“You don’t realize who you’re messing with, son.” Rampert’s eyes were hot coals.
“Maybe you don’t realize you’ve got a shotgun trained on your head right now. I believe it’s called tactical advantage, Colonel.”
“Do you want Zachary back or not?”
“Absolutely,” Matt said. “I’m ready now.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But you’re supposed to be good, Rampert. I’ve heard about you. Seen you in action. And if you help me find my brother, we might just find what you’re looking for.” If Rampert wanted the tape badly enough, Matt thought, then he could bring to bear the full weight of Fort Bragg’s intelligence-gathering assets behind the effort to find Zachary. It would be a major victory.
His instincts were telling him that Zachary was supposed to be dead and that the military would not be knocking itself out to find him. The government would be even less eager to find him and perhaps determined that he not return. The ploy of plausible deniability would be blown.
Zachary was hugely expendable, and if the tape might increase his survivability, then Matt would pursue that option.
It was all he had.
CHAPTER 40
Ballantine’s body was numb with painkillers. Because he needed both hands to fly the Sherpa, he had taken Percocet, one step down from morphine, and he was fighting the drowsiness.
He reached down and cut the trim, attempting to smooth out the bumpy, low-level flight as much as possible. He snatched a bottle of water from the console. Swallowing against a swollen tongue, he let the water trickle down his throat.
He had been airborne for several hours. He knew that the Air National Guard was patrolling and that AWACS airplanes were searching for him. Ballantine had also launched two of the Predators, one to fly up the St. Lawrence River. The other was flying toward Detroit, Michigan. Both were diversions.
Because his ground control stations had been destroyed in Swanton, all he could do is set the computer to launch them from his barn in Vermont. Two hours after he departed in the float plane, the first should have taken off. Another hour later, the second. It was a classic scatter strategy. Limited U.S. resources would get multiple spot reports of low flying aircraft and have to set priorities. With one focused on shipping lanes and another on Detroit, Ballantine figured it would place his aircraft, if detected, as the third priority.
Also, convincing the Central Committee to not attack airplanes or airports was proving as key to his ability to fly as the stealth technology and tactics he employed with his Sherpa. He believed the Americans focus on avoiding economic ruin, as almost happened after 9/11, and would want to continue to fly their airplanes. His calculation had led him to persuade Tae Il Sung to hold off on threatening the airline industry. So far, their plan had been devoid of attacking anything dealing with air travel.
Ballantine flew across the glimmering water of the Atlantic Ocean, low enough and slowly enough that if he was detected by radar, it would probably read him as a boat. He was surprised to make it this far, but not overconfident of his chances at making it all the way. To avoid the intense air defense coverage and scrutiny of the capital region, he had slipped off the Atlantic coast through the less populated areas of southern Massachusetts and then paralleled the coast over twelve miles offshore, just outside the United States’ territorial limits.
His global positioning system told him he was due east of Chincoteague, Virginia. He had heard about the wild ponies that swam the channel at low tide, and he actually registered that it was something he might like to see one day. The possibilities for a painting were limitless. Soft pastel colors of a setting sun against the earth tones of the sand and swaying reeds as spotted horses galloped through a knee-deep strait to reach the island. Fascinating.
Banking to the west, Ballantine would soon be entering an area heavily monitored and patrolled by military aircraft. He would arrive at his destination in about twenty-five minutes, if everything went according to plan.
He spotted a small light in the distance, his sight of it enhanced by his night-vision goggles. His adrenaline began to surge for no apparent reason. So far the Percocet had done an excellent job of both numbing his pain and suppressing any emotion. He had lost many friends and the only woman that he might have ever loved in Canada. He knew that, as an international terrorist, emotions were needless burdens; but in his mind, at this moment, he was just an artist.
And he was a man whose brother had been murdered in cold blood by the American in the back of his airplane. He glanced over his shoulder at the bound and gagged Zachary Garrett. Frankly, he was surprised the man was still alive.
Ballantine determined the flashing light to be a buoy. He was about to enter the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, which was surprisingly quiet and vacant this evening. The quiet din of the modified turbine engine droned along, causing him to experience a form of highway hypnosis. He was tired, but he knew it would be tragic for the mastermind of the greatest terror attack in history to fall asleep at the controls and bore an insignificant hole into the ocean with his little Sherpa.
He noticed through his goggles that the peninsula to his right was beginning to narrow, an indication that he was nearing the south shore, where the twenty-five-mile-long Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel would begin. His instructions were to key off the third and fourth islands that connected the second tunnel with the bridges. He looked at his fuel gauge, the red needle resting slightly above the E. Flying low, where the air was thickest, his having to fight the swirling winds had eaten into his fuel supplies. He figured he had about fifteen minutes of fuel before he would need to land.
He picked up the string of lights that dotted the bridge for several miles. The lights stopped for about two miles, began again, and then, in the distance, stopped for a brief span. His contact had told him to look specifically for the lights. Just east of the north tunnel would be his landing strip.
He was flying so low that he could see the white caps on the bay surface, and he received an occasional spindrift against his windscreen.
“Lily Pad one, this is Dragonfly one, over.”
Ballantine waited for the expected response, and, when it did not come, he repeated his message.
“Lily Pad one, this is Dragonfly one. Over.”
“Dragonfly one, this is Lily Pad. Over.”
“This is Dragonfly. Inbound. Over.”
“This is Lily Pad. Acknowledge visual. Stay low and hit the runway early. Over.”
“Wilco. Stand by.”
Ballantine searched the horizon, his weary eyes straining against the metal night-vision goggle rims. They saw nothing. Hearing a noise that was both unfamiliar and unsettling, he looked at the fuel gauge, the red needle falling below the empty line. He had used all 770 miles worth of his gas.
The propeller sputtering and straining, Ballantine ripped off his goggles and searched for the reserve tank switch. Frantically, his scrambling fingers found the toggle and flipped it downward. He pressed hard again, ensuring the switch was set. After a moment, the turbine picked up the steady hum, indicating it was receiving adequate fuel. He quickly set his goggles back to his face.
He still could not see his landing strip.
He determined he might be too low, so he gained altitude to increase his visibility.
“Dragonfly, this is Lily Pad. Acknowledge visual. Over.”