A new taste of reality for the equation.
“They can survive,” said the president. “They’re Navy SEALs. They’re the best in the world. I will not have it said that I did not give them every chance. Stop screening vessels and get those ships into search-and-rescue mode, every available ship that isn’t needed for the blockade. Is that clear?”
“We’re very likely to have more casualties before the end of the day, Mr. President,” said Hirshberg.
“Let’s hope they’re all on the other side,” said the general.
“Hoping is not going to make it happen,” said Hirshberg. “Most of our troops going in are green. Only the commanding officer and five of his non-coms have any combat experience.”
“We’ve got firepower and training on our side,” said the general.
“I certainly hope so,” said Hirshberg. “Because we’re going to need that, and a lot of luck, if we’re going to find that bomb before they detonate it.”
“Sy, see if we can make contact with the SEALs on that island. Tell them that help is on the way.”
“They know that, Mr. President. The Coast Guard told them to stay away from the bunkers, that they were targeted.”
“Good. That’s something anyway.”
“I’d better get back and see if there’s anymore communiqués,” said Hirshberg.
“Let us know the second you hear anything,” said the president.
APPROACHING KEYSTONE, WHIDBEY ISLAND, WA
The Coast Guard vessel was showing red and blue lights, flashing like strobes over the roof of the bridge as its bow cut across the wake of the slower-moving LCS and pulled in behind it. It closed the distance quickly. The Humping Goose was no match for the fast and nimble Coast Guard patrol boat.
Oscar Chaney saw it in the mirror of the truck as he sat behind the wheel. He rolled down the passenger-side window and leaned low over the seat in order to look up at the wheelhouse.
The skipper slid open the window.
“What do they want?” asked Chaney.
“They want us to stop so they can board and inspect.” Nat Hobbs leaned out of the wheelhouse window and yelled down to Chaney. Hobbs was wearing a Greek captain’s cap that looked like it was molting little blue balls of fuzz. His face was smudged with oil and his jumper had seen enough sweat to stand in the corner without Hobbs in it.
Chaney looked at the ferry dock less than a quarter of a mile away. He noticed two State Patrol cars parked near the ferry building and what looked like an older blue Customs Department vehicle.
“I hope you’re not on a tight schedule,” said Hobbs. “I’m gonna have to stop.”
“Gotta do what you gotta do,” said Chaney.
“I could try and put in for the dock, but if I jack ‘em around we may get the full nine yards. I’ll be tied up at the dock for two hours for a safety inspection while they hassle the hell outta me with forms.”
To Chaney it sounded like Hobbs might not pass. He didn’t say a word but rolled up the window as if to say the call belonged to Hobbs. At the same time, he reached under the seat cushion on the passenger side of the truck and slid the .45 semiautomatic across the seat and into the belt of his pants. He pulled his sweater down over the handle, then ran his hand along the back of his leg and into the top of his boot to feel for the hilt of the large Bowie knife inside.
He opened the door of the truck and stepped down. The Kalashnikov was under the seat, fully loaded with a fifty-round Slip. It could be fired on full automatic, and there were six more loaded clips lying beside it, but it was no match for the mounted gun on the bow of the Coast Guard boat.
Chaney glanced with one eye behind the seat, just enough to catch a glimpse of the red metal ring attached to a light cable. The cable ran through a hole in the back of the truck’s cab and from there into the welded tank on the back. It was connected to a timed detonator and eight pounds of C-4 plastique. This was mounted just underneath the device. If all else failed, Chaney could pull the ring. He would then have exactly ninety seconds to hit the water and swim as fast as he could, against the direction of the wind.
The explosion would not go nuclear, but it would blow the truck into the air, rupture the tank, and send highly radioactive plutonium dust into the wind. If he waited until the Coast Guard boat was tied up alongside, the ensuing chaos might give him time to get away. What he needed now was to stall for time, control of the boat.
Chaney closed the truck door but didn’t lock it, then walked toward the stern of the Humping Goose and climbed the short ladder to the wheelhouse.
When he got there, Hobbs was on the radio.
“You guys just inspected me last month.” Hobbs let up on the button to the microphone and turned to see his passenger.
“We see one truck onboard,” said the Coast Guard. “How many passengers?”
“Just one. Just the one truck,” said Hobbs.
“What’s on the truck?” asked the Coast Guard.
“It’s a septic truck. You wanna look inside?”
There was a delay, several seconds at the other end.
“We are under orders to board and search all vessels in this area. You are ordered to come to a dead stop and prepare for boarding. Is that understood?”
“Shit.” Hobbs didn’t press the mike button, but said it to himself.
“At least let me clear the channel to the ferry landing,” said Hobbs. “Unless you want an accident.”
Again there was a delay from the Coast Guard end.
“You better get down to your truck. Sounds like they’re gonna want to look and see what’s inside,” Hobbs told Chancy.
“Affirmative,” said the Coast Guard. “We will follow you into the channel.”
Hobbs hung the microphone up on the radio receiver set, like he wanted to break off the knob that held it.
“Son of a bitch. They think I got nothin’ else to do.” He was now talking to himself. “I hope they bring their fancy white dress gloves.” He kicked the two throttle handles for the twin diesels from idle to full-ahead, while he steered the Humping Goose back out into the open channel. He didn’t pay any attention to the fact that Chaney was still behind him. “I guarantee you those dandies aren’t gonna want to look inside your truck. One whiff, and they’ll take their starched uniforms back to their boat and disappear. In the meantime, I’ll lose an hour screwing around.”
THE SQUARED-OFF BOW of the Humping Goose was designed to drop like a World War II landing craft. It formed a hydraulic bridge that allowed cars and trucks to drive onto a beach or more usually a private boat ramp. The captain of the Coast Guard boat watched as it plowed the water in its own ponderous way back out toward the channel and the rougher waters that fed the Straits of Juan de Fuca from the North Pacific.
In five minutes, they had gone more than a mile.
“Humping Goose, Humping Goose, this is the Coast Guard. How far out are you going?”
The Coast Guard captain released the mike button and listened. There was no response.
“Private ferry, do you read? This is the Coast Guard.” The radio channel opened and all the officer heard was static. He was about to punch the button to speak one more time, when the frequency suddenly came to life.
“Coast Guard. This is the Humping Goose. I wanna get well clear of the channel,” the voice came back over the radio.
“You’re now in safe waters,” said the Coast Guard officer. “Cut your engines and prepare for boarding.”
Suddenly one of the enlisted men came onto the bridge. “Sir, communiqué from Everett.” He handed the captain a slip of paper with a typed message.
The Coast Guard officer was still watching the stern of the old rusted-out LCS bearing the chipped green paint and the words Humping Goose across the broad transom. There was no sign that its engines were slowing.
The captain looked down and read the message in his hand, then fumed and shook his head. He opened the channel again. “To the working boat Humping Goose, do
you read? There has been a change in our orders. We are being diverted to air-sea rescue in the north sound. Thank you for your cooperation. You are free to put in at Keystone. Repeat. You are free to put in at Keystone.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” The reply came back.
The Coast Guard boat cut a sharp swathe across the wake of the Goose and bounced into high speed as she overtook the slower vessel on her port side. The officers on the bridge didn’t pay much attention to the working boat’s captain with his greasy face and Greek sea cap as he waved and smiled at them from the open window of the wheelhouse. The Coast Guard boat sped away and cut across the Goose’s course two hundred yards ahead before making the turn back north.
OSCAR CHANEY TOOK the hat off his head and dropped it onto the deck of the wheelhouse as he steered a course south down the channel. Change of plans. He wasn’t going to Keystone or any other public dock. They were looking for something, and Chaney knew what it was. He glanced over his shoulder at the river of blood that began to dam near the threshold of the wheelhouse door. The big knife had not only cut the jugular vein and carotid arteries, it had all but severed Nat Hobbs’s head.
PADGET ISLAND, WA
The trees, large evergreens, some of them ninety feet tall, looked like the charred masts of a wrecked fleet. They had been limbed, some of them snapped in half by the aerial howitzer rounds from the gunship. Every third tree seemed to be missing its top. Many of them were still burning.
The howitzer had not been as effective as originally believed. The dense foliage had caused many of the rounds to explode high in the trees. Still there were bodies everywhere.
Gideon counted at least eight dead in the fifty feet around the area cleared for the helicopter landing pad. He jumped out behind the colonel and ran at a crouch until they cleared the rotor wash.
“I want you to stay here, Mr. van Ry.” The colonel turned and looked at him. “I will leave one of my men with you. You do whatever he tells you. Do you understand?”
“Colonel, if the device is on this island, I would suggest that we get to it quickly.”
“I understand. You’re anxious to get at it. But we haven’t rounded up all the terrorists. There’s still a pocket of resistance down near the beach, Until it’s safe, I want you here.”
“What about Ms. Cole?” asked Gideon.
“I’ve passed the word to my men to keep and eye out for her. I don’t want to be worrying about you as well. So you will stay here.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order.
Gideon nodded.
The Marine colonel looked like maybe he didn’t trust him. “Corporal.” He turned to one of the young Marines behind him. “I want you to keep an eye on Mr. van Ry here. If anything happens to him, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s get down to that beach.” The colonel headed out. “Where’s my radio man?” A clutch of armed troops followed him as another helicopter came in. Another young Marine, with a radio strapped to his back and a coiled antenna looping over one shoulder like a wounded angel, loped up next to the colonel. He took the telephone receiver from the kid and started talking, but Gideon couldn’t hear what he said. The sound of the rotors and the helicopter engine revving up for takeoff drowned out everything else. Dust kicked up, and Gideon and the corporal turned their backs to the landing zone and covered their eyes.
The helicopter swung up over the trees and out toward the water. It was followed by another incoming chopper.
“I think maybe we should get out of here,” said Gideon.
The corporal didn’t seem to object, so Gideon headed off toward a clump of burned-out trees on a high knoll overlooking the west side of the island. When he got far enough away that he was no longer deafened by the noise of the helicopters, he found a flat boulder, hefted the backpack with his equipment off of one shoulder, set it down, and sat on the rock. He checked his watch. It was now after noon, and his empty stomach was grumbling. He had not eaten since supper the evening before, with Joselyn at her house on San Juan Island. He wondered if she was alive or dead.
The distant sound of the helicopters was now punctuated by the periodic sound of gunfire, single shots and short bursts, the echo of what sounded like machine gun rounds, some of it heavier.
The corporal brought his M-16 up across his chest. An expression of concern suddenly crept across his face.
“What is wrong?” said Gideon.
The soldier was standing on an outcropping of rock closer to the edge of the bluff and looking down at something Gideon could not see.
“I don’t like this. We’re silhouetted up here,” said the Marine. “If there’s anybody down there with a rifle, we’d make a pretty good target.” He pointed and Gideon got up to take a look.
Below, nestled in the embrace at the bottom of the bluff, was a large building the back side of which was still smoking. He could see no movement, no signs of life. Beyond the house was a cove and what remained of a small dock, shattered and gone in places, some of its pilings charred to the waterline.
“Is that the main house?” said Gideon.
“I guess so.”
“Do you have a map?”
The Marine shook his head.
Gideon turned and looked in the direction of the gunfire. “I take it the beach is on the other side of the island?”
“I think so.”
“Then we’re probably safe here.” Gideon stepped back and reached into his pack. He pulled out the one piece of useful equipment he had thought to bring: a small pair of binoculars. The field glasses were not the best. They were underpowered for the distance.
He trained them on the house and focused. The place looked deserted. He held them as still as possible and watched for any telltale signs of life, anything that moved. The only motion came from wisps of dense black smoke that floated across his field of vision.
“See anything?” asked the corporal.
“No. Would you like to look?”
The Marine smiled, strapped his rifle over his shoulder, and took the field glasses. He started scanning from the corner of the house nearest the dock, trying desperately with compromised optics to check the windows for rifle muzzles. He did this slowly, scanning the house from one end to the other.
“Do you see anything?”
“No.” The corporal still had a troubled look on his face.
“Why don’t we go down there and take a look?” said Gideon.
The Marine gave him a sick laugh. “No way.”
“Where is your sense of adventure?” Gideon smiled, the look of an older man challenging the other’s manhood.
“I left it home,” said the soldier.
He might be young, thought Gideon, but he was no fool.
There was a sudden respite from the noise as all of the helicopters moved offshore, a sudden lapse in the deafening sound that seemed to be replaced by a lot of shouting back in the clearing. The corporal turned to see what was going on, while Gideon took another look through the binoculars. When he turned, the Marine was totally distracted, his back to the bluff.
“What’s happening?” said Gideon.
“I don’t know. Something’s up.”
They could still hear more firing off in the distance. What sounded like heavier machine gun fire now.
Gideon turned and looked at the house once more. He wondered if Joselyn might be inside. He didn’t know what other buildings existed on the island, but the house was definitely a candidate for the device. When he looked back at the corporal, the Marine was now totally occupied with the scene back at the landing zone. If the kid had an antenna of his own, it was now definitely up. Something was wrong.
“Maybe we should go find out what’s happening,” he said.
Gideon grabbed his backpack and followed the Marine back to the landing zone. By now Marines were coming up from the beach in groups of four and five, all with differing but dazed expres
sions on their faces. Some were running, others walking, but all conveyed a single uniform emotion—fear.
“What happened?” The corporal tried to stop one of them. The man ran right through his arms. “What the hell’s going on? Somebody talk to me.” Something had happened, and a contagion of fear was taking hold of the young Marines on the hill. Now they were coming up from the beach in larger groups. It looked like a wholesale retreat.
Gideon recognized panic when he saw it. He grabbed one of them by the arm. The kid dropped his rifle and looked at him with a vacant stare.
“You!” He looked down at the man with as stern an expression as he could muster. “Tell me what’s happened?”
“Hisss … his head. It it it it… ”
“Whose head?”
“Co … Co … Colonel Simmons.”
“What about Colonel Simmons?”
“His head’s gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The colonel’s dead. They shot him in the head. It just… just… exploded.”
“Who’s in charge?” said Gideon.
“I don’t know,” said the Marine. Gideon released his hold on the man for an instant to collect his thoughts, and before he could grab him again the kid was gone, leaving his rifle behind him in the dirt as he ran down the hill in the other direction.
Gideon reached down and picked it up. By now the corporal that Simmons had left to watch him was caught up in the general panic that was spreading like a rash across the landing zone. They were in trouble, and Gideon knew it. Shots were still coming from the beach, heavy gunfire.
“Where’s the radio?” said Gideon.
No one paid attention to him.
“Who has the radio?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Scott Taggart reset his watch to eastern time, skipping the mountain zone since he would be there for less than an hour. He tried to calculate how many hours had passed since he dropped Thorn at the small private airport at Arlington in the Skagit Valley. While he wondered what Thorn was doing there, he knew better than to ask. Thorn was not one to share information unless there was a purpose. At that point, Taggart’s job was to get to Sea-Tac and catch his flight to the east coast.
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