Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “Just do it,” Patrick said. “If those choppers get any closer and block our path, we’ll all be in jail before you know it.” The pilot made a sudden turn onto the intersecting taxiway, and while the copilot and flight engineer frantically completed the pretakeoff checks, the pilot swung right on the runway, lining up for takeoff.

  “General McLanahan, this is Earthmover.” Patrick heard Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson’s voice in his head through the implanted transceiver. “Better shut it down. The FBI is going to block the runway.”

  ‘Terrill, what did you do?” Patrick asked.

  “Yes, l told them you might be here—hard to believe, but the FBI didn't know about Sky Masters or this facility,” Samson said.

  “So you told them.”

  “I cooperated with a federal investigation,” Samson retorted. “They have a warrant to search the facility and all the aircraft. You need to cooperate with them. Shut it down. Don't continue the takeoff. You'll kill everyone on board that plane.”

  “Then I wish you were on board with me, Samson,” Patrick said bitterly. He shouted to the pilots, “Get this thing in the air!” The last thing he saw over on the parking ramp was a large group of armed FBI agents surrounding Wendy, his son Bradley, and the others. One FBI agent had an M 16 pointed at his wife and son. the muzzle just inches away. Wendy was clutching their son tightly, afraid to move.

  The FBI’s Jet Ranger helicopter had just set down about three-quarters of the way down the runway. The pilot immedi ately realized the DC-10 wasn't going to stop, and yanked the helicopter off the runway and quicktaxied clear. The DC-10 had started to rotate to takeoff attitude at that spot, and the wmgtip vortices sent the chopper spinning and flipped it on its side.

  “McLanahan,” Terrill Samson’s disembodied voice said, “what has gotten into you? You may have killed that helicopter crew! Are you crazy?”

  “If any harm comes to my family. I’ll be looking for you, Samson,” Patrick vowed.

  “They're taking Wendy and your son into custody,” Samson said. “She won’t be placed under arrest unless she fails to cooperate. I advise you to orbit the field and burn down fuel until you can land right back here.”

  “Not one hair disturbed on either of their heads,” Patrick warned. “I hold you responsible.”

  “I am not your enemy, Patrick!” Samson thundered. “Dammit, don't you understand? The ghost of Brad Elliott has got you completely screwed up. Don't let it affect your family as well. If you don’t give yourself up, Patrick, I can’t be responsible for what happens to them.”

  It was the hardest thing Patrick ever had to do—not to give the order to turn around.

  Terrill Samson walked over to check out a noise far louder than the roar of the Sky Masters DC-10 taking off or the sirens on the police and FBI cars still streaming onto the tarmac—the noise of a screaming child. An FBI SWAT officer dressed in full black combat gear and carrying an MP-5K submachine gun was trying to take Bradley James McLanahan out of Wendy McLanahan’s arms.

  “Stop resisting!” the officer was shouting. Wendy was now fighting off three FBI agents. “Let the kid go!”

  Samson stepped in and pulled the FBI agents away from Wendy and the boy. “Back off, Officer, back off.”

  “They’re suspects. General," one of the hooded officers said. “They need to be handcuffed until we can search the area.”

  “I said, back off,” Samson said. The big three-star general put his arms around Wendy McLanahan and eased her away from the armored officer. “I’ll take responsibility for these two.”

  But Wendy shrugged away from him. “You get away from me, too, Samson,” she cried. “I’d rather be in an isolation cell than be near you.” But Samson continued to escort her away, the FBI agents did not protest, and Wendy turned her attention to Bradley’s screaming and did not resist further.

  “Where is Patrick going, Wendy?”

  “Go to hell. Samson.”

  “This is an investigation only, Wendy—we have no arrest warrants,” Samson said. “But if Patrick disappears with that aircraft, he’ll be charged with interfering with a federal investigation, evidence tampering, and withholding evidence. He’ll be a fugitive. If we find evidence that anyone here conspired with McLanahan to take that plane, this whole place will be shut down and locked up and everyone will go to jail. This is serious, Wendy, You've got to tell me where he's going, and tell me fast."

  “Samson, I'm not going to tell you a thing,” Wendy said, turning Bradley's eyes away from the red flashing lights to try to soothe him. “But I will ask you one question.”

  “I know, I know—you think I'm the bad guy because I won't go along with McLanahan and help him fight his little personal war,” Samson interjected. “You're going to ask: Where's my loyalty? Where's my integrity? Don't I care about what's going on? Why don't I do something about it?”

  “No,” Wendy Mcl^anahan asked. “My question is: are you having fun?”

  “Fun?” Samson was incredulous. The place was sheer bedlam, police were leading technicians and engineers away in handcuffs, and her son was screaming in holy terror. “Fun? Are you trying to be funny, Doctor? I see nothing fun going on here.”

  “Then you're just doing your job, is that right. General?” Samson could not reply. Helping the FBI track down his friend and ex-deputy commander, raiding a private company, and handcuffing men and women he knew and trusted because Patrick McLanahan might be planning to stage an attack on another country was certainly not in his job description. So why was he doing this? Just because he was ordered to do it? “No, I'm not having fun, Wendy. I'm having a really terrible time.”

  “I just wanted to check,” Wendy said bitterly. “Because I’m sure you're not doing this to learn how to be a better person or help contribute to your world. Since the only other reason to do something is to have fun, and you're obviously not having fun. I'm confused. Why are you doing this?” And Wendy took her screaming son and walked toward the police vans, where she submitted to having a policewoman take Bradley out of her arms. She was handcuffed behind her back, searched from head to foot, and seated in the front seat of the van beside the policewoman and her son.

  Terrill Samson wanted to go after her, steer her and Bradley away from the confusion and lights and noise, but he could not make his feet move. His world was unraveling. First the President of the United States, then the Russians, and now the press blows the doors off his command; his deputy commander engineers a one-man war against the Russians and against a powerful Russian mafioso; now he helps the government bust a private company accused of attacking the Russians. He had no idea what was going to happen next.

  But one thing was certain: Patrick McLanahan was a fighter, a warrior, and he was continuing to fight. And so far, he was winning. Maybe not every battle, maybe not even most of them—but he was winning. Terrill Samson sure as heck couldn’t call himself a winner right now.

  Somehow, he had to find a way to make himself a winner.

  NINE

  Over the Black Sea

  Several months later

  “There they are, sir,” one of the lookouts radioed. “They look like Russian helicopters. Mil Mi-14s, long-range land-based helicopters. No markings on them.”

  “What in hell do they want?” the ship’s captain, Sergei Trevnikov, muttered nervously, restlessly peering at the helicopters through his binoculars. He hoped they were just joyriding or patrolling, since there was no place for helicopters that big to set down on his ship. “Still no response on hailing frequencies or aviation emergency channels?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Pasasi zalupu!" Trevnikov swore. Trevnikov was the skipper of the Russian oil tanker Ustinov; a privately owned tanker based out of Novorossijsk carrying almost a million barrels of crude oil bound for the big new oil terminal at Burgas, Bulgaria. He was accustomed to supply, medical, and VIP helicopters coming out to the ship all the time, but these three helicopters were unidentified, unannounced, an
d definitely unwanted.

  “Quickly, have the quartermaster break out rifles and side arms,” Trevnikov ordered. He switched channels on his radio to the Black Sea emergency distress frequency. “Russian Federation Navy. Russian Federation Navy, Russian Federation Navy, this is the Russian flag tanker vessel Ustinov on emergency channel, under way ninety-eight kilometers north of Zonguldak, Turkey, heading west on transit approach to the Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas. Three military helicopters are approaching us from the north. They appear to be Russian- made military Mi-14 helicopters. They are unidentified and are not responding to our hails. We request immediate assistance. Over.”

  It took several calls, but moments later a Russian Federation Navy radio operator sent the captain over to another channel. “Tanker Ustinov; we read you loud and clear,” the radioman said. “Are you in danger at this time?”

  “Danger? Da, byt v glubokay zhopi! Yes, I’m in deep shit! I think these bastards mean to board us! They are maneuvering in on our bow right now.”

  “We acknowledge. Ustinov,” the Russian radio operator said. “We are passing along your request for assistance at this time. Maintain a watch on this channel and advise of any hostile action. Over.”

  “What should we do in the meantime? Suck our thumbs? Should we stop?”

  “Command suggests you comply with their instructions to avoid any damage to your vessel that will render you dead in the water or unable to maintain steerageway,” the radio operator replied. “Are you laden at this time?”

  “Hell, yes, we’re laden—we have a million barrels of crude oil on board!” Trevnikov shouted. He paused, decided, and then added, “We are a Metyorgaz vessel. Do you understand? Metyorgaz. Check our records—you’ll learn who owns this vessel and all the oil in it. I suggest you tell that to your superiors, and you had better do it quick.”

  It was indeed quick. Only a few minutes later, a different voice came on the radio. “Tanker Ustinov, this is Commander Boriskov, commander of the destroyer Besstrashny, Seventy-ninth Destroyer Group, Novorossijsk,” came the announcement. “We copy you are being interdicted by unidentified military helicopters in treaty waters. Describe any markings you see and any weapons visible.”

  “They are big fucking transport helicopters,” Trevnikov replied. Now the Russian Navy was doing something. Mention “Metyorgaz” to them, and they all start quaking in their boots. No one, not even the Russian Federation Navy, wants to fuck with Pavel Kazakov. “I don’t see any markings or weapons.”

  “We acknowledge. Patrol and action aircraft and vessels are under way,” the commander said. “We recommend you reverse course if able and do not give permission to be boarded.”

  “Well, no shit,” Trevnikov said. “But I will miss my offload slot if I come about.” The new Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas. Bulgaria, which had just opened, was one of the largest and finest in all of Eastern Europe. The new Metyorgaz pipeline from Burgas to Vlore, Albania, was cutting the cost of transporting petroleum to markets in Western Europe by thirty percent at least, which meant huge profits for all users. As a result, the Burgas terminal was always booked, and reserved slots could be held open only for very short periods of time. A delay of even six or seven hours could mean sitting at anchor in the Black Sea for days waiting for another slot. “Can't you send a fighter jet out here to scare these bastards away?”

  “We are readying armed aircraft at this time,” the Navy commander said, “but it will take them some time to reach your position. You will help us by reversing course. Acknowledge.”

  “All right, all right.” Trevnikov said. To his helmsman, he ordered, “Helm, hard about.” He liked giving that order, because it took big tankers like the Ustinov, over two hundred meters long and over one hundred and fifty thousand tons, almost an hour and about thirty kilometers to execute a course reversal. “I am executing a heading change, coming to starboard to heading zero-six-zero,” Trevnikov radioed.

  “Very well,” the Navy guy said. “Where are these helicopters now?”

  Trevnikov searched the horizon and followed his bridge crew’s pointing fingers. “About two hundred meters off my bow,” he replied on the radio. “They are carrying fuel tanks. They look like torpedoes, but they are fuel tanks. My men tell me they are Mi-14 transport helicopters. They are approaching amidships ... wait! I see ropes! They are throwing ropes down from the helicopters . . they are rappelling down from the helicopters! Soldiers! Commandos! They are invading my ship with commandos! About eight from each helicopter! They are on my deck, moving toward the wheelhouse! There are commandos on my ship!”

  “Remain calm, Captain,” the Russian navy commander said. “Our patrol aircraft is less than ten minutes out, we are dispatching jet aircraft, and we have a warship about two hours away. Can you secure the bridge?”

  “Against commandos? For two hours? Are you insane?” Trevnikov ordered the doors shut and barred. He had no illusions that he could put up any kind of defense against them, but he was determined to try. He had his crew members take cover in front of the helmsman’s console, where they had good cover and could see both bridge wing doors, and he secured and locked the two weather doors and the inside passageway door. Four of his crew members were armed, two with automatic rifles and the other two with automatic pistols.

  Ten minutes later, the steel weather door on the port side of the bridge blew open. To the captain's surprise, a lone, unarmed figure stepped into the doorway. “Open fire!” the captain shouted. All four men began firing as fast as they could. The figure simply stood there ... and stood there. He never went down. They must have emptied eighty rounds on him—he was less than ten meters away—but he did not go down.

  “Astanavleevat’sya!” the officer shouted in very poor Russian, with a definite Western accent. “Gyde deerektaram?”

  “Who are you?” the captain shouted in Russian. The air was thick and hazy with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Did they have blanks or noisemakers in their guns? Why didn’t he go down ... ? “What do you want?” To his men, he said in a low but urgent voice, “Reload quickly, dammit!”

  “Gyde deerektaram?” the figure repeated.

  “Speak English—your Russian is giving me a headache,” Trevnikov shouted, now in English. “I am the captain. What in hell do you want on my ship?” At that moment, the starboard-side weather door blew open too, and just like the first, another figure stood, unarmed, in the doorway. One crew member with a rifle opened fire, emptying a thirty-round magazine on him in five seconds—but like the first, he did not go down. The first armored terrorist just stood there, calmly observing while his partner was shot at with a rifle. “Who are you?" the captain repeated, his eyes bugging out in sheer terror now. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to shut up and do as you are told,” the first commando replied. “Drop your weapons and no one will get hurt. I promise.”

  “Ssat ya na nivo hat'el!" the executive officer shouted, and he raised his reloaded pistol at the first man, who had taken several steps toward the Russians. But before the XO could fire, they heard and felt a snap of electricity emanating from somewhere on the figure’s body, and the XO flew backward, crumpled against the forward bulkhead, and lay jerking and twitching in muscle spasms on the deck.

  “Drop your weapons now!" the second figure ordered. They did. and they all stood up from behind the console with their hands raised in surrender. More commandos ran in and quickly began to search the bridge crew. They quickly bound the bridge officers’ hands behind their backs with nylon handcuffs, all but the captain, and led them away.

  “Your ship is now under my command.” the first figure said in an electronically synthesized voice, like a robot’s. The captain stared in disbelief at him. He was dressed head to toe in what appeared to be a thin gray outfit, with a full-face helmet and a thin molded baekpack. There was not a mark on him from bullets or from anything else. The captain noticed small protrusions from his shoulders that looked like electrodes— probably the sour
ce of the shock beam that had disabled his executive officer.

  “You are hijacking an oil tanker? In the middle of the fucking Black Sea? Do you have any idea of what the hell you are doing?”

  “We’ll see,” the strange commando said. He began issuing orders to his men as they herded the bridge crew out. The second commando, dressed in the strange but obviously very effective body armor as well, departed the bridge.

  Trevnikov stepped closer to the masked commando. “Do you know who owns this vessel, asshole?”

  “Metyorgaz,” the commando replied.

  “And do you know who owns Metyorgaz?”

  “Metyor IIG.”

  “And do you know—?”

  “I know perfectly well that Pavel Kazakov, the Russian gangster and drug lord, owns this vessel and all the oil in it,” the commando said, with a hint of triumph in his voice. “But you won’t be making any deliveries for him anymore.”

  “That is not your first mistake today, aslayop,” Trevnikov said. This time it was his turn to give the terrorist an evil smile. “But it could very well be your last. When Comrade Kazakov finds out some American commandos in silly dance costumes hijacked his tanker, he’ll take great pleasure in roasting you all alive.”

  “Don’t count on it, sraka,” the commando said. He took a plastic handcuff from a belt pouch behind his back and bound Trevnikov’s hands behind his back himself, and he was led out of the bridge.

  Twenty minutes later, the terrorists had rounded up the entire crew and had them assembled on the bow with their hands on their heads. Two more helicopters soon arrived, carrying two dozen masked men, armed only with side arms, who took over the controls of the ship, plus several long crates and other supplies brought in slung under the helicopters. Soon the tanker Ustinov was heading south, toward Turkey.

  But they were not alone for long. Several minutes later, several more helicopters arrived: one belonging to a state-controlled Turkish Radio and Television Corporation TV crew from Ankara, plus two Mil Mi-14 Haze land-based marine assault helicopters belonging to the Russian Federation Naval Infantry.