Yeager's Getaway, page 26
part #3 of Abel Yeager Series
A long silence passed, followed by, “Abel? Is that you?”
A sluice of relief washed through Yeager, and he staggered to one knee. Glass stabbed through his jeans, and he hardly registered the discomfort. His throat had closed, and he had to try twice to force the words out.
“Charlie?” It came out so weak he could barely hear it himself. Yeager drew a breath and tried again, louder. “Charlie?”
His wife appeared at the bottom of the ladder, and God’s fist squeezed Yeager’s heart so hard he was sure it stopped beating. His eyes watered, and breathing through the dry knot in his throat became a chore.
Charlie held herself awkwardly, one arm cradled tightly to her body. She had been battered and bruised, it looked like, but she was alive. Her blue eyes were red rimmed, and tears spilled down her cheeks. The look on her face mirrored the emotions tearing through him.
“I... I...” Words refused to form.
“Abel. Oh God.” She drew a shaky breath. “Winston’s hurt bad. We need to get him to a hospital.”
THROUGH THE WOBBLY binoculars, Monalisa counted eight men in the inflatable boat, wearing black fatigues and carrying AK-style rifles. She studied the group for a long time before convincing herself they weren’t allies coming to the rescue. No, these were terrorists, returning to their lair, either as part of the plan or in reaction to the assault.
She estimated the inflatable was sixty seconds from crossing her bow and less than two minutes to the hundred-foot yacht. A force that size would quickly overwhelm the three-man rescue squad.
She switched her focus back to the Hatteras and caught a glimpse of Victor escorting a man in a suit past the blown-out windows along the starboard side, the man walking like a prisoner with his hands interlaced behind his head. He appeared oblivious to the threat.
Monalisa cranked the Volvo Pentas to life, and the Cobalt rumbled with contained power. The feel of the big diesels charged up her spine like a crackle of electricity. As much as she loved her sailboat and the challenge of mastering wind and wave, the Guppy’s power thrilled her in ways she cared not to admit aloud.
“Sorry, Thad,” she muttered. “I’m going to scratch the paint a bit.”
Thirty seconds out. Monalisa eyed the closing gap with a sailor’s intuition and pinned an intercept point in her mind’s eye. She had no targeting computer to calculate speed and trajectory, so this would be pure seat-of-the-pants guesstimation and prayer. The inflatable was much more nimble than the motor yacht. If she missed, they would run circles around her, either reach the Hatteras unimpeded or shoot her full of holes, then continue their mission. Though perhaps the noise would give Victor and the guys a heads-up.
Fifteen seconds. Blow the horn? The sound would definitely alert the boys to trouble, but it would also alert the bad guys that the Cobalt was a threat. If they vectored away or started evasive maneuvers, her chance at a clean intercept would be blown. Then it would be back to a firefight.
Ten seconds. Monalisa caressed the throttle and waited. Three... two... one... now!
She shoved the throttles full forward, and the Pentas roared. The Cobalt’s tail dropped, and the forty-footer powered ahead. Water churned and frothed behind her. The Guppy slapped the waves, bang-bang-bang, and the diesels bellowed. Monalisa screamed with them, howling a war cry of her own.
All the faces in the inflatable turned in her direction. The man at the tiller gawped for a moment—Monalisa could see the perfect O of his mouth—then pushed the control handle hard to starboard. The rubber boat swerved away, curving sideways and smacking a wave hard enough to tip the boat high. For a second, Monalisa thought the thing would go over completely—Problem solved, yay, let’s all go have a beer. But no, the craft flopped back down and powered for open sea. Gunfire ripped out from the inflatable, rapping the Guppy’s hull.
The men in the boat gaped at her in the last second before they disappeared under the yacht’s prow. She felt a thud, and the Cobalt stumbled for a second, then it leaped ahead. Squealing, scraping noises came from the hull.
She hoped to God she was right and that the guys weren’t a bunch of SEALs out for a cruise. Monalisa cut back the throttle and steered the Guppy in a wide circle to get a look at her handiwork. The inflatable was dying. It sank stern first, being dragged under by the weight of its outboard, half-deflated and with only the prow holding enough air to keep it from sinking completely.
A couple of heads popped up, then two more. A fifth man floated, face down and limp. Red froth and debris marked the collision site, evidence of where her screws had churned through the inflatable and the men aboard her.
Sickness clenched her belly, and she fought back an urge to upchuck. Oh God. Did I do the right thing? I’ve gone from killing one man today to killing a bunch.
And the four survivors? She certainly couldn’t take them aboard, which her instincts were driving her to do. Four hostile terrorists? They’d tear her apart.
The men had all swum to the floating half of the rubber boat, where they clung to it. As she idled closer, one of them cursed her in an Asian tongue and shook his fist. Monalisa held the Guppy at thirty yards from the foundering inflatable and paused there long enough to throw out four life vests and an inflatable ring.
“There!” she yelled. “Best I can do for now. I’ll call the Coast Guard to come get you.”
Whether they understood or not, she didn’t know. Packing away her guilt for later—where Monalisa was sure it would come out and twist her in knots—she kicked the Guppy’s throttles back up and headed for the Hatteras.
“I hope this nightmare is over soon,” she said to herself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Yeager didn’t want to try moving Pettigrew to the Guppy, so when Monalisa idled up alongside the Kekepi, he asked her if she could drive the bigger yacht and get them into Honolulu, “STAT-fucking-fast.” The former Navy master-at-arms nodded and set about anchoring and shutting down the Cobalt. Yeager ducked back into the crew quarters where Charlie had said she’d been held earlier.
Pettigrew lay on one bunk, swaddled in blankets except where red-stained towels wrapped his midsection. The slice across his torso traveled diagonally from under his left nipple all the way across his diaphragm. Shallow at first, the cut deepened, splitting open skin and muscle. He had lost a lot of blood. Charlie sat on the bed next to him, keeping pressure on the wound.
Looking damp and drawn, the old man cracked an eye when Yeager stepped into the cabin. “Don’t suppose you got a butt?” he wheezed.
Yeager put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I know you’re hurtin’, babe, but can you hold here a bit? I need to clear the rest of the boat and make sure there’s no lurkers.”
She cast a tired smile his way and touched his hand with her cheek. “I got this. Just be careful. And if you find some ibuprofen, bring the bottle.”
The engines rumbled to life, and Yeager had to catch himself as the boat started moving under his feet. He held Charlie’s shoulder a second longer, trying to impart as much strength, or draw as much love, as possible from that simple touch. All he wanted to do was sit and rock her in his arms.
But there was work to do. It was a big boat, and it took a lot of clearing. Yeager was dragging by the time he reached the salon, where he found Victor seated on the torn-up sofa. The muscular Latino was bent over the coffee table—also splintered and shot up—and had several charts and diagrams spread out in front of him. The Asian man in the suit sat in an armchair, trussed with thick-braided rope like a heroine tied to the railroad tracks. He glared daggers at Yeager, though the effect lacked power, considering the bloody snot bubbling at the man’s nostrils.
“Hey, El Toro,” Victor said. “Charlie okay?”
“Yeah.” Yeager slumped to the sofa next to his friend. “Yeah. I guess. Her hand is broke all to shit, and Pettigrew’s holding on by a thread. The boat’s clear, though. No more bad guys.”
“Not so fast, hombre.” Victor stabbed a dirty finger on the chart in front of him. “We got big trouble here.”
“Talk to me.”
“We know these assholes snatched a liquid gas carrier, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Monalisa said the Coast Guard is sending a cutter to check it out.”
“Good. What’s the problem?”
Victor leaned back, rubbed his eyes. “Well, ain’t no cutter made gonna stop a chip that size, homes, if it don’t wanna stop. They’ll brush that little boat off like a fly. So this big chip is gonna keep on goin’.”
Yeager had noticed that Victor’s low-rider gang-banger accent had magically cleared up when Dr. Alex came into the picture. Now he appeared to be regressing.
“So the Coast Guard sends a bigger chip—I mean ship,” Yeager countered.
Victor wagged his head no. “It’ll take too much time, dude. By the time the Coasties pull their finger out, Mr. Big Fucking Chip is in the channel to Pearl.” He poked a finger at the chart. “See here, this narrow cut? Back in ’41, when the Japanese sneak attacked, one of the battleship skippers—I forget which one, not the Arizona—ran his ship aground to keep it from blocking the channel. The water’s maybe a hundred feet there, so—”
“So if they scuttle the LNG carrier there, it blocks Pearl Harbor.”
“It blocks Pearl Harbor.”
“Cuts off the base from any navy ships coming or going,” Yeager said.
“Fucks up the squids big-time.”
“And,” Yeager added, “if they blow the gas tanks, somehow set ’em on fire...”
“They burn a whole buncha people all to death, dude.”
“So what do we do?” Yeager’s exhaustion pinned him to the sofa. Just moving would require an act of willpower. “I don’t have another ship assault left in me.”
Victor scratched his chin. He held up his cell phone. “Let me see if I can make a call.” His thumb swiped a few times then stabbed. He held the phone to his ear. “Hey, Butch, it’s your old pal, Victor... no, the other old pal Victor, smartass. Listen up, man. You ready to be a hero?”
THE Kekepi had been allowed emergency clearance to dock at Aloha Tower, and Monalisa powered the yacht like a Jet Ski into Honolulu Harbor. They were met by a trauma team who jammed Winston Pettigrew full of plasma and transported him to the hospital where, by request, Dr. Alexandra Lopez waited with a surgical staff to receive him.
Charlie and Yeager went in another ambulance, leaving Victor and Monalisa to deal with a large number of hard-faced men in suits and others in military uniforms.
Yeager watched the news on the hospital room TV while the doctors took Charlie in for X-rays. According to reports, the Coast Guard had confirmed the hijacking of the Golden Sun, and the navy had acted on “credible intelligence” of a severe threat to national security and public safety. A team of navy special operations personnel had retaken the Golden Sun, inflicting 100 percent casualties on the Hawaiian terrorists. Tugs had pushed the LNG carrier out of the channel, where demolition technicians would board and disarm the explosive devices.
Yeager lost the thread of the report, and his eyes glazed over. Seconds later, he blacked out.
HONOLULU, OAHU
Tuesday, 11 May
1945 Local
Thirty-Six Hours after Taking the Kekepi
Victor found Dr. Alex Lopez in room 364 at the bedside of scrawny gray-haired Winston Pettigrew. The old vet’s bed was lifted to a reclining position, and tubes extended from various points on his body to machines and bags and to the bathroom sink, as near as Victor could determine.
“You’re not dead, dude,” Victor chirped.
“With this angel looking out for me? How could I die?” Pettigrew’s voice came out as though squeezed through a rusty tube, but he had a rogue’s twinkle in his eye. “When I get outta this bed, I’m gonna give you a run for her hand.”
“And some people”—Alex shot Victor a dark-eyed glower—“better do some explaining real soon if they ever want to see my hand or any other part of me again.”
“What?” Victor touched his chest. “What’d I do, querida?”
The Latina woman put her hands on her hips and squared off with a glare. “Don’ you querida me, Victor Ruiz. Running off into the jungle without telling me, getting shot at again, getting... getting...” Alex launched into Spanish and proceeded to describe, with many adjectives and colorful idioms, how stupid and thoughtless he had been over the past three days. By the third chapter, second verse, she was in his face, poking a finger in his chest. “And who is this woman? Huh? This woman with the boat who you just happened to know?”
“A friend, sweetheart, j-just a friend.”
“A friend with boobs, yes? A friend you don’t tell me about, whose number is still in your phone!”
Victor felt sweat drip down his collar. He appealed to Winston with a look, but the old man just spread his palms and wheezed, “Flowers, chocolate, and make-up sex. That’s my only advice.”
Alex showed every inclination of continuing her rant, so Victor did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed her by the shoulders, looked her in the eyes, and said, “Will you marry me?”
“I—what did you say?”
“Will you marry me?” His heart hadn’t hammered half this hard while ducking grenades on the Kekepi. He thought it would slam right out of his chest.
The anger drained away from Alex’s face, replaced by shock. In a small voice, she asked, “Are you... are you serious right now?”
“All the way serious, my love. Marry me.”
“I...” Tears welled from her dark eyes. “I... of course I will!” The last part was muffled by her face buried in his chest.
Winston said, “That works too. Hey, anybody got a cigarette?”
HONOLULU, OAHU
Tuesday, 11 May
2320 Local
Thunder jerked Yeager from a heavy sleep. He caught himself an instant before rolling to the floor in reaction to being under fire. He lay under a thin blanket on a couch next to the window in Charlie’s hospital room. Rain sheeted the glass, and lightning flickered through the half-drawn blinds.
His wife slept on the bed with an IV fluid dripping away. Her breathing was deep and regular, mouth hanging slightly open. Bandages wrapped her head, covering a scalp wound where some asshole had clocked her with a hard object, probably a gun butt. A heavy cast covered her right hand. She’d held it up to him before going to sleep and said with a crooked smile, “Looks like I won’t be learning the piano anytime soon.”
Anger clamped his belly at the sight. He wished he could revive the monster—now headless—who had done this to her and kill him all over again. His failure to protect her and keep her safe ate at him. Acid burned his throat. He pulled from his pocket a damp roll of antacid tablets and chewed two of them.
Earlier that day, he had been driven out to Marine Corps Base Hawaii and met Victor’s friend Butch. The Marine officer had escorted Victor and Yeager to a hangar just off the flight line. The place was pristine, so clean the floor shone. Two flag-wrapped coffins on stands waited inside.
Yeager’s footsteps echoed on the polished floor as he approached Betty Pyle, who sat in a chair next to her husband’s coffin, her hand upon it. A handkerchief was twisted around the other. “I’m so sorry, Betty.”
“Don’t you for a minute, Abel Yeager.” The woman’s reddened gaze pinned him. “Ted lived as a Marine and died as a Marine, serving his country. I suspect Ted went out a happy man, helping his brothers, defending his people. He wouldn’t have wanted an ounce of sympathy for doing his duty.”
“He was...” Yeager’s voice was unaccountably hoarse. He cleared his throat. “He was a good man.”
“Damn right he was,” Betty Pyle had said. Then she’d hugged him. “They both were.”
Lightning flared, and the hospital window rattled at the following rumble of thunder. Yeager flipped the blanket off and checked on his wife. She appeared to be resting comfortably, so he resisted the urge to touch her face.
Danny Osterchuk, dead. Jan Osterchuk, missing, presumed dead. Ted Pyle, gone. Lu Kim. Melissa and Austin from California. Countless other lives destroyed. Why?
“We think,” Butch had told them in confidence, “the Chinese are trying to teach us a lesson about messing with Taiwan.”
“The Chinese?” Victor barked. “What the hell?”
“What’s gonna happen?” Yeager asked.
Butch had shrugged, palms up. “Above my pay grade, gentlemen.” He slapped Victor on the shoulder and shook Yeager’s hand. “Semper Fi, boys.”
Yeager stood watch over his wife in a darkened hotel room and listened to the rain and wind beat at the window. “I’m never leaving you again,” he whispered. “Semper Fi, honey.”
HONOLULU, OAHU
Wednesday, 12 May
0506 Local
His ringing cell phone pulled Victor up from a deep, contented dream of riding horses and camping somewhere in the high mountains. Alex was there, but oddly, so was Jumbo, the stoned Jeep driver.
Alex mumbled in her sleep and rolled over as Victor fumbled the phone to his ear.
“Dude, whoever this is, it’s fucking early, man.”
The voice on the other end of the sat phone connection was American. Midwestern, if Victor had to guess, though he wasn’t good with accents of native English speakers. Born in McAllen, Texas, Victor’s formative years were spent in a Spanish-speaking household. English sounded to him like a bunch of pots and pans clanging together.
“I’m looking for Victor Ruiz,” the man said. “Is this Victor Ruiz?”
“Who’re you?” Victor said. Giving away information was against his religion.
“Thomas McGuffey, United States consulate’s office.” He paused. “In Hermosillo.”
“Hokay, Señor McGruff. Wachoo waan?” Victor laid on his dumb-Mexican routine whenever he dealt with gringos of the government persuasion. He was one tick away from going all no-hablo-ingles on McGuffey of the US consulate. In Hermosillo.
