by Mike Brogan
SEVENTY SEVEN
“Where in the hell is the Leyla?” Donovan said.
Manning shook his head.
“It’s gotta be one of the remaining seventy footers farther out,” Donovan said.
“Makes sense,” Manning said. He briefed the FBI Hostage Rescue Team seated behind them to get ready to board the Leyla.
The Rescue Team, highly skilled at both land and water rescue, looked eager to deliver the women to safety and Hasham to the fires of Hell.
Donovan noticed the pilot pointing at the dark thickening storm clouds they were flying into – then at a large white yacht.
“Seventy-footer. Hatteras profile,” the pilot said.
Donovan nodded but couldn’t read the name on the yacht’s rear deck where three men sat in chairs.
They pilot flew closer and Donovan relaxed when he saw the luxury yacht’s name: McCue DealerShip. One man raised his mug of beer toward the chopper. Donovan would kill for a cold one right now.
“There!” said the pilot, pointing. “Another big one. Two miles out. Ten o’clock.”
Donovan fixed his binoculars on the area, and the long white yacht’s profile.
“Have the Coast Guard check its GPS.”
Manning made the request.
Moments later, “GPS and all electronics are functioning!” Manning said.
“Maybe he turned everything back on,” Donovan said. “Let’s check it out anyway.”
The chopper swept toward the big white yacht. Donovan saw two middle-aged men fishing off the rear deck. Two women brought them a tray of sandwiches.
One woman looked similar to Maccabee. He suddenly worried that Mac might not have reached Dr. Dubin’s office safely. He’d check later.
* * *
Nell watched the huge Hatteras race toward them.
She pushed the raft motor’s starter button again. It sputtered and died.
She tried again. Two sputters-stops. She pushed again. The motor rumbled, sputtered, and went stone silent.
Frustrated, she whacked the motor hard with her hand - and it roared to life!
She cranked it to full throttle and the raft chugged ahead.
But the Hatteras raced toward them. It would soon ram them. Musa’s bullets ripped into the water ten feet behind them.
Another bullet speared the water even closer.
Nell aimed the Beretta and fired back at the yacht without hope of hitting anyone because of the rolling waves. But Musa and Hasham heard the shots and ducked behind a counter.
She shot again, splitting off a chunk of counter – and the two men ducked down like Whack-A-Moles.
But the yacht kept coming.
She searched the horizon for some other vessel. She saw none.
The Leyla closed fast, just two hundred yards away. She fired off another shot that hit below deck.
Musa fired back, his bullets ripping the water three feet from the raft. A large wave pushed the raft to the side.
Musa’s bullet tore into the raft’s motor. The motor sputtered, spewed black smoke, groaned and died.
She aimed at the Leyla and pulled the trigger.
Nothing. The gun jammed.
A second later, two bullets ripped into the fabric of the raft – and air whooshed out though the holes. Lindee held her hand over them, but the escaping air pushed her fingers away.
Musa pointed to the raft and grinned, obviously delighted with his marksmanship.
Then Hasham surprised her.
He signaled Musa to stop shooting. This clearly angered Musa, who obviously wanted revenge for his head wound.
But Hasham turned and signaled the captain to idle the yacht. The big yacht coasted to a halt about one hundred fifty yards away.
Hasham stared at the raft for several moments, saw her and Lindee failing to stop the air leaks. Satisfied the raft was deflating and sinking, and that the motor was dead, he signaled the captain to turn around and head back.
The Hatteras cruised away.
Hasham was going to let them sink.
Nell understood. No bodies on his yacht, no evidence of crime. No problem.
She felt the raft sinking fast. The motor was dead. They had no lifejackets.
In minutes, they’d be freezing to death in the icy water.
SEVENTY EIGHT
Donovan peered into ugly black clouds as they flew deeper and deeper into the Atlantic.
He pointed at a white yacht hurrying back toward shore. “Big one at one o’clock!”
The pilot banked toward it.
Donovan checked the deck and saw two doctors and some nurses with kids in wheelchairs. A long banner said, St. Jude’s Floating Hospital. The smiling kids waved up at them. Donovan waved back.
Manning pointed at another enormous white yacht much farther out – racing farther out into the Atlantic and into the storm. The angle made it difficult to estimate length, but it looked at least seventy feet.
“Look,” Donovan said, “that Coast Guard cutter is rushing toward the same yacht! A mile away. Closing fast. Maybe they know something.”
“The cutter should reach the yacht when we do,” Manning said.
“Can you get a GPS reading on the yacht?” Donovan asked.
Seconds later, Manning, eyes wide, said, “No GPS! No AIS. Electronics all off!”
Donovan’s heart shifted into overdrive.
He watched the big yacht – a Hatteras - speed at full throttle toward the middle of the Atlantic. Why race toward Europe 3,500 miles away with enough gas to get you only a third of the way?
Or was it a drug runner escaping from the Coast Guard cutter?
The chopper quickly closed the distance to the big yacht.
Donovan locked his powerful military binoculars on it. He saw three men on the deck staring up at the chopper. The short thin man appeared to fit Hasham’s size and description. The other two men had beards and dark complexions. One huge man had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head.
Donovan saw no sign of Nell or Lindee.
He tried to read the yacht’s name on the rear deck. But the ocean swells kept hiding it.
Then he glimpsed an “L” and his heart pounded into his throat. He leaned forward, squinting at the yacht.
A huge wave suddenly lifted the rear deck up high and Donovan shouted, “The - Leyla!”
“Confirmed!” Manning said, fist-pumping the air and signaling his FBI rescue team to get ready.
The chopper raced toward the Leyla and leveled off behind it.
Donovan heard the FBI team preparing to board, checking body armor, weapons, helmets, and mics.
On the yacht’s deck, the three men watched the approaching chopper as though waiting for it to get closer. When it did - they yanked out guns, ducked behind counters, and fired at the chopper.
The pilot anticipated the shots and dropped beneath the rising bullets.
The FBI team returned fire, scattering the terrorists for better cover.
The chopper swept around in front of the yacht and dropped low, compromising the terrorists’ shooting angle.
The FBI team unleashed their Heckler & Koch assault rifles, their bullets eating chunks of counters as the three terrorists took cover.
To the right – the Coast Guard cutter raced to within one hundred yards, blasting its horn across the water and then unleashing its ear-drum-bursting warning.
“This is the US Coast Guard. HEAVE TO . . . HALT and prepare to be boarded! I repeat: HALT! This is the US Coast Guard. We are going to board your vessel! Do you understand?”
Apparently not.
Incredibly, the terrorists shot at the cutter and kept racing ahead at full throttle.
Bad decision.
The sailors unleashed their powerful M2 50-caliber machine guns. The finger-sized bullets tore into the rear deck, shredding cabinets, Plexiglas and wood panels like they were papier-mâché. Within seconds, the side of the yacht looked like Swiss cheese.
Donovan prayed the bu
llets didn’t penetrate the cabins below where the women might be.
The FBI team members roped down onto the bow, crept along the Leyla sides toward the rear deck, firing non-stop – flushing the terrorists from their hiding spots.
The terrorists ran, shooting back.
But the FBI team bullets ripped into them. The large man with the bloody head bandage fell to the deck and didn’t move. The captain and small deckhand dropped their weapons, staggered, slumped to the deck floor and went still. Blood saturated their clothes. They would bleed out in minutes.
But where was the short thin man - Hasham? Donovan saw him get shot in the arm. Saw blood on his shirt. Saw him walking fast. But now he’d disappeared. The FBI team searched the deck and bridge for him, then headed down below deck.
Donovan prayed for some sign they’d found Nell and Lindee alive below.
Two minutes later, the FBI team leader came up on deck, looked up at Donovan in the chopper, shook his head and spoke into his mic. “No hint of the two women. Or Hasham!”
Donovan’s gut twisted. He signaled the pilot that he wanted to board the yacht. Seconds later he and Manning roped down to the deck. Together with the Rescue Team and Coast Guard sailors, they rechecked the yacht, the bridge, rooms, closets.
They did not find the women.
Or Hasham Habib.
Hasham had to be on the yacht. Donovan saw the man’s bloody arm, saw him hurry in the direction of the stairs heading below deck. But at that moment, the chopper banked left and when Donovan looked back, Hasham was gone. Where? Down the stairs? Hiding below deck? Secret compartment?
Two more FBI team members came back up on deck.
“The women and Hasham are not anywhere on the yacht!” the leader said.
“Where are the women?” Manning asked.
Donovan turned and stared at the answer . . . the vast, icy Atlantic Ocean.
SEVENTY NINE
Donovan walked across the deck, sat down on a bench cushion and tried to visualize what might have happened to Nell and Lindee. He’d seen a bloody towel in a cabin below. Was it Nell’s blood? Lindee’s? Or the big guy with bloody head bandages?
And where the hell was Hasham? He’d vanished after being shot. No one saw him fall overboard. No one saw him put on a diving gear and jump in. No one saw him escape in some kind of James Bond mini-sub, which he could easily afford.
Did he jump in to commit suicide and prevent the FBI from interrogating him about future plans? Possibly. But if he jumped in bleeding, where was the bloody water? And where were the sharks?
Or did he put on a weighted vest that dragged him straight down several fathoms?
Donovan’s gut told him no - Hasham was alive and hiding somewhere on the yacht.
Donovan recalled what he saw. Hasham walked past this deck area, hurrying toward the stairs that led below. Did he go down the stairs and hide in some secret storage area that we still haven’t found yet? The FBI had examined each storage closet and tapped the walls and floors for hidden spaces. Hasham was not found.
Frustrated, Donovan gripped his seat cushion and squeezed. His fingers felt wet. He looked down and saw they were wet with blood.
Did I get hit or cut? He checked his body and saw he was not bleeding anywhere. He knew Hasham and the others were dripping blood as they ran past here.
Donovan looked down and saw blood splatter all over the deck, and on chairs and seat cushions. Then he noticed a straight line of blood droplets leading directly toward his seat cushion. He ran his fingers beneath the lip of the seat cushion again and picked up much more fresh blood.
How does blood get under the cushion lip?
When bloody fingers lift it . . . to crawl beneath the cushion into the storage bin below.
Is this bin large enough to hide a small thin man?
Donovan looked down and quickly realized it was.
The more Donovan thought about it, the more he sensed Hasham might be hiding in the storage bin beneath him. Donovan noticed three clear fingerprints on the cushion lid where someone would lift it to climb in.
Donovan signaled Agent Manning and pointed to the blood drops leading to the cushion, then to the bloody fingerprints on the cushion lid, and then to the storage bin below.
Manning stared at him and mouthed, “Hasham?”
Donovan nodded.
Manning signaled four FBI team members to positions around the storage bin.
Donovan stood up slowly, walked a few feet away from the cushion, turned around and aimed his Glock at the storage bin cushion, then nodded to Manning.
“Hasham Habib!” Manning said. “This is the FBI. Step out of the storage bin NOW! Lift the lid and come out with your hands up!”
Silence.
“Hasham Habib. Get . . . out . . . NOW . . . with . . . your . . . hands up!”
Silence.
Then Donovan heard something . . .
Behind him!
He spun around in time to see Hasham spring from an identical storage bin on the other side of the deck, aim his gun and shout “Allahu – ”
“- Akbar -” never left Hasham’s mouth as Donovan’s bullets ripped into his throat. FBI bullets shredded the rest of his face and body – knocking him back so fast he flipped backward over the deck railing and splashed into the water below.
Donovan walked over and saw blood pouring from holes in his chest. He looked like was wearing a red polka-dot shirt. The blood pooled around him. A huge wave swallowed him.
Within minutes, sharks would.
A squad of Coast Guard sailors climbed to the bridge, and took control of the yacht.
Donovan turned to the FBI rescue team leader, “One last search for Nell and Lindee. The team split into two groups, one headed downstairs, the second scoured the deck and bridge.
Minutes later they met on deck.
“The women are not on board!” the team leader said. “But they were here!”
He held up a Lindee’s purse.
EIGHTY
Nell could no longer feel the saltwater stinging the cuts on her back. She not feel her bone-white fingers. She could not feel anything except the ice-numbing cold.
Another wave slammed into her eyes, blurring her vision.
She knew it was just a matter of time before she and Lindee froze to death in the freezing water.
Their only hope was to cling to the deflated raft and pray. But clinging grew harder as each strong wave loosened their grip on the slippery rubberized fabric.
Her body heat was being pulled out to warm her skin’s surface . . . but dropping her core body temperature dangerously low. Hypothermia was claiming their bodies, inch by inch.
A big wave slammed her and she swallowed some seawater. She coughed most out, knowing swallowing too much would kill her. But the heavy waves kept smashing her mouth open.
Barely conscious, she and Lindee hugged the nearly deflated raft, ninety percent underwater, like their bodies. Only their heads and chests lay atop the squishy raft. Their legs dangled like icicles in the glacial water.
She couldn’t stop shivering. Beside her, Lindee looked gray as a cadaver.
“Lindee . . . can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Lindee . . .?”
“Yes . . .” she mumbled as a huge icy wave washed over her.
“Stay awake, Lin, hang on . . . please hang on . . .”
Long pause. “Tryin’ . . . ”
How long can we hang on? Nell wondered. She seemed to remember that the ocean temperature around New York at this time of year was around fifty degrees. At that temperature, she knew hypothermia would set in probably in an hour or so. They’d lose consciousness and freeze to death soon after. But she had no idea how long they’d been clinging to the deflated raft since her watch had stopped. She guessed at least an hour. Maybe much more.
“Behind you,” Lindee whispered.
“A boat . . .?”
“No.”
Nell turned and stared.<
br />
She saw black fins circling.
EIGHTY ONE
Donovan’s gut churned like the waves below as the chopper circled the Hatteras. He saw no sign of Nell and Lindee. No sign of a life raft. Maybe a good thing. Maybe they’d escaped and were rescued by another boat. Maybe not.
They’d been on the Hatteras. Lindee’s purse, the instruments of torture, and the two sets of ropes, one set bloody, plus bloody towels were proof.
Best-case scenario: Hasham had offloaded Nell and Lindee on shore where they were now being held. But why would he do that? Very unlikely.
Or Hasham set them free in the raft. Also unlikely. What’s two more dead women when you’re murdering thousands?
Or they escaped in the raft. Also unlikely. How could Nell and Lindee sneak past four men and escape in the raft? And if they did sneak past, someone certainly would have spotted the raft in the water.
A more likely scenario - Hasham killed them, dumped their bodies overboard, and maybe released the raft to make it look like they’d been picked up by another boat.
Whatever happened, if they were now in the water, Donovan feared they were not wearing lifejackets, since he’d seen four lifejackets in the storage bin near the raft’s mooring brackets. Maybe they had no time to look for the jackets.
The chopper rescue team continued searching the horizon. They saw no rafts. No lifejackets. No bobbing heads. No bodies. But they felt blasts of wind. The gusts buffeted the chopper as they circled wider and wider around the Leyla.
Fat black storm clouds hovered over them now. A lightning bolt ignited the ocean farther out. The pilot glanced at the storm clouds and shook his head, looking more concerned with each minute.
Yachts and boats raced for the safety of shore.
“Weather alert!” the pilot said. “We’re grounded in five minutes.”
“It doesn’t look that bad,” Donovan lied, thinking it looked like the end of the world.
Donovan hated to give up. Always had. Charging ahead, pushing through problems, not stopping, not giving up, persistence, that was his strength people told him. It was also his flaw, he often told himself. He sometimes pushed himself regardless of the risk and wound up with bad results. Like the time he was running the Pikes Peak Marathon at 7,000 feet altitude, tripped from exhaustion, and broke his wrist. Or when he kept working 120-hour weeks despite his fatigue, and the growing tightness in his chest forced him to bed with walking pneumonia.