Joshua's Hammer

by David Hagberg

  “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 Margo’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 oceanside 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 Margo 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 emerged winded from the starboard stairwell on the main deck athwartship 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.

&
nbsp; “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 athwartship 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.

  The main deck corridor was ominously silent. McGarvey closed his eyes for just a moment to gather the last of his strength, then eased just far enough around the corner so that he could see what was going on.

  Bahmad, his attention on the starboard stairwell, had flattened himself against the bulkhead and was creeping forward.

  McGarvey stepped out into the corridor and raised his pistol. The ship started to spin, but then steadied down. Bahmad turned, a surprised look on his face. He brought the MAC 10 around, but he was too late and he knew it.

  “You lose,” McGarvey said softly, and he squeezed off two shots, the first catching bin Laden’s chief of staff in his chest, driving him backward, and the second under his jaw, the bullet spiraling upward into his brain.

  Golden Gate Bridge

  Elizabeth raced up the narrow stairs that had replaced the elevator inside this tower, taking them two at a time. Her radio was useless in here because of all the steel, though she could faintly hear the sirens and sounds of pandemonium out on the bridge deck below. There would be time later to chastise herself for allowing the President’s daughter to slip away, and for the SWAT shooter who had left the tower door unlocked to get reamed. For now she had to concentrate on finding the girl, getting her the hell out of here and off the bridge before it was too late.

  She stopped and cocked an ear to listen. Somewhere far above she could hear footfalls on the metal stairs.

  “Deborah,” she shouted, and she listened again. The footsteps stopped. The stairwell was only very dimly lit, casting ominous shadows on the honeycombed interior of the tower. There were a million places for someone to hide in here forever.

  “Liz,” Todd shouted from below, his voice booming in the stairwell.

  “Stay back,” Elizabeth warned.

  “The chopper’s on its way. Hurry.”

  Elizabeth turned and looked up the stairwell. There were no footsteps now. Deborah was crouched up there somewhere. Frightened. Not knowing who to trust or what to do.

  “Deb, it’s me, Liz,” Elizabeth shouted, starting up. “I’m coming up to talk to you. This is really important, so stay right where you are. Please.”

  The Golden Gate

  McGarvey reached the port rail, blood streaming from his wounds, everything dancing crazily in front of his eyes as if he was in the middle of an earthquake. He could make out the Harrier jet a few hundred feet aft of the ship and the Sea King helicopter hovering about the same distance straight out. But he couldn’t tell if the Margo had stopped, though it seemed to him that it had.

  The bomb was on the pilot boat heading straight for the bridge and nobody but him knew about it. Even if they did now, there wasn’t a damn thing they could do. Sinking the boat wouldn’t help. When the bomb went off it would vaporize tons of water into a radioactive deluge. Nor would taking the boat in tow and heading it out to sea work. There simply wasn’t enough time.

  “Goddammit!”

  The gate was open, the boarding ladder deployed. McGarvey looked down and spotted the inflatable, its motor idling. The procedure for shutting down the Russian nuclear devices couldn’t be much different than that for deactivating the American bombs. Or at least it shouldn’t be, but he had no other choice. Liz was on that bridge.

  He scrambled down the ladder nearly falling several times. His legs threatened to buckle under him, his right hip where he had taken a hit was nearly useless and his vision kept fading in and out.

  The Sea King slid in closer to see what he was doing, but its rotor wash became so strong it threatened to blow the dinghy over, and the pilot backed off.

  McGarvey didn’t bother to look up or wave, it was hard enough keeping in focus as it was. He managed to untie the painter with fingers as thick as sausages, climb aboard, throw the motor into gear and take off.

  This is exactly how bin Laden envisioned the scenario would unfold. McGarvey had seen it in the man’s eyes. Television viewers from all over the world would witness the United States being brought to its knees. The most powerful nation on earth was unable to protect itself. They would see the helicopters, the police, the military and the Coast Guard ships surrounding the bridge and the runners. And then the bright flash.

  When he cleared the Margo’s huge flaring bows, McGarvey turned directly toward the bridge. The Coast Guard cutter Escanaba a hundred yards out now was bearing down on him, the Sea King had taken up position about fifty yards over his left shoulder and an outgoing tide raised a four-foot chop in the Gate that threatened to flip the dinghy over backward.

  He couldn’t see the pilot boat yet, but it was in the channel and it wasn’t going very fast. He’d seen that from the air. He twisted the outboard’s throttle all the way open and the dinghy shot ahead, leaping over the waves, nearly throwing him out each time it came down.

  Golden Gate Bridge

  The President’s daughter was huddled on the stairs, her knees up to her chin, her eyes wide with fright. When Elizabeth reached her the girl was shivering almost uncontrollably, tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Hey, take it easy, Deb,” Elizabeth told her. She sat down just below the girl and took her hands, her palms were cold and sweaty.

  “They’re going to kill me and my dad,” Deborah whimpered.

  “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  “Yes, they are. I heard my dad talking about them. They’re all rotten bastards.”

  “That’s why you’ve got us, Deb,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice calm and gentle. The girl was on the verge of hysteria. “We’re not going to let anyone come near you.”

  “What about my dad?”

  “He and your mom are okay. They’re waiting for you to catch up.” Elizabeth smiled warmly. “Unless you want to stay here in the dark.”

  Deborah shook her head, her movements tiny and birdlike. “The bastards won’t hurt me if I come with you?”

  “I promise,” Elizabeth said. “But maybe you’d better not call them that anymore.” She got up and helped Deborah to her feet.

  “That’s what my dad says they are.”

  “I know, but that’s just the way dads talk sometimes. It’s not the way girls are supposed to talk.”

  Deborah managed a little smile. “Okay,” she said.

  “All right then, let’s do it.”

  Elizabeth started down the stairs, the President’s daughter clinging tightly to her arm, conscious that they had just about run out of time.

  The Golden Gate

  McGarvey spotted the pilot boat a couple of hundred yards from the center span of the bridge, but it took another five minutes to catch up with it. There were still thousands of people up on the bridge, flashing lights, sirens and someone issuing instructions over a bullhorn. Even from here he could see and hear the mass confusion. People
were getting hurt up there right now.

  He could see someone at the helm of the slowly moving pilot boat. Until he got closer he thought that Bahmad had a partner after all. But as he came up from behind he saw that the helmsman was probably dead. Blood covered the back of his head and neck, and his body swayed back and forth with an unnatural looseness.

  Bahmad had been the consummate professional. He’d planned for every contingency, even for McGarvey to show up in the middle of his operation. Even for his own death. The terrorist had sent a corpse to deliver the bomb.

  McGarvey came up on the pilot boat’s port quarter and matched speeds. He grabbed the rail with his free hand and held there for a couple of seconds. The chop here where the Golden Gate was at its narrowest was the worst, the waves short and very steep.

  He waited until the pilot boat’s rail dipped, and then as it started to come back up, he let go of the outboard’s throttle and heaved himself up and over with both hands, landing in the pilot boat’s open deck well with a painful thump, cracking his head against the opposite coaming.

  A million points of light burst inside of his head, and an overwhelming wave of nausea incapacitated him for several seconds. When he was able to raise up on his hands and knees the boat was spinning around in tight circles like a roller coaster going through an endless series of corkscrews.

  He was conscious that they were very close to the bridge now. If Bahmad’s timing was correct the bomb would ignite as they passed under the center span.

  The Escanaba was practically on his stern, and the Sea King was right behind it.

  No time.

  McGarvey forced himself to crawl into the cabin. Besides the dead man at the helm another body lay in a bloody heap on the deck.

  For another long moment McGarvey, on all fours, simply swayed with the motion of the boat. He wanted to be lulled to sleep. He wanted to go away to another safer more comfortable place.