by Vince Flynn
“And where is the boat?”
“About a mile south headed upriver.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I know. I just went over everything with Paul Reimer. He says it’s crucial that we stop this bomb before it gets any further north. I’ve got a four-man tactical team with me from Langley and I’m going to take this boat down when it comes under the bridge. That is unless you want me to wait around for the HRT to arrive…in which case you should be able to look out your window at the Pentagon and watch the takedown in person.”
“If you think you have the assets to handle the job, Mitch, then do it and do it quickly.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say. Just in case something goes wrong, your AWACS has a bead on this boat. So if we fail, have them vector Six’s strike team in on the target, and tell them not to hit the cooler sitting on the aft swim deck because I think that’s where the bomb is.” Rapp reached the edge of the river and looked out past the bridge’s concrete supports. Traffic was whizzing by overhead on the six-lane interstate. “I’ve got to go now, General. I’ll call you back in a few minutes when I’m in control of the vessel.”
Rapp closed the phone and shoved it into his breast pocket. He could see the boat heading their way and behind it the Park Police helicopter was closing fast. He checked his watch and then said to Brooks’s men, “I’d grab that spot right over there in those bushes.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” answered the former Marine sniper.
“All right, get ready, and don’t shoot unless you see a gun or we give you the word.” Rapp took one last peek at the oncoming boat and then ran back to the helicopter.
He climbed in on the starboard side and poked his head up in the cockpit. “You guys have any questions?”
Both pilots shook their heads.
“Good. What’s their ETA?”
“Just under a minute.”
“And the Park Police helicopter?”
“I don’t know.”
“See if you can find out. The last thing we want is a midair collision.”
While the pilot checked with the AWACS controller, Rapp sat down in the aft-facing portside seat. He loosened the seat belt as far as it would go and then fastened it. With one of the silenced MP5s in hand he sat on the edge of the seat, shouldered the weapon, and leaned against the seat belt. He was left-handed, so the position allowed him to clear the door frame with little difficulty. He looked at Brooks, who was sitting directly across from him. The team leader did the same thing, and both men flashed each other the thumbs-up sign.
Rapp looked at the former Ranger who had given him his silenced MP5. “Stan, remember…don’t draw your pistol until you hit the deck. We’ll cover you. Go straight for the helm, and don’t pull back on the throttles until the helicopter is clear. The pilot is going to be matching speed at twenty mph going sideways, so if you pull back on the throttles too fast you might get your head chopped off.”
The former Ranger nodded.
“Here we go,” yelled the pilot.
The helicopter lifted slowly from the rain-soaked grass and moved into a hover twenty feet off the ground. They were now perfectly parallel with the bridge. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to move forward, staying hidden behind the bulky concrete span that carried traffic from one state to another. They moved out over the river foot by foot and then stopped a little over a third of the way across. Even though it was expected, the arrival of the Park Police helicopter was startling. It blew over the bridge and then dipped back down to a mere fifty feet off the water, its engine and rotors roaring.
The CIA helicopter began inching its way forward again, in an effort to get to the exact place where the boat would appear. Rapp was leaning out as far as he could to try and get a view of the boat as it came under the bridge. A few seconds later the bow poked out from the shadows, and then the windscreen. As the boat came into the clear the helicopter began to descend and then slide sideways. The pilots did a perfect job bringing them in right behind the boat and then matching its speed and course.
Rapp looked through the hoop sight of his submachine gun and zeroed in on the head of a man who was staring through the windscreen of the boat at the Park Police helicopter that was racing upriver. The man slowly turned, realizing that something was now behind them. Rapp watched him intently, looking for the slightest reason to squeeze the trigger. The helicopter was closing distance on the boat. They were no more than thirty yards away. Only a few seconds had ticked by, but for Rapp, the scene was unfolding in slow motion.
The man, who was tall and dark-skinned with short black hair, turned and looked directly at Rapp. In that fraction of a second, the man did something that was entirely unexpected given the situation. He smiled.
Rapp had his weapon pulled firmly against his left shoulder and at the very first hint of the smirk he squeezed the trigger twice in less than a half second. Instantly, the muzzle of the submachine gun moved to the right and found the driver of the boat. The helicopter was even closer now. Just as the man was turning, Rapp squeezed off two more quick shots, both of them striking their target just above the left ear.
POTOMAC RIVER
The boat started a lazy right turn that would only get worse if they didn’t get control of the helm quickly. Fortunately, the two CIA pilots were good. They adjusted to the new heading and brought the portside door of the chopper right over the aft sundeck. Rapp kept his weapon trained on the cabin, and when they were hovering a manageable six feet from the deck he yelled, “Go! Go!”
The man leaped from a squatted position and landed as he’d been taught in jump school, with his weight evenly distributed on both feet and his knees slightly bent. He rolled to his left and came up reaching for his pistol. As soon as he was on his way up the steps to the helm, Rapp yanked his seat belt free and jumped after him. He hit a little harder than he had planned, but he ignored the pain that shot up through his left knee and moved for the steps that led to the cabin.
His thick black silencer probed the shadows first. He could see someone on the floor, but the figure had its back to him. Rapp knew there would be a head down the steps and to his right. Other than that, there were no other places to hide, with the exception of the storage compartment tucked up under the bow. Not having the time or the backup, he jumped to the bottom of the steps, let loose an eight-round burst into the closed door of the head, and then yanked it open. It was empty.
Rapp spun and kicked the man who was prostrate on the carpeted floor. His foot caught the man square in the stomach and flipped him onto his side and then back. Rapp leveled his weapon at the man’s head and studied his face. The first thing he noticed was the blood dripping from the corners of the man’s mouth. Then he noticed the bulging, bloodshot eyes and the burned, blotchy, peeling skin. The guy looked like someone had stuck him in a microwave.
Even so, there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp’s brow furrowed and then he said, “Mustafa al-Yamani.”
Al-Yamani smiled the vacant smile of a true believer, and coughed up more blood. “You are too late,” he said as blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. “There is nothing you can do to stop us.”
“Where is Zubair?” Rapp placed the tip of the silencer against al-Yamani’s forehead.
“He’s dead,” al-Yamani smiled, showing his bleeding gums, “and he’s the only one who can disarm the weapon.” He began to laugh. Almost immediately, though, his entire body was racked with a convulsive spasm that sent more than just blood spewing from his mouth.
Rapp forced al-Yamani’s head into the ground with the tip of the silencer and said, “Have a nice time in Hell, Mustafa.” He squeezed the trigger just once and left the twitching corpse to go back topside.
Rapp burst back onto the deck and signaled for the helicopter to back off. He then took over the helm, turned the boat around, and pushed both throttles to the stops. The engines groaned loudly and the bow came out of the water a few feet. Rapp loo
ked back at the cooler and feared the worst. What a hell of a way to die.
Rapp grabbed his secure digital phone and called Reimer. When the voice on the other end answered he said, “Paul, we’ve got control of the boat, and we’re heading away from the city. You got any bright ideas?”
“Is the weapon armed?”
“I think so.”
“How do you know…have you seen it?”
“No. I asked al-Yamani where Zubair was and he told me he was dead. He also said Zubair’s the only one who can disarm the bomb. So I’m assuming it’s armed.” Rapp turned around and looked at the cooler again. “Do you want me to open it up and look at it?”
“No!” Reimer shouted. “Whatever you do don’t touch it! I’ve got a team on the way. They’re lifting off from the Mall right now. Where are you?”
“We’re going back under the Wilson Bridge.”
“Seven miles from the White House,” said Reimer. “How fast are you going?”
Rapp looked at the dashboard. “Thirty-five miles an hour, and I think I’m topped out.”
“A little over a mile every two minutes. That’s good. The further away you get the better.”
“Paul, I’m not some damn Kamikaze. I hope you have a better plan than me simply taking this thing as far downriver as possible until it blows.”
“I do…I do, but just getting you ten miles away could make a huge difference. My people are coming and the Blue Team is on its way up from Little Creek. Keep heading south at top speed for at least six minutes. My people will come up on your six and they’ll find a place for you to dock. Then we’ll take it off your hands.”
Rapp looked back at the cooler again. The two men he had shot were lying one on top of another where Sam had dumped them. For the moment, Rapp saw no better option than to maintain course and speed. “All right, I’ll keep an eye out for them.”
Rapp hung up and looked at Sam. “Radio the chopper and tell them to follow us.”
Rapp kept one hand on the wheel, and with the other he began unzipping the canvas top. When he had it halfway across the windscreen Sam took over and finished the job. The top flapped free and floated away to land in the river. Rapp checked his speed and fuel level and hunkered down for the six-minute dash.
THE MARINA WAS almost exactly three miles from the bridge on the Virginia side. Rapp watched the DOE Bell 412 helicopter circle and come in for a landing. Rapp came in hot, running the engines at full throttle until the last possible moment. He nearly swamped two smaller boats that were on their way out through the channel. The drivers gestured wildly and cursed the crazy son of a bitch who was driving the thirty-seven-foot cabin cruiser so recklessly. Rapp was headed straight for the marina office. Those who hadn’t gone to watch the helicopter land in the parking lot looked at the oncoming vessel with fear in their eyes.
Rapp yanked back on the throttles, left them in neutral for only half a second, and then slammed them into reverse. The engines groaned as they strained to slow the forward movement of the boat, and people scrambled in every direction. The boat stopped just twenty feet from the main pier, but its building wake kept coming, rising up over the wood planks and slamming tethered boats against pilings and gangways.
Rapp immediately eased up on the port engine while slipping the starboard engine back into the forward gear. The boat began spinning until its aft was pointed toward shore and then Rapp reversed the starboard engine, sliding the boat backward toward the boat ramp.
A middle-aged man in plaid Bermuda shorts, dock-siders, and a polo shirt came out of the office and started yelling. “Who in the hell do you think you are?”
Rapp put the engines in neutral and ignored the man. “Sam, grab those lines and tie us up.”
Three men came running across the parking lot, each of them loaded down with a case or bag under each arm. They stopped at the top of the ramp and set their equipment down. The man in the ridiculous Bermuda shorts wasn’t done though, and he stormed down the dock shaking his fist at Rapp.
“Listen here, you jackass. In all my years as a sailor I have never seen a bigger bonehead move.” The man came right up to the edge of the boat. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m a federal agent,” replied Rapp, as he pointed at the dead bodies laying on the aft sundeck. “I killed those two right there, there’s a third one down in the cabin, and unless you want to be number four I’d advise you to get your ass off this dock and out of my face right now!”
Dumbfounded, the man just stood staring at the two bodies.
“Now!” Rapp yelled. The man turned and walked as quickly away from the dock as his skinny legs could carry him. A crowd of people were beginning to gather near the top of the boat ramp. Rapp looked up at them and said to Sam, “Radio the helicopter and tell them to land in the parking lot. Have them help you get these people out of here and secure a perimeter.”
One of Reimer’s guys was wearing a backpack. He walked down the boat ramp and right into the water. By the time he reached the swim platform the water was almost up to his crotch.
“They had to put the doors back on. They’ll be here in less than two minutes.”
Rapp nodded. “Go up there and tell those people to get the hell out of here.”
The tech stood sideways in front of the cooler for several seconds and then yelled back to the other two men, “Gamma eleven, neutron six.”
Rapp watched with great interest. “What in the hell does that mean?”
“It means it’s hot.” The SRT tech walked quickly back up the ramp, his pants soaked.
Rapp looked up at the still-gathering crowd. Sam was trying to push them back. Several people were pointing and asking questions, while others were looking at the CIA helicopter that was now circling overhead looking for a place to land.
Rapp pulled out his pistol and fired two shots into the water. The loud reports got everyone’s attention. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. “I want this parking lot cleared right now Goddammit! This is an emergency!”
Everyone finally got the hint and began scrambling for their vehicles. Rapp grabbed his phone and dialed Reimer’s number. “Paul, it’s Mitch. I have an idea. Why don’t we load the device on a helicopter and get it the hell out of here?”
“That’s not how we do it, Mitch.”
“Why?”
“We have to conduct diagnostics first. Ideally we don’t want to move it at all, especially by air.”
“Why?”
“An aerial burst increases the range and destruction of the blast. Just sit tight and let my people work. The Blue Team should be there in five minutes, and we’ll have the device defused in no time.”
Rapp glanced down at the bomb. “Excuse me for not sharing your confidence, but when al-Yamani said that only Zubair could defuse this baby, I think he meant it.”
“Mitch, these bomb techs from SEAL Team Six are the best. They’ll be able to figure out the fire set.”
“And what if they can’t?” asked a clearly skeptical Rapp.
“It’s never happened before, Mitch.”
“Is that in practice or reality?”
“Both.”
“Bullshit. You’re telling me these guys have defused live nukes before?”
“No…not live nukes, but they deal with working exercise devices all the time. The principle is the same.”
“I hope to hell you’re right.”
The Blue Team arrived aboard two gray U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopters. The large birds set down in the parking lot and a half dozen men piled out of each helicopter. At least six of them were dressed from head to toe in black combat gear and heavily armed. These men immediately fanned out to secure a perimeter. Two of the men were wearing light blue anticontamination suits, with sealed boots, helmets, and gloves. The other four men were dressed in desert fatigues.
Rapp was still at the helm of the Scandinavian Princess. He watched the SEALs unload their equipment and consult wi
th the members of the DOE Search Response Team. He checked his watch. It was 12:08. Rapp had gotten over the jitters that this thing was going to blow any second. He was sure that al-Yamani wanted to get it as close as possible to the heart of the capital, and also to kill the president and the rest of the leaders who were to be present at the dedication of the new WWII memorial. That event was to begin at 1:00, so if Rapp was forced to bet, he’d say they probably had another fifty-two minutes until the bomb was set to go off.
In his mind, though, those were crucial minutes that could be used to get the bomb further away from the city. Rapp looked at the four helicopters in the parking lot, and decided to call Reimer back. “Paul, listen to me. I’m guessing the weapon is set to go off at one o’clock. I still think we should put it on a helicopter and get it as far away from the city as possible.”
“Mitch, I already told you, we need to do the diagnostics first.”
“Can’t they do that in the air?”
“What if the terrorists placed an altimeter in the fire set and the second this thing gets a hundred feet off the ground it blows?”
Rapp hadn’t thought of that. “All right, but what’s the plan if the SEALs can’t defuse it?”
“We’re working on that right now.”
Rapp watched the two men in the sealed suits walk down the boat ramp carrying a piece of equipment. “What do you mean, you’re working on it?”
“Our first choice would be to take it out to sea.”
“That’s assuming you’ll have enough time. It’s at least a hundred miles to the Eastern Shore.”
“And the beaches are packed right now, and the wind is blowing to the west, and that’s just for starters, Mitch. We game this stuff all the time. The environmental impact, the economic impact, we’ve looked at it from every angle.”
“If taking it out to sea isn’t going to work, then what’s the other option?”
“The only other option is to take it someplace remote, where the blast and fallout will do the least damage.”