John Thompson - Armageddon Conspiracy

Aft of them on the flybridge, Naif had started breaking the missiles out of their crates. Six of the missiles were tipped with the depleted nuclear fuel. Two were unconverted antiaircraft weapons. Abu Sayeed had ordered him to prepare one of the unconverted missiles, just in case.

Another bridge lay just ahead. Abu Sayeed could see on the GPS that it was called the Whitestone. As they approached it, the weather worsened again. The wind notched up, gusting across the bow, forcing the cold rain almost sideways. He glanced back at Naif, who struggled with the tarp, doing his best to keep the missiles dry. He took the wheel and pointed Mohammed outside to help. A moment later he turned to see Mohammed and Naif bent together over one of the crates.

The sound of the helicopter disappeared completely as they crept beneath the Whitestone Bridge, but it came back again as they motored around a point of land and into the mouth of a small creek. Abu Sayeed took them across to the creek’s far shore then steered back out into the East River, always hugging the land.

Manhattan was not far ahead now, and the knowledge sparked his flagging confidence. The fog and rain were Allah’s gifts. Even now, Anneliës would be down below calling the limo driver and telling him where to meet them. Once they fired the missiles, they would cross to the New Jersey shore, tie up beside a condominium, and have the limo take them to Teterboro. There, again thanks to Anneliës, Biddle’s pilots would have the Gulfstream fueled for a flight to Istanbul. In midflight they would change course to Syria and then travel by car and boat and camel and lose themselves in the swirling confusion of the desert wastes. They would be out of range of retribution by the time the Americans even began to plan a counterstrike.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the helicopter circling back, the blades sounding so close that Abu Sayeed was amazed he couldn’t reach up and touch the landing gear. As it passed directly over their heads, the downdraft from the rotors hammered the boat and carved patterns on the water.

He fought the temptation to ram the throttles forward, and then glanced back at Naif and Mohammed and saw them crouched low on the flybridge. They were aiming their machine guns upward, but thankfully they were holding their fire. Whoever was up there wasn’t certain they’d found the right target. Otherwise they would have attacked already.

The most important thing was to be calm, do nothing, so he continued on, motoring at five knots. After what seemed like an eternity, the helicopter moved off, but it held position, hovering over the water to their left, maybe several hundred yards distant. Abu Sayeed saw that the wind was slackening again, the fog growing thicker.

On the flybridge, Mohammed heard the helicopter coming lower and closer, until he could feel the rotor wash pressing him down against the deck. His brain flashed back to Afghanistan, when countless times he’d tried to crush his body into the very rocks themselves to escape detection by the Americans. The fog, the fact that he could feel the presence of this terrible machine yet not see it, magnified his powerlessness and made his heart flame with rage. He hated this strange country! He hated being on water! And he hated staring up into these impenetrable clouds as he struggled to see his enemies. Come down and fight, he wanted to scream! But the Americans never would. They would use their technology. By Allah, he hated their technology!

As the helicopter finally circled away, Mohammed felt something give way in his mind. He glared at the sky, all sense of Abu Sayeed’s orders forgotten, his thoughts nothing but a frothing sea of hatred and fear.

Beside him, Naif seemed unaffected. He was already back at work, preparing the missiles they would soon fire into the city. Mohammed stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes dull, his brain comprehending only the unseen helicopter hovering somewhere nearby and his need for vengeance.

Without conscious thought his hands closed around the launcher with an unconverted Strella already loaded. He flicked the system on, got a radar fix, and then a heat-seek fix. Naif must have looked up at him then because he screamed, “No, you fool!” But it was too late. Mohammed pressed the trigger and felt an instantaneous rush of joy as the missile roared from its launch tube and disappeared in the clouds.

EAST RIVER, JULY 2

BRENT STARED INTO THE FOG where the stern of the tug had been visible only seconds before and slammed his good hand against the steering wheel. How was this possible? Had he been chasing an oil barge the entire time? No way, but then where was Biddle’s boat?

He looked at the screen, silently begging the second blip to materialize again, but it was gone. He remembered going under the bridge how he had looked away from the screen for a few seconds, but still, how had a yacht disappeared? He remembered that it had been heading toward shore. Had it docked, made some kind of rendezvous?

He started to turn toward the same shore when a sudden roar surrounded him. Powerful winds buffeted him from all sides. It took several seconds to understand that a helicopter had come up from behind and was almost directly overhead. He’d heard the rotors earlier, but he’d been too focused on Maggie to pay attention. Now, he knew it had to be the police.

He cursed. No way he could let himself be captured, not with Maggie on the yacht! He threw a wild look at the GPS and saw the Whitestone Bridge ahead. He edged the throttles forward, knowing the bridge would force the helicopter away.

Just short of the bridge, it veered and climbed sharply, heading toward the shore where the blip had disappeared. It hovered there, but after another moment it rose to clear the bridge. He cut the throttles and let the Whaler drift, the current moving him beneath the bridge and then into the clear as the helicopter came in low again, somewhere along the shore. This time it held position for over a minute, but finally it swung out ahead of him and hovered over the center of the river.

He continued to drift. Were they marking him, alerting Coast Guard to his position? No, he decided. They weren’t after him. They’d spent too much time over there where the blip had disappeared. They must be hunting for the yacht!

The helicopter was pacing the current, playing what seemed to be a waiting game. Brent didn’t know what they were waiting for, but he knew he had to act. He was starting to push the throttles forward when a blinding flash came from his right. It disappeared in the clouds, but he caught sight of it once more, running fast and low. Then came a great bang. A second later in a flicker of flames something big dropped into the river.

EAST RIVER, JULY 2

JENKINS FELT THE SHOCK AND heard the rending of metal as the helicopter began to drop. “Hold on,” the pilot screamed.

The impact sent Jenkins’ head crashing into something. She must have blacked out because she came to seconds later with a terrible pain in her skull and the co-pilot slapping her face.

“Come on, move!” the man was saying. “We’re sinking.” He pulled her over to the side door. Water swirled around her ankles. The pilot was already there, but something was wrong. He was bleeding from the head and looked barely conscious.

“I’m going to push you out,” the co-pilot shouted. “You inflate your vest, and when I push him out, you get his. Can you do that?”

She barely had time to nod before he pulled a door lever, and more water rushed into the chopper. The co-pilot threw Maggie out onto the river, and she fumbled with her life vest, found the ring, and pulled. A second later, the pilot was in the water, too, face down. She kicked over, reached his ring, and inflated. By that time the co-pilot was out as well and kicking toward them. Jenkins didn’t even have time to watch as the helicopter disappeared.