“You can arrest him or whatever when we get him on board,” Alvarez said. “Only one who goes down is me, though.”
“What if he’s armed?”
“He doesn’t get in the basket. Once I explain that to him, I’m thinking he’ll see reason.”
“People get real reasonable once they find out you’re about to leave ‘em behind,” the hoist operator said.
“I hope you’re right,” McMurphy said. “This guy is dangerous.”
The helicopter hit an updraft, shooting straight up into the sky as if shot from a catapult.
“That guy,” the Chief said grimly, “is the least of my worries right now, sir.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Phillips was so intent on his task that the sounds of the wind and rain outside had faded to the edges of his consciousness. He assembled the weapon quickly with the ease of intensive practice. When he was done, the rifle was a good six feet from stock to flash suppressor, even longer than the American Barrett. It was of Hungarian manufacture, its makers having given it the somewhat melodramatic name of “Destroyer.” It more than lived up to its name.
Phillips stepped back. He studied the rifle with a critical eye, then nodded with satisfaction. He picked up his binoculars, went to the window, and began scanning the sky and the sea around the island.
***
“Okay,” Blake said to himself, staring down at Barstow’s corpse. “Now we might have a problem.”
Blake had seen his share of blade wounds, especially in Africa. This one, however, was particularly gruesome; Barstow’s head was literally split in two down to the center. Blood and brains littered the floor around him.
“Four.” he said into his mike. “One.”
“One, Four,” the acknowledgment came back.
“Two’s left the party.”
There was pause. “Permanently?”
“Guess he didn’t care for the menu. Something he ate must have disagreed with him. And our other party guests have left.”
Another pause. “We have another uninvited guest.”
“Affirmative.”
“One, three.” Worth’s voice came over. “What’s going on?”
“Three, this is One. You see any sign of anyone on the road?”
“Negative.”
“Fall back to the staging area.”
“So,” Phillips said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “We now have a problem?”
“Yeah,” Blake said. “We have a problem.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The door to the dockmaster’s office was locked. Mercer didn’t hesitate. He pulled a knee up to his chest, turned sideways, pivoted on his down foot, and smashed the door open with the heel of his boot.
“You don’t have a key?” Sharon said. She stood a few feet away, hunched against the blowing rain, her arm protectively around Glory.
“Not yet,” Mercer said. “Maybe if Max works here another year or so, they’ll trust him with the key.”
“You always refer to yourself in the third person?” Glory said.
Mercer’s head snapped around so fast Glory flinched slightly. Sharon’s arm tightened around her. “Max isn’t here right now,” he said. He entered through the splintered door.
Inside, the place was gloomy, with only the gray light from outside coming through the windows. Mercer flicked the light switch anyway by reflex, then grimaced with embarrassment. He went behind the counter where Max Chase had once dispensed cold drinks, six-packs of beer, and bags of ice. The radio sat there, the best money could buy, sleek, black and useless without juice. Max went through another door into the storage room behind. He heard Sharon and her daughter talking in low tones in the outer room. He figured he knew what they were discussing. He didn’t give a damn. At least for the moment. He’d learned that one secret to survival was knowing just how far to think ahead. Too far, and you were paralyzed by the multitude of branching alternatives. Not far enough, and you got nasty surprises. Right now, he was thinking just far enough ahead to get the generator running. He grabbed up the gas can that sat by the door.
The generator was just outside the back door, in a tiny area enclosed by a gated palisade fence. The area also held the marina’s dumpsters, reeking with discarded food and fish waste from the last few residents who’d brought their catches back from a day on the sound. One of Max’s jobs had been cleaning the catches. God forbid the residents got blood on their hands. Even fish blood. Max didn’t mind blood. It was one thing he shared with Mercer.
Mercer unscrewed the generator’s gas cap and topped off the tank, the odor of gasoline adding a sharp overtone to the stench. He primed the motor by pumping a small plastic bulb on the side to get the fuel flowing, then flicked the on switch. The generator coughed once, then the motor strangled and caught. It came alive with a full throated roar.
And every light in the marina, both the office lights and the lights around the docks, came on at once.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“What the…” Phillips said. He had seen the sudden flare of light from his perch high above. He keyed his mike. “One, Four. We’ve got lights on at the marina.”
“Four, One,” Blake’s voice came back. “Say again.”
“Someone’s lit up the marina like a bloody Christmas tree,” Phillips snapped.
“Four, Three,” Worth said. “Not possible. The power’s down.”
“Well, I suppose it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that the marina has the same sort of backup generator as every other building on this island,” Phillips said.
“Damn it,” Worth said.
“Four,” Blake said. “Can you take them out?”
“I could shoot every bulb out, one by one,” Phillips said, “But we have another problem.”
***
“Pilot, co-pilot.”
“I see it,” the pilot said.
“What?” Bohler said.
“We got lights,” the pilot said. “Dead ahead.”
“Swimmer, pilot.”
“On it, ma’am.” He moved towards the door.
“Wait one,” the pilot said, “We may be able to land. I’m going to orbit the area of the lights. We’ll get the survivors’ attention and hope they follow us to the clubhouse area. If we’ve got a stable surface, we’ll lower the Chief down to check the surface If it checks out, we’ll land for the pickup.”
“Land?” Bohler said. “In this?”
“Beats trying to hover in it,” Alvarez said. “And with luck, we’ll be airborne again in a few seconds.”
“Pilot, flight mech,” said the hoist operator. “You sure it’s them?”
“Flight mech,” said the pilot, “who the hell else would be on that island?”
***
“One, four,” Phillips said. “We have a helicopter, inbound. Appears to be U.S. Coast Guard.”
Phillips assumed that Blake had suffered a rare loss of composure and that’s why he hadn’t closed his mike when he said, “Fuck. Me.”
“I need orders, One,” Phillips said. “He’s closing.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Blake came back. “Take it down.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mercer ran back out into the outer office. Glory was standing by the door, her hand still on the bank of light switches. She looked shocked.
“What the hell did you just do?” Mercer barked.
“I…I didn’t know which switch was the right one,” the girl stammered.
“So you lit the place up and showed those assholes exactly where we are?”
“I…I…” Glory’s lower lip trembled.
“Jesus!”
“Stop yelling at her!” Sharon snapped.
“Turn them off!”
Glory flipped the switches and plunged them back into darkness.
***
“What the…” the co-pilot said as the lights went out.
“Get the searchlight on,” the pilot ordered. A brilliant beam of
light lanced down from the nose of the helicopter and began scanning ahead.
“What happened?” McMurphy demanded.
“Marina lights went out,” the co-pilot said.
“Coming up on feet dry,” the pilot announced. They were almost over the beach.
***
“Four, One.”
“I’m a bit busy at the moment, One,” Phillips grunted. He was outside, on the metal catwalk that ran around the circumference of the building, outside the watch room. A similar catwalk was above his head, outside of the lamp room. The wind was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was no longer gusting erratically, but now blasted at him steadily, driving the rain into him like bullets. It felt less like wind and more as if gravity were suddenly pushing sideways at three times its normal intensity. It was all he could do to hang on with one hand and hold the massive rifle with the other. He had never tried to shoot in wind like this, and he was doubtful for a moment as to whether he could. He worked his way around the circle a bit to get the brick wall of the lighthouse between himself and the wind. That made things a little better. Plus, he’d be shooting downwind, which made his calculations that much easier. He wrestled the Destroyer up onto the rail and looked towards the helicopter. It was approaching the shore, lights on. He recognized the lines of the aircraft from dozens of fields of battle. The Coast Guard’s Jayhawk was a seagoing modification of the old familiar Army Blackhawk.
“I know you, you old sod,” he whispered. And he knew how to bring it down. Phillips put his eye to the telescopic sight and took aim.
***
“Pilot, co-pilot.”
“Co-pilot…”
“Ma’am, I think there’s someone on the lighthouse.”
Instinctively, the pilot slowed the chopper and turned it towards where the old lighthouse jutted up from one end of the island.
***
Phillips saw the helicopter pulling up, then turning to face him. He couldn’t have asked for a better shot.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and squeezed the trigger.
***
The 12.7 mm Russian-made projectile tore through the unarmored skin of the aircraft as if it was passing through paper, smashing into the transmission housing just below the rotor. The impact blasted the exquisitely engineered gears and linkages into scrap metal. In moments, the massive forces driving the enormous twin rotor blades above began tearing the engine apart. The rotor itself, severed from its controls, began to oscillate wildly.
***
“Son of a…” the pilot said. Those were her last words. Phillips' second bullet blew the windscreen in front of her apart and pulverized her against the seat. The co-pilot was too stunned to move for a moment. The helicopter slewed sickeningly and dropped nose first towards the water below. The co-pilot grabbed his controls and began trying to bring the suddenly berserk beast under control. The stick refused to respond. He was still frantically trying to get the chopper level when they hit the shallow water fifty feet offshore.
***
In the rear compartment, Bohler felt the impact shudder through the entire body of the helicopter. The aircraft seemed to stagger in its tracks. The hoist operator, who’d unbuckled himself to help the swimmer get ready, went to his knees. The chopper went abruptly sideways and he went out the door without so much as a scream. There was another impact, and a scream from the co-pilot, followed by string of curses. Bohler looked at Alvarez, who was hanging on grimly to his own seat, his eyes fixed on the empty space where the hoist man had been. Alvarez turned to look at Bohler and McMurphy.
“Brace yourselves,” he said with an eerie calm. “We’re going in.” Then there was a shattering impact and the sound of rending metal. It was the last thing Bohler heard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“One, Four,” Phillips sent.
“One.”
“Target is down.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Don’t believe there’ll be much cleaning up to do, but I’ll head down.”
For a long moment there was nothing, just the static on the air and the wailing of the wind. Then: “Four. Hold position. Six, One.”
“Six?” Phillips sent.
“Six?” Worth echoed.
After another pause, Moon’s ruined voice came over the air. “Six.”
“One, Three,” Worth said. “You mind telling us…”
“Six,” Blake interrupted. “Head for the beach, Leeward side of the island. Below the lighthouse. Terminate all targets. With prejudice.”
“Six. Out.”
“One, three.” Worth insisted.
“One,” Blake came back. “What’s your position, Three?”
“I’m moving toward the marina. And I’m not happy.”
“Not a mission requirement, Three. Proceed to the marina. Neutralize all opposition.”
“Roger. But One?”
There was no answer.
“We,” Worth said,” “Are going to have a serious conversation about this.”
“Three…” Blake snapped.
“Actually,” Phillips drawled, “I concur.”
***
The first thing that Bohler was conscious of was the taste of sand and salt water in his mouth. He gagged, spit out a mouthful, then began retching. The next thing he was aware of was an arm locked tightly across his chest. He began clawing weakly at it.
“Hold still, goddamnit,” a voice grunted in his ear. “Or better yet, stand up. We’re almost there.”
He was in water. Someone was holding him up. He kicked his legs and felt sand slipping beneath his feet. He struggled to find purchase, but a wave lifted him up and away from the comforting solidity. He panicked and began struggling wildly. The voice in his ear growled in frustration. “Will you for Chrissake…” then the wave dropped away beneath him and he found himself standing in waist-deep water. The hand across his chest released him. A hand shoved him in the middle of his back. “MOVE, damn it.” He stumbled in the direction of the shore. Another wave hit him from behind and knocked him onto his hands and knees. Bohler scrambled, got to his feet, stumbled out of the water onto the sand. He fell to his knees again. A wave hit him, but this one only came up to his waist, not enough to knock him over, but enough to shock him to his feet again. He leaped up and ran in panic from the water he could sense behind him, ready to drag him back into its fatal embrace. A few steps, and he fell full length onto the sand. He felt rain pelting down onto his back, so heavy that it seemed as if someone was pouring an endless bucket over him. A hand grabbed Bohler and yanked him over onto his back, then bunched in the shoulder of his flight suit and yanked him to a sitting position.
“Deputy,” Alvarez’ voice was a saltwater-damaged croak. “Look at me.”
Bohler tried to focus. He saw Alvarez kneeling next to him.
“I’m okay.” Bohler’s own voice was as constricted as Alvarez’. “I’m okay,” he said, a little stronger.
Alvarez nodded. He struggled to his feet and began a slow trudge towards the surf. He had gotten his fins on and they slapped wetly on the sand.
“Where the hell are you going?” Bolher called.
Alvarez stopped and looked back at Bohler as if Bohler had asked the stupidest question in the world. He gestured out into the heaving ocean. Bohler could barely focus, but he made out the white shape of the helicopter. It was half submerged, the waves lifting then dropping it back onto the sandy bottom.
“You can’t go back out there!” Bohler yelled. “It’s suicide.” Alvarez ignored him. When he was waist deep in the water, he put his hands over his head and dove full length, disappeared below the surface of the water for a moment, then reappeared, swimming strongly in the direction of the wrecked chopper. Bohler got to his feet. He knew he should follow, knew he should help. But he was nowhere near a strong enough swimmer to plunge into that maelstrom. He watched Alvarez, picking him out of the tumult by the bright orange of his wet suit. He had almost made it to the helicopte
r when a particularly huge wave rose up out of the ocean like an avenging god. The helicopter went tail high, the toppled over onto its side. The wave passed, obscuring the helicopter from Bohler’s view. When it broke and leveled, it hissed onto the beach, so far up and so quickly that Bohler had to back-pedal frantically. When he looked again, the helicopter had been pulled out another hundred feet. Bohler looked as hard as he could, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand. There was no sign of Alvarez.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mercer flicked a switch and the radio came to life, the soft green glow of its digital display the only steady light inside the marina office. Occasionally, the brightness of lightning outside would leak in around the drawn blinds. They could hear the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the high pitched whistle of the wind outside. Somewhere, something had come loose and was rattling with a rapid-fire metallic banging. Somewhere, almost lost in the mix, was the steady thrumming of the generator. Mercer studied the panel for moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Don’t you know how to work it?” Sharon demanded.
“Not sure what the frequency we need is,” Mercer said. “The dockmaster was the one who….”
Suddenly the light on the console died. Mercer only hesitated for a split second. He leaped to his feet, snatching up the machine gun he’d laid on the counter. He took a quick step to one side, putting himself in the doorway to the back room, and fired a quick three round burst at the back door, then another. The sound inside the cramped office was deafening. Sharon and Glory screamed. Mercer fired again. They could hear the wood of the back door splintering.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sharon yelled.
“Someone killed the generator,” he answered, his voice taut with strain. “Listen.”
They listened, straining their ears. He was right. The sound of the generator was gone.
“Maybe it just choked down,” Sharon said. “Got water in it.”
“Maybe,” Mercer said. “If so, I’ve wasted bullets. But I don’t think so. I think someone’s out there.”
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