“You go first,” said Tyler.
“Nah, you go,” said Fisher. “Throw all your darts.”
Shaking his head, Tyler went ahead. He got one bull’s-eye and put the others inside the next ring.
“My turn,” said Fisher. “Stand back.”
“You don’t have the darts,” said Tyler.
“Don’t need ’em,” said Fisher, drawing his revolver. His first bullet obliterated the dart as well as the red dot at the center of the board, and the others followed through cleanly. “See you in the a.m. I’ll bring the joe.”
Chapter 4
Megan hesitated a moment, her hand resting on the throttle. They’d built roughly thirty minutes of leeway into her schedule, but only thirty minutes, and once they were airborne her options became extremely limited. She’d have no update on the position of most of the American aircraft involved in the operation.
The plan itself was solid. Even if the monitoring aircraft did something unusual or unanticipated, she’d be able to recover.
In, out. Once back, she and the crew would board the cigarette boat and be gone. A long vacation awaited.
General Bonham’s death had shaken her, even though the Web sites were reporting it as an accident. Segrest had sent a BS E-mail to her in response: “Stay with the general’s game plan” was the gist of it. She’d thought of contacting her cousin to get the real story but decided it was safer not to: There was no way to contact him directly using their encrypted system, which deposited J-PEG files on a server in Austria, and any clear text message would inevitably be read by several people before it got to him. Better at the moment to follow through with the plan, such as it was. Once she arrived in Argentina she could begin untangling what was going on.
Megan held the plane against its brakes one last time as she revved the engines, giving the plane its final check. The chief of the three-man crew that had served as the barebones ground team gave a quick salute and began running from the edge of the runway, crossing down the dusty access ramp. The crew’s boat was waiting in the cove less than a mile away; whatever happened from this moment on, she and her weapons officer were on their own.
“All right,” she said over the plane’s internal radio system. “You’re ready?” she asked the weapons officer.
“Very ready.”
“Rogers?”
“Anytime, beautiful.”
The Amos/X, an enhanced version of the standard long-range Russian air-to-air missile, added over one thousand pounds to her heavily altered Blackjack’s weight. Given the aircraft’s size and design, the additional weight might have seemed relatively insignificant, but the short, rough runway complicated the takeoff. Even without the missile, the plane typically dipped off the edge of the island and came perilously close to the waves in a light headwind; Megan guessed there was perhaps a 30-percent chance now that she would crash into the water.
But then it would be over, wouldn’t it?
She could accept that. She’d have done her duty.
She nodded to herself, then slapped the throttle bar, revving the engines for takeoff. The time for contemplation was long past: Action was what was needed now.
Chapter 5
Though the sea was nearly flat, there was no way for the speedboats to keep up with the two Mi-28 attack helicopters, and every so often the man at the helm cursed and gave his throttle a little jab, as if the combination might give him a few more knots of speed. Luksha found the man’s curses somewhat amusing but said nothing. The driver was a paratrooper, not a seaman, and seemed unduly anxious about his job; Luksha feared any distraction might be catastrophic.
The island was now ten miles away; he could see the outline of the abandoned oil derrick with his night glasses.
Four other men were crammed into the small boat; a total of twenty-three had been chosen personally by Luksha to accompany him. He had reviewed the records of the crews in the Mi-28s; both pilots had served in Chechnya, and their reputations were impeccable.
If things went well, a Navy patrol vessel with another two dozen men would join them on the island an hour after they landed. A transport helicopter, as well as two large cargo airplanes, could land there within two hours of receiving his command.
The general leaned forward on the seat, his hand braced against the aluminum strut at the side of the boat. It had been years since he had been personally involved in an action like this — so long that it had a surreal quality, as if it were a pleasure outing.
And yet, the stakes were extremely high. Within an hour he should know if the American superweapon was located here.
He might also have it, or at least parts of it, in his possession. But that was being wildly optimistic.
His analysts had mapped out possible mines near the main landing area and gun emplacements on the north and south portions of the island. They also thought it possible that there were antiship missiles as well. Only by landing would they discover if these were all realities or fantasies of overparanoid minds.
In their favor, the analysts had concluded that there were no more than two dozen people there. His force was big enough to overcome them, assuming that the layout of the facility had not been altered. Luksha and his men would feed disabling gas into the bunker ventilation system and then cut the power, entering through two narrow emergency exitways that could not be sufficiently protected. There had not been time to rehearse the operation, but the men with him had a great deal of experience in such matters, and he had no doubt they would succeed.
In the hours since returning from Moscow, Luksha had come to believe the theory that the CIA was hiding the weapon here for future use. Its precision would allow it to be used for many things — including, Luksha thought, targeting the North Korean army. Why they would do that from here rather than a normal base, he could not say.
“Five minutes,” said the man at the wheel.
As Luksha fine-tuned his focus on the island, a small pinpoint of light flared on the right. It burst brighter and larger, streaking from right to left, then climbing.
“Hold!” he said. “Hold all the boats!”
Luksha nearly lost his balance as the helmsman threw down the power. In the distance, the aircraft that was taking off continued to climb, its exhaust circles shaping into long ovals.
It was turning.
Luksha put his glasses down and waited. They could all hear the aircraft now.
The men knew of the weapon’s capabilities and knew that its heat could burn a hole in the boat, even though it was on the surface of the ocean.
Or it could explode the gas tank or melt the metal rivets. Death had many possibilities.
They waited, listening to the roar of the jet as it overwhelmed the sound of the water knocking against the gun-wales of the slightly overloaded vessels.
“Low-power surface radar,” said one of his men, monitoring the warning receiver. “Northeast side of the island, probably mounted on or near the derrick.”
Luksha nodded. The aircraft was still nearby, though the sound of its engines was receding. They weren’t to be targeted after all.
The most critical part of his mission had just been accomplished; he was sure now that their guesses were correct.
He would go ahead, take care of the small contingent on the island, wait for the plane to return. It would be easier once it landed; it would be out of fuel, vulnerable. He could hide his forces on the island, have the helicopters rush in.
Luksha would take the weapon. He would be honored beyond his imagination.