The Omega Covenant

by Richard Holcroft

  Hollingsworth called him ten minutes earlier with the code words they’d set up to let Khadem know McHugh and his entourage had left the Grand Marriott and were on their way. A fifteen-minute drive from the Marriott to the Kauai Harborview for an event scheduled for seven thirty made the timing look perfect.

  Khadem shifted his weight to get into position. He placed his right knee on a rubber pad he brought with him on all jobs. It helped him keep a steady sight picture for minutes at a time and not be distracted by discomfort in his hips or leg. He nestled the rifle stock into his right shoulder and sighted in on the hall entrance. Satisfied he’d have a clear shot if things went according to plan, he put the carbine aside and relaxed for a few minutes.

  It was seven when the advance vehicles began to arrive. There had been a steady stream of students and locals entering the hotel lobby the past hour, but they’d been instructed to park in the lot nearest the tennis courts and walk the remaining hundred yards to the hotel. Most remained outside for the president’s arrival, however, and by seven fifteen were starting to crowd the entrance.

  Ten minutes later, the president’s motorcade approached the hotel entrance. Two marked police cars led the procession as a “bomb sweep.” A dark GMC SUV followed, carrying the Secret Service counterassault team, and then the main portion of the motorcade. Two additional limos served as decoys for the president’s armored Cadillac, with its tinted windows and bulletproof glass. Three motorcycles flanked each side of the stretch sedan group. Close behind the president’s limo was a black Ford sedan with Kauai Police markings and Chief Silva in the front passenger seat. A dark blue SUV followed, with a Democratic senator from Hawaii and his wife as featured VIPs.

  The black stretch limo carrying the president and Kauai Mayor Kaimana beside him mimicked the Ford’s every turn ahead and stayed close behind. Staff personnel, press, and an ambulance followed behind the limos, with the remaining vehicles a varying array of police motorcycles, press representatives, and lower-level state government officials. Two additional Kauai Police cars brought up the rear, making sure no one joined the procession.

  Khadem lifted his rifle from on top of the case and placed the stock back against his shoulder. He watched each advance vehicle crawl past the resort entrance and pull forward far enough to leave plenty of room for the president.

  Khadem studied the magnified sight picture, placing the president’s stretch limo in his cross-hairs. Once the dark blue Cadillac slowed and pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, Secret Service agents jumped to the pavement from both sides of the vehicle in a well-choreographed protective maneuver. The rangy one at the right front door took a quick look around, rested his hand on the Sig Sauer under his coat jacket, and opened the rear door for the president.

  From where he knelt, Khadem could hear faint laughter and clapping from the crowd. The affable president smiled and shook hands with three college-age girls standing in an informal line between the SUV and resort entrance.

  Khadem held his breath and took aim.

  The agents in the president’s detail suddenly looked startled as a sharp voice crackled in their earpieces. The rangy agent leapt toward the president.

  Khadem squeezed the trigger. A muffled shot broke the silence. The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

  The president’s broad smile a few seconds earlier suddenly contorted into a look of terror.

  Khadem fired again.

  The president clutched his shoulder as a second Secret Service agent pushed him back into the limo. The agent who’d smothered the president lay on the ground writhing in pain.

  Several in the crowd began to scream. The two motorcycle cops who led the motorcade gunned their machines and prepared to pursue the echo and smoke from an unknown shooter in an unknown location. Agents scattered wildly, vainly searching for signs of an assassin.

  No one noticed the burly man behind the shrubbery two hundred yards to the west stash his rifle in a much-traveled guitar case, run to a car parked behind an unoccupied cottage, and casually drive away.

  45

  Marchetti stepped out the back door of the Plantation House and scanned the sky. He expected to see at least a few motion-activated lights around the house, but the early evening remained semi-dark and eerily quiet. The only sounds he heard were the occasional squawks of a tropical bird, warning others of a stranger in their midst.

  Marchetti talked to Kauai Helo’s Keith Ryan only briefly the day he and Vicki took the tour, but they hit it off immediately. Both were former Marines raised in New York, and each had gone through a nasty divorce, with pre-teen sons living with their exes in other cities. Marchetti was elated and not surprised that Ryan was willing to help when he had no selfish interest in doing so.

  Marchetti tried Tom one more time, and this time he answered. He asked Tom to meet him at the Port Andrews Airport as soon as he could. He couldn’t tell him where it was or how to get there but suggested he get directions from Janine or Kalani.

  Ryan’s quick estimate for touching down near the house was right on. Marchetti first heard the steady whoop-whoop of helicopter blades coming in from the north. A minute later the chopper appeared, lights shining, in the dimming sky of twilight.

  It was apparent Ryan intended to touch down in the grassy area Marchetti had described, fifty yards outside the fenceline. Marchetti felt the Ruger semi-auto in his belt, making sure it was still secure, and then jumped the fence and made a dash for the Eco-Star chopper.

  Ryan pushed the door open and Marchetti jumped in. He latched his seatbelt and donned the headset as Ryan brought the turbine up to full power and raised the collective. The pitch of the rotor blades increased, and they started to lift off. They hovered briefly a few feet above ground as Ryan turned the craft ninety degrees, then nudged the cyclic to tilt the rotor disc and move forward. They began to ascend rapidly and head southeast toward Port Andrews Airport.

  As Ryan climbed to a thousand feet and eased back on the collective, he grinned. “How you doin’, jarhead? This reminds me of my time with the 1st Marines in Fallujah.”

  Marchetti nodded. “Thanks for coming, man, you’re a life-saver.”

  “You bet,” he said and smiled.

  Marchetti studied the map Ryan had stuck to his clipboard. “Hollingsworth has a hangar at Port Andrews,” he said. “We need to get close enough that Tom and I can walk to it, but far enough away he won’t hear us approach and land.”

  “Okay, will do my best. It’s a small place; not much there. Just an asphalt strip and three small hangars.”

  In the few minutes they had en route, Marchetti gave Ryan a rundown of what had happened to Tom, what they’d learned about the attack on the president at Barking Sands, and the planned attack in Lihue. Ryan looked at Marchetti in disbelief, surprised at Hollingsworth’s part in the sedition. He’d met him just once at a social occasion a couple of years ago, and he seemed cordial and respectful of the new president.

  Ryan understood how urgent the situation was and picked up another ten knots. “Top’s one thirty,” he said. “We’re almost there now.” Marchetti nodded and continued watching the house lights scream by below.

  Keith kept the turbine under max rotor rpm and altitude at a thousand feet as they raced to the airport near Hanapepe. “I know the airdrome well,” he said. “One of my competitors runs his tours out of there since it’s not far from the Nawilili marina and the cruise ship pier.”

  “Makes sense,” Marchetti said and continued looking around.

  “I prefer being up north where I get the St. Regis guests. But I pop into his place once in a while to have an occasional beer and swap war stories.”

  Marchetti looked around and shook his head. “I’m glad you know where we are, because I haven’t a clue.”

  “Only because I do it a lot. The commercial airport you flew into at Lihue is twenty miles east of here,” Ryan said. “But you’re not alone. Half the people on Kauai don’t know where Port Andrews is,” he ad
ded and continued scanning the airspace ahead.

  As they neared the small, south coast village of Hanapepe and descended to eight hundred feet, Ryan called Honolulu Flight Service to broadcast “in the blind” and advise aircraft in the area they were five miles north, intending to land at Port Andrews.

  He patted Marchetti on the shoulder and began to point out features he used when approaching the unattended airport–especially with restricted visibility, as it was this time of the evening.

  Ryan lowered the collective and eased back on the cyclic. They dropped down to five hundred feet and started a slight right turn. “That’s Hanapepe below us now,” he said, motioning left to right with his finger. “The art gallery capital of Kauai.” He then broke off conversation and strained to pick up the airport. “Everything is unlighted at Port Andrews–runway, taxiways, everything. Getting here at dusk can be interesting.”

  Marchetti didn’t reply but gave him a nervous look. He hadn’t yet picked up the airport or cared much about local art galleries. He just wanted to get on the ground safely.

  Ryan pointed to an area straight ahead. “Got it now. There’s a spot with several salt ponds just west of the approach end of the runway. There are no buildings around to worry about, and it’s big and firm enough for us to touch down.” Marchetti finally saw the runway and the dark, brown area he’d picked out. “It’s far enough away from the hangars that with the surf up and wind out of the southeast, I’m pretty sure they won’t hear us.”

  “Tom should be here by now. Once you’ve dropped me off, don’t wait around. Head back to Princeville.”

  Ryan looked at him and shook his head. “Not on your life. No way I’m leaving without making sure you’re okay. There’s a wide-open parking lot a couple of hundred yards away. I’ll wait there until you tell me everything’s under control.”

  Marchetti nodded and let Ryan concentrate for the last few minutes of the approach and landing.

  Tom watched the helicopter maneuver to land on the large grass and dirt area ahead and to the west of the access road. Once it touched down, Tom hustled toward the impromptu landing pad, wondering how Marchetti managed to shag a copter ride. The chopper’s landing lights bounced off the dirt area and illuminated the side of the helicopter enough for him to see it belonged to Kauai Helo Tours.

  A half-minute later he noticed a man jogging south along the darkened perimeter road and immediately recognized him as Marchetti.

  He decided not to yell to get his attention, but rather pick up his pace enough to intercept Marchetti before he reached the road leading to the hangars.

  Once they joined up, Marchetti gave Ryan a thumbs up and started toward Tom’s 4Runner.

  “I checked the area,” Tom said, as they walked briskly. “The road up ahead leads directly for the hangar area. The chainlink fence around the airport grounds looked to be a problem, but the gate across the road is unlocked. There’s a chain merely draped across the top. We can drive part of the way and then park a couple of hundred feet from the hangars and walk from there.”

  They got into Tom’s rented SUV and drove the remaining hundred yards to the gated entrance. Marchetti opened, then closed, the twin gates behind him, and they proceeded to the spot Tom had picked out.

  They could see vehicles parked on the runway side of the only lighted hangar. One was a dark, perhaps blue, SUV on the south side facing the runway; the others, two light-colored vans, perhaps foreign made, toward the far end of the hangar.

  “Wish I had the binocs now,” Marchetti said. Although even without them, he could see the hangar’s large doors open at both ends and several men inside busily moving boxes and bags around.

  Marchetti studied the group of men moving back and forth from one of the gray or silver vans to a twin-engine aircraft parked inside the hangar. “That’s Akamu in the black shirt and cargo pants. Pika’s outside holding the rifle; Hollingsworth’s in the tan jacket.”

  Tom shook his head. “Guess they’re not getting ready for a sightseeing flight.”

  “Yeah, they’re moving out.” Marchetti looked in every direction, trying to measure their options. “The fourth guy is packin’ heat, too, so they have a lot more firepower than we do.”

  “Want to call the police again?”

  Marchetti nodded.

  Tom again dialed 911. This time the operator routed his call to the duty sergeant in Lihue. Tom reported that the men who tried to kill the president were about to escape by air from the small airport at Port Andrews.

  “They’re loading up a twin-engine aircraft,” he told the sergeant. “I suggest you notify the FBI and Secret Service, too.”

  “Stay on the line with me, please,” he said.

  “I’ll try, but hurry. They’re getting ready to shove off.”

  “Understand. Hold on, please.”

  After a few minutes, Marchetti asked, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yeah… and that makes both of us insane.” Tom told the sergeant in Lihue, “Can’t wait any longer. We’re moving in.”

  As they planned their approach to the hangar, Marchetti received a call from Sergeant Kalani. “If Silva finds out I’m calling you,” he said, “I’m out of a job. But you need to know, there’s a military assault team on its way over to Port Andrews from Kunia Naval Base.”

  Despite the ramped-up tension, Marchetti sat dumbfounded for a few moments. “Assault team for what?”

  “They’re from the Naval Security Group on Oahu.”

  “Why them and not your guys?”

  “I don’t know,” Kalani continued. “That’s what I’m worried about. Silva has ordered us to stand down–insists the assault group will handle the problem.”

  “Meaning they’ll take Hollingsworth in?”

  “No,” Kalani said and paused a moment. “To arrest you and Tom.”

  46

  Khadem drove the stolen gray Taurus down the winding curves of Niumalu Road as carefully as possible so as not to draw attention. He was confident no one had spotted him, either near the resort or once he’d left the scene. But he wouldn’t feel completely comfortable until he was safely out to sea and on his way to Kaneohe Bay.

  He assumed Secret Service agents and Kauai police were still interviewing witnesses. Despite his daring occupation, Khadem still had a cautious side to him, which was one reason he’d never been caught. He’d checked out the marina the day before and confirmed the boat Hollingsworth promised was indeed as described and docked at slip number 42, the next-to-last in the middle wharf. The thirty-foot, high-performance power boat Sea-esta was probably ten years old, he guessed. But the twin Merc outboards looked like raw power sitting in the slip. He could only guess how fast it’d go with seven hundred horsepower pushing at full throttle in open water. Whatever it was, he felt confident it wouldn’t take long to reach the safety of Kaneohe on the east end of Oahu.

  Thus far, things had gone smoothly–except for the kill shot. For whatever reason, the Secret Service agent nearest McHugh had thrown himself against the president and protected him with his body. It couldn’t have been more than a half-second before he fired the first shot, so he wasn’t sure if he’d hit the president or not. In any event, he was sure he missed with the second shot and couldn’t risk firing a third.

  He checked his watch and slowed down to turn onto Niumalu Road. There he’d find an ample number of parking spaces at the small craft marina that time of night. As Khadem idled past the wharves, he glanced to his left and saw a flashlight and movement near the middle pier. He assumed it was the driver who’d take him to Oahu.

  He continued farther on Niumalu almost to the end, where he saw the parking area to his right. He turned into the lot and went to the far end, where he picked out a space in front of a small, dimly lit restroom. He pulled in and shut off the engine. As usual, he checked his latex gloves periodically to make sure there were no holes in the fingers. He didn’t need to inadvertently leave a print behind.

  He got o
ut of the Taurus and took a quick look around. Satisfied he was alone, except for the person he’s seen on the middle pier, he grabbed the guitar case from the back seat.

  He started walking toward the wharf area. The unidentified man suddenly stepped out from behind a light colored Chevy sedan holding a pistol.

  Khadem stopped in his tracks.

  “Drop the case.”

  Khadem lowered the guitar case to the wooden walkway and raised his hands. In the dim, partially moonlit night, he could see the stranger had on a dark blue uniform and gold badge on his chest. “What’s the problem, officer?” he said, as confidently as he could when met at a dark marina by an officer holding a gun.

  “You messed up, man,” the police officer said.

  Khadem panicked. “What the–?”

  The officer raised his pistol chest high and fired off three quick rounds, each hitting Khadem near his heart.

  Khadem clutched his chest and dropped like a log to the deck.

  The officer walked over to the unmarked Chevy and returned with a terry cloth towel tucked under his arm. He unsnapped the guitar case and used the towel to remove the rifle and scope.

  He carefully placed the rifle under Khadem’s right forearm and leaned his mouth toward the handset clipped to his left epulet. “This is Chief Silva at the small craft harbor at Nawilili,” he barked to the dispatcher. “The president’s assassin just attacked me while he was trying to get away. I need a couple of officers and ambulance right away.”

  “What’s his condition?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Suspect is down... presumed dead.”

  47

  Tom and Marchetti continued toward the lighted hangar at Port Andrews.

  “If we don’t stop Hollingsworth before the assault team gets here,” Marchetti said, “he gets away with the smallpox, and good chance we get screwed.”