by Tom Haase
Matt felt rage, hatred. Bridget’s slumped body spurred him on to go after the bastard who’d hit her. He charged at the man, hitting him in the jaw with a crushing resonance. Then he swung his foot up to get the second in a powerful tae kwon do move. The last man slammed the pistol into Matt’s skull as he rotated from the kick. He felt a searing pain in his head, and then everything went black.
He sluggishly opened his eyes after deciding to wait and not indicate he was conscious. Let them talk first. They didn’t want to kill him, since they could have shot both of them when they had come into the house. He guessed the attackers had come in through the same door he and Bridget had used.
Still unable to move, he felt the assailants search him. They removed their weapons and placed them on a side stand in the corner of the living room. Not a word passed their lips.
Matt regained full consciousness and realized he couldn’t change position. His hands were securely bound, as were his legs. He found he couldn’t turn or move his head in any direction.
Maybe they were terrorists coming to assist Yuri. No, if they were, they certainly would have killed them. Maybe they were home invaders after any valuables in the house. That didn’t fly either. They operated like professionals in the way they had handled Bridget and then his attack on them. They wanted them alive. But why?
"Captain Higgins. I know you can hear me. Don’t play the fool."
The voice sounded Russian, Matt thought. He opened his eyes, but his hands and arms, ankles and knees remained tightly taped to a chair. Tape encircled his neck. Bridget moved and he felt her in the bonds that connected their necks. Someone had done a first-class job binding them together and to the chairs so completely they couldn’t move anything except their eyes and mouths.
“Captain Higgins, we are not here to harm you, but to retrieve some property we believe is ours. Where is Yuri Borisov?” asked the oldest of the three men standing in front of him, his eyes unblinking. He had short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a face like a bulldog, and a superbly toned physique.
Matt guessed they must be Russian intelligence. First of all, they’d called him "Captain," his rank in the military, and second, they knew about Yuri. He didn’t know how much of the phone conversation they’d heard before he turned around.
"How is Bridget?" Matt asked.
"The sergeant is fine, and not damaged any further than her injury from her futile attack," the leader said.
Matt recognized him as the leader of the three. Must be a senior intelligence officer, either civilian or military. He knew Matt and Bridget had been military, and that must be from the briefing the Russians had received after they’d spoiled the attack by the Saudi terrorist. That group had attempted to use the weapons Yuri constructed to destroy the West’s supply of oil from the Saudi Arabian oil fields.
"I asked you a question. Where is Yuri Borisov right now?" The tone demanded an answer.
"I’ll ask you one. How did you find us here?"
"You are not in a position to ask questions. But, I’ll tell you very quickly, and then you’ll tell me what I need to know. I have to stop the man. You can't. So, your help is essential. Do you agree?"
Matt knew when the time to compromise had arrived. He sat on the losing end in his present situation. He had little choice but to go along, at least temporarily, so he barely moved as he nodded his head.
"One of my men here saw you leave the house in Savannah that we knew Yuri Borisov used. You didn’t act like police, so I reasoned you were intelligence officers after the same thing as me. We followed you here in your car. Fortunately, we heard you talking on the phone. We now know he’ll be at the airport at two. Where is Borisov right now?"
Damn, Matt thought, he’s right. Someone had followed them in Atlanta. He needed to focus on what he would tell this man. He didn’t actually know the location of their target.
"I would tell you where he is if I knew. I don’t. I know he’ll be at the airport at two, and the president of the United States is due to arrive there at two thirty. You have me at a disadvantage, and I assume you don’t want the bomb to go off or you wouldn’t be trying to get this Yuri," said Matt as he tried to turn his head without success. These guys knew their business. No way could they get loose from these bonds quickly or easily.
"So your president will be at the airport about the same time as you think Yuri will be there. Thank you, Captain. That’s all I think you can tell us. We’ll leave you now."
"Cut us loose and we’ll help," urged Matt.
"I’m afraid not. You might assist, but then again you might impede us. We have a mission, and I’ll not allow anyone to compromise it. I’ll see to it that you are released in a few hours." He signaled for his men to follow him, and they left.
Matt struggled with the restraints, to no avail. Bridget began to move. She came around in a few minutes and Matt filled her in.
"How will they get into the airfield?" Bridget asked.
"I don’t know, but that man is resourceful. We have to get ourselves out of here." They both struggled but remained unable to move even a fraction of an inch. After a minute, they stopped the struggle and confessed to the futility of continuing.
Time passed, and the clock on the wall showed one fifteen.
"Do you hear something?" Bridget said.
"No."
"Listen, someone’s using a key in a door. They opened one lock and are opening a deadbolt."
They both moved their eyes as far as they could to see the figure of a beautiful black woman come into view.
"Cut us loose, please," said Matt. "Who are you?"
"Honey Jo."
45
Today — Andrews Air Base — 1:25 PM
Claude didn’t move when the air policeman pulled his gun and ordered him to raise his hands. He complied and waited. The policeman searched him, but found no weapons. Sergeant Reed approached from the other side of the hangar.
"What’s going on here, Airman?"
"My dog reacted as trained to the presence of explosives. I have to take this man into custody until CID can get here."
"The Civilian Investigation Division won’t believe this happened in the president’s airplane hangar. Call your Secret Service contact for instructions," ordered the sergeant. "Besides, the man is leaving and no bomb or anything else has gone off."
"I have my orders, Sergeant. Please help me escort him to a room where he can be interrogated," the policeman said.
"Follow me and I’ll call the Secret Service."
He picked up his gear, and they led Claude across the expanse of concrete in the hangar to a room near the maintenance section. The small room contained only a table and a three steel chairs. The grease monkeys used it for a break room. Oil rags lay in the corner, and a picture of an earlier Air Force One, the venerable Boeing 707, hung on the wall.
Claude sat in one steel-framed chair and put his hands on the top of the folding table. They left him there and closed the door. He now had the time to finish his plan. There would be a few minutes at least before any Secret Service agents appeared, and he must convince them that a bomb actually existed on board Air Force One or the overall plot would collapse. He firmly believed that and planned to sacrifice himself to ensure the operation succeeded. Allah had picked this time to test him, because he knew in his heart that he could not fail.
They had allowed him to bring all his equipment and the thermos into the room. What fools. He checked his pocket one more time to make certain it contained the key ring. It felt light in his hand. He would tell them the story, and he now knew how to convince these infidels that he told the truth. To lie for the sake of Islam was not only allowed but also encouraged if it brought success to the warriors of the faith.
His watch showed a quarter to two when the two agents entered the room. The bald-headed one with the regulation suit for the service that identified him as law enforcement was obviously the one in charge. The other was a young man, maybe late twenties, sandy-blo
nd hair, with a small nose and foggy blue eyes. Both said their names, which Claude failed to even pay attention to, and sat down, dragging up two of the folding chairs. The young one picked up the thermos and placed it on top of the table.
"Mr. Moreu," the older agent said, "what do you have in the canister?"
"I have coffee in it. If you like, I will pour you some to drink," Claude said in a straightforward manner.
"We’ll take it downtown to get it analyzed since the dog indicated it contained explosives. If it doesn’t, we’ll return it to you here and apologize. In the meantime, I’m afraid we’ll have to detain you until we know, because if there are explosives in it, you will be going away for a long time."
"In that case, I can save you a lot of time," said Claude. He retrieved the key ring from his pocket and raised it in front of the agents, making no big show of it, and twirled it as a means to calm himself. He flipped the keys back and forth as he held the activator between his thumb and index finger, a nervous plaything.
The young agent got up and stood by the door. He inserted one hand into his suit coat and waited. The older one said, "Go ahead, Mr. Moreau."
"The reason your dog reacted to some form of explosive is simple. While I worked on the plane for over two hours today, I placed a bomb on board that will detonate if that aircraft deviates from its preprogrammed course to Atlanta by more than five miles. It’ll explode if the pilots attempt anything other than a landing at Hartsfield International in Atlanta."
"You’re joking," said the older one. He put a big smile on his face.
"You stupid pig, I’m not. The device is in the nose compartment. Its detonation will take off the front end of the aircraft, and there will be no way to save the plane. The pilots will most likely be killed, and all of the control surface interfaces will be destroyed," said Claude as he raised his head and stared at the agent.
The older one reached across the table, grabbed Claude by his shirt, and pulled him clear across the table right up to the man’s nose. "You piece of shit. Why would an asshole like you do something like that?" he roared into Claude’s face.
"It’s the will of Allah that the man and this government perish from the face of the earth," Claude responded.
"Oh, shit. You’re one of those. Go tell operations," he ordered, and the young man left to comply. The door shut. The agent’s fist sent Claude flying back across the table and toppling over the chair to the floor. Still holding on to the key ring, Claude looked to see what the man planned to do next. He watched him come around the table.
"Don’t hit me again. You will regret it."
"How, you sanctimonious piece of bacon fat? I’m going to fry your ass."
"To make sure your people believe the message the other agent is sending I’m going to sacrifice myself, and you will go to hell while I’ll enjoy the fruits of paradise. Just as the Prophet promised."
The agent reached down, jerked Claude to his feet with the key chain still in his hand, and reared back to deliver a knockout blow.
Claude smiled at the agent. A second before receiving the blow that would have smashed his face, he felt the detonator in his hand and pressed the buttons.
46
Atlanta, GA —1:45 PM
"Honey Jo, help us."
"How?"
"Go to the kitchen and get a knife to cut the duct tape," Matt ordered.
"Wait just a minute. Who are you?" queried the tall black woman in jeans and a white blouse.
Matt tried to wiggle a little to face her better but couldn’t move. The duct tape held him fast. "I’m the federal agent who called you a few minutes ago. Please get us loose. Can you see if my partner is all right? I think she’s passed out again."
Honey Jo walked over in front of Bridget. "She’s not looking well. Not totally here yet. Looks like she passed out. Now, big boy, I did something for you. Now you tell me what is going on."
"Miss, you’ve got to get us free. Your friend’s life now depends on us."
"Sure, that’s what they all say when they want you to do something. I don’t even know if you are what you say you are, and until you tell me what's going on, you is staying right where you is." She walked over in front of Matt. He saw her neck decorated with a three-layered gold necklace, and a gold comb held her hair to the side.
He could see she wasn't kidding, so he decided to tell her enough to get out of the bonds the Russians had put on them. Time was now against them, and if he didn’t get moving, the terrorist could set the bomb off and kill millions in a metropolitan area like Atlanta, and the president of the United States.
"Okay. There’s a Russian with a bomb, an atomic weapon, like I told you before. We think your friend got mixed up with him somehow, and he‘s using her. The target might be the airport where you both work. We must find her. We found the man’s accomplice dead in Savannah and we believe he might be the one responsible. We really believe your friend is in grave danger."
"Shit, you’re serious."
"Yes, and we’re working under the direct orders of the president. I have identification in my—"
"If you are such special agents, how’s come you is tied up?" she said with a sideways grin. "Seems to me you ought to have the bad guys tied up."
"Honey Jo, cut these ties now."
"Nice try, boy. But I don’t take orders well."
She walked around and stood in front of Bridget. She shook her, then slapped her. "Come on, baby, wake up."
Bridget groaned and tried to move her head. She said, "What happened?"
Honey Jo bent down in front of her face. "What’s the Russian got?"
Bridget tried to look up, but the tape prevented her head from coming up. "A bomb," she said in a groggy manner.
"All right, Mr. Special Agent, you are probably telling me some of the truth. I’ll go get a knife." She headed to the kitchen.
"Bridget, are you all right?"
"Got a whopper headache, but yeah I’m okay. What’s going on?"
Matt brought her up to date on events and finished as Honey Jo entered the room. She walked over to Bridget and cut one arm free. That left the two tied together by their necks, all legs and thighs tied to the chairs and their hands still wrapped in duct tape. Bridget still couldn’t function at her peak and took the knife in her hand as Honey Jo bent over and placed it there.
"You’ll get yourselves free. I gotta go."
"Wait, we may need your help," Matt said.
"I ain't staying here. You do what you’s gotta do and so will I. She’s my best friend and that’s why I comes over to see what you were talking about. You’ll be free in a few minutes, but I’ve gotta go help my friend." She ran out of the room, and he heard the front door slam a few seconds later.
"Bridget, can you cut us free?"
"She didn’t cut all the way through. I’ll have to force it apart." She made a hard, jerking effort. The tape didn’t give way. After a few more attempts, the ripping noise of the tape separating filled the air. "There, at least my right arm is free."
Bridget placed the knife under the restraint on her left hand and tried to slice through it. "Damn, she must’ve given me a butter knife. This one couldn’t cut anything. She stood above me, and maybe it cut for her but I’ll try to punch through and then rip it apart."
Their heads bobbed up and down with her efforts. The tape around their necks nearly strangled them with the effort she exerted. The Russians had looped the tape at least twice around their necks and crossed it behind their heads. It took a few minutes to get her left hand free.
"I’ll try to cut the tape around our necks and then I can get my legs free."
"We’re being defeated by the clock. They have a half-hour head start, and it’ll take us more time to get out of here. The president is due to land at two thirty and it’s a quarter to two according to the clock on the wall. It’ll take us at least a half hour, or more to drive to the airport. Got to get a plan together. Need to call for help on this," Matt said.
Matt rushed over to get his phone. He dialed and thought of what to say.
Bridget watched him. "What are we going to do? Do you have a plan?"
"Yes."
47
Washington, D.C. — 2 PM
"What’s going on, and where are you?" Mary Jean said with no preliminaries when she answered her cell.
"We’re in Atlanta, and a Russian team got the better of us and tied us up," he said in an opening release of pent-up frustration.
"Slow down and tell me."
He did. It took only a minute for her to get the details and his request to get his new plan into action.
"Get moving to the location you gave me and I’ll have it on the way in two minutes," Mary Jean ordered. She closed her phone. Mike Anthony stood near her and she told him what had happened.
"Damn. I’ll get hold of the Secret Service and give them a rundown on what we think is happening."
Mary Jean dialed her phone and told the person who answered her name and rank. She waited for the officer on duty at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon to verify her identity. When he did, she gave him her request.
"I need you to send the backup helicopters in Atlanta that are there for the president’s visit to a city park location I’ll give you. Two of my operatives will be there, and you must get them to the control tower at Hartsfield International at once. The man they will pick up is Matt Higgins. He will be in charge and is under the direct orders of the president. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma’am."
She gave him the location of her team.
"Wait one, General." In a few seconds he came back. "I checked with the general officer on duty and we can have the assets you requested on station in ten minutes, but he wants to speak with you."
