Joshuas Hammer km-8

by David Hagberg

On deck he ducked through a hatch and took the stairs two at a time up to the bridge. He hurriedly set the main autopilot to steer the same course as the pilot boat, then hit the switch to bring up the anchor.

  The pilot boat would take care of itself. And just maybe when the authorities saw the Margo heading for the bridge it would keep them busy long enough for Bahmad to get clear.

  Once the bomb lit off no one would be coming for him, the survivors would be far too busy trying to stay alive.

  He headed down to the engine room, a smile on his plain, round face. Even in disunity there can be unity. Even in disharmony there can be harmony. And even in the face of my enemies there can be victory.

  Insha’Allah.

  Over the Golden Gate

  “What boat is that?” McGarvey shouted over the tremendous roar of the Coast Guard’s SH 3 Sea King helicopter’s two turboshaft engines. The chief petty officer who was studying the container ships at anchor out ahead of them lowered his binoculars and looked where McGarvey was pointing. “That’s the pilot boat,” he shouted back. He took a quick look through his binoculars. “Their antenna is down.” He handed his binoculars to McGarvey. “You’d better check out the Margo, sir.”

  McGarvey picked out the big container ship. It was the only one with a helicopter on its crowded decks. But the chopper was still tied down, and there was no activity around it. “What is it?”

  “Her anchor, sir. It’s up.”

  McGarvey switched to the bow. The anchor was definitely dripping water. It had just been pulled up. But there was no possibility that the ship would get anywhere close to the bridge in time.

  He was still missing something, goddammit. But his headaches were back and it was hard to think straight.

  “Tell your pilot I have to get aboard on the double, chief,” McGarvey shouted. He set the glasses aside and took out his Walther to check the load and the action.

  Bahmad had not planned it this way. There was something else.

  The Met Life Blimp “Lead One, this is Baker Seven, they’re coming up on Primary,” Gardner radioed. Primary was the code name for the bridge.

  “Copy, Baker Seven. Do you have Thunder in sight?”

  Gardner could hear the strain in the radio operator’s voice. Something was going on. “He’s on the approach.” Thunder was the President.

  “Okay, we’re closing down the race. Tell your pilot to get you on the ground right now.”

  “What’s going on, Lead One?” Gardner asked, but there was no reply.

  The ESPN reporter and pilot turned and looked at him. They’d caught the urgency in his voice.

  “Problems?” the pilot asked.

  “We have to get on the ground right now,” Gardner said.

  “What the hell are you talking about—?”

  “Right fucking now,” Gardner shouted. “If you want to save your life, put it down!”

  FEMA Operations Center

  “Flagler, Lead One,” Villiard radioed to the Secret Service agent riding shotgun in the President’s limousine. The Ops center was in full swing, but stopping the race without getting anyone hurt was going to be next to impossible. These were handicapped runners, some of them mentally handing capped And there were eighteen hundred of them. It would be a nightmare.

  “Lead One, Flagler.”

  “We’re closing down the race. Do not take Thunder onto the bridge. Get him out of there.” “We’re on the approach road. There’s no way in hell we can turn around. It’s wall-to-wall runners behind us.”

  Villiard made a snap decision. “Get him across the bridge then. I want him behind the hills ASAP.”

  “He’s going to want his daughter with him—”

  “Go now!”

  Villiard switched channels to Chenna Serafini’s. She was on the golf cart with the CIA officer shadowing the President’s daughter. “Raindrop One, Lead One.”

  “Raindrop One.”

  Villiard recognized Chenna’s voice. “Do you have visual contact with Raindrop?” “Not continuously. She’s in the middle of a bunch forty yards ahead of us.”

  “Okay, listen up, Chenna. I want you to go to her right now and get her off the bridge. You don’t have much time.”

  Villiard could hear Chenna say something away from her lapel mike, and then she was back. “What’re we facing?”

  “They might hit the bridge. We’re closing down the race. Thunder’s already on the way out. I’m giving you a head start.”

  “We’re on it.”

  Villiard switched channels again and began issuing orders to the local and state cops to start shutting everything down and clearing the bridge, with almost no hope whatsoever that they would be in time.

  Coast Guard Cutter WMEC 9O7 Escanaba Lieutenant Gloria Sampson braced herself as the Escanaba came around hard to starboard. This was her first command and she was too excited to be nervous. Yesterday at the briefing on nuclear terrorism she’d been frightened, but there was no time for that today. She spotted the small boat well out into the Gate heading directly toward them at the same time her XO looked up from the radar.

  “It’s the pilot boat, their radio’s out,” Ensign DeL illo told her.

  “Forget it, the Margo’s already got her anchor up.”

  M/V Margo

  So far as McGarvey could tell, the wheelhouse was empty and the decks were devoid of any life. It could have been a ghost ship, except that an army could have hidden in the containers stacked eight deep. But they had finally run out of time. It was only him at this point; a situation he neither liked nor disliked. It was just the way things had worked out.

  “Put me down on the afterdeck as close to the helicopter as you can,” McGarvey shouted to the chief.

  The chief said something into his helmet mike, and the Sea King, which was just off the container ship’s starboard quarter, slid to the right and dropped directly for the two stacks of containers on the portside.

  “The skipper wants to know if we should stick around,” the chief shouted.

  “You know the score, it’s up to you.”

  The chief spoke into his mike, then grinned and gave McGarvey the thumbs-up. “We’ll hover just off your quarter. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” McGarvey said.

  The Margo was moving around in the swell, so the helicopter did not attempt to touch down. It hovered a couple of feet above the stack of containers until McGarvey jumped out, then peeled off directly aft.

  As soon as he was out of the rotor wash, McGarvey scrambled to the end of the container to look for a way down. There were no handholds except for the chains that held the stacks tightly to the deck. The helicopter was tied down and the rotors still secured. It would take at least twenty minutes to get it ready to fly. McGarvey stared at it. Goddamnit, this wasn’t making any sense.

  He holstered his pistol and started down the chain, the links greasy and dirty with rust, shackled at intervals with big jagged U-bolts. He was at his most vulnerable at this moment. If Bahmad or one of his crewmen took a potshot at him they wouldn’t have to actually hit him. A near miss might be enough to dislodge his tenuous grip and he would fall the fifty or sixty feet to the steel deck. If it didn’t kill him, he would certainly be out of action for the duration.

  But it was useless to think about that possibility, or any of a hundred other things that could go wrong. One step at a time. It was all he could do.

  On deck finally, McGarvey pulled out his gun and ran around to the left side of the helicopter. It was definitely not ready to fly. The controls were still secured with their locks, and the engine exhaust and intake caps were still in place. It made no sense. Why had Bahmad carried the machine all this way if he didn’t intend on using it. And where the hell was the Margo’s crew?

  McGarvey’s eyes strayed aft, to the stern rail, and his breath caught in his throat. Two fiberglass life raft canisters were secured to the deck on aluminum brackets. The brackets for a third canister were empty.

  He took a
step forward. The bomb had been right there, and now it was gone.

  He felt a sudden, deep-throated rumble and vibration through the soles of his feet. He turned and looked up as a thick plume of black smoke rose from the Margo’s stack. The water at the stern began to roil, and the ship started to move forward.

  McGarvey started around the chopper to find a hatch into the superstructure when a mind-numbing roar swooped down on him, blotting out all sounds, even those of the Sea King hovering just off their port quarter.

  He turned back in time to see a Harrier jet slide into place not more than a couple of hundred feet aft of the stern. He could see the Coast Guard’s diagonal orange stripes on the fuselage, the Sparrow I’ll and Sidewinder missiles on the wing racks and the determined look on the pilot’s face.

  McGarvey slowly raised his hands in the air. Destroying the chopper while it was still on the Mar go’s deck was one thing, but he did not want to be mistaken for one of the bad guys.

  VS-31, McDonnell Douglas AV-8B Harrier II

  “Base, Victor-sierra-three-one. I’m in position aft of the Margo. There’s a Cuban military chopper on deck, and one possible bad guy standing next to it with his hands up. Advise.”

  “Base, Three-One, is the chopper ready to fly?”

  “Negative. It’s still tied down, and her rotors are secured. But the ship is getting under way. Request permission to go weapons free.”

  “Permission granted—”

  “Negative, negative,” someone overrode his primary channel. “This is Victor-tango-one-seven, the Sea King just off your port wing. That is one of our people on deck. Copy!

  Lieutenant Bill Dillard had spotted the Coast Guard helicopter as he came in, of course. But he had his mission orders. Splash the chopper on the Marge’s deck if it so much as twitched.

  “Stand by One-seven,” he radioed. “Base, Three-one, did you copy that last transmission.”

  “Roger, stand by.”

  Lieutenant Dillard had no idea what the hell was actually going on, except that it was a possible threat to the President, and the Margo was picking up speed. Somebody had put the pedal to the metal.

  “Three-one, Base. Confirm that is a friendly on deck. But stick with the ship. If someone, I don’t care who, tries to get that chopper ready to fly you have authorization to splash it before it gets off the deck.”

  “Roger, copy that.” Dillard backed up and waggled his wings.

  Golden Gate Bridge

  Elizabeth pressed her earpiece closer. Something was going on. There was a steady stream of chatter on the radio. She was catching snatches of orders. Something about the bridge being closed.

  “Raindrop Elizabeth, Lead One.”

  “This is Elizabeth, Lead One. Go.”

  “Are you on the bridge yet?” Villiard demanded.

  “We’re just coming up on the tower. Do we have trouble?”

  “Chenna and Todd are on their way. Get Raindrop off the bridge.”

  Elizabeth’s gut tightened, but then a calmness came over her. “Copy,” she spoke into her mike. She shouted for Deborah who was a few yards ahead of her to hold up.

  Halfway across the bridge the President was stunned. He’d been saying something to his wife when John Flagler gave the order to their driver to bug out, and the limousine suddenly shot forward like a shell from a cannon.

  “What the hell—?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but there is a possible threat,” Flagler said sharply. He said something into his radio, then looked over his shoulder past the President and First Lady out the rear window.

  “We have to get Deborah,” the President told him.

  “Her detail is picking her up now, sir.”

  “We’re going back for her, John, and that’s an order.”

  Flagler said something else into his mike. He had an Ingram MAC 10 out. He looked the President in the eye, his expression devoid of anything other than professionalism. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but that’s not possible. Your daughter is being taken care of. In the meantime we’re getting you off the bridge.”

  On the opposite side of the bridge Chenna Serafini and Todd Van Buren were bogged down. The runners were bunching up again. Van Buren jumped out of the golf cart and ran ahead to make a path for Chenna. The President’s daughter was somewhere out ahead of them. Chenna was sick that she had let them get so far ahead. The girl had to be up around the tower by now. Hopefully she hadn’t left Elizabeth McGarvey behind.

  “Raindrop Elizabeth, this is Raindrop One,” Chenna radioed.

  Van Buren was bodily shoving runners aside, knocking some of them to the pavement. He made a hole and Chenna sped up. As she passed he jumped aboard.

  “Liz, you copy?” Chenna spoke urgently into her lapel mike.

  “This is Lead One, she can’t hear you,” Villiard radioed back. “I’ll patch you over.” The runners ahead cleared another path, and Van Buren spotted Deborah and Elizabeth about thirty yards away at the side of the road. “There,” he shouted.

  Chenna spotted them too. They had stopped at the edge of a big pileup of runners just across from the ocean side leg of the San Francisco Tower. It was a security nightmare. There were runners and spectators all within arm’s reach. Getting to her and then getting her back out without hurting someone was going to be next to impossible. And calling for their helicopter to pick them up would be equally impossible until they could get Deborah out to the middle of the span away from the towers and suspension cables, or back out of the crowd somewhere off the bridge approaches.

  “Chenna, this is Liz, I can see you,” Elizabeth responded.

  “Stand by, we’re getting you and Deb out of there,” Chenna radioed back. She jammed the pedal to the floor and shot out around a group of six runners, missing them by inches.

  Elizabeth said something to the President’s daughter who backed up a step and shook her head. Even from here Chenna could see that the girl was frightened by all the noise and sirens and commotion. When she was backed into a corner she always ran. It was something that Elizabeth could not know about.

  “Don’t push her,” Chenna shouted into her mike at the same moment Elizabeth reached out for Deborah’s hand.

  Almost in slow motion the President’s daughter reared back, turned and jumped over the high curb onto the sidewalk. The spectators parted for her and for Elizabeth who was right on her heel, and they disappeared around the outside of the tower leg.

  M/V Margo

  The bridge was empty. McGarvey saw a puddle of congealed blood on the deck, but there was no one up here controlling the ship. There was no sign of the crew anywhere. Bahmad had killed at least one of them, but where the hell were the others?

  The ship was already starting to make a wide turn to starboard that would bring it into the Golden Gate and line it up with the bridge. But the Margo could not make it to the bridge in time. What was he missing?

  The bomb had been removed from its bracket for some reason. Think, for God’s sake. His head felt like someone had driven a hot spike through his skull.

  He looked at the pool of blood again. Bahmad was a brilliant man. He would have contingency plans. The Margo might not make it to the bridge in time, but the bomb would.

  “Sonofabitch.” The bomb was no longer aboard this ship, or wouldn’t be for long.

  McGarvey hurriedly studied the control panel, finding and disengaging the autopilot, then flipped the switch that dropped the anchor.

  He tore out of the bridge and raced downstairs to the main deck. All this time they had concentrated on this ship to deliver the bomb. But Bahmad was smart. He’d been trained by the British and American intelligence establishments. Getting the Marga underway was a diversionary tactic. He had another boat. Maybe the captain’s gig to deliver the bomb. And afterward in the confusion he would use the helicopter to make his escape. But then why move the ship where it would be exposed to blast damage? It was getting hard to think straight.

  McGarvey emerg
ed winded from the starboard stairwell on the main deck athwart ship corridor as Bahmad stepped out of a hatch twenty feet away.

  For a split second they stared at each other, but McGarvey raised his pistol first and fired as Bahmad ducked back inside.

  A MAC 10 came around the edge of the steel door and McGarvey just managed to pull back inside the stairwell landing as Bahmad fired a short burst, and then another, the bullets ricocheting all over the place.

  McGarvey immediately fired three quick shots down the corridor in the general direction of the hatch and ducked back as Bahmad fired an answering burst. This time the shells ricocheted off the steel deck and walls just outside the stairwell.

  The sonofabitch had raised the anchor and set the autopilot from the bridge by himself, and then had raced down to the engine room to start the diesels. Bahmad was alone.

  He had killed the entire crew and now he was trying to get out. The bomb was already on its way.

  The pilot boat!

  McGarvey checked his watch. If the runners were on time the bulk of them would be coming on to the bridge at any minute. There was no time.

  “Mr. McGarvey, you are an inventive man,” Bahmad called.

  “The bridge has been closed and the Coast Guard is intercepting the pilot boat,” McGarvey said. “It’s over. Toss your gun out into the corridor.”

  “It’s much too late for such a simple lie as that to work. Actually it’s you for whom everything is over.”

  McGarvey reached around the corner and fired two shots, but Bahmad was waiting for him, and he fired a sustained burst directly down the corridor.

  McGarvey fell back as a shell fragment slammed into his hip, and another into his right side. He grunted involuntarily in pain. He was starting to get real tired of being shot up.

  He heard an empty magazine clatter to the steel deck, and another being slapped into the handle. He turned and limped up the stairs as Bahmad fired, ricocheting bullets filling the landing with hundreds of deadly fragments.

  “McGarvey,” Bahmad shouted.

  The athwart ship corridor one level up from the main deck was dark, although McGarvey could clearly see that the ceiling lights were on. He trailed his left hand on the bulkhead for balance as he hurried to the portside stairwell and started down. His hip was numb, but his whole right side was on fire. It was becoming increasingly harder to concentrate.