He handrailed his way up the starboard side again, like doing the monkey bars. The plane was still angled up at least twenty degrees. Any misstep would send him tumbling out of the aircraft.
He reached Monisha’s transfer case and opened it. Less than two minutes. He lifted Monisha out of the case and said, “Lean back into me, Monisha.” Harwood felt the pressure of her small body; he cinched the yellow static line around her waist and his back twice, creating a field-expedient tandem jump rig. He used another static line for good measure around her chest. He saw a dozen life jackets stacked in a bin to the rear, probably a mandatory Federal Aviation Administration regulation. He grabbed two and handed them to Monisha.
“Hang on to these, Monisha. We’ll need them.” He wrapped another static line around the life jackets in case her grip became weak. He also figured it would give her something to do with her arms. He didn’t need her flailing arms destabilizing their descent.
“We jumping into combat, Reaper?” Monisha asked.
“Jumping away from it, girl. Now work with me.”
“I’m working.”
“Okay, we gotta walk to the end of the airplane and then fall into the sky. It will feel weird, but I just looked at that bomb and we’ve got fifty-eight seconds to get off this airplane.”
They waddled awkwardly the length of the cargo bay and he stopped them on the ramp. One hand was holding Monisha close to him while the other was grasping the starboard hydraulic arm of the ramp.
He figured they had less than thirty seconds. He went through his pre-jump routine. Flared his arms backward, pulling against his powerful pectoral muscles. Squatted a couple of times to maintain flexibility. Monisha would be a new dynamic. He had never controlled a tandem jump. He’d been on the receiving end one time—in the place where Monisha was currently—and then he was hooked on learning the art of skydiving, which was very different from military parachuting.
“Scared, Reaper,” Monisha said. He could feel her trembling. Saying his name somehow connected her to him. A cognitive bind that she needed. He was okay with that. It was nice to be needed.
“Ready, Monisha?” He edged them to the lip of the ramp. The unfortunate part was that Monisha was in front of him and while he couldn’t see her face, he was sure that her mouth was open and she was aghast. No thrill in this for her. Takeoff speed for a jet was about 150 knots, which fortunately was also about drop speed.
He quit thinking about it and lifted Monisha and they were off, floating through the sky. He counted to thirty in his head, the amount of time for the bomb to explode, but didn’t see anything but the diminishing white speck of the airplane.
Monisha screamed, “What you got me into, Reaper!”
The wind buffeted their faces. There was nothing but ocean below them. Thankfully it was August and the Gulf Stream was pushing hard to the north, bringing with it warm water. They could last for several hours, providing they didn’t become shark bait. By Harwood’s calculation, it was 2 A.M. and they would have a long four hours until sunrise.
He pulled the ripcord after that thirty-second count, which he figured put him at four thousand feet above sea level. He could see Savannah in the distance as the canopy caught air, popped, and held. He grimaced as the leg straps crushed his manhood. He toggled toward the lights of Tybee Island, maybe three miles away, but there was no way he had enough altitude to glide that far. There was very little wind to propel him, so he and Monisha drifted generally west.
Soon, they splashed into the black ocean and he knew he needed to work quick. He cut the ties between him and Monisha and then put the life vest through each arm and zipped it up for her. He donned his life vest and used one of the static lines to connect them so they wouldn’t float apart.
Monisha was already shivering, so he removed his shirt and slipped it over her life jacket and torso, which meant he was bare-chested. He removed his iPhone 7 from his pants pocket, prayed all of the commercials were accurate—that it was waterproof—and then turned on his “location services.”
With any luck, they would survive.
He looked over his shoulder at the black sky where the airplane would be. There was no explosion.
At that moment, he knew the bomb was on Jackie’s boat.
* * *
Khasan Basayev leaned over from the swim platform of his speed yacht and reached out for Nina’s hand. She was standing on the gunwale of the Ten Meter Lady, her arm outstretched.
They clasped hand to forearm as Basayev used his considerable strength to swing her onto the teak deck. She landed in his arms, smelling musty and dank. On the deck of the Ten Meter Lady blond hair was spread like a fan.
They embraced and Nina kissed him.
“Quick. Into the shower. I’ll have the captain get us to the ocean.”
“We have two hours,” Moreau said. Basayev thought about that and it seemed like a lot of time for something to go wrong, but all the modeling they had done showed that the boat needed to be here in downtown Savannah during a busy summer filled with tourists. He also knew that it could take nearly an hour to get to the ocean and he did not want to draw attention to their vessel. He nodded in support of her timing decision.
“The Olympian?”
She nodded beyond the gunwale of the Breeze Machine at Jackie Colt’s inert form on the floor of the Ten Meter Lady. Already the captain was moving toward the river channel. “If anyone arrives before the bomb, they’ll blame it all on her and her boyfriend. The computer records. The weapon. It’s all there. And the records are in the cloud also, so once the FBI tracks that they’ll still blame them. It’s done.”
“Okay. Shower, my love. We’re done here.”
Moreau moved swiftly to the master chambers while Basayev climbed the ladder to the bridge and told the captain, “As fast as possible to the ocean. Your life depends on it.”
The captain, familiar with the dangers of working with people who wished to stay off the radar, kept his mouth shut and pushed the three diesel engines to half then full throttle as he sped at thirty knots through the winding river. The ocean was seventeen miles away and after fifty minutes of maneuvering, Basayev saw them pass the northern end of Tybee Island. Ten minutes later they were another mile into the ocean when the captain nudged the vessel to the southwest.
Nina joined him on the bow, where Basayev had an ice bucket with a bottle of Goût de Diamants, her family champagne, and two glasses of crystal stemware.
“One more hour. The yield of the weapon is twenty kilotons,” Basayev said.
“I think we should be safe soon,” she said. She nuzzled tightly into Basayev’s chest. He was dressed in black dungarees, a blue cotton T-shirt, and an unbuttoned dress shirt. Moreau was wearing a new set of clothes, navy cropped pants with a pullover sweater and white Vans boat shoes. Basayev ensured they dressed the part of tourists from Europe taking a cruise on a chartered yacht.
“You’ve done well,” Basayev said, ignoring her comment. He never truly felt safe, but didn’t want to frighten Moreau, not that she scared easily.
“Thank you, Khasan. We both love a good payday.”
“That and fifteen thousand dead with another twenty thousand wounded, Nina.”
“If that materializes, then the bonus should kick in, correct?”
Basayev smiled. His Nina was as much of a mercenary as he.
“It should. We must wait, though. The fifty million is in my account now. Our financiers can track where the bomb is and the fact that it is prepared to detonate. When we go down below to the command center, I will move twenty-six million into your account. When we get to the Caymans, you can choose to stay or go.”
“I want to be with you, Khasan. Our marriage was more than a payday. More than a legend.”
“I know,” he said. He thought of the many times they had made love. Those were good memories. Her body against his was warm and reassuring. Still, Ramsey Xanadu had taken liberties with Nina. While that was part of the plan, he wasn’t
sure he could continue with her. It made little sense. She had sex with other men before him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted Xanadu’s leftovers. Not that she had been with Xanadu of her own free will. Or had she? He would never know. That was the rub. She had volunteered for what was tantamount to a suicide mission and survived. Perhaps his affections for her would not, though.
Changing the topic, he said, “Why do you think Harwood and Colt let you go?”
“I was quick. Into the water before they could really think of me escaping.”
“You are quick, my love,” he said.
The moon glowed low in the sky, casting a skidding reflection of yellow off the ocean’s surface. The vessel churned through the calm seas.
Basayev knew Moreau was quick, but didn’t believe for a second that Harwood had let her go by accident. Perhaps there was one more hand to be played. He never relied on hope. For example, the decoy bomb on the plane was misdirection. Now all he could do was wait and believe that the confusion at MLQM, the search for Monisha, and ultimately the nuclear blast would distract them, perhaps kill them, so that they could continue their trek toward safety.
He thumbed the Amur falcon medallion hanging around his neck, looked at Nina, decided something, and then said, “I need to make a quick check-in with the captain.”
“You’re still nervous?”
“Not nervous. Joyful, but cautious. Be back in a sec.”
* * *
Bronson had a dilemma. Did he stay at Hunter to potentially arrest General Markham, or did he chase after an international terrorist who was escaping? The police had already helped the young women from the caskets littered along the runway. His guess was that Harwood had cut them free.
Each one would be an information treasure trove, but he still had a developing situation. The endgame was at hand, but had not been fully played out.
He sat next to Faye Wilde in the helicopter. Across from him was Corporal Sammie Samuelson, which gave him an idea.
“Can you still shoot, Samuelson?”
“Yes, sir.”
They spoke through the headsets. The helicopter blades were spinning. Bronson turned to White and said, “Randy, you and Max stay here. Do not let that airplane leave. Arrest General Markham when he arrives and take him to the conference room. Don’t let him near any of the women from the coffins. That’s his helicopter coming in right now.” He pointed at a white light circling above the runway. “Probably trying to make his getaway.”
“Arrest him on what charges, boss?” White asked.
“Human trafficking. Drug distribution. Call the lawyers. They’ll give you ten more things you can charge him with.”
“Roger that.” White and Corent disembarked onto the concrete tarmac just when Wilde’s phone chirped.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“What?”
“Harwood’s phone is sending a signal. He’s three miles offshore.”
“Got to be a mistake. I saw him get on that airplane.”
“Won’t hurt to check it out,” she countered.
Bronson nodded. “Give the pilot the lat-long and let’s go.”
Wilde switched channels on the internal communications and gave the pilot the coordinates. Switching back, she said, “They’re on it. Less than ten minutes we’ll know.”
“Roger that.”
* * *
“C-C-Cold, Reaper.” Monisha’s voice was a haunting whisper.
Monisha’s teeth chattered, which he took as a good sign. Her body was responding to the cold and trying to produce heat. Too much longer in the water might result in hypothermia even though the temperatures were in the mid-seventies. With her wounds, she was already low on fluids. Dehydration contributed to a more rapid onset of hypothermia. She had another thirty minutes, if that.
He held her close with one arm while using his other to lift the phone as high as possible. He wasn’t sure if he was sending a signal or not. He scissor-kicked his legs as hard as he could. And while he was breaking a sweat, he knew that Monisha was losing her fight to stay alive.
“Come on, somebody. You’ve been looking for me for two damn days and now I’m telling you where the hell I am!”
“It-It’s okay, Reaper. You did good.” Another whisper coming from Monisha. Her voice was like a soft wind, nearly as silent. He took her comment to be a final statement, but he refused to let that stand.
When he began to believe that God had abandoned him and Monisha the way he believed that He had abandoned Lindsay, Harwood saw a light flickering in the distance. Then he heard the soft whoop of a Black Hawk helicopter blade. Gaining hope, he used his thumb to swipe up on the screen and then press the flashlight function. He began waving the phone until he knew that the pilot had a bead on them.
The Black Hawk drew to a hover, and with the prop wash blowing hard on them, he saw his former spotter Samuelson being lowered on a cable hoist. When Samuelson was face-to-face with him, Harwood said, “Thanks, Sammie. Take the girl up and get her warm. Then just drop the hoist back down for me.”
“I’ve got your back, Vick. No worries.” Samuelson took the girl and tenderly hugged her to him, cradling her.
“She’s in bad shape, Sammie.”
Samuelson nodded. The hoist began rising and they disappeared into the helicopter. As directed, Samuelson leaned over and guided the hoist to Harwood, who had to swim about ten meters to grasp it, sit in the metal T seat, and tug on it to indicate he was ready.
Once in the helicopter, he saw Monisha wrapped in a thermal blanket. A young woman was securing her to the floor while looking over her shoulder and shaking her head. Harwood was not going to let Monisha die. He sat across from Bronson and said, “I know how this ends. Let’s get the girl to the hospital and then we have to find Jackie Colt.”
“What about Basayev?” Bronson asked.
“Just tell the pilots to go to the hospital. Then we can debate,” Harwood said.
Bronson nodded, switched to the intercom, and spoke to the pilots. Switching back, he said, “We’re on our way. Now talk to me.”
CHAPTER 29
The emergency medical personnel swept Monisha onto a stretcher and wheeled her into an elevator on the roof of the regional hospital.
“Now fly the river starting from the north, near I-95,” Harwood said.
“Why there?” Bronson asked.
“Because the bomb is on Jackie’s boat,” Wilde said. “Basayev’s Instagram account now has a picture of the marina by the River Street Market Place.”
“Like she said,” Harwood replied. “The way Nina Moreau was sitting on the bench seat down below on Jackie’s boat didn’t make sense. The lock on the middle seat. It was like she was protecting something. It’s there. Lots of targets. The interstate. The port. The city. Markham’s house. That vicinity.”
“So it’s real? The RA-115?”
“Has to be. I know we looked for it when I was a private. I think Basayev came back and put it in play, used me as a decoy to trick you guys. They went through a lot of trouble to make me the bad guy for all of this. Plus, I saw what looked like a bomb on the airplane. It was in Monisha’s casket,” Harwood said. “We were in the water for fifteen minutes. The timer on what was probably a decoy showed less than four minutes when we jumped. I never saw an airburst. That either means it was a dud or a fake.”
“Why plant a fake?”
“Lots of people were sniffing around me, all these dead generals and senators. It’s a big story. Basayev knew people would start looking inside Milk ’Em. So why not plant a fake there to cause every bomb expert in the country to look there instead of where the real bomb is. There’s an old saying, ‘Among many, one.’ If you make people think there are more than one, it will take them time to figure out where the real one is. Basayev is smart. Plus, my sense is that he wanted to scare Milk ’Em, anyway.”
Bronson talked to the pilots and they lifted into the sky and banked to the northwest.
“What are we looking
for?”
“Big Boston Whaler Outrage called the Ten Meter Lady,” Harwood said.
They flew across the city at a diagonal until they were north of the port, where they began working their way along the river. The fog rolled along the water like lost ghosts urging them forward.
“Nothing here,” Harwood said. “Like she said, let’s head for the market.” He pointed at Wilde.
The pilot nosed the Black Hawk forward and within minutes they were astride the moorings at the River Street Market Place.
“There it is. That’s it,” Harwood said. “Just drop me on the pier and I’ll climb on that way.”
He didn’t see Jackie. The boat sat there, inert, dark. As he jumped from the aircraft, he saw a flash of yellow on the deck. Jackie.
“I’m coming with you,” Samuelson said.
Harwood didn’t argue. His heart sank when he saw a Sea Doo underwater sea scooter discarded on the pier. Leaping onto the boat, he saw blood next to Jackie’s face, her blond hair fanned against the white deck, and his sniper rifle lying across her chest at port arms.
“Moreau,” Harwood said. “Her escape was a head fake.” He found a pulse on her neck. Her eyes were closed and he thought that no matter how bad she wanted revenge for her younger brother’s death, it wasn’t worth this. He scrambled quickly into the cabin, broke the middle bench lock with the butt of his pistol, and lifted the seat that Moreau had claimed.
Inside was a rectangular metal case. On top of it was a clock with red numbers that showed thirty-seven minutes and seventeen seconds. It was ticking down. Harwood’s mind reeled. He looked at Jackie.
“Help me here,” he said to Samuelson. “You used to hotwire shit all the time in battalion. Think you can do it to this boat? Keys are gone.”
Ghost Target Page 26
