McGarvey followed the air force officer fifty yards across the tarmac to a sleek bizjet with civilian markings already warming up inside a hangar. Its hatch was open and a young attractive woman in an air force uniform stood at the foot of the boarding stairs.
“We just got clearance to transit Colombian airspace,” Rubio said as they climbed aboard. “We can head straight across to Cartagena and from there, follow the coast southwest. Should be touching down at Panama City in under two hours.”
“I’ll need to use my satellite phone once we’re in the air,” McGarvey said. “Is that going to cause a problem?”
“No, sir,” Rubio told him. He said something in Spanish to the flight attendant, who smiled and nodded. Then he turned back to McGarvey. “Sergeant Contreras speaks excellent English. If you need anything just ask her. We’ll be taking off immediately.”
Rubio went forward to the cockpit while the attendant brought up the stairs, closed and dogged the hatch, and then stowed McGarvey’s overnight bag. They were out of the hangar and taxiing rapidly across to an active runway as McGarvey strapped into one of the very large, leather upholstered swivel chairs on the starboard side. Within less than two minutes they were accelerating down the runway, and then lifting off into the night, on their way to what could very well turn into a bloodbath before morning.
The attendant came back to him from the galley. “Would you care for a drink, sir?” she asked. Her hair was very dark, and her eyes were wide and warm. She seemed to be genuinely interested in serving him.
“A cognac if you have it,” McGarvey said. “Neat.”
“Certainly, sir,” she said.
He pulled out his sat phone and called Rencke, who answered on the first ring.
“Oh wow, Mac, the pilot is already on his way out to the ship,” Otto gushed. “We picked up the Transit Authority’s coms channels. Means they’ll lift anchor within the hour. Probably sooner.”
“How long will it take them to get into the locks?”
“An hour, once they get under way, maybe less, to make it to the first lock, and then an hour and a half or two at the most to make it through all three.”
“If you were going to do it, where would it be?”
“The middle lock,” Otto said without hesitation. “With any luck you’d take out all three, plus the control house, pumps, and electrical switches.”
Sergeant Contreras set his drink on the low table at his elbow then returned to the galley. She was trained to make herself scarce when a VIP guest was on the phone.
“That’s where it’ll happen,” McGarvey said. “What about the Rapid Response Team? Have they been briefed?”
“Yes, and you’re going to run into a buzz saw,” Otto said. “The on-duty squad is a SEAL fire team. Gung ho. The team leader is Lieutenant Ron Herring. I looked up his record; he’s a good man, one of the best. Kosovo, Afghanistan, and northern Iraq. Same team. He wasn’t going to back down even for Berndt, once he was briefed.”
“What does he want to do?”
“Take the ship right now,” Otto said. “In the holding basin, before she raises anchor.”
“They might pull the pin the moment someone sets foot aboard,” McGarvey warned. But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure. Graham’s crewmen were probably Muslim fanatics, al-Quaida-trained mujahideen. They’d sacrifice themselves. But Graham had a long record of terrorist attacks against Western interests. Just like bin Laden, Graham was one of the generals who led other men to die for him. He wasn’t planning on killing himself just to prove a point. He had an escape plan; one that he considered foolproof.
“Herring knows that you’re on the way. He’s going to sit tight for the moment, but he’s waiting for your call. He wants to talk.”
“Good, I want to talk to him,” McGarvey said. “What’s his phone number?”
“Just a sec,” Otto said. “Okay, I just sent it to you. Hit phone book, his number will come up first, then press Send.”
McGarvey smiled and shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re scary?”
Otto laughed. “Oh, boy. Not lately and not by you. Thanks, Mac.” He took it as a compliment. “Good luck.”
Lieutenant Herring was waiting for the call. He answered on the first ring. “Mr. McGarvey, I presume.” He sounded young, but no-nonsense.
“That’s right. I’m aboard a Venezuelan air force Gulfstream, and we’ll be touching down in Panama City in less than two hours. What’s your present situation?”
“My team is standing by on the ramp,” Herring said.
“What’s your plan?” McGarvey asked tersely.
“Save lives first, and the canal second,” Herring shot back. “If I’m allowed to do my job without civilian interference.”
“Look, Lieutenant, the ship’s real crew has probably been murdered, and the ship rigged to explode—”
“It’s my intention to prevent just that,” Herring said. “Before the ship gets into the canal.”
“You’d better be quick and accurate,” McGarvey said. “The moment they find out your people are aboard they’ll push the button and the Apurto Devlán will light up like a Roman candle. Anything nearby will be destroyed as well.”
“They may blow the bottom out, and the ship might sink, spilling its oil into the bay, but aside from an ecological disaster the damage won’t be as widespread as it would if the same thing happened inside one of the locks. My engineers tell me that the hydraulic shock of a substantial underwater explosion could put the lock doors out of commission.”
“Did your engineers tell you what would happen if the nitrogen gas in the oil tanks was bled off first?” McGarvey asked.
Herring hesitated for just a beat. “Someone at anchor in the holding basin would have heard it. From what I’m told the operation is noisy.”
“Not if it was done slowly, over the past half-dozen hours or so,” McGarvey countered.
“I’ll concede the point, Mr. McGarvey. But it’s all the more reason to hit the ship before she enters the locks.”
“Except for one thing,” McGarvey said. “Everyone aboard is a Muslim fanatic. Willing to die for the cause. Everyone except for the captain, who is ex — British Royal Navy. He won’t push the button unless there is no way out for him.”
“Continue,” Herring said.
“He has an escape plan.”
“How do you know that?”
“Men like him always do,” McGarvey said. He’d been going up against Graham’s type for more than twenty years. The names and some of the methods changed, but the mindset was pretty much the same; they were willing to kill for their twisted reasons, but none of them were quite as willing to die for their cause. “And I know this guy, do you?”
“No,” Herring admitted. “So what do you want to do, McGarvey?”
“He means to get into the second Gatun lock before he pushes the button,” McGarvey said. “I want to let him do exactly that.”
“Whose side are you on?” Herring shouted.
“The explosives will be on a remote detonator, which only Graham will have,” McGarvey explained. “All we have to do is throw a monkey wrench in his plan to get off the ship before he pushes the button. But without him knowing about it.”