The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  Blaine gave the engine more gas and flew past a sign that said GOAT ISLAND. He followed the arrows and asked the pickup for still more speed. He had been on the exclusive Goat Island once years before for a social gathering. It was a small island, dominated by luxuriously expensive condominiums, harbors, and a well-known Sheraton booked several summers in advance. Hardly the ideal spot to hide out—no island was—but it was all he had. He streamed toward the causeway linking Goat Island with Newport, screeching into turns and corners, the engine screaming as he demanded more of it down the brief straightaways. Behind him the tailing cars held their positions, twin shadows in the night.

  The causeway came up fast and McCracken’s teeth clamped together as the pickup’s tires thumped onto it. The cars followed him down it side by side. Blaine heard the loud blast of a shotgun and started swaying from side to side to make himself a more elusive target. Then the stacatto song of a machine gun found his ears an instant before the back window exploded, showering him with glass. A few ragged splinters found their way into his neck and scalp. He grimaced against the pain and straightened the pickup out, giving it all the gas it would take.

  He saw the Sheraton clearly now, along with the large island marina virtually deserted for the winter. And there was something else.

  A pair of cars were parked facing each other to block the end of the causeway. Men were positioned behind them, bracing weapons on roofs. A bright light caught McCracken’s eyes and blinded him just before the fire began. He managed to duck low beneath the windshield, but in the process his foot momentarily lost the gas pedal. The tailing cars drew up on top of him and sprayed the cab with automatic fire. The bullets passed just over Blaine’s head as he struggled to hold the wheel steady, his intention being to ram the pickup right through the makeshift barricade.

  An extra loud blast assaulted his ears, followed by another similar one, and then the truck wavered out of his grasp.

  They had shot out the tires!

  Blaine struggled for control, but it was gone. The pickup squealed right, and then suddenly left, crashing over the right side rail just before the causeway’s end.

  McCracken braced for impact against the hard sea, but it came too fast for him and then the water was everywhere, drenching him with a black cold, the mouth of a great beast opened to swallow, sucking him down.

  Chapter 20

  “ANYTHING?” WELLS ASKED the man coordinating the search through the frigid waters.

  “No sign of him,” he reported, lowering his binoculars. “No one could have survived that crash. He’s drowned.”

  The bright floodlights continued to sweep over the water and nearby shore.

  “I want more men and a helicopter,” Wells ordered. “And I want them now.”

  “That would attract even more attention than we have already,” the man cautioned.

  “I don’t care. I want McCracken.”

  “He can’t still be alive. Besides, it’ll be dawn soon and—”

  Wells’s hand came out in a blur and locked onto the man’s throat, shutting off his air. He lifted the figure up until his toes scraped against the causeway.

  “I believe my orders were clear,” Wells said coolly. “They do not need elaboration or comment. Am I correct?”

  Blue-faced, the man nodded.

  “Good.” Wells lowered him back to the pavement.

  “Now, do it.”

  The man scampered away, hunched over.

  Wells knew McCracken was out there, still in the water probably. Men like him didn’t die easily. Others had failed in their assignments to eliminate him, and now Wells had failed too. He was not used to failure. If they had let him handle McCracken at the hospital instead of sending Scola, none of this would have been necessary. Now Wells felt the frustration gnawing at him as the floodlights continued to sweep the area around where the truck had crashed over the rail.

  McCracken was still out there all right, and Wells meant to find him because now it was more personal than ever. He had destroyed his army career in ’Nam and embarrassed him tonight. There remained forty minutes until dawn’s first light, and he meant to have the bastard dead or in tow by then.

  Wells cursed the whole episode under his breath.

  Blaine swam slowly. He stayed with the currents and kept below the surface as long as he could between breaths. Every ten yards or so his lungs would thirst for air and he would satisfy them with a quick poke above the surface. A few times he had been caught in the spill of the floodlights and felt the panic swell within him, until he realized he hadn’t been seen.

  His plan was to swim out beyond reach of the lights and around the small island where it bent to the left. Then he could make his move toward shore. He had just a little more space to cover, but his strokes had grown stiffer. The cold bay waters were taking their toll. His lungs began craving air every other motion, and he did his best to appease them. His body had ceased its frantic shaking, but he knew this was only temporary. Once he reached the shore and was greeted by wind and temperatures not even half that of the water, hypothermia would be a definite possibility: frostbite, too, if he lived that long. He wondered how long he could move under those circumstances, wondered how effective he would be if Wells and his henchmen caught up with him again.

  Not very, Blaine regretted. Still, he stroked.

  At last the sweep of the floodlights failed to catch him. He had passed the end of the island and stroked to the left, making for shore in slow, even motions so as not to disturb the currents or risk a splash that might catch someone’s attention. The shoreline of Goat Island was rocky, and his hands were scraped by the jagged rocks as he crawled onto land. A deep repose fell over him. He wanted just to lie there on the shore, to sleep for a brief period before forcing himself on.

  No! The peace and sudden warmth were illusions cast by his exhaustion. If he slept now, it would mean death whether Wells caught up with him or not. Even if he kept active, though, the cold would kill him. He could feel it seeping through his flesh, turning his very bones brittle. He had to get a heavy jacket to ward off the chill.

  Above him footsteps crunched snow. McCracken kept still and low as a flashlight swept over the general area. It made another pass, then the footsteps started up again. It had to be one of Wells’s sentries, and the man was alone. Blaine crept down the narrow shore toward the flashlight’s beam. As he neared it and made out the shape of its bearer not more than ten yards off, he climbed to the road and charged forward with caution thrown to the cold wind.

  The sentry turned much too late and felt Blaine’s fist hammer him before his eyes even had a chance to focus. Seconds later McCracken pulled his arms through the man’s heavy coat. The warmth vanquished his chill almost immediately. The chattering of his teeth slowed, then vanished altogether as he started down the road, leery of more of Wells’s guards appearing in his path.

  Blaine tried to increase his pace, but his heart and lungs rebelled. Exhaustion swept over him. He felt cold again. The exertion from the chase and subsequent swim had proven even more a strain than he’d thought. The water on the legs of his fatigues had caked into ice, and he heard it crackling as he moved. Thank God for the coat. …

  The Sheraton Islander loomed to his right and made a warm, inviting target. But that would be the first place Wells would expect him to go and there wouldn’t be a chance of his even getting through the front door. His only alternative was to keep walking, playing the role of the guard whose coat he was wearing. There was no one around to question him. He kept his pace measured and gave the impression he was searching for someone. He was buying himself time, and with time came a chance.

  He passed the causeway entrance cluttered with troops, his heart lunging against his rib cage. He kept walking through a parking lot into the marina complex where row after row of docks were reserved for summer boaters. None was present to offer him escape.

  Except …

  It was the yellow cover at the far edge of the doc
ks that grabbed his attention first, and then the ramp angling up the water. He quickened his pace just a bit, eyes sharpening on his target. Almost there now.

  His fingers scraped the sleek hull of a speedboat, a pair of potent engines peeking out from beneath the cover. No room for hesitation at this point.

  In rapid fashion McCracken stripped off the yellow cover and unfastened the bolts that held the speedboat on the ramp. He noted it was called the Sting and gave it a little shove where the likeness of a bumblebee was painted to get it started down.

  “Hey, what are you doing!” The shout came from the direction of the causeway and was followed by trampling feet.

  Blaine vaulted over the boat’s side and hit the cold, carpeted deck just as the Sting smacked the water.

  “Over there! Over there!”

  It drifted into the bay as bullets began streaking at him. They shattered the boat’s windshield and covered Blaine with glass while he rested faceup under the dash toying with the starter wires. He twisted the proper two together and the boat coughed, then roared to life with the fury of a rocket ship. Blaine glanced behind him and saw why.

  The Sting was equipped with twin 220 horsepower engines, which made for incredible power. Blaine gunned them for all they could give. The boat’s nose lifted off the water, and it tore off into the bay like a horse free of the corral at long last. When he finally raised himself fully up, satisfied that he was out of the bullets’ range, the speedometer was flirting with the seventy-mile-per-hour mark. The din of enemy fire had all but subsided. The men would be waiting for reinforcements. No matter. Unless they had a boat to equal the Sting, Blaine had just bid them farewell.

  He looked around to get his bearings. He knew this was an inlet of Narragansett Bay, knew that reasonable civilization would be found by dawn by simply following it. For the first time since landing in Newport, he relaxed. He was still freezing, and his teeth chattered madly. The bay was free of other boat traffic, but he did his best to avoid numerous floating ice chunks. Traveling at eighty now, he neared the end of the inlet and switched on the Sting’s running lights.

  His ears registered the distant whirl and passed it off at first to the racing of the Sting’s twin engines in the open waters. When it intensified, his eyes swept about him just as the spotlight caught his boat in its beam.

  A helicopter! A goddamn fucking helicopter!

  Good old Wells certainly didn’t give up easy.

  The helicopter raced over him with a man perched precariously on the edge firing down with a machine gun. Blaine swung the Sting around in a narrow arc and headed back for the inlet. The chopper compensated with a wider swing and gave chase.

  The boat’s speed had topped ninety, when the helicopter roared overhead again. Blaine swung the wheel hard to the right to steer out of the inlet once more. The chopper lagged a bit. It rose a little to aid its maneuverability, though this would make it even harder for the machine gunner to find his mark. But even if the helicopter did nothing more than contain the Sting, that was good enough. Wells probably had an entire army on the way.

  The Sting leaped through the water, and Blaine had to grip the wheel as tightly as he could just to control the boat. The frigid wind whipped into his face, and when his tongue tried to wet his lips, he realized he had lost feeling in them as well.

  The chopper’s gunner sprayed the craft randomly, containment his goal, but his aim nonetheless right on the mark. The dashboard exploded in splinters and the Sting danced wildly for an instant when Blaine recoiled to avoid being hit by the pieces. Something sliced into his shoulder, a bullet graze or hunk of debris; he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The cold numbed it quickly, which made the warm flow of blood slipping out an even stranger sensation than at normal temperatures.

  McCracken had turned the boat back into the inlet, when the chopper passed overhead again. The gunner’s spray of bullets was a bit off this time, but one lucky burst found the fuel tanks and punctured them. The sharp smell of gasoline poured into Blaine’s nostrils and he watched the yellowish liquid spill up to the deck from below. In seconds he’d be floating dead in the water, a sitting duck for the gunner in the helicopter. Another swim was unthinkable; he’d never survive it, especially now, with a wounded shoulder.

  What did that leave him with?

  The Sting still rode the waters gracefully, as if unaware of its mortal wound. The spill of the chopper’s spotlight caught its shattered dashboard, and something red caught Blaine’s eye. He grasped for it and touched metal under the steering wheel. He yanked it free and saw it was an emergency kit complete with flare gun. He undid the latch with one hand while he controlled the Sting with the other.

  The flare gun fit neatly into its slot. Beneath it lay a single flare. Fired properly into a vulnerable area, it was as good as a hand grenade.

  McCracken could take no chances. He pulled the flare from its slot and held it low on the deck to soak up some of the gasoline. This would increase its explosive properties.

  The chopper roared overhead again, unleashing more rounds at the boat, which had begun to lose speed and sputter.

  McCracken popped the flare gun open and slid the flare home, snapped it shut, and tested the trigger. He would get only one shot. It would have to be good. The Sting’s engine sputtered, caught, then sputtered again. As its speed faded, Blaine aimed it toward the ice-crusted shore. The slowing boat made a more welcome target for the chopper, which came in slower, sensing the kill.

  McCracken played with the wheel. He darted left and right to put up a good front, the flare gun grasped tightly in his right hand.

  He didn’t raise it until the machine-gun fire raged dangerously close and the helicopter loomed straight overhead. At that point it took barely a second for him to bring the gun up and aim it, even less for him to press the trigger.

  The flare sped out toward the chopper with a pop.

  The half-darkness of the approaching dawn was shattered by the fireball, a single orange sphere that belched black smoke and coughed steel. Only the Sting’s last burst of speed saved him from the killing shower of shrapnel and debris. The engine lasted until he was wading distance from shore and conked out at the same moment the chopper’s smoking carcass hit the water to start its slow sink.

  Blaine hurled himself over the Sting’s side and patted it like a loyal pet. He was in waist-deep water and moved toward the shore, above which stood a huge mansion converted into condo units. The climb up was steep, handholds available but difficult to manage with the ice.

  Just as the sun’s first light found the bay, McCracken pushed himself over the edge and found himself staring at a hot tub bubbling away with two couples starting the morning, or ending the night, inside.

  Blaine started toward them, fatigues heavy with water already starting to freeze. He was shivering, but he knew a smile had forced itself out on the face he could barely feel.

  “Care to join the party?” asked one of the women in the tub, obviously drunk. All the inhabitants had allowed their drinks to float away from them on the steaming water.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Blaine said, plunging in with all his clothes on.

  “Were you in that plane that just crashed on the water?” one of the men asked.

  “What plane?” McCracken returned, and then he tucked his head under the water.

  The female occupants of the hot tub took turns telling Blaine where he had ended up. This was the Manor House, they explained, the most exclusive condo complex of the exclusive Bonniecrest Village. They had bought their unit for $200,000 and already it was worth twice that. Wasn’t that something, they wanted to know.

  Blaine said it was.

  Time was foremost on his mind now, time and the fact that Wells wouldn’t be giving up the chase for the loss of one helicopter. He might try to barricade the entire area to close in on his quarry once and for all. But it was morning now and residents of this Newport community would soon be on their way to work. Wells had his
work cut out for him if he expected to find McCracken in all the activity.

  After forty minutes in the hot tub to get his circulation going again, Blaine accepted a bathrobe and change of clothes. Before donning the undersized garments, he swabbed and bandaged his shoulder wound. It had proved to be merely a scratch. These people were being most hospitable and he made a mental note to return the favor someday. He could begin by leaving the condo as soon as possible. First, though, a phone call was necessary. He hadn’t reported in for almost two days now. He had plenty to tell Stimson, enough for the Gap to move on Sahhan and Krayman, and to start looking for the mercenary troops scattered across the country.

  Sahhan’s troops would strike at the innocent and the mercenaries would strike at the troops with Krayman the force behind them both. The why of it all eluded Blaine, but he knew that was only because there was something he wasn’t seeing yet. Krayman was a pragmatic man. This plan had been in the works for years at least. Nothing was being left to chance.

  Blaine used the phone in a bedroom to dial Stimson’s private number. A beep sounded, followed by the whining drone of a tape unspooling.

  “The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”

  Silence followed, replaced swiftly by a dial tone.

  Blaine searched his memory. Could he have dialed the wrong number? He tried again.

  “The number you have—”

  Blaine replaced the receiver. Stimson’s private number rang wherever he was: car, home, office, anywhere. McCracken considered the worst ramification of the line’s disconnection and dismissed it because it was the one thing he could not afford. The idea of Stimson being dead was unthinkable. Certainly there was another explanation.

  Blaine dialed the normal Gap emergency exchange. Another tape-recorded voice greeted him.

  “Please leave your number. Your call will be returned immediately.”