by Mack Maloney
“Very, very little,” he replied. “But the trace I was able to suck out looked like orders for troop movements, moving air assets around, things like that. But that’s all I can see right now.”
“What could he be hiding more than the fact that he’s working with the French and Al Qaeda to shoot down a bunch of planes in his own country?” Ryder asked incredulously.
It was a good question. But no one had a clue as to what the answer might be. Another long silence. The world was back on their shoulders.
“So, what are we going to do?” Hunn asked again. “The clock is ticking here, and suddenly it looks like there isn’t enough minutes in a day for us ….”
Fox finally spoke up: “I say we proceed like we were going to anyway. This added complication with Rushton isn’t that big of a surprise, though personally I never thought he’d go so far as to actively aid the mooks with that low-grade-threat order on ground transport.
“But we’ll just have to deal with it while we are on the move. Getting an ID on those buses, figuring out what’s on that napkin, and stopping the mooks from shooting down airplanes is what we have to fix first. If not, we let a lot of people down. The whole country, in fact. And a lot of people will die, too. So, let’s get our stuff together, and whoever is leaving, let’s get to it.”
More silence. They were all tired, hungry, and miserable. No one wanted to move.
Then Ozzi said to Fox, “But what about Li?”
Fox thought for a very long time. He looked over at Ryder, the senior man, who just shrugged.
Finally Fox said, “Bring her in here and let her read everything, including those first two e-mail files. We’re going to need her help more than we thought. And we can’t keep her in the dark, not if she’s going to put herself at risk.”
Then he looked back at the two files “Fast Ball” and “Slow Curve,” which Bates had brought back onto the screen.
“And tell her she can stop looking for Bobby Murphy, too,” Fox added. “Because I think we just found him.”
PART TWO
The Sky Horse
Chapter 8
Cape lonely Coast Guard station, somewhere on the East Coast
There’s a full moon up there, somewhere, thought Master Chief Eddie Finch (Ret.), watching the low clouds blowing over his head. At least I think there is ….
He was on his knees, a large flashlight in one hand and a pair of hedge clippers in the other. A small hatchet was close by, too, but he was woefully unprepared for the job that lay ahead of him. He was cutting down weeds, hundreds of them, poking through the cracks in the old CG airstrip. Some were the size of small trees, thus the hatchet. But he’d been at it for nearly four hours now and he was still only a third of the way up the 3,600-foot runway. A very strange way to spend a Saturday evening.
It was almost midnight. Finch was cold, and it was dark without the moon, and, at 62 years old, he knew this was going to leave his knees in agony for weeks. Still he kept pulling and chopping. The job had to be done, because an old friend had asked him to do it.
An old friend named Bobby Murphy.
Cape Lonely Air Station was the most isolated CG base on the Atlantic seaboard. It was built on a cliff nearly 300 feet above the ocean. Six hundred acres, held in by a rusty chain-link fence, the road to get here ran two miles through a thick pine forest. A wildlife preserve bordered the station on the north; a 20-mile stretch of empty sand dunes and beach lay to its south. The closest highway, old U.S. Route 3, was more than 35 miles away.
There was a time, though, when Cape Lonely was the busiest Coast Guard station on the East Coast. CG aircraft from all over came here for engine change-outs and maintenance checks. New pilots endlessly practiced touch-and-go landings on its extra-wide runway. But that was back when the Coast Guard not only rescued people in peril but also searched for Russian submarines. Ten years ago, the base had been downsized to the point of nonexistence. It was like a ghost town now.
The only two things of value left at Cape Lonely were a small lighthouse and a Loran radio navigation positioning hut. Both ran automatically. An administration building, some support huts, and four dilapidated aircraft hangars were the only other structures remaining of the once-bustling air station. Behind the hangars was an aeronautical junkyard, a place where old CG aircraft had come to die. Airframes, big and small, wings, tail sections, landing gear assemblies, all rotting away, many leaking nasty fluids into the soil. No surprise, Cape Lonely was a hazardous waste site, too.
The wind was really starting to blow now and Eddie Finch knew rain might not be far away. He yanked up a milkweed that was the size of a small conifer. He was amazed at the size of some of the plant life up here. Must be all that chemical crap in the ground, he’d thought more than once.
He finally stopped for a much-needed breather; he hadn’t worked this hard since he’d retired 10 years ago. He checked his watch. It was a few minutes past twelve. He looked down the remaining length of runway and groaned. God, did he still have a long haul ahead of him!
He was not up here alone at least. Not exactly anyway. Way down in Hangar 4A, he could see a very dull light peeking out from beneath the huge rusty door. You’d think a couple of those guys would come out here and help me pull weeds, he thought. But then again, they had their jobs to do as well.
Finch put his head down and got back to work. But suddenly from behind him came a strange sound. Even though he was alone on the old runway moments before, five armed men had materialized out of nowhere and were now standing over him. They were clad in weird black suits and ski masks and carrying rifles. Each man was also wearing a black rain poncho, all five blowing mightily in the wind. They seemed frightening, dangerous even, if a little frayed around the edges. Like a SWAT team that had lost its way.
Finch just looked up at them, though, and said, “Oh, it’s only you guys ….”
It was the ghost team minus Hunn and Ozzi — Fox, Puglisi, Bates, Gallant, and Ryder — and all five were still miserable. It had been a long, hot trip down here in Li’s very small car, with all their gear. They hadn’t eaten anything of substance really and were down to rationing cigarettes. Except for a few interrupted naps, none of them had slept much since busting out of Gitmo seven days ago. Add in the headful of stuff they’d just learned up in D.C., the result was they were all feeling punchy.
They trooped inside the admin building now. It was a four-story cement block structure, its white paint all but chipped away, located on the other side of the landing strip from the cliff. Finch led them down to the large mess hall, a reminder of the former glory of this place. The interior looked like something from a time capsule, though, right down to the yellowed recruiting posters falling off the walls. An old Coleman lantern provided the only light these days. Finch produced a pot of coffee and five paper cups but then said, “Sorry, we’re outta cream and sugar.”
The five men collapsed into metal folding chairs set up around a cafeteria-style table. “Just as long as it’s hot,” Fox mumbled.
They’d just taken their first tentative sips of the coffee when, far at the other end of the mess hall, another door opened and eight very elderly men, dressed as if they had just come off the golf course, filed in and sat down. This was strange …. The old guys exchanged glances with the team members, but there was no formal greeting.
Finch finished pouring coffee for the team, then walked across the mess hall and had a brief conversation with the group of elderly men. When he returned, he had a bag of doughnuts with him. He passed them out to the ghosts.
“Those old boys hate to see anyone go hungry,” Finch told them.
Finch himself looked like a trim Santa Claus. White hair, white beard, Saint Nick after a year on Atkins. An NCO in the Coast Guard Reserves, he’d been stationed here at Cape Lonely, off and on, from 1964 until it went nonstatus a decade ago. A bit stooped over, with very thick glasses, he could have been mistaken for a retired grocer or a banker.
But he’d
been a godsend to the ghost team. And not just for the coffee and doughnuts.
If not for him, they would all probably be back in prison.
“I won’t ask you how it went up in D.C.,” he said to Fox now. “I’m just glad you made it back in one piece.”
“We’re not staying very long this time, either, I hope,” Fox replied, checking his watch. It was almost twelve-fifteen. By his reckoning, they were already three hours behind schedule. “We’ve got to get moving as soon as possible.”
Finch just nodded toward the elderly men at the other end of the mess. “We’re ready on this end,” he said. “All of use ….”
Fox took a huge bite of a doughnut and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.
“Why were you out there pulling weeds on the runway?” Fox asked. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
Finch rubbed his aching knees. “‘Our mutual friend’ said that we might be needing the airstrip again soon. Not for you guys. But maybe for something else. That would make it twice in about twenty years.”
Fox thought about this for a moment—why would they be needing the runway again? he wondered. But then he just went back to his doughnut. He already had enough weirdness floating around his head; he didn’t need to be thinking about something else.
The others ate and drank their coffee, too, but their respite would indeed be brief. Between bites, Puglisi checked over the team’s small cache of weapons, now minus the hunting rifle. Gallant meanwhile had been carrying most of their ammunition in a backpack. He now laid it all out on a nearby table, making sure none of the rounds had come apart or got wet. Right beside him, Bates unwrapped his laptop, plugged it into an ancient phone jack, and was soon on-line. As for Ryder, he had other things to do. He drained his coffee quickly, lit one of his last cigarettes, then grabbed a flashlight and headed back outside.
The clouds above were still heavy, and fast moving, but the moon was finally poking through in a few places. He walked to the edge of the cliff, for a moment looking down at the sea crashing against the rocks below. Finch had told them earlier that when the government finally closed this place sometime in the coming year it was going to be developed for luxury condominiums. Three levels, ocean views, very private location.
Nice place to live, Ryder thought. If I had a million bucks …
He power-dragged the cigarette to its end, then flicked the expended butt over the side of the cliff, watching the tiny orange glow all the way down. Then he started across the wide, broken runway.
The four old hangars were all the same size, and all four were in the same state of disrepair. Ryder walked up to the first hangar and examined its padlock. He took a key from his pocket and tried to put it in, but the lock would not cooperate. He tried again — still no luck. The lock was rusty even though it had been placed here just a week before. The salt air had already corroded it.
Maybe not such a good place to live, Ryder thought.
The key finally slipped in and the lock popped open. It was so suddenly unleashed, though, the door abruptly swung out a foot, nearly knocking Ryder on his ass. He managed to push it back in place and roll it open. Then he turned on the flashlight and pointed it into the hangar.
That’s when he saw the airplane again. The Transall-2 turboprop special. The cargo plane from hell. Former owner: the Iranian Air Force.
The plane was a mess. There were small trees still wrapped around its wings, clumps of weeds still stuck in its engines. It was covered with sea salt, some of it thick as mud. All of the wing-mounted landing lights had been shattered, as were two of the eight cockpit windows. Of the 16 tires on the craft’s landing gear, a half-dozen were flat.
It looked like a shitbox on wings, but it had carried them here, somehow, from Cuba, so from that point of view it wasn’t a shitbox at all. In fact, it had played a very crucial role in their escape. Busting out of Guantanamo, was one story. It was getting here that had been the really hard part.
Using purloined weapons and shackle keys they’d hidden in the crotches of their prison uniforms, the ghosts had taken control of the transfer plane as soon as it lifted off from Gitmo. The three Iranians onboard took a swim for Allah — considering their no-win situation, it would have happened to them sooner or later. With Ryder and Gallant flying the plane, they’d climbed to 7,200 feet but not any higher, a wise choice, as it turned out. The Transall-2 was not that difficult a plane to fly, in good weather, that is. But at night, in the middle of a small hurricane, it proved a bitch. The fierce storm had been their one and only cover, though, and it topped out at 7,500 feet. As bumpy as it was, they’d been forced to stay in the thick of it if their escape plan had any chance of succeeding.
Just seconds after they’d reached 7,200 feet, Bates plugged a small handheld device called a signal diverter (slipped to him by one of the Marine guards) into the plane’s flight computer. With just a few buttons pushed, Bates was soon manipulating every primary control on the airplane except steering and throttles. He then began punching commands directly into the flight computer itself, intentionally overloading it. It actually made a sizzling sound before it finally went kaput. At this point Ryder and Gallant had to start flying the plane manually, no hydraulic assists, no autopilot, just muscles and wires. Then Bates pushed one last button, sending a barrage of false signals to the plane’s safety control systems: its environmental suite, its temperature sensors, and most especially its flight data recorder. These bogus signals were designed to do one thing: mimic a sudden explosive fire aboard the aircraft.
At that moment, Ryder and Gallant put the plane into a gut-wrenching dive, this while the others onboard held on for their lives. Ten seconds into this plunge, Bates administered the coup de grâce, blacking out all communications, both electronic and radio, from the plane. To anyone monitoring the flight, like the air traffic controllers at Guantanamo, it appeared the Transall had suffered a massive short-circuit, then a fire, then an explosion that literally blew it out of the sky. Even the air safety computers in the Gitmo control tower had been footled. Automatically clicking into a search and rescue program, one studied the last signals from the plane and concluded that not only would nothing bigger than a seat cushion be found at the crash site but also the storm would scatter the wreckage for miles.
It was only because Ryder and Gallant were able to pull the plane out of its death dive at 500 feet that some kind of crash didn’t occur. The plunge had rattled every nut and bolt onboard and had shattered most of the interior lights as well. Once level, though, they’d brought the plane down even lower, right to the wave tops, below any radar net they knew of, U.S., Cuban, or otherwise.
Only then did they turn north. Toward America. If they remained at this altitude, they thought, and the weather stayed awful, they just might be able to sneak up the East Coast and reach their destination in just a couple hours. At least that was the plan.
It was brutally turbulent, though, and the plane had sounded like it would come apart at any moment. But the escapees breathed a sigh of relief once they left Cuban airspace. It appeared their ruse had worked. They’d even relaxed a little, hoping to maybe see the dull lights of the Florida coastline through the storm. Up to that point, it had been so far, so good.
Then they found the bomb.
It had been taped to the roof of the tiny modular commode squeezed in behind the flight deck’s engineering station. Placed there days before, no doubt, by a member of Iran’s notorious secret police, it was discovered when Puglisi went into the Porta Potti to take a leak and smelled the distinctly sweet odor of plastique. He’d quickly informed the others, and it didn’t take much brainpower to realize the Iranian mullahs had intended to blow up the transfer plane all along.
Luckily, Puglisi knew about bombs, including ones like this. Hooked to a primitive altimeter assembly, it had been set to go off once the plane reached 7,500 feet. That’s why it had been wise, if not totally dumb luck, that Ryder and Gallant had leveled off at 7,200. They’d
come within 300 feet of blowing themselves to Kingdom Come.
Disarming the bomb was another matter. It was very crude and unstable. The altimeter-trigger assembly was held together by nothing more than an elastic band. Rather than defusing it and taking the chance of something going wrong, Puglisi strongly suggested that they stay as low as possible and take care of the bomb once they were on the ground. Of course, flying low had been part of the plan all along. Ryder and Gallant had already been busting arm and ass just keeping the damn plane a few feet above the minitsunamis kicked up by the Atlantic gale. One wrong move and it would have been all over for them very, very quickly.
The anxiety of the bomb, the shitty overall condition of the airplane, the fact that despite all their deceptions, they still might be picked up on U.S. radar, and that would mean facing at least a couple all-weather-equipped F-15s or F-16s whose pilots would be working under the post-9/11 rules of shoot first and ask questions later — all these things had made the dash up the stormy Atlantic seaboard a bit uncomfortable, to say the least.
“We might wind up in the drink yet,” Gallant had said more than once during the trip.
So it was almost a surprise when, 122 minutes later, they’d found themselves approaching the tiny isthmus called Cape Lonely.
The storm had been almost as bad here as down at Gitmo, which was a good thing, because it had indeed helped mask their flight up. But at that point, they needed to get some air under them to rise above the cliff, turn around, and land. Though loath to go up even an inch, Ryder and Gallant had eased the balky craft to a hair-raising 3,000 feet. They didn’t linger there for very long, though. Putting the plane into a wide bank, they lined the nose up with the northern end of the runway and started back down. They’d had no contact with anyone on the ground, of course. This was strictly a seat-of-the-pants landing. No lights. No wind direction. So it wasn’t until the very last instant that they realized the airstrip was badly in need of a haircut. They came down in a small forest of ragweed and nettle, hitting hard and fast. Ryder and Gallant had to stand on the brakes with such force, three tires blew out—Pop! Pop! Pop! — one right after another, each one sounding, yes, just like a small bomb going off.