whispered into the phone.
After a pause, he heard Meredith’s voice. “Matt, turn on your television. Something’s going down. It’s big time. Ballantine cut into all the news channels and broadcast a message.”
“No TV. Hang on. . . . Blake, find a news channel on the radio.” Matt’s voice was a low whisper that blended with the tide lapping against the hull of the small boat.
Blake bent over and turned on the boat radio, selected AM, and turned the dial until he could hear a man’s voice talking clearly.
“What’s going on?” Peyton cocked her head forward.
“Okay, got it, Meredith. Something about a public statement.”
“Right. Ballantine essentially said he was attacking us tonight. I think he truly enjoyed just scaring the hell out of two hundred million Americans.”
“Look, I have to go.” Matt didn’t want to spend a lot of time on the phone. Plus, he didn’t need the distraction of Meredith and all that came with visualizing her.
“Matt, look, Hellerman is in on this thing. I know it. I saw his command center, and he’s somehow calling some of the shots,” Meredith said.
“We’ll deal with that later,” Matt said. “I want to get Zachary back first.”
“Ballantine also mentioned he was working with Ronnie Wood. You may be onto Lantini.”
Memories rushed through Matt’s mind like bats from a black cave. Meredith had cracked the code on the Rolling Stones last year and Lantini, the one they speculated to be Ronnie Wood, had fled. That was also a time of great sadness as the loss of Zachary offset the budding love they each had begun to feel for one another. Now, all of the variables were in play again, only they were skewed. Zachary was alive, but in peril. Meredith had drifted away, perhaps pulled by some impossibly strong force. Ronnie Wood was reappearing.
And Matt was at the center of it all. Lantini, that bastard.
“Thanks, Meredith,” was all he could manage.
“Call me when you have a chance. I’m staying at a friend’s house, but I’m on my cell,” she said.
“Okay.”
Matt flipped the phone shut, stepped back into the Boston Whaler, and stared at the mammoth ship. After a moment, he opened the phone again, pulled a card from his wallet, and punched in a number.
“Hey, it’s Matt Garrett. You should probably call Meredith Morris, get a copy of what she sent me, and head this way. I’m going in now.”
He flipped the phone shut again.
“Who was that?” Peyton and Blake asked with raised eyebrows.
“Don’t worry about it. We are ad-libbing from this point forward. Blake, according to what we just heard on the radio, Ballantine and his Chinese fire drill are going to launch those UAVs tonight as a precursor to some follow-on action. Ronnie Wood is in play—Lantini. His ass is mine. Their method of operation has been to sustain the terror over a prolonged period of time, making us believe he can operate with impunity.”
“He pretty much has, hasn’t he?” Blake said.
“Not really. What he did was execute a plan, developed over the last ten years, on autopilot. Now he seems to be in a phase where he has to give cues and signals, hence going on television. I think his next move is to launch those UAVs with some kind of payload, either biological or chemical. Maybe a nuke. Though, that would be tough. But with China in play, anything is possible.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going up there to kill Ballantine and Lantini and get Zachary back.”
“That is not a plan.”
“I’ll make it up as I go,” Matt said, “just like Lake Moncrief. Only this time I come back with my brother.”
“You mean we’ll come back with your brother . . .” Blake could see he was serious.
“Blake, you need to stay in the boat here with Peyton.”
“Wait a minute,” Peyton interrupted. “I missed out on Moncrief and flew back in that stupid helicopter. I’m going with you.”
“I don’t think that’s any place for a chick,” Blake said. “Why don’t you stay with the boat while I head up with my bro?”
“You know that’s not going to happen,” she said.
“What is it with you guys? You argue like an old married couple. Now look, I’m doing this alone. It’s my responsibility,” Matt said.
“Since when was the fate of the free world your responsibility?” Blake said.
“Just doing my part, man,” Matt said, grabbing one of the AR-15s and a Luger pistol. He stuffed the pistol into his belt and then slung the rifle over his shoulder and across his chest. Grabbing four magazines of ammunition, he slapped one into each weapon and stuffed the remaining two into his pocket. He took the night-vision goggles and slipped them on his head. He pulled on some gloves, reaching out with his hand as the boat drifted closer to the ship’s metal hull.
“I’m going up. I’ll let you two sort out who stays, but someone needs to stay with the boat and watch for me when I come hauling ass back down this ladder with Zachary. We may have to jump off the side, and people will probably be shooting at us, so I need someone with this puppy ready to go. Understand?”
Blake and Peyton nodded at him.
Matt gave Blake a quick hug. “See you in you in a bit, bro.”
Then he stared at Peyton, her arms crossed, her face a dark mask against the ocean behind her. Now that Meredith seemed to have definitive proof that Hellerman was involved in this conspiracy, he was convinced that Peyton was a plant. Her mission might be to keep him close.
Operating under that notion, he gave her a long, sustained hug, sliding his hand into her back pants pocket. “You might want to hang onto this,” he said.
She didn’t reply for a moment and then said, “I understand.”
He gave her a quick kiss and said, “Be back shortly.” He turned, walked to the gunwale of the Boston Whaler, and said, “Later.”
Matt reached up and grabbed the metal rung, the first of many that were spaced about three feet apart all the way to the top of the hull. Matt felt his weight pull against his arms as he stepped off the boat and was fully suspended by the ladder rung. Because of the curvature of the hull, Matt found himself being pulled directly off the ladder by the gravity. He was climbing, suspended from the rungs.
He could hear the muffled sounds of Blake and Peyton talking softly as he progressed higher on the ladder. He realized that the hull of the ship was much higher than he could have imagined when he was looking at it from a distance. He was in good shape, though, even if he could feel the scar tissue tearing away at his abdomen and forearm with every pull. The more recent flesh wounds barked at him as well. He felt scabs ripping open where the bullets had grazed him.
Still, he focused, thinking about his weapons and the small amount of ammunition that he had on hand. He had two twenty-round magazines for the AR-15 and two eight-round magazines for the pistol. He had the distinct impression that his ammunition load might not be enough to complete the job.
As Matt approached the top of the ship, he saw he would have to negotiate a small ledge that stuck out about three feet from the surface of the hull. He could see the outline of a hatch that, under normal circumstances, would be open for anyone traversing the ladder. He pressed against it and determined that it was locked. He looked down and could not see Blake’s Boston Whaler, meaning they had repositioned or that he was simply too high. Clearly he would have to be very nimble to reach out, secure the ledge, and then essentially do a pull up while swinging a leg atop the outcropping.
Holding onto the ladder with one hand, Matt reached out with
the other and grasped the gunwale. He could barely reach it and had to swing one foot out over the water to give him the leverage to fully grip the leading edge of the gunwale. He realized another problem in that the metal was about four inches thick, preventing him from getting a good handhold. He would have to simply use the strength of his fingers to support his weight, like a rock climber. He inched his hand forward to the point where he felt like he had a good grip and then mustered the courage to smoothly let go of the ladder with the other hand.
He now had one hand on the protruding gunwale and one foot on the ladder, forming a triangle with the hull of the ship and the outermost portion of the ship’s gunwale. The tension against his fingers was enormous, only lessened a bit when he slowly moved his other hand to the ledge and grasped tightly next to his supporting hand. As he was moving his hand, Matt reached a point where his foot on the ladder had to come free. He was hanging by two hands, a rifle slung across his back, feet pointed straight down at the water, and certain danger awaiting him as he crested the rail.
He lifted himself as if he were doing a pull-up, scar tissue really becoming a factor. He hadn’t realized until this point how severely wounded he had been. A bullet had pierced his stomach and all associated muscles and organs less than a year ago. The bayonet cut across his forearm had healed, but the tendon and ligaments were stiff and unwieldy. He was thankful at this very moment, however, that he had been doing batting practice, working his wrists and forearms hard, rebuilding them.
Matt lifted his leg slowly. It was harder this way because he couldn’t get any momentum going. He had to rely on pure strength and adrenaline, of which he had plenty. Hooking his left foot onto the ledge, he continued pulling with his arms until he could reach out with his left arm and slide it along the riveted metal. All of this was going well until he felt something loosen in his belt and had the sickening realization that his pistol was sliding loose.
