Turbulent Wake (Jason Wake Book 4)

by Matthew Rief

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jason’s body angled downward, picking up speed as he soared toward the ocean below. Squinting toward the surf, he spotted a blossom of white bubbles as Anna and the man splashed into the sea. Shifting and straightening his body with his feet down, he free-fell for what felt like forever before smashing into the Atlantic.

  Even having landed with proper form, the blast from the blow rippled up his body, and he torpedoed fifteen feet down before slowing to a stop. The water was clear, and even near the shore and powerful swells, he could see over fifty feet in all directions.

  Peering downward, he spotted Anna fighting to break free of the bondages holding her arms and legs together. Jason kicked and clawed at the water. With the third criminal motionless in the current beside her, Jason focused all his attention on the woman, wrapping an arm around her and kicking for the surface. They eventually broke free, splashing out from the sea and gasping, the sounds of the ocean breaking violently against the rocky shore filling the air.

  Jason held Anna tight as she spit out water and fought for air, her wide blue eyes revealing that she was on the verge of panic.

  “It’s okay,” Jason said. “You’re all right. You’re safe now.”

  She was still bound at the wrists and ankles and unable to keep herself afloat without Jason’s help. “Thank you,” she gasped, coughing up water and squeezing Jason.

  Jason smiled. “Don’t mention it. I’d take any excuse to dive into this water. Even if it is a bit on the chilly end.”

  He cast a glance skyward, shielding his face as he focused on the cliff’s edge that he’d vaulted off moments earlier. They’d dealt with the three adversaries. The question was, what to do next?

  He surveyed the shoreline that appeared to stretch on forever in both directions, with nothing but sheer bluffs that were too difficult to climb. He had no idea which direction would prove best, knowing nothing about the geography of the island, let alone that particular portion of the coast.

  Making up his mind to swim north with the current and hope to come across a beach, he started to swim until he heard the unmistakable sound of an outboard motor echoing across the water. Jason turned and squinted toward the sound. A broad smile formed on his lips.

  Anna noticed Jason’s expression. “Friends of yours?”

  A black RHIB motored up to them. An athletic African American man stood at the bow, and a short Venezuelan manned the helm.

  Finn said, “Why does it seem like I’m always fishing you out of the water, Jase?”

  Jason kicked over to the starboard pontoon and helped Anna grab onto the craft.

  “If you had better aim, we’d never have had to test our cliff-diving skills.”

  “That one’s on me,” Nick Stryker said, helping Anna up onto the deck.

  “In your defense, we were probably a quarter mile off and on a shifting boat,” Finn said.

  Nick was the newest official member of their covert group. A former Marine and CIA weapons expert, he’d spent three months at Tenth Circle before Marcus Chapman, the current director of the covert training facility, informed Scott he’d fit perfectly with their group. With multiple US clandestine operations in the running, they’d been fortunate to score the experienced warrior and weapons guru. Nick had been put right to work, running the team’s arms and training program, though this was his first time seeing action with the group.

  Jason climbed aboard, and with a dive knife, made quick work of the zip ties restraining Anna.

  “What time is it?” Jason asked, going right back into hyper-focus mode.

  Finn peeked at his watch. “Just after nine.”

  Jason remembered that it had been a quarter past eight when he last checked his watch back in the abandoned hotel. That meant that General Kang and his band of aspiring bioterrorists had had forty-five minutes to leave the compound and mobilize. A lifetime.

  “Any updates from Scott?”

  Finn shook his head. “We were on our way to the Monte Palace to look for you when you both decided to cool off.”

  “Valiant close by?”

  Finn nodded. “Hold on.” The Venezuelan punched the throttle, accelerating along the coast, around the point, then cutting across a wide bay. The Valiant, the team’s two-hundred-foot floating headquarters, looked like an ordinary research vessel on the outside.

  Motoring around and toward the stern, the aft door opened up, and a conveyer belt pulled the craft into the RHIB deployment room.

  Once the boat was secure and the door shut, they hustled forward, through the central deployment room, and up into the control room. Inside, the ship was a marvel of marine engineering: the best propulsion systems, electronics, and equipment that money could buy.

  The control room was Spartan, with a table in the middle surrounded by chairs and a series of flat-screen monitors on one side. Moments after they entered the room, Scott’s image appeared on the central monitor.

  Jason dove right into what had happened at the facility—how he’d been caught after discovering the samples and knocked unconscious after a brief discussion with General Kang.

  “They left after that,” Jason said. “Expedited their plans. How in the hell did local law enforcement not get them? Didn’t you call them in?”

  Scott nodded. “I did everything I could to have that hotel surrounded, but every government official on the island went for the sunken aircraft instead.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would—”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. Someone higher up than me did some heavy lifting and convinced local officials that the virus samples were still on board and that the sunken jet needed to be contained.”

  Jason shook his head, unable to believe it.

  “We’ll deal with the insider at another time,” Scott said.

  “Have any flights taken off from the islands in the past hour?” Jason said, moving the subject along at the pace of a NASCAR driver.

  “Three. A commercial flight to Lisbon, a flight to the neighboring island of Pico, and a private flight with a scheduled destination of Newark Liberty International in New Jersey.” Before Jason could reply, Scott gave a quick grin. “Which ties in perfectly with information Murph provided. I just got off the phone with the computer whiz, and he managed to use the hacking device you planted on the terrorist’s computer to figure out where they’re most likely heading.”

  Jason leaned forward, planting a hand on the table.

  “It looks like one of the samples is going to be deployed at Grand Central Terminal in New York,” Scott continued. “The other at Heathrow International Airport. We’re airborne now, and Alejandra and I are heading to Heathrow.”

  “Is Charlotte still with you?” Jason said.

  Scott hesitated, then said, “Miss Murchison left not long after Murph provided the intel. Seems she’s caught a commercial flight back to the states.” Before Jason could ask why, their leader added, “She went on her own. And I doubt she’ll make it in time to be of much help. We need you to fly to New York, Jase. You have the most experience with this organization. You’ve seen and spoken with its members. You’ll have the best shot of spotting and taking them down.”

  “Knowing them, I’m sure they’re on the private flight to Newark,” Jason said. “What time did it take off?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “How am I supposed to reach New York before they do?”

  “Let me handle that. Miss Johannsdottir, I need you to assemble the backup members of the UNSC. We’ll need all the help we can get on this, but we have to keep our presence in these locations secret until our enemies reveal themselves.”

  “You can stay on the Valiant,” Jason said.

  “I need to head back ashore,” the Icelander said. “Zhao Song is still being held by local criminals somewhere on the island. I need to find him.�
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  “Very well,” Scott said. “Finn, you and Nick do what you can to help track him down.”

  “On it,” Finn said.

  Scott steepled his fingers. “I’ll keep you updated as any new intel comes in. Jason, there’s a chopper inbound to take you to Lajes Air Force Base. You’ve got a jet to catch.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  General Kang stared out a side window of the private jet, gazing over the dark expanse of ocean and the faint glow that just appeared on the horizon. The Korean narrowed his gaze as he thought back to the heated phone conversation he had in the Azores just prior to leaving the abandoned hotel.

  “I don’t have to remind you what will happen if you fail,” the leader of the operation had said. “Do not forget for a second where your family is right now. They will be killed with one word if this mission fails.”

  Kang continued to peer out the window, a thin layer of tears welling up in his dark eyes. He pictured his wife and children, his sister and cousins.

  Guilt by association.

  That was the protocol used by the North Korean regime to ensure complete and utter loyalty. Disobeying a law meant that not only were you punished, but also your entire family. A complete generational cleansing. And sometimes, such extreme measures were taken to incentivize the success of a mission. His family had all been tossed into a labor camp, and if he failed, they’d be killed.

  The General had been a loyal, hardworking, successful military leader in the North Korean army for the bulk of his lifetime. He’d always followed the rules, always done what he was told, no matter how much it twisted up his insides and made him sick. He was loyal to his country and family, but none of that would matter. The leaders of his nation had made it clear that if the mission failed, it would be the end for him and everyone he loved. He had no choice but to succeed.

  The General thought briefly about all that he’d done—all that was going to happen when the plan succeeded, and the zero say he had in the matter.

  Kang heard the engines throttle back and felt the pressure change as the jet began its descent along the western edge of the Atlantic.

  “Ten minutes out,” the pilot said, leaning back and addressing the General through the open cockpit door.

  Kang nodded, then strode down the center aisle. The aircraft was empty, aside from the pilot, himself, and Haan. Kang looked at his right-hand man with supreme confidence. For years he’d worked with the Special Forces soldier. Together, they’d embarked on countless risky, bold, classified missions against overwhelming odds. With Kang running the operations from afar, and Haan doing the groundwork, the two had succeeded time and time again.

  Espionage. Sabotage. Assassinations. Anything and everything their country asked of them. Now, they were about to complete a mission that would forever change the course of their country and the fate of humanity.

  Forcing himself to ignore the countless lives that would be lost when the virus began to spread uncontrollably, Kang patted Haan on the shoulder. “Early mobilization of additional ground support is a go,” Kang said. “You will be able to move unencumbered to the release site. But keep your wits about you. Watch your back.”

  Haan smiled confidently. “There’s nothing that can stop us now, General. Combined with Pak’s release of the virus in Europe, our enemies far and wide will perish in droves.”

  “Five minutes out,” the pilot said.

  The plane continued to descend, dropping down to ten thousand feet. Through the side windows, Kang watched as the lights of northern New Jersey, then Staten Island and Brooklyn came into view, followed by the blinding metropolis of New York City.

  He thought about the millions of people inhabiting the concrete jungle and the hundreds of millions elsewhere whose lives were soon to be taken. If they only knew what was in store, what fate was moments away from being swiftly dealt upon them.

  The city stood serene beneath a cloud-covered sky, like the calm before the storm.

  “Wind speed’s eight knots out of the northeast,” the pilot said.

  Haan nodded and zipped a black skydiving suit over his clothes. Kang grabbed a bag from the overhead and helped strap it onto the soldier’s back. Once all the straps were clipped and tightened, Haan donned a helmet and goggles. Setting a hardcase onto the table, Kang pried it open and grabbed one of the samples still in a foam shell. He secured it into a padded bag, then strapped it around Haan’s waist.

  “The fate of our nation rests in your hands,” Kang said, shooting the man a stern look.

  “One minute,” the pilot said. “Open the side door.”

  Haan did as instructed, shoving up the arming lever, lifting the control handle, and pushing the door out. Cold, mid-Atlantic wind gusted into the aircraft. They’d dropped down to five thousand feet and could clearly see the tops of well-lit buildings and the city streets lined with cars.

  The two exchanged a strong handshake, then Haan took one final look out over the city and gripped the doorframe.

  After a quick countdown, the Korean soldier threw himself out the door and into the cold night air. He was welcomed by a powerful rush of wind and the roar of the turbines. The aircraft continued on, growing quieter as Haan streamlined his body and picked up speed, reaching terminal velocity in twelve seconds. He kept his arms back and his eyes forward. An experienced skydiver, Haan adjusted his body with minor tweaks to his angle, soaring toward the dark void in the middle of the glowing city.

  He soon flew past the tops of the highest buildings. Twenty seconds after hitting terminal, Haan reached his desired deployment altitude of five hundred feet. He grabbed and yanked on the ripcord, causing the chute to unfurl, catch the wind, then spread and jerk his body back.

  Jolting to just seventeen miles per hour, the world around him instantly went from chaotic and blurry to clear and still. The chill of the ocean breathed against him, and the sounds of the city played out below. Car horns. Police sirens. Distant helicopters. The never-ending symphony that was the Big Apple.

  Haan was all focus as he gripped the steering toggles, adjusting his course as he descended into the large blotch of blackness in the middle of the city. Gliding toward a grassy knoll near the southeastern corner of Central Park, he carefully avoided the clusters of trees as he swooped down. Pulling back on the toggles, his feet nearly touched the grass as his body arced up, then dropped slowly back toward the ground.

  With expert control, he touched down softly into the field just forty yards northwest of the arched Gapstow Bridge. He landed into an easy jog to slow his momentum before letting the parachute fall lifelessly at his back. Wincing to fight back the pain crawling up his injured leg, he shuffled into the shadows of low-hanging elm trees and gathered up his chute. After bunching up the fabric and removing the bag, he unzipped and stepped out of the jumpsuit.

  Lingering in the quiet and darkness for a moment, he listened and observed the grounds with his senses alert. Though sprawling during the day, the famous park was mostly quiet after dark. Looking out at the knoll, the only movement he saw was a man with a blanket wrapped around his body and holding a drink in a paper bag. The guy staggered out to the field, gawked straight up at the night sky, then scanned the surrounding area before nearly toppling over.

  Haan smiled, shoved his parachute, bag, and jumpsuit into a nearby trash can, then hustled down the path.

  The homeless guy shouted when he spotted Haan emerge from the brush. “Man, did you see that?”

  Haan didn’t bother acknowledging him and took off in the opposite direction, moving with a slight limp as he cut across the stone bridge and then headed south along East Drive. Reaching the edge of the park near Grand Army Plaza, he traveled two blocks to Park Avenue, then turned southwest, putting himself on a straight shot to his destination.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Jason strode along the busy evening sidewalk, then pushed through a revolving gla
ss door at the main entrance of the world’s largest train station by number of platforms: Grand Central Terminal. Covering forty-nine acres of Manhattan real estate, the massive stone structure saw nearly a million passengers and awestruck tourists pass through its doors every day, the trains and subways shuttling people from across the city and to distant corners of the country.

  Navigating toward the center of the station among rivers of people, Jason glanced at his watch. He couldn’t believe how fast he’d made it to New York.

  Just four hours earlier, he hadn’t understood the veracity of Scott’s words when he said he’d take care of Jason’s transportation. The second the meeting had ended, Jason helicoptered fifty miles northwest to the island of Terceira. Once there, he’d been given a special clearance to enter Lajes Air Force Base, a multi-use Portuguese military installation that hosts units from multiple foreign countries, including the United States.

  By the time Jason reached the base, his mode of transport was already fueled and ready, waiting for him on the tarmac. After a brief introduction to the pilot and a quick tutorial, Jason climbed aboard the F-15 Eagle. One of the fastest aircrafts in the world, the F-15 is a small, incredibly maneuverable fighter jet designed primarily to engage other planes in aerial combat.

  With a blistering top speed of nearly nineteen hundred miles per hour, and with a takeoff force of four Gs, nothing could’ve fully prepared Jason for the jolt as the major in the pilot’s seat punched it and rocketed them off the runway. It felt like being hurled against the back of the seat, the world around him blurring and the sound deafening, even with the ear protection.

  The Air Force officer kept them at just above the speed of sound for most of the flight and had managed to conquer the twenty-five hundred miles between the Azores and New York in just over three hours. A quick car ride from LaGuardia, and Jason had reached the terrorists’ presumed location.