Seconds to Midnight

by Philip Donlay

  “I’ll leave this part to you guys,” Donovan said as he finished donning his snowsuit. “We’re all to be back here an hour before sunset, which doesn’t give us much time. If we haven’t finished our work, we’ll spend the night and start again in the morning.”

  Donovan stepped off the porch, adjusting his woolen face protector and lowering his goggles on the way to the lake. The tinted plastic eased the brilliant white reflection of the sun off the snow. Rick was seated on the snowmobile. The sled was attached to the back, and Jesse had made a place to sit amongst the duffel bags. Donovan swung a leg up and over, straddling the seat behind Rick.

  “Everyone ready?” Rick glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Let’s do this,” Donovan confirmed.

  Rick started slow, and as the snowmobile plowed through the snow, he watched the sled and then gunned the throttle. The machine and its cargo picked up speed and sped over the wind-driven drifts toward the far side of the lake. Within moments, they were racing across the ice.

  Rick slowed the snowmobile as they neared the shoreline, looking for the inlet into the river channel that would take them to the other lake. Scanning the expansive white snow on the lake, Donovan spotted what looked like a small break of the brown and green that marked the trees. With a gloved hand, he pointed in that direction, and Rick swung the snowmobile into the mouth of the frozen river.

  Donovan judged the channel at perhaps forty or fifty feet across. Snow-covered boulders and fallen trees were scattered down each bank, and Rick maneuvered around the obstacles, plowing a serpentine course down the river. The channel opened into the adjoining lake, and Donovan pictured the images taken from the Galileo. It didn’t take long before they found the aircraft tire marks in the snow, and, as planned, Rick paralleled the ruts and followed them toward where the Boeing had sunk.

  “This is good!” Jesse shouted from the sled. “Stop here and let me out.”

  Rick nodded and shut down the engine. Donovan swung himself off the snowmobile and removed his helmet. He expected complete quiet, but instead he heard creaks and a groaning sound from beneath his feet.

  “Weird, isn’t it? I’ve heard it said that the ice never sleeps,” Jesse said as he hauled himself out of the sled, stomping on the ice to knock the snow from his clothes. He leaned into the sled, brushed the snow from a duffel, and unzipped the opening. He removed a chainsaw as well as a collapsible walking stick. “Rick, I want you to find the safety lines. They’re in this red bag. Get them rigged and ready to use. If we fall through the ice, get us a line and then use the snowmobile to pull us out.”

  “Will do.” Rick swept away more snow from their cargo, pulled the bag from the sled, and began setting out the neatly bundled lines.

  “Donovan, let’s go figure out a safe place to make a hole.” Pleased that Jesse had taken charge and in a controlled, concise way, Donovan trudged toward him.

  “You can see the heavier furrows,” Jesse pointed out. “I’m guessing those are from the Boeing’s landing gear. I’m thinking we follow them until they end, and then we should be standing at the edge of where the ice buckled.”

  “Judging from the tracks showing where Michael turned the Galileo, it’s not far.”

  “Unbelievable,” Jesse said as he surveyed the scene. “It sounded pretty amazing when you explained about landing the Galileo on the ice, but now, to be standing here, it sinks in just how intense it must have been.”

  “It was. Now, let’s go find the Boeing.”

  Jesse led the way, driving the sharp end of his walking stick into the ice ahead of him. As they continued, Donovan spotted where the tire marks ended. Jesse slowed and methodically probed with his stick until it finally pierced the ice. Jesse repeated the process and continued to test the ice. Once he was confident he knew where the new ice bordered the thicker ice, he handed Donovan the stick and began the process of cutting the dive hole.

  The roar from the chainsaw was harsh, and Donovan stood back as snow and ice were thrown in the air when Jesse began cutting. He worked quickly, and when he finally shut off the noisy engine, there were large chucks of ice floating inside a six-by-six-foot square of open water. Jesse set the chainsaw down and motioned for Rick to bring the snowmobile closer.

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to get set up to dive?” Donovan said, cognizant that the sun was already headed toward the horizon.

  “We’ll see how fast it goes.” Jesse, too, glanced at the angle of the sun. “First, we’ll suit up, and then try to get the hole clear of ice.” Jesse took his walking stick from Donovan and used it to point at the field of thin ice. “Try to keep in mind that ten feet out that way, the ice isn’t strong enough to hold your weight.”

  Rick situated the snowmobile as Jesse instructed. The three of them began to unload the sled, lining up the duffel bags on the snow. Jesse got Rick started on assembling a tent and then fired up a propane burner that would eventually create a small haven of warmth. Jesse pulled out the dry suits, hoods, gloves, masks, and fins. From another bag he removed the weight belts, personal floatation devices, and two air tanks. From inside a cushioned hard plastic container, Jesse gently handled the twin regulators and assembled the first tank. He repeated the process until the second tank was ready. Next came the tools common for salvage diving, a waterproof camera, as well as several assorted mesh bags that could be filled with items from the Boeing. Once attached to an inflatable balloon, they’d float to the surface.

  “What’s next?” Donovan asked when Jesse stepped back from the assembled equipment.

  “The painful part,” Jesse said. “We’re running out of time, so there’s no use waiting for the shelter to heat up. We’ll do this quick and dirty; the tent should be heated when we get out. I’ll suit up first, so you can watch and learn. Speed is important. We do as much as we can while we’re wearing our snowmobile suits. Here, put on your neoprene neck collar, and then you can help me into my suit.”

  Donovan watched as Jesse shed his snowmobile suit and quickly stepped into his dry suit. The heavy black skin zipped in the back, and Donovan watched carefully as Jesse pulled and dipped his shoulders to maneuver into the thick material, his breath condensing in great clouds as he exhaled. Once the suit covered his frame, Donovan held it steady as Jesse pushed his head through the neck opening, and then Donovan pulled the zipper up all the way. Next there were integrated gloves that connected to the suit as well as a hood that protected most of Jesse’s face.

  “Good, okay, Donovan, your turn. Rick, can you hand me his dry suit and be ready to take his snowmobile suit and set it next to mine in the tent?”

  Donovan slid out of his insulated snowmobile suit and stepped into the dry suit. Each exhale blinded him and he held his breath so he could see through the frozen vapor. He felt ice collect in his nasal passages and on his exposed eyebrows. Following Jesse’s instructions, Donovan dipped and struggled to get his shoulders encased in the heavy material. Jesse zipped him almost all the way up, then had Donovan squat, to burp the air out of the suit before easing the zipper all the way to the stop. Donovan slid on his hood and gloves, and finally exhaled, his chest tight against the frigid air.

  “The dry suits are very buoyant, so we need weight,” Jesse said as he fastened his own belt and then helped Donovan with his. “Now, I’m going to lift up your tank. Put out your right arm.”

  Donovan anxiously eyed the water, knowing that it was forty degrees warmer than the air. Once again, he blinked away at the ice that formed on his eyelashes as Jesse lifted the tank into place and adjusted the straps.

  “Everything looks good,” Jesse said as he moved around Donovan, double-checking his equipment. “Here’s your mask, your snorkel, and fins. There’s also a mesh sleeve and a lift bag—anything we collect from the plane we’ll float to the surface. Okay, let’s move to the opening, and get the chunks of ice out of the hole so we can get into the water.”

  There were two regulators per tank, and Donovan was mindf
ul to keep them out of the snow. Frozen regulators were a hazard in the frigid temperatures, which was why cold-water divers always had a backup. He carefully lowered himself down to the edge of the ice, used his heels to crack through the thin film of fresh ice, sat, and dangled his feet into the water. Jesse lowered himself down next to him and together they lifted the first chunk of ice from the hole and set it next to them for Rick to toss aside. The three of them cleared the ice to open a six-foot patch of water. Donovan and Jesse, with Rick’s help, slid on their flippers and then kicked gently to keep the water moving so fresh ice wouldn’t form.

  “Here goes the guide line, our pathway back to the hole in the ice,” Jesse said as he tossed a weighted line into the water and payed it out until it stopped. “It’s deep, maybe sixty feet. Rick, check the shelter and make sure the burner stays lit, and don’t forget to keep the hole from freezing over. Donovan, once we’re under, I want you to go down ten feet or so and stop. Grab the guide line if you want. We’ll check everything over before we go down any further.”

  Donovan nodded that he understood. He slid his mask into place and found his mouthpiece, bit down on the rubber, then pushed off the edge and slipped beneath the surface. He breathed in and heard the regulator functioning normally and felt the air filling his lungs. In his head he heard Buck’s words as he focused on breathing slowly and evenly as he descended. Above him, in a blur of bubbles, Jesse entered the water as Donovan continued down. At ten feet, he grabbed the guide line and stopped his descent. Waiting for Jesse to join him, Donovan glanced below him and was met with the eerie sight of the submerged Boeing 737. Twenty feet below him, on a steeply sloped sand bottom was the nose and cockpit of the Boeing. The fuselage tilted away from him and he could make out the wings and the engines, then the remainder of the Boeing dropped off into deeper water, the tail fading from view in the depths of the lake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I KNOW THE storm is interfering with communications, but is there any way to ping someone’s phone and see where they might be?” Marta continued to pace while talking with the man in Florida.

  Lauren heard Marta rattle off the European phone number she guessed belonged to Tomasz.

  “You know, don’t you?” Trevor asked without warning.

  “I know a great many things,” Lauren said. “Can you narrow it down for me?”

  “About Marta and me,” Trevor said.

  “Oh that.” Lauren allowed herself a small smile. “Everyone knows.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Reggie knows, and I’m assuming other members of your team. Then there’s myself, the charter pilots from earlier today, and probably Kristof.”

  “Bloody hell,” Trevor said, his face contorted as if he’d just bit into a lemon. “Reggie and Kristof.”

  “I’d guess that Stephanie and Abigail know by now as well.”

  Trevor blew out a long breath as if to steady himself. “Do you think I should I have said something to Kristof already? Did I muck this up?”

  Lauren had seen Trevor fly a burning helicopter into a firefight without this much second-guessing and anxiety. She found it charming. “Can I offer you some advice?”

  “Please.”

  “There is a particular mind-set a man needs if he’s involved with a strong, intelligent woman. Do you agree that Marta is strong and intelligent?”

  “Of course,” Trevor agreed.

  “You can’t always be the one in charge,” Lauren said. “Unless it’s a situation for which you’re hands down more qualified than Marta. Be a team. Ask her for her help and advice, respect her thoughts, and by all means, listen to her. I promise you’ll get the same in return, and one day you’ll know when it’s time to talk to Kristof.”

  “Thank you,” Trevor said, and there was no mistaking the earnestness in his tone.

  “We found the footage of the raid on this place, but it doesn’t tell us much,” Marta called out. She’d ended her call and started toward them. “The men were professional—they wore masks and disconnected the feed to the surveillance equipment. And we found Tomasz’s phone. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Does Tomasz have any immediate family?” Lauren asked.

  “No.” Marta shook her head.

  “He does now,” Lauren said. “Let’s go to the hospital and assess Tomasz’s condition, see if he can talk, maybe tell us what happened.”

  “We can do that,” Marta said. “You back me up, and Trevor can wait in the car.”

  “This could be a trap,” Trevor warned. “Leaving Tomasz’s phone on as a beacon, to lure us to the hospital. Well, it’s something I’d do.”

  “Marta,” Lauren said. “Your dad told us he had some inventory moved into the area. What exactly did he mean by that?”

  A knowing smile came to Marta’s face, and she turned to Trevor. “Dad had a helicopter brought in, just in case. Can you fly a Eurocopter AS-365? I think it’s also called a Dauphin?”

  Trevor rubbed his palms together in anticipation. “Yeah, I can fly a Dauphin.”

  “Where is this helicopter?” Lauren asked. “Is it military?”

  “No, it’s a civilian model. We just bought it from the owner in Germany. I do know we haven’t started any modifications yet.”

  “So, no guns?” Trevor asked.

  “No guns, strictly civilian. Dad had it brought to a small farm we control about fifteen minutes south of here,” Marta said. “We’ll take the van parked outside. We should also drop the stolen truck somewhere.”

  Lauren turned and followed Trevor down the steps. As they reached the main floor, Marta headed straight for the main door. Trevor gave Marta a quick kiss, then split off and pushed through a side door and headed for the truck. Marta went to what sufficed for a secretary’s desk situated behind the counter. Seconds later, she held up a key ring.

  Marta drove the van, and Trevor followed in the stolen truck. She led them to an apartment complex not far from a large shopping area. They pulled in to a half-filled parking lot where Marta pointed toward a parking space marked for visitors. Trevor used his handkerchief to wipe the steering wheel free of prints and then jumped into the van.

  They watched the traffic behind them as they swung out of the apartment complex and headed toward the main road that would take them south.

  Marta traveled the speed limit, and fifteen minutes later, they exited the highway. At different intervals, Lauren tried to make a phone call, but each time, it went straight to voice mail.

  “There’s a phone and computer in the hangar,” Marta said. “Who are you trying to call?”

  “I wanted to reach Reggie or Stephanie,” Lauren said. “I wanted to talk to Abigail.”

  “Save your battery. My guess is Reggie will have taken all the phones offline,” Trevor said. “They’re fine. He’ll initiate untraceable phones, and we’ll hear from him when he’s settled.”

  “I don’t like not knowing,” Lauren said.

  “I agree,” Marta said.

  “Kristof, as well as the others, are fine,” Trevor said. “Reggie is as good as they come, so let’s focus on our jobs here tonight. We need to get inside the hospital, find out what happened to Tomasz, and if we’re a bit lucky, we’ll find someone else who has an interest in Tomasz.”

  “What if he’s under police guard?” Marta said to Lauren. “You’ll be at risk of being identified. I’m the only one who speaks Polish. You won’t be able to talk your way out of anything. Maybe we need to rethink this?”

  “You’ll need backup,” Lauren said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s slow down and give this operation a little time to breathe.” Trevor held up his hands to signal a time-out. “Once we get to the hangar, let’s all have some tea, and we can sit down and discuss this properly to come up with a solid plan.”

  Marta snapped a glance at Trevor and then turned to Lauren. A curious frown crossed her face, yet instead of saying anything, she accelerated the van. They were soon traveling
on a tree-lined dirt road. When Marta slowed, she made a left turn and stopped abruptly. In front of them was a heavy metal gate that was nearly invisible between the tree trunks and hanging limbs.

  “Is there a lock?” Trevor asked, poised to jump out and open the gate.

  Marta lowered the sun visor and pushed a simple garage door opener, the gate swung inward, and they pulled up to what looked like an old barn with a small farmhouse attached by a breezeway.

  “There shouldn’t be anyone here.” Marta shut off the engine, drew her Glock, and stepped out of the van.

  Lauren followed as Marta punched in a code on a keypad mounted near the door. Moments later, Marta had the lights on. In the center of the barn, Lauren saw a bright yellow helicopter with blue trim around the windows. From what she knew about helicopters, this was the same model still in use by the United States Coast Guard. It even had a similar external hoist mounted on the right side just above the door. She and Donovan had ridden in one once, and she remembered it was both fast and maneuverable. As she walked around the machine, she saw it was registered in Germany.

  Trevor headed straight to the cockpit, opened the door, and climbed inside.

  Marta and Lauren walked toward the tail of the helicopter. “Tea and a chat,” Marta said. “What was that about?”

  “It’s cute, is what it is.” Lauren tried to disarm her friend with a smile. “I may have given Trevor some advice about dating a strong and intelligent woman. Just a few things about working together that I’ve learned the hard way from being married to Donovan.”

  “Tea?”

  “No. The tea is because Trevor’s British. He wants to slow the two of us down, to sit and work out a proper strategy. He’s the professional soldier, but he cares about what you think,” Lauren said. “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh, well, that puts a different slant on things, doesn’t it?” Marta said with a smile.

  “The fact that this is a civilian helicopter gives us a great many options,” Trevor called out as he leaned out the door. “Where are you two?”