by Sussman, Ben
“Somebody gave me a gift certificate for free lessons a few years ago as a gag gift.” He felt Matt’s questioning glare. “I used to be quite the drunk,” he explained. “But I took them anyway. You never know how things are gonna work out, I guess.” He gunned the helicopter up to maximum speed, glancing at the compass and making a course adjustment.
Matt looked down to see a flash of sand and then the water appear beneath them. He took down one of the rifles from its rack, checked the chamber to find it filled and slammed it shut again. With a moment of quiet to finally think, he let his mind drift.
Luke. He hoped more than anything that his son was safe and that his long ago promise to Katie was kept. Ashley had sworn to drive east and he had to trust that she would. He prayed that if he and Larsen failed that Ashley would make it to safety in time. Yet, it was not just for Luke’s sake he was doing this, was it? There were millions of innocent lives at stake. Men, women and children rolling out of their beds on the West Coast to start their day. They had no idea that this could be the last time they breathed air, gave each other a goodbye kiss or savored a sip of coffee.
Matt looked back down at the rifle in his hands and then to the battered man at his side. This was the last line of defense and, if it were not so frightening, Matt would have laughed.
“You think we’ve got a shot at this?” Matt asked Larsen.
The detective hesitated a beat before answering, “We’re about to find out.” He pointed outside Matt’s window where on the waves below, a small black jet ski was cutting through the water.
On it, was the unmistakable figure of John.
Fifty
James Peak, the commanding officer of San Clemente Island, was still up. He had managed only two hours of fitful sleep through the night, most of it strung together in all-too-brief fifteen minute increments. Unlike when he had been a younger Navy man, it was not duty that kept him awake but pain.
“Bulged disc,” he recalled the doctor telling him when he finally went for an MRI after dealing with three months of increasing discomfort. The doctor snapped the thin sheet of plastic film up against a light box to reveal the outline of Peak’s lower spine. Using the tip of his pen, he pointed to a small mass of black nested among the white.
“That’s it?” Peak asked dismissively.
“Don’t fool yourself,” the doctor said. “Just a tiny bulge can cause problems. And on a scale of small, medium and large…yours would be considered huge.”
Peak rubbed his tired eyes, the pinching ache in his lower back throbbing. “So what can you do?”
“You’ll have to see a spinal surgeon. I can refer you to one for the operation but it’s going to take a few weeks to go through the process.” He scribbled something on a prescription pad, proffering it to the Commander. “This should help with the pain.”
Peak waved it away. “I start taking that and I’m unfit for command.” He put on a brave face. “It’s livable until I can get the operation,” he lied.
Now, two weeks after he had uttered those words, he was hunched over the side of his bed begging for a wave of pain to crest and subside. His breath whistled through gritted teeth as his nerves slowly ceased their screaming. At last, it was gone, leaving him sweaty and shaking.
A knock came at his door. Peak steadied his legs and straightened them. He grabbed the shirt of his uniform off a hanger in his closet and strode to the door. Another knock came before he reached it, more insistent this time.
“What is it?” Peak yelled, yanking the door open to reveal two of his subordinates. Both looked wide-eyed with fright.
“Sir,” one of them finally said. “We’ve got something you need to see right now.”
Peak brushed by them while buttoning and tucking his shirt. The Operations Center lay only fifty feet from his living quarters so that he could easily access it any time. Usually, it was humming with quiet efficiency when he made his hourly checkins. When he entered it now, however, it was a siren-blaring chaos.
A uniformed officer stepped to Peak and snapped a salute. Peak was thankful to see his right-hand man, Andrew Greco, was going to be the one to debrief him.
“Sir,” said the officer, earning a curt nod from Peak.
“What have we got, Greco?” asked Peak, already looking up at the massive plasma screens that circled the room. Two pulsating red dots were steadily moving towards the green outline that described the island base.
“Two unknowns, both headed in our direction.”
“Did you attempt radio contact?”
“Yes, sir,” Greco said, following on Peak’s heels to the bottom of the screens where the Commander squinted to get a better look at the coordinates of the approaching crafts. They were both small in size. If Peak had to guess, one seemed to be a helicopter. The other, several miles behind the first, appeared to be some sort of small, light aircraft but its outline was not one that was familiar to the Commander.
“And?” asked Peak, growing impatient. He absentmindedly rubbed his lower back where the pain was beginning to creep its way back to the surface.
“No response from either. But, sir-”
“Well, keep trying, damn it,” Peak interrupted, turning to head back to the main controls. Two young men staffed the keyboards, fingers flying.
“We are sir, but-”
“But what?” an exasperated Peak finally said, turning to meet Greco’s eyes.
Greco lowered his voice. “FALCON is down, sir.”
For a second, Peak thought he had misheard. “Say again,” he ordered.
“FALCON is down,” repeated Greco.
The agony in Peak’s back caused him to double over. Greco caught him and helped him straighten before Peak pushed him off. “Christ,” the Commander mumbled before stumbling into his seat at the head of the room. He looked up to see all eyes focused on him. “What the hell are you looking at?” he roared. “You should be rebooting the damn system!”
Greco was at his side again. “We’re trying but we appear to be locked out. We’ve been trying to raise communication with the NIA in Colorado Springs but haven’t been successful.”
Peak shook his head, trying to process all that was being thrown at him. In the midst of him parsing out the information, Greco interrupted.
“There’s one more thing, sir.”
“More?” Peak retorted incredulously.
Greco nodded. “Five minutes ago, a Coast Guard cruiser reported sighting something off the California coast.”
Peak already knew what Greco was going to say before the words were out. “A submarine,” he finished the thought for him.
A voice called out from across the room. “We’ve got action!” one of the young officers at a computer shouted while pointing at the main screen.
“What’s he firing at?” demanded Peak, noting that it was the craft he guessed was the helicopter that was doing the shooting.
“I don’t know, sir. It just looks like he’s shooting at the ocean.”
Peak swiveled back to Greco. “Call the Secretary of Defense. Tell him we’re under attack. And if he wants there to be a West Coast after today, he better send us some air support now.” Greco nodded and hurried away. Peak turned his eyes back to the main screen, where the tiny red dots indicating gunfire continued to spew from the helicopter.
For the first time in months, something stronger than pain gripped Peak’s insides.
Fear.
Fifty-One
John urged his jet ski forward, gunning the engine. Looking up, he saw Matt Weatherly lining up another shot with the assault rifle that had opened up for the first time only a moment before. He yanked the handlebars hard to starboard, bullets chewing into the water where it had just been.
A cold smack of ocean spray hit his face, stinging his wounded cheek. He shook it off, trying to concentrate on the rapidly-approaching shore of San Clemente Island. Another stream of shots spewed down as the helicopter swooped lower. Steadying the jet ski with one hand, John
managed to reach around and withdraw his own sidearm. He got off three wild shots, all of them hitting the underside of the chopper but doing no damage. It succeeded in causing it to back off, though, and the helicopter was forced to rise up and away into the sky.
John knew it would be only a temporary reprieve from the assault. Weatherly wanted him dead as much as John ached for Matt’s demise. This was supposed to be the easiest part of John’s entire mission. A simple clandestine ride across the waves to the island and the press of a button on the EMP device. After that happened, John would simply swim out to the small wooden dinghy he had anchored a mile away. The missiles that he planned on watching detonate would be placed far enough from his location to avoid the blast radius. When the time was right, he would row the boat to the agreed location for the midget submarine to pick him up. Everything had been planned meticulously.
But Matt Weatherly had been the only challenge right from the beginning. A hot, all-consuming anger boiled up inside John. As difficult as it was, he forced himself to find his space of inner calm and block out his blinding rage. His options were limited, he knew. He had taken few weapons other than his standard handgun and knife since he had needed to be as lightweight as possible for the upcoming journeys and did not expect to have any impediments. Just one M4 grenade would have solved the problem of the helicopter but it was a luxury John did not have.
As he was thinking, the helicopter appeared beside him again. Weatherly was leaning out the door, grimacing as he attempted to hold the rifle straight. He shot two rounds which exploded to the left of John. John whipped back with his own shots, which clipped the window near Matt’s head and forced him to duck back inside. John caught a glimpse of Detective Larsen at the controls and an idea suddenly presented itself. It operated on the assumption that, although Larsen might know how to fly, he was inexperienced at the controls.
Before the helicopter rose again, John shifted his aim. He pumped a steady succession of bullets at the tail rotor. Half of them pinged on the metal uselessly but three others found their mark in the center. The gray blur of blades slowed slightly and then stopped altogether before jerkily kicking back into gear.
The helicopter lurched to the left as John pushed his jet ski into an arc that brought him on its opposite side. Ramping up his speed, he scanned the approaching swells of the ocean. As one approached, he pushed down hard on the handlebars which forced the nose under the water briefly. His timing was perfect, he reasoned, as the front of the jet ski popped back up with a burst of force. It rode the crest of the approaching wave and launched John upwards into the air on a trajectory that would take him just above the spinning top blades of the helicopter.
The whirl of metal passed beneath his legs as he unloaded his remaining bullets directly into the main rotor. There was an ear-splitting screech as the rotor blades halted briefly and then sputtered back into action. As John finished his journey downwards, he spun and managed to get one grazing shot into the fuel tank at the rear of the helicopter. Gasoline spurted in a muddy arc into the water.
The jet ski hit the water and sent John tumbling over its front. He hit the water and scrambled to get back on but the engine was already pulling it away from him. Cursing, he looked back to the island’s shore which now lay less than a hundred yards away. His arms carried him forward with powerful strokes. For a second, he thought that he should check behind him to make sure that his handiwork had taken down Weatherly and Larsen.
Just then, a muffled boom exploded behind him and fiery debris shot out over his head.
No need, thought John, as he swam.
Fifty-Two
The first explosion sheared off the tail rotor and sent it spiraling into the ocean. A dazed Matt fell back on to the floor of the cabin, watching as Larsen fought the controls.
“Get out!” Larsen shouted at him.
Matt streaked forward but the helicopter was spinning in a circle repeatedly and the centrifugal force tossed him back down. Stars whipped by the windows at a frenetic pace. He knew that only seconds spanned the distance between any hope of safety and the helicopter being completely destroyed.
“I’m not leaving you!” Matt shouted over the screaming thwop of the rotor blades. He stumbled over to Larsen’s seat but the helicopter tilted to the left and threw him against the cabin door. His face pressed against the glass, Matt saw the roiling black water twenty feet beneath him. “Larsen!” he yelled again.
The detective turned to him, his face calmer than Matt thought it should have been. “You’ve got Luke to think about,” Larsen said. “We can’t both make it out of here,” he continued, while reaching for a green button on the console.
“What are you talking about? Let’s go!”
“Stop him, Matt. Don’t worry about me,” replied Larsen. He punched the button and reached back to yank on a small metal handle on the wall.
For a brief instant, Matt’s brain could not process what was happening.
The warm pressure of the glass that had been flush against his cheek disappeared, replaced by the cool night air. His stomach shot up to his throat as his head tipped forward into the sky. Suddenly, he realized what Larsen had done. The detective had opened the cabin door so Matt could tumble out to safety. Arms pinwheeling, Matt hurtled towards the ocean. Without time to brace for the impact, he only managed to turn his body in a half somersault so his neck or skull would avoid absorbing the full impact.
His knees struck the water and his body kept going, momentum propelling him downward. His mouth filled with icy water as he thrashed against the current, eyes desperately searching for the surface. There had been no time to take in a deep breath and now his lungs burned for one, begging for oxygen. His vision cleared and he managed to see the shifting light far above him. He swam for it but it was not coming quickly enough. Realizing his clothes were weighing him down, Matt managed to fumble his shoes off and kicked with what little strength he had left.
The surface still seemed too far away. It taunted him. He was going to die here in the inky blackness of the uncaring ocean. There was not enough time to make it. No time…no time. Blackness began to seep in from the edges of his consciousness.
His face broke the surface of the water.
He sucked in great gulps of air, tasting its sharp, cool sweetness. Then he realized it was not the sweet tang of the air that he tasted but the familiar one of gasoline. All around him lay the blazing remains of the helicopter. Black smoke belched into the air from twenty feet away where the sizzling shell of the cabin was sinking into the water.
Matt’s first instinct was to head for the wreckage to see if there was a chance to save Larsen.
But then the detective’s final words rang in his ears.
“Stop him, Matt. Don’t worry about me.”
Matt knew Larsen was right so he turned himself around. The shore of San Clemente Island was only twenty yards away. He could just make out John’s cap of blonde hair that had nearly reached it.
Matt began swimming.
Fifty-Three
“What the hell is going on out there?” Commander Peak roared.
Officers scurried in the wake of his rage, frantically tapping on computer keyboards as he strode up to the screen.
“There was some kind of firefight and it looks like unidentified craft number one just crashed into the ocean, sir,” one of them finally answered.
Peak was about to demand more detail when he spotted Greco hurrying back into the room. Peak cut his way across the chaos and pulled him aside.
“Well?” he asked.
“Secretary of Defense has been notified,” Greco replied, then hesitated before continuing.
“And?” pressed Peak.
“He said there are protocols in place and it would have to go through the proper channels before air support could be rallied.”
“Unbelievable,” Peak muttered. “How long until these damn ‘channels’ get sorted out?”
“He estimated thirty minutes,”
answered Greco.
Peak’s hand went to his throbbing back. “By which time, this entire coast will be a smoking heap if we don’t do something,” he said.
A young ensign barged in front of Greco. “Sir,” he said to Peak, trying to catch his breath. “The other unidentified is approaching our airstrip. It’s some kind of plane and it has U.S. military markings.”
Without waiting for anything further, Peak and Greco ran to the exit at the rear of the Operations Center. They pushed through a door that led them outside. A blue Jeep waited for their arrival, engine idling. The Commander climbed inside, Greco narrowly making it in the back seat before Peak demanded that the driver head straight to the airfield. The Jeep took the short asphalt road at top speed, jouncing its passengers as it went airborne over a small rise in the path.
As the Jeep came crashing down in a shower of sparks from its wheel rims, Commander Peak spotted the plane coming over the rocky peaks that created a common hazard for pilots. The aircraft was incredibly thin and long with a tapered nose. Painted obsidian black, it was a dark mark against the dawn-tinted sky. The runway lights illuminated its dark underbelly where Peak saw that he had been correctly informed about the plane’s markings; a small American flag was painted on the bottom with a matching one on the aircraft’s tail. A strong wind buffeted the underside of the plane and its wings tipped slightly, causing it to lose the smooth landing that the pilot must have anticipated. Peak knew that the combination of gusts and dangerous surrounding terrain made this airstrip one of the most difficult in the country to land on.
“I want that plane surrounded when it lands,” Peak called back to Greco, who nodded and snatched a hand-held communication device from his belt to spread the order.
The Jeep careened around a corner just as the plane touched down. Peak watched with satisfaction as his men burst from the surrounding buildings clutching rifles. The plane skidded loudly down the runway, its tires trying to find purchase on the ground while the brakes were engaged. Peak’s soldiers were forming a loose circle to block its path but quickly scattered as the plane kept coming. It finally began to slow but not before the pointed nose smashed into the chain link fence that marked the end of the landing strip.
