Armageddon Conspiracy

by John Thompson

  When he turned the key again, the engines caught. He let them run hot for several seconds as he untied the lines, and then he pushed in the choke, backed away from the dock, and roared into the darkness. His eyes watered in the wind, and the black wall of the storm lay straight ahead in the west. With the throttle jammed all the way forward, he prayed he had enough gas in the tanks.

  He sped along with whitecaps pounding the hull and just enough ambient light from the shoreline to avoid moored boats. Away from shore the air grew misty and cold, the rain slashed, and he began to shiver. He had no plan and wondered what the hell he was going to do when he caught the yacht, assuming he could find it in the fog. He strained his eyes into the thickening storm knowing that in only a few hundred yards, he’d be running absolutely blind.

  He looked down at the control panel, searching for the radio, but found only some screw holes and an empty space. “Shit!” he screamed. It had been pulled out, no doubt for repairs. Two boxy instruments sat atop the console, and he tore off the plastic covers. It was nearly impossible with the slamming waves, but he managed to find the switches. A moment later, he had radar and also a GPS showing his direction and location. The radar indicated a thick cluster of moored boats directly ahead, and he swung well clear of them but kept his heading toward the Sound.

  He hit the fog with the engines wide open. He was going insanely fast for the conditions, but if he went slower, he’d never find Maggie. After several tries he located the button that controlled the radar’s viewing area, and he widened it until he spotted an image heading west out of Oyster Bay. It was the nearest thing moving on the water, and he assumed it had to be the yacht. A few minutes later, as he reached the mouth of the bay, he guessed he was about five hundred yards behind.

  Given the power of the twin outboards, he’d hoped to catch the yacht quickly, but as he turned into the Sound three- and four-foot swells were rolling hard from the northwest, causing the boat to pitch wildly. Unable to brace himself with his wounded arm, he backed off the throttle. He stared at the radar screen, monitoring the yacht’s heading as the gap refused to narrow.

  What were the terrorists planning? Were the missiles on board? In his guts he knew that they were, that somehow this was all part of their plan. Maggie had guessed it would be an assassination attempt on the President, but that no longer seemed possible. Now, with the Coast Guard and FBI alerted, Biddle’s boat would be an easy target in New York Harbor. But then he thought—maybe the terrorists were simply planning to launch their dirty weapons in the dark then try to escape. Maybe that’s why they’d taken Maggie hostage.

  That realization made his heart sink anew. The increasing likelihood of interdiction by the FBI or Coast Guard meant hostages would have zero probability of survival. That in turn meant Maggie’s only hope of rescue depended on him. Once she was safe he’d do his best to stop the terrorists, but she came first. He’d need surprise and perfect timing, and if he blew any part of it, both of them would end up dead. He raised his wounded arm and flexed the joint. The bleeding had slowed, but his elbow had stiffened, making movement even more painful. After a time, the radar showed the yacht change course, turning southwest. It was still around five hundred yards out, but now with the new heading the wind was off his stern, so he was able to increase speed. Over the next twenty minutes, he narrowed the gap and was only about two hundred yards back when the yacht changed course again and began moving almost directly south. The GPS showed the Sound beginning to narrow as the land squeezed closer from both shores. The seas had subsided slightly, but hard rain still pelted. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  Minutes later, even though the yacht was only a hundred yards ahead, he realized he had a new problem. The cold had debilitated him. His wounded arm now hung almost immobile at his side, and the fingers on his other hand were nearly too stiff to move. If he tried to leap on the yacht’s stern, he risked falling helplessly into the water.

  He shook his head, refusing to focus on failure. He was staring at the radar screen, watching what was now a second radar blip converging with the first, when the rain ceased abruptly. He tore his eyes off the screen and looked overhead. Almost immediately, the absence of driving rain allowed warmth to begin flooding back into his limbs. It took several seconds to comprehend that he was passing beneath what had to be the Throgs Neck Bridge. Low clouds obscured the structure, but from overhead came the unmistakable thump of car tires crossing expansion joints.

  Seconds later, he roared back into the cold rain, but the shelter of the bridge had bought him a little extra time. Now his fingers would move again and the uncontrollable shivering had diminished.

  He looked back at the radar and struggled to pick the yacht out of the two convergent blips. One of the blips was moving directly toward the shore, so he decided the yacht had to be the other one. From here, his lead narrowed quickly. He drew to within fifty yards, then forty, thirty. He stared at the screen but snatched quick glances at the fog, trying to perceive a shape, something solid against the shifting whiteness. He continued to close the gap, backing off the throttles as he suddenly noticed that he was in the smooth wake of the other boat. He looked down at the water, thinking it seemed oddly calm, given the churning screws of the yacht’s engines. He inched closer and closer until a shape materialized. Panic hit him then. It was no yacht, but a tug pushing a barge!

  SIXTY-TWO

  OYSTER BAY, NY, JULY 2

  ANN JENKINS CHEWED HER CUTICLES bloody as she peered out the window of the Coast Guard chopper and thought how the past forty-five minutes had probably turned her career to toast, and about how not long ago she’d been standing in the parking lot behind the Oyster Bay Cove Police Department going over the satellite photos with her team of FBI agents and Nassau County Police S.W.A.T. officers.

  She’d been expecting a radio call any second from the Nassau County Police helo announcing that they were on station offshore of Biddle’s dock, positioned to prevent an escape by boat and otherwise provide general backup and assistance. The call had come all right, only the Nassau County PD said the weather was deteriorating too rapidly for their chopper to fly. Sorry, they told her, but she’d need to call the Coast Guard.

  Just then the black kid showed up, almost hysterical, babbling about a fire at Biddle’s estate, shots fired, and a wounded cop. That was also when she’d learned that the Oyster Bay Fire Department had been notified first and was already rolling. She’d blown off the planning and raced everyone out to Biddle’s estate where they spent fifteen precious minutes arguing with the fire chief and EMT’s about who would go in first. Finding the dead security man behind the guardhouse won the argument for her, but they’d gone into Biddle’s property a full hour before the Coast Guard chopper’s scheduled arrival.

  Then, of course, there was the situation they’d found: Kosinsky wounded and being tended by a retired fireman, Maggie DeVito missing along with Brent Lucas, three dead security guards, no sign of the terrorists, a blown-up cottage with some bloody human remains and another body in the courtyard. Also, Prescott Biddle and his wife were missing, along with Biddle’s yacht.

  The chopper finally circled in just as the weather was completely shutting down, but Jenkins had ordered them to land anyway so she could jump aboard. Now she stared out fogged-up windows that showed only the reflection of their flying lights against the dense clouds, while trying to hold down the contents of her stomach in the buffeting.

  Initially, thinking the terrorists might have run for the open ocean, they’d made an easterly sweep out of Oyster Bay, where they found three ships. They’d gone in low over each one, and the co-pilot had adjusted the radar to give them a good idea of length and size. There’d been two towed barges and a small commercial boat, but nothing remotely the shape of a hundred-foot yacht.

  From there they circled west, and in the past few minutes, they’d checked out several more blips—all barges—between Oyster Bay and the Throgs Neck Bridge. They were following a fresh blip
and gaining altitude to go over the bridge when she noticed the co-pilot stiffen and sit forward.

  She tapped his shoulder. “Got anything?” she shouted over the roar of the rotors.

  He shrugged, pointing to the screen. “A second ago, I thought I saw something along the western shore, but it disappeared.” They came over the bridge, closed on the first target, and as the pilot sharpened the resolution, Jenkins saw the signal split into two parts.

  The co-pilot shook his head. “That’s weird,” he shouted. “Looks like a small boat, maybe twenty-five feet, almost on top of a tug.”

  Jenkins tried to ignore her heaving stomach and think. What if the terrorists were on a smaller boat than she’d thought? What if were they trying to take over a tug? It was a possibility. On the other hand where were DeVito and Lucas? Were they dead, or taken hostage, or were they also out in the fog trying to find the terrorists?

  As she watched the screen, the smaller blip fell back and came to a stop, letting the barge pull ahead. Suddenly, Jenkins had an idea, and she tapped on the co-pilot’s shoulder again. “What about that other blip you saw?” she shouted.

  He pointed to a spot behind them, close to the shoreline.

  “Let’s check it out,” she called.

  As they headed in that direction and the co-pilot adjusted the radar, the blip appeared once again.

  “Is it moving?” she shouted.

  The co-pilot stared at the screen a moment, then nodded. “Very slow.”

  What if the terrorists were sneaking instead of running? Fog made that the superior strategy.

  Suddenly, the co-pilot shouted, “Whitestone Bridge.” They began an abrupt climb and swung in a tight circle as they reacquired their target, and then the helicopter dropped so quickly that Jenkins though her stomach would tear loose. The pilot positioned them almost directly behind the blip while the co-pilot adjusted the radar and studied the image. After a second, he said something to the pilot. Suddenly, the flying lights went out, and the helicopter began to descend, getting nearer and nearer the boat.

  Jenkins pressed her face to the window, but she could see only thick clouds. The helicopter dropped a few more feet. Her stomach lurched, her hands slick with sweat.

  Finally, the pilot shook his head. “I was hoping for a visual, but I don’t dare go lower.”

  They rose again and moved out over the water to hover. Below them the blip continued to creep, almost touching the shoreline.

  SIXTY-THREE

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  ABU SAYEED STOOD AT MOHAMMED’S shoulder and stared into the fog. It swelled and heaved like a living thing, swirling, as full of confusion as a labyrinth. Its misty folds destroyed his equilibrium, so every few minutes he closed his eyes until the whirling stopped.

  A moment earlier the helicopter had passed close overhead, its hollow whup, whup, whup changing tone and volume as it hovered in different places. Abu Sayeed had known immediately that it was the sound of someone hunting them, and he’d ordered Mohammed to steer even closer to shore. They risked running aground or hitting old piers or pilings, but it couldn’t be helped. The yacht was moving very slowly, only five knots. With luck, and with Allah’s help, they would be invisible on radar.

  Aft of them on the flybridge, Naif had started breaking the missiles out of their crates. Six of the missiles were tipped with the depleted nuclear fuel. Two were unconverted antiaircraft weapons. Abu Sayeed had ordered him to prepare one of the unconverted missiles, just in case.

  Another bridge lay just ahead. Abu Sayeed could see on the GPS that it was called the Whitestone. As they approached it, the weather worsened again. The wind notched up, gusting across the bow, forcing the cold rain almost sideways. He glanced back at Naif, who struggled with the tarp, doing his best to keep the missiles dry. He took the wheel and pointed Mohammed outside to help. A moment later he turned to see Mohammed and Naif bent together over one of the crates.

  The sound of the helicopter disappeared completely as they crept beneath the Whitestone Bridge, but it came back again as they motored around a point of land and into the mouth of a small creek. Abu Sayeed took them across to the creek’s far shore then steered back out into the East River, always hugging the land.

  Manhattan was not far ahead now, and the knowledge sparked his flagging confidence. The fog and rain were Allah’s gifts. Even now, Anneliës would be down below calling the limo driver and telling him where to meet them. Once they fired the missiles, they would cross to the New Jersey shore, tie up beside a condominium, and have the limo take them to Teterboro. There, again thanks to Anneliës, Biddle’s pilots would have the Gulfstream fueled for a flight to Istanbul. In midflight they would change course to Syria and then travel by car and boat and camel and lose themselves in the swirling confusion of the desert wastes. They would be out of range of retribution by the time the Americans even began to plan a counterstrike.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the helicopter circling back, the blades sounding so close that Abu Sayeed was amazed he couldn’t reach up and touch the landing gear. As it passed directly over their heads, the downdraft from the rotors hammered the boat and carved patterns on the water.

  He fought the temptation to ram the throttles forward, and then glanced back at Naif and Mohammed and saw them crouched low on the flybridge. They were aiming their machine guns upward, but thankfully they were holding their fire. Whoever was up there wasn’t certain they’d found the right target. Otherwise they would have attacked already.

  The most important thing was to be calm, do nothing, so he continued on, motoring at five knots. After what seemed like an eternity, the helicopter moved off, but it held position, hovering over the water to their left, maybe several hundred yards distant. Abu Sayeed saw that the wind was slackening again, the fog growing thicker.

  • • •

  On the flybridge, Mohammed heard the helicopter coming lower and closer, until he could feel the rotor wash pressing him down against the deck. His brain flashed back to Afghanistan, when countless times he’d tried to crush his body into the very rocks themselves to escape detection by the Americans. The fog, the fact that he could feel the presence of this terrible machine yet not see it, magnified his powerlessness and made his heart flame with rage. He hated this strange country! He hated being on water! And he hated staring up into these impenetrable clouds as he struggled to see his enemies. Come down and fight, he wanted to scream! But the Americans never would. They would use their technology. By Allah, he hated their technology!

  As the helicopter finally circled away, Mohammed felt something give way in his mind. He glared at the sky, all sense of Abu Sayeed’s orders forgotten, his thoughts nothing but a frothing sea of hatred and fear.

  Beside him, Naif seemed unaffected. He was already back at work, preparing the missiles they would soon fire into the city. Mohammed stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes dull, his brain comprehending only the unseen helicopter hovering somewhere nearby and his need for vengeance.

  Without conscious thought his hands closed around the launcher with an unconverted Strella already loaded. He flicked the system on, got a radar fix, and then a heat-seek fix. Naif must have looked up at him then because he screamed, “No, you fool!” But it was too late. Mohammed pressed the trigger and felt an instantaneous rush of joy as the missile roared from its launch tube and disappeared in the clouds.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  EAST RIVER, JULY 2

  BRENT STARED INTO THE FOG where the stern of the tug had been visible only seconds before and slammed his good hand against the steering wheel. How was this possible? Had he been chasing an oil barge the entire time? No way, but then where was Biddle’s boat?

  He looked at the screen, silently begging the second blip to materialize again, but it was gone. He remembered going under the bridge how he had looked away from the screen for a few seconds, but still, how had a yacht disappeared? He remembered that it had been heading toward shore. Had it docked,
made some kind of rendezvous?

  He started to turn toward the same shore when a sudden roar surrounded him. Powerful winds buffeted him from all sides. It took several seconds to understand that a helicopter had come up from behind and was almost directly overhead. He’d heard the rotors earlier, but he’d been too focused on Maggie to pay attention. Now, he knew it had to be the police.

  He cursed. No way he could let himself be captured, not with Maggie on the yacht! He threw a wild look at the GPS and saw the Whitestone Bridge ahead. He edged the throttles forward, knowing the bridge would force the helicopter away.

  Just short of the bridge, it veered and climbed sharply, heading toward the shore where the blip had disappeared. It hovered there, but after another moment it rose to clear the bridge. He cut the throttles and let the Whaler drift, the current moving him beneath the bridge and then into the clear as the helicopter came in low again, somewhere along the shore. This time it held position for over a minute, but finally it swung out ahead of him and hovered over the center of the river.

  He continued to drift. Were they marking him, alerting Coast Guard to his position? No, he decided. They weren’t after him. They’d spent too much time over there where the blip had disappeared. They must be hunting for the yacht!

  The helicopter was pacing the current, playing what seemed to be a waiting game. Brent didn’t know what they were waiting for, but he knew he had to act. He was starting to push the throttles forward when a blinding flash came from his right. It disappeared in the clouds, but he caught sight of it once more, running fast and low. Then came a great bang. A second later in a flicker of flames something big dropped into the river.