Charon's Landing, page 45
Although he didn’t pause from his afternoon snack as he listened, his piggy eyes did brighten somewhat.
“This is Michaela Cooper reporting live from Heathrow, where the terrorist threat has intensified in the most horrifying way. Twenty minutes ago, while the airport was still under a high security alert following a bomb explosion in the main concourse, a refueling lorry was driven, apparently by suicide bombers, into a grounded British Airways Boeing 767.
“Unconfirmed reports so far indicate that the entire aircraft was destroyed by the collision between the plane and the lorry. A source here has told me that the bodies of the tanker’s real crew were found in a maintenance hangar shortly before the explosion, their throats slit, but again this is unconfirmed.” She glanced down to the notes in her hand, her shimmering blond hair falling around her shoulders. When she looked up, the hair remained draped over the silicone swell of her breasts. “The aircraft was scheduled to depart for Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, several hours ago. However, it was halted on the tarmac by the ongoing terrorist threat, now said to be the work of a group called Kurdistan United. They are the same terrorists claiming responsibility for the attack at the British Museum yesterday evening.”
“So the monkeys did it after all,” Rufti said aloud as he watched the broadcast, bits of lobster dribbling from his liver-shaped lips.
Having Tariq detonate the grenade in Heathrow’s international concourse and the making of a couple of well-timed phone calls to the airport manager’s office had bought enough time for the suicidal Kurds to set up a proper assault on Khalid Khuddari’s plane. Even as he made preparations to return to the UAE and confront the Crown Prince, Rufti had managed to put together a spur-of-the-moment plan that had worked brilliantly, with no exposure to himself. While he had personally made the two calls to Heathrow, his pilot had assured him that the communications gear aboard the Hawker would prohibit the signal from being traced.
Rufti had spent millions of dollars recruiting, training, and arming the Kurdish nationals to attack Khuddari at the British Museum. The operation had been planned down to the finest detail so that nothing could possibly go wrong. But of course it had. It had been left up to him to improvise a new plan to eliminate his greatest rival. With no prior planning and only the barest minimum of time, the Kurds had managed to use the window created by Tariq’s grenade to infiltrate Heathrow’s grounds, overcome the fuel company workers, and slam their truck into the parked Boeing.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his fat-swaddled skull back and forth slowly.
The attack at the museum had been simplicity itself, while launching an assault at an airport already on high-security alert had to be the most difficult operation a terrorist cadre could accomplish. How the Kurds failed at the first but managed the second was a mystery. “Truly unbelievable.”
The camera view shifted to a long-range shot, a thousand-millimeter lens focusing on the pandemonium on the runways. After the explosion, the authorities had evacuated the rest of the planes immediately. They stood alone on the tarmac, yellow inflatable slides hanging from their exits. The passengers had been bused to a cargo warehouse for temporary shelter, three Fox combat reconnaissance vehicles standing outside the sealed doors, their 30mm Rarden cannons at the ready. The remains of the British Airways 767 were nothing more than a smoking heap on the asphalt, a charred ruin that was the funeral pyre to 165 passengers and crew. The camera sharpened even further, showing fire trucks pumping white foam onto the twisted remains, crews in silver fireproof suits edging as close as possible to the hot aircraft.
Michaela Cooper’s tone was doleful as she continued her report, but Rufti no longer paid her any attention. Khalid Khuddari had been on that plane, and now he was dead. Rufti had lived up to his part of the bargain with the Iranians and the Iraqis. It was now up to Kerikov to destroy the Alaska Pipeline and sink the tanker off the western coast of America, and within days the maps of the Middle East would have to be redrawn once again. The Saud family would be dead, their huge nation becoming a territory held jointly by Iran and Iraq, Kuwait would be absorbed by her northern neighbor, and he, Hasaan bin-Rufti, would be the new absolute ruler of all the Emirates.
Rufti was almost giddy. From the jaws of defeat, he had scored a stunning victory, proving himself to his partners. His negotiations with the ministers from Iran and Iraq, stretching over many months but culminating only days before in London, had hinged on both him and Kerikov first accomplishing their parts. Rufti could now settle back and wait comfortably for Kerikov to execute his side of the operation. Once done, the combined armies of the Middle East’s most belligerent neighbors would sweep southward while the United States and Europe sat impotently as their precious oil was taken from them.
He had to admit that Kerikov was a genius to come up with such an audacious operation, but then remembered that Charon’s Landing had once been a Soviet plan and the credit really went to their Cold War paranoia. It was Rufti’s own doing to include other nations in the coup. Kerikov had been interested only in crippling America’s domestic oil production, increasing her dependence on the Gulf states, thus Rufti’s interest in financing some of the plan. But Rufti had seen this as an opportunity to do much more. With America starved for oil, this was the time to finally rid the Muslim world of Western influence, drive the United States out of Arabia and expose Israel to attack. To make great again the Arab empire that once ruled so resolutely in centuries past.
“Minister Rufti” — the pilot’s voice broke into his reverie — “we’re on final approach now.”
He looked at the clock set in the forward bulkhead of the cabin. A few more hours and it would all be over.
Cook Inlet, Alaska
When flying to the Petromax Omega, the sea had appeared placid to Mercer, only a gentle swell marking the movement of the surging tides. However, in the small escape pod, caught up in the full motion of the twenty-knot tides, the surface of the Inlet was a steeply rolling plane, rising and dropping with gut-wrenching ferocity. Mountains of water broke over it like avalanches, plunging the craft into the hollows between the waves, giving only an instant’s reprieve before hauling her up to the next crest. White spume crashed against the windscreens as thick as foam. The life raft was a bright yellow dot on an otherwise black, empty sea.
Mercer woke to the sound of vomiting, a harsh barking that seemed as if its source was tearing its very intestines from its body. As he became more conscious, he realized that he was that source. Bitter bile scored his mouth and throat, pooling under his chin as he lay on the pitching floor. The stifling hot cabin smelled like the bottom of some zoo animal’s cage.
“Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “Talk about adding insult to injury.”
Having experienced seasickness only once in his life, he’d forgotten just how miserable it could be. His stomach felt like a nest of writhing snakes eager to escape. Knowing it was useless to resist his heaving stomach, he let himself throw up until he felt he would split open. Once purged, he felt a little better, but he knew dry heaves would shortly follow.
He checked on Aggie as she lay next to him at the stern of the pod, curled into a tight fetal ball. He felt her skin and sagged with relief. She was warm to the touch, her complexion back to its natural color. He tapped at her fingers and she mewed in her sleep. She hadn’t lost any sensitivity in her extremities, so frostbite was no longer a concern. She was in the deep sleep of exhaustion, not a coma as he’d feared.
He took a second to watch her, thinking about what a remarkable woman she was. They would both be dead now without her. Her levelheadedness on the offshore rig, knowing how to operate the pumps, and being able to do so under pressure had saved them both. Mercer’s life had been saved many times by many people, but never by a woman he felt so . . . He shut himself off from those emotions. He couldn’t afford to have a bachelor’s catharsis now and turned to more important tasks, first tucking more blankets around her.
The pod’s engine was purring on idle, the gauges all reading normal, and the compass bolted to the dash indicated that the boat was headed north, toward land. Mercer eased the throttles, and the life raft reacted instantly, meeting the waves more aggressively, shouldering aside the swells as best it could, a slim wake wedging out from her stern. The raft had an autopilot, which he engaged to continue them toward the northern side of the Inlet. According to his watch, they’d been in the raft for fifty minutes, giving them just a few hours to contact Andy Lindstrom at Alyeska and stop Kerikov from destroying the pipeline. While there were more towns on the Kenai Peninsula to the south, Mercer decided to head to the mainland. Landfall was significantly closer, and he hoped to find a radio or telephone at one of the many fishing camps on the Inlet.
With the raft motoring in the proper direction and feeling moderately human again after his sleep, he investigated the storage lockers, searching through the provisions to see what, if anything, would be useful. From a medical kit he took several Triptone tablets. The anti-motion-sickness pills were most effective before the onset of symptoms, but he figured swallowing a few, if he could keep them down, wouldn’t hurt. He discovered several woolen jumpsuits and donned one quickly, taking an extra minute to dress Aggie as she slept. She barely stirred. Behind the medkit, tucked between two flashlights, was perhaps his greatest find, an unopened bottle of whiskey. Though he didn’t recognize the label, he thanked the gods it was there. He took a heavy swallow, the spirits hitting his stomach like liquid steel poured from a crucible.
Expecting to be sick again, he was pleasantly surprised to feel his stomach calmed by the liquor. He considered the amount of whiskey Harry White absorbed daily and realized that his friend might be on to something.
He mopped up the water and vomit sloshing on the floor with a blanket and covered Aggie with several more, tucking them carefully around her body, running the back of his hand along her smooth cheek. God, she’s beautiful. Again he was assailed with emotions he couldn’t deal with and he turned them aside, concentrating on the reality of their current situation rather than the fantasy of any future they might have together.
He took his position at the controls and pushed the little craft as hard as possible. As they pounded northward, he activated the automatic distress beacon, the single-ping transponder sending out a repetitive signal on an emergency frequency of 121.5 MHz. He gave a few seconds’ thought to using the radio to call for help but knew there were at least two other life rafts from the Omega making their way toward land. The last thing he wanted was to broadcast that he and Aggie had survived the capsizing of the platform. For now, they were alone, arrayed against an army and totally cut off from help.
For the next two hours, Mercer fought the sea and his own sickness, the Saab engine under the rear cowling running flawlessly. Aggie remained unconscious during the trip, her exhaustion so complete that even the wild pitching of the escape pod could not wake her. Mercer was not so lucky. The farther they traveled, the worse his stomach reacted. For a while he tried to steer the raft with the outer hatch open to allow fresh air into the stuffy cabin, but too much water poured through the low opening.
The only thing keeping him going, the only spark that gave such a miserable experience any meaning, was the hope of stopping Ivan Kerikov. Without that drive, he would have given up long ago. But as his stomach convulsed for the twentieth time, dry hacks that left him sweaty and weak, he knew that he could endure anything to stop the Russian.
Dawn arrived slowly, silvering the sky in a pearly half light that only hinted at the coming of the new day. Through the wave-slashed windows, the northern coast of the Inlet was a gray-green strip cutting between the dark waters and the sky, the horizon undulating with pine-covered mountains. Rocky hills and nameless streams carved their way to the water’s edge to be ground down by the lunar pounding of Cook Inlet’s harsh tides. It was an uncompromising land, a rugged place inhabited by only the strongest.
With the coming day, the sea eased some, the great waves giving way to a more gentle swell that rocked the pod but no longer threatened her. Mercer was finally able to leave the hatch open, reveling in the foggy air that cooled his skin and cleared his gummy red eyes. He needed sleep so badly he’d forgotten what it actually felt like. His back was as stiff as a steel rod, his shoulders as tight as staying hawsers.
He began paralleling the coast, powering toward Anchorage but praying to find some sort of shelter long before that far-off city. There had been no sign of the other lifeboats from the Petromax Omega, but he kept a sharp eye out. To run into one of them now, with only a knife taken from the emergency stores to defend themselves, would mean his and Aggie’s recapture or, more likely, their death.
To his left, the coast scrolled by in a featureless panorama of rocky beach and towering forests beyond. After twenty minutes, Mercer began to think he’d made a serious mistake. Perhaps he should have gone south to the fishing communities on the Kenai Peninsula. The precious time he’d saved heading north was rapidly being whittled away as he searched for a fishing cabin. The coast gave way to a deep bay, the shoreline curving inward, carving deeply into the land. At the center of the wide-mouthed bay, a river disgorged the last of its summer runoff, white water cascading over rocks before reaching the ocean.
And on the bank of the river stood a cabin, the rough logs of its exterior weathered by decades of exposure. The cabin was one story with a native stone chimney rising from one side like a parapet and a low tumbling veranda leaning toward the river. It looked like an Appalachian homestead without the amenities, but to Mercer it was the most inviting building he had ever seen.
He guided the lifeboat shoreward, bucking through the swells that built against the coast, and as he neared the shack, he saw something that made his heart lift. Hidden behind a screen of dwarf spruce trees, a red seaplane was moored where the river met the Inlet, held fast against the swirling waters that licked at its torpedo-shaped pontoons by heavy manila lines.
If the cabin didn’t have a radio, which he suspected it didn’t, the plane surely would.
Beaching the lifeboat twenty feet south of the river, he drove it hard against the pebbly shore until it was firmly grounded, then cut the motor. His legs wanted to sway as if he were still on the water, but as he waited, the feeling left slowly, steadying him once again.
He jumped from the pod, his boots digging into the rocky beach. The morning air was sharp, scented with pine and the low fog that hung just above the treetops. He envied whoever owned the cabin for having such a remote and beautiful getaway.
Mercer paused to look through the cabin’s filthy windows and saw through the gloom that the cabin hadn’t been occupied for a while. Dust sheets covered the few pieces of furniture and cobwebs hung elegantly from the framed photographs on the stone mantel. From what he could see, the cabin was very primitive. The kitchen consisted of a small sink fed by an iron pump handle and a camping stove. He guessed that its communications would be equally crude. His best hope lay with the plane.
The airplane, an old Cessna, was in immaculate condition, its paintwork glossy, and when he opened the rear hatch, the interior cargo space was spotless. Mercer guessed that the single-engine plane was left here as a play toy while the cabin’s owner used a newer aircraft or perhaps a motor yacht to reach the camp from Anchorage. Mercer couldn’t believe that anyone would leave such a plane unprotected for the winter, but he was in no position to question the practices of others.
He ducked into the cockpit, checking for the radios as he settled himself into the pilot’s seat. He scanned the simple instrument package once quickly and then again with more concentration. The space where the radios should have been was an empty hole in the molded plastic dash. She carried no communications equipment.
In frustration, Mercer beat on the control wheel. He and Aggie were stuck until rescue workers, searching for survivors from the Omega, stumbled upon the cabin. That could take days, long after the Alaska Pipeline had been destroyed by Kerikov and his PEAL allies. Mercer had spent hundreds of hours being ferried to remote mining locations in small aircraft and he watched pilots intently, getting pointers, but he’d never had any formal flying lessons. It was one of those things he’d promised himself he’d do but never found the time for. He cursed himself now for procrastinating.
The controls before him seemed so familiar, and starting the plane would be a snap, but he wasn’t sure of the proper combination of rudder, yoke, throttle, trim, and fuel mixture that would make the plane fly. But he’d been through too much to give in now. If escaping the oil rig hadn’t killed him, then surely stealing a plane, flying it a hundred miles, and landing it again wouldn’t either, he thought insanely. And as soon as he realized he was going to do it, his stomach was cramped by fear, a paralyzing stab that almost coaxed him out of his decision.
He concentrated, relying on his near-photographic memory to replay exactly the motions he’d observed so many times before. Upwind, fuel mixture rich, throttle to full, ease back, and you were airborne. It was easy. But landing? The pilots just seem to do it, settle the plane, glide down, and the next thing you know, you’re on the ground.
Sitting there, he felt as lost as a teenager on the first day of driver’s education. Everything was so familiar, yet bewilderingly complex and frightening. Oh, Jesus.
And then a new thought struck him, and he smiled. He didn’t have to take off. He could use the floatplane like a boat, letting the Lycoming engine zip them across the waves rather than haul them through the sky. That was something he could handle.
His newfound self-satisfaction evaporated when he heard the hum of a marine diesel engine far out in the bay. Its distance was hard to judge because of the fog rising from the water, but it sounded like it was heading toward shore. He’d hoped to leave Aggie in front of a fire in the cabin before starting out on his suicidal mission, but that was no longer an option. The engine noises could only mean that Kerikov’s men who’d escaped the Omega were approaching.
