by Vicki Hinze
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, August 9 First-Strike Launch 24:00:52
Surrounded by darkness, Sybil lay facedown in the dirt in a thicket of dense palmettos and strained to focus on the helicopter parked in the clearing. Its props beat at the humid, heavy air.
She and Westford hadn’t moved for hours, and apparently they weren’t going to move until he felt they had optimum chances for success. He had urged her repeatedly to rest, but she couldn’t. Even bone-weary she found that watching and waiting when time was short and every second was precious pumped too much adrenaline through her veins for her to calm down, much less sleep.
Westford slid closer to her, whispered at her ear. “Sayelle just reported. They’re shifting all resources to PUSH.”
“No.” Frustration had her dropping her forehead to the soft, wet ground to fight back tears. “Faust will declare it open season.”
“Not if we get back first.” He slid his gaze from her to the helicopter.
Yet still they waited.
About an hour before dawn, Westford again moved close enough to whisper. “Stay here until I signal you. Then run as fast as you can to the chopper.”
“I should go with you.” They had watched half a dozen men armed with M-16s pour out of the helicopter. The bastards had been wearing U.S. military camouflage gear, too.
“There’s only one man left on the aircraft. I can handle it, Sybil.”
She nodded, but something didn’t feel right. They had watched the men spread out, move in different directions at the edge of the clearing, and then disappear into the dense woods. Yet she still felt them there. If they had disbursed, why did she still feel them there? “Are you smelling death?”
“Yes, but not ours.”
“I feel them here. They haven’t gone far.”
“I know.” Westford slid on his belly, backed out from under the bushes, then crouched low and moved through the trees until the darkness swallowed him.
Because she couldn’t complicate things, she didn’t say anything aloud, but she whispered it in her mind. Be careful, Jonathan. It’s just swamp fever, not love, but I still need you.
A few minutes later a shadow crossed the clearing, heading toward the chopper. Her breath locked in her lungs.
Time slowed, then stopped. A lifetime passed, and another, and then another. Finally Westford stood at the chopper door, signaling.
Sybil scrambled to her feet, circled the clearing just inside the brush. Some scraggly, thorny bush nicked her leg. Not catbrier, but the pricks still burned like hot nails. She batted at it with the briefcase, using it as a shield, and kept moving, breaking into a full-out run.
Something whizzed past her shoulder and clanged, hitting metal. A gunshot.
“Keep running!” Westford shouted.
She tucked her chin and unleashed, running as fast as she could, ignoring the stones stabbing into her feet, the tall grass slapping at her legs. Gunfire exploded in a furious barrage around her. Resisting the urge to scream, she locked her gaze on the chopper, and dug for that reserve burst of energy. Two more steps. Just two … more …
Westford jerked her into the chopper and then dove for the pilot’s seat. Gunfire exploded from all sides, heavy and fast. A man’s body lay on the chopper’s floor.
“Keep your head down,” Westford ordered, flipping controls and lifting the chopper off the ground.
Bullets streaked across the sky and hit the helicopter with resonating clangs. Cringing, Sybil covered her ears, tucked her chin and the briefcase to her chest, and stayed crouched low behind Westford’s seat. Finally they were airborne.
The bullets stopped.
“Are we safe now?” Sybil stared at the back of his head.
“We’re out of range. Come sit down and buckle up.”
Shaking, her insides churning, she stepped over the man’s body, feeling drawn to look at him. He wasn’t the one called ET who had let her live. This man didn’t have that white spot in his hair.
Oddly relieved by that, she stepped over a camera and other equipment, then slid into the seat and looked over at Westford. “I think I’ve aged twenty years since we left Geneva.” She couldn’t stop shaking. She laced her hands in her lap, felt them tremble against her knees.
“You look the same.”
The man was out of his mind. She was scratched, scraped, bruised, bitten, and banged up, head to heel. And she was filthy dirty. “If that’s true, I need serious help.”
He grunted.
“Tell me you know how to fly this thing.”
“I know how to fly this thing.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fabulous.” It didn’t surprise her. She knew of very little Westford couldn’t do. Yet that didn’t calm her. Fear still lumped in her throat, had her stomach queasy and her chest tight. “Now tell me we didn’t just rip off a media chopper.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s a ton of camera equipment in the back.”
“It’s a Ballast chopper. My guess is the camera is cover. Someone’s posing as press.”
“Are you sure it’s Faust’s?”
“No. But I’m sure it’s not ours.” He made some adjustments on his transmitter, let out a frustrated sigh, and reached for the chopper’s radio. “Our media doesn’t often carry weapons or pose as military members, and our own guys aren’t as likely to shoot at us.”
Sure of very little anymore, Sybil shrugged. “It’s possible.” If he thought he could get away with it, Cap Marlowe would be eager to put a bullet through her. And, of course, there was Austin. He was capable of anything.
“Agreeing makes me sick, but I’m not going to lie. It’s possible.” Because it was, Westford muttered a curse, put on the radio headgear, and switched to the classified, emergency channel.
“You’re going to break radio silence?”
“It’s okay. The channel is secure.”
“Westford, there’s no way to totally secure any communication. Not even in a copper-lined, underground bunker.”
“It’s all right, Sybil. Trust me.” He flipped the lip mike into position. “Borrowed transport. Inbound.”
Sybil frowned at him. “How will they know it’s you?”
“They’ll know.”
“How?”
“Voice recognition,” he clarified.
“Borrowed transport?” A man’s voice came through the radio. “Whose?”
“Commander Conlee,” Westford told Sybil, and then responded to the transmission. “Not ours.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Outdoors. Not at liberty to say”
Sybil frowned, perplexed. “Outdoors?”
Westford swiveled the mike away from his face. “Code for Ballast.”
“PUSH is indoors?”
He nodded.
“So they won’t pull resources from Faust?”
“Honestly?”
Oh, damn. Not another complication. She nodded.
“They’ll verify the transmission first. If they consider it genuine, then they won’t. If they don’t, then they will.”
“So what could be a problem? You’ve been SDU for years.”
“The transmission is coming from a hostile aircraft, in a hostile area, with no evidence it isn’t being made under duress.”
Her stomach sank. Valid point. One she really hadn’t wanted to hear. “Then we have to trust Conlee to figure it out.” She frowned, swept her hair back from her face. “You know this trust business is really hard for me.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said, obviously catching her double meaning.
How could he so readily accept a lack of trust after all he’d done for her? But was he? Really? She didn’t want to trust him, but she was afraid she did. God, but she hated knowing that. Hated it. “I guess I have no choice.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” He spared her a glance. “Now we’re going home.”
&nbs
p; Sybil just stared at him. How could he sound so calm, so unaffected? So… normal? They’d nearly died several times and people had just been shooting at them, for God’s sake. This kind of stuff didn’t happen to Sybil. She fought with words and ideology, not with plane explosions, swamps, or guns and bullets. “You’re not worried that they’ll follow us?”
“If they do, we’ll handle it.” He angled his head, checked his gauges. “Sybil, don’t borrow trouble. Enough finds you on its own. For now you’re safe. Your Mr. Tibbs would tell you to enjoy it. I say grab a little rest if you can. When we get back to Washington, you’re going to be busy stopping the launch and briefing the president.”
“I don’t understand something. Our Search and Rescue teams are in the swamp. Why didn’t we just go find them? I know about the infiltrator, but they know me, Westford. They would have to know my orders supersede their current ones.”
His expression turned somber, and, in the reflection of the green and white instrument lights, she saw regret fill his eyes. “Someone on the inside has turned traitor. We don’t know what position he or she holds, but we know that person carries clout. Enough clout to issue orders that carry high odds of being obeyed—regardless of what you or anyone else says. Until we identify the traitor, I won’t risk compromising you.”
Having no idea what to say, she said nothing, just sat there with her stomach quivering and her insides rattling. It suddenly occurred to her how many times in the last two days she nearly had died and how many times Westford had put his life in jeopardy to help her. Her voice turned froggy. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, West-ford. Not just this time, but before you left me, too.”
“You’re welcome.” His expression softened. “Sybil, do you think you could call me Jonathan? Just once in a while?”
Jonathan. A soft name that shouldn’t suit him. West-ford came across hard: a bundle of lean muscle and sharp contradictions with blunt features and large, capable hands. Shoulders broad enough to carry his burdens and those of others. Spare with words, complaints, and praise. And yet the name suited him—and terrified her. She cared too much. Felt too close to him. Even if they wanted to deepen the bonds between them, there was her promise to David standing between them. She couldn’t compromise on that promise, but she could grant Jonathan this one small request. She just had to remember why she had agreed. “Thank you, Jonathan.”
“My pleasure.”
Getting shot at, jumping out of a plane without a parachute, nearly falling into quicksand when trying to get her out—his pleasure? Something hitched in her chest and filled her heart. Trust. She couldn’t deny it or doubt it, even though she had been firmly convinced she would never be able to trust another man. Somewhere along the way, he had managed to slip under her defenses. He was inside her now, a part of her, and, God help her, she trusted him completely.
Swamp fever?
Swamp fever… with a kick.
Still overwhelmed, she reached over and pressed her hand against his. “You don’t have to lie and say it was a pleasure, Jonathan. I know you’re only with me as a personal favor to David.”
How did he respond to that? Unsure, Jonathan kept silent, but he carried new insight. She felt he had left her, not the job on her guard detail. Her. That held promise, didn’t it?
She turned toward him. “May I ask you a question?”
Here it came. He refused to lie to her, and he couldn’t tell her the truth. The woman would be mortified. So would he. Loving her was one thing. Letting her know it with all the obstacles between them was another. “Sure.”
“Would you please stay with me until all of this is over?”
That question he hadn’t expected, but he understood it. Sybil Stone had more courage in her little finger than most people had in their entire body. She was brave and fiercely protective of her country and its kids. But right now she was also vulnerable, and she knew it. She needed someone she could trust. So she was taking a leap of faith, and trusting him. “You need me.”
“I said I did, and I do.” She dipped her chin. “And in case you can’t tell, I’m being honest, not sarcastic.”
Knowing what that had cost her, Jonathan admitted the inevitable. He had tried to avoid her physically and emotionally, and he had lost. He loved her anyway. He would love her the rest of his life. “Yes, I will stay with you.”
She gave him a gentle smile, squeezed his hand, and then softened her touch, lacing their fingertips and pressing their palms.
Jonathan suffered an emotional firestorm. Hesitation. Concern. Doubt. He swallowed hard, cut his gaze to look at her from the corner of his eye. She was staring straight at him. The physical intimacy wasn’t an unconscious reaction to their situation; it was intentional. Lady Liberty wasn’t in the seat beside him. Sybil Stone was, and this time she wasn’t touching him as part of a reaction to surviving a near-fatal incident. This time she knew exactly what she was doing.
Their feelings were mutual.
A rush of pure pleasure shot through him, and Jonathan gently squeezed her fingertips. Gathering his courage, he turned his head to look at her. She quickly looked away.
This, too, he understood. They both wanted the reassurance of touching, but she feared mentioning it as much as he did. Mention it, and you risk losing it.
Apparently, neither of them was willing to take that risk. And that was fine with him. Sometimes words just got in the way.
He stared through the windshield, the control lights casting a green and white glow through the cockpit. And when next he dared to look at her, Lady Liberty sat fast asleep.
Before Jonathan could celebrate, a transmission came through; this one directly from Conlee. “Incoming hostiles. ETA roughly three minutes.”
They were being followed, and in three minutes those hostiles would be all over them. Jonathan wasn’t armed. He dropped altitude, scanned the terrain, and located a thicket of woods to the east with a marginally acceptable clearing where he could land. The spot risked more exposure than he would like, but what choice did he have? He had no time and no arms.
Debating whether to alert Liberty, he hugged the trees, leaving just enough space for the props to function unhindered, decided against it, then set the chopper down and waited, his every nerve on full alert.
“ETA one minute.”
The beating of props sounded, and a Ballast chopper appeared over the treetops at ten o’clock. It was armed with an M230 and Sidewinder missiles. He didn’t want to think about what load it might be carrying that he couldn’t see.
They’d spotted him. Damn it! He couldn’t outrun them, couldn’t hide from them even in the weak dawn light, and he didn’t dare risk abandoning the chopper. There simply wasn’t time for him and Liberty to hike through more rough terrain to get back to D.C.
The chopper circled, came back, and hovered on the other side of the clearing. They couldn’t be lining up for a shot—at this proximity, any angle would be a gallery shoot. What the hell were they doing?
“Are they going to shoot us?” Fully awake, Sybil stared at the chopper.
“I don’t know.” Jonathan spotted a pair of binoculars near the dead man’s left leg. Scrambling, he grabbed them, returned to his seat, then lifted them to his eyes. The pilot was ticked, clearly arguing with a passenger.
Conlee’s voice sounded through the transmitter. “Stay put.”
Fight-or-flight adrenaline gushing through his veins, Jonathan watched and waited. Was someone on the Ballast chopper conversing with Conlee?
“You don’t smell death, right?”
He did. But not wanting to tell her that, he squinted against the weak dawn light slanting in through the windshield and spoke into the radio. “Visual confirmation on three. One’s pulled his gun.”
Sybil scurried from her seat, dug through the press equipment, but returned to her seat empty-handed. “Damn it, you’d think they’d have arms on this craft.”
“Press choppers don’t carry arms.” But the
men in this one had been armed to the gills.
“They don’t dress all in black like this guy, either.” She waved a hand at the dead body. “A box of bullets isn’t going to do us any good without a gun.”
“A gun can’t compete with Sidewinders and that M230.”
“Something would be nice.”
“The M230 fires 625 rounds per minute, Sybil. It’s a moot point.”
“They’re opening the door,” she said. “What are they tossing out?”
Jonathan regretted having to answer the question. “Bodies.”
First-Strike Launch 18:30:41
The phone ringing awakened Gregor Faust from a dead sleep.
Mandatory crew rest was three hours, but from the sluggish feel of his body, he had been down thirty minutes, max, and for command to break his crew rest, the news had to be bad. Steeling himself to hear it, he rolled over in bed, shoved a pillow out of his way, and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”
“Austin Stone is calling, sir.”
Stone phoning Gregor direct didn’t signal bad news, it signaled a crisis. “Put him through.” He sat up and rubbed at his face. His stubble of beard grated against his hand. He glanced at the bedside clock and converted the time— 5:30 A.M. in the swamp.
“She’s not dead.”
Austin. Never in his career had Gregor experienced more complications on a single mission. “So you’ve reported.”
“She stole a helicopter, Gregor. One of your helicopters. Even as we speak, she’s en route to D.C. And I suspect you have Ballast bodies in the swamp.”
Why hadn’t command briefed him on this before putting through the call?
“You picked the wrong man to cross.”
Not a declaration, a threat. From the one man on the planet who could make it Gregors nightmare. Fully awake, he shoved his legs into his slacks and rushed through the tunnels toward the command center. He could deny crossing Austin, but there was little use in it. They both knew the terms of their agreement. Austin aided Gregor in ending the Peris-Abdan peace talks, and Gregor facilitated the execution of Austin’s sole requirement: Lady Liberty’s death. “I gave the order to cancel her.”