Still, he focused, thinking about his weapons and the small amount of ammunition that he had on hand. He had two twenty-round magazines for the AR-15 and two eight-round magazines for the pistol. He had the distinct impression that his ammunition load might not be enough to complete the job.
As Matt approached the top of the ship, he saw he would have to negotiate a small ledge that stuck out about three feet from the surface of the hull. He could see the outline of a hatch that, under normal circumstances, would be open for anyone traversing the ladder. He pressed against it and determined that it was locked. He looked down and could not see Blake’s Boston Whaler, meaning they had repositioned or that he was simply too high. Clearly he would have to be very nimble to reach out, secure the ledge, and then essentially do a pull up while swinging a leg atop the outcropping.
Holding onto the ladder with one hand, Matt reached out with the other and grasped the gunwale. He could barely reach it and had to swing one foot out over the water to give him the leverage to fully grip the leading edge of the gunwale. He realized another problem in that the metal was about four inches thick, preventing him from getting a good handhold. He would have to simply use the strength of his fingers to support his weight, like a rock climber. He inched his hand forward to the point where he felt like he had a good grip and then mustered the courage to smoothly let go of the ladder with the other hand.
He now had one hand on the protruding gunwale and one foot on the ladder, forming a triangle with the hull of the ship and the outermost portion of the ship’s gunwale. The tension against his fingers was enormous, only lessened a bit when he slowly moved his other hand to the ledge and grasped tightly next to his supporting hand. As he was moving his hand, Matt reached a point where his foot on the ladder had to come free. He was hanging by two hands, a rifle slung across his back, feet pointed straight down at the water, and certain danger awaiting him as he crested the rail.
He lifted himself as if he were doing a pull-up, scar tissue really becoming a factor. He hadn’t realized until this point how severely wounded he had been. A bullet had pierced his stomach and all associated muscles and organs less than a year ago. The bayonet cut across his forearm had healed, but the tendon and ligaments were stiff and unwieldy. He was thankful at this very moment, however, that he had been doing batting practice, working his wrists and forearms hard, rebuilding them.
Matt lifted his leg slowly. It was harder this way because he couldn’t get any momentum going. He had to rely on pure strength and adrenaline, of which he had plenty. Hooking his left foot onto the ledge, he continued pulling with his arms until he could reach out with his left arm and slide it along the riveted metal. All of this was going well until he felt something loosen in his belt and had the sickening realization that his pistol was sliding loose.
There was absolutely nothing he could do about it except accelerate his climb onto the ledge. He did, but it was too late. He felt the pistol pop out of his waist and visualized it falling. About the time he would have expected to hear a small splash, he heard a dull thud. Either splashes registered as thuds this high up or the pistol landed in the boat. He hoped he hadn’t just killed Blake or Peyton.
He was on the gunwale and quickly slipped over onto the deck of the ship. He found himself staring at a large container, but could see a pathway toward the superstructure of the ship. Stopping to catch his breath and ensure he at least had some ammunition left, Matt heard a high buzzing sound, like the sound of a weed eater.
The sound also reminded him of remotely piloted airplanes, the kind you see on the weekends in the open fields, with a father and son laughing and playing with the joystick as the small aircraft does barrel rolls in the sky. Funny he should be having that image pop into his mind as it occurred to him that Ballantine was launching the first unmanned aerial vehicle.
Destination unknown.
CHAPTER 53
Ballantine looked at the television screen and saw the darkened cave of the Fong Hou runway. Though he sat in a comfortable chair in the ship’s command center, his visual perspective was that of a pilot looking out of the cockpit window of the Predator.
He and Admiral Chen had completed inspection of the crude nuclear bombs the technicians had affixed to four of the Predators. The remaining aircraft were carrying VX nerve gas as their payload. Chen and Ballantine kept their distance.
The technicians had then entered the grid coordinates into the global positioning system aboard each aircraft, allowing them to fly on autopilot once launched, much like cruise missiles shot from U.S. Navy ships. Because they could only launch one Predator at a time with the single monitor, Ballantine had elected to fly each aircraft for thirty minutes, get it on cruise path, and then release it to the Queen Bee’s satellite control for digital guidance.
Flight time at 70 mph to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, would be three hours. The flight to the Pentagon would be about two hours, and then Ballantine would launch the chemical attacks on population centers, saving the nearby naval station in Norfolk for last. This would give him the opportunity to get in his Sherpa and fly it directly into the White House with a nuclear bomb aboard.
Sitting in the command center at the controls of the Predator terminal, he waited for the green light to flash, which would give him the signal to release the brakes on the Predator. The red light flickered to yellow.
Ballantine marveled at the genius of their campaign so far. It had been innovative and lethal. While in his view the Americans had come into Afghanistan with a muted and limp response to the September 11 attacks, this campaign could serve as a primer on how to attack a country in the twenty-first century. Start with terrifying attacks on the civilian population, follow with debilitating attacks on military infrastructure, and conclude with destruction of command and control capability.
Through the television screen, Ballantine saw Admiral Chen walk to the front of the Predator and stand at attention, saluting in strict military fashion. The admiral disappeared from sight as the small light at the bottom of his control terminal turned green.
Although Ballantine could not hear it, he could sense that the whining engine of the Predator had become deafening. He released the brake and the catapult shot the aircraft forward along the centerline of the runway. He gingerly handled the joystick as he watched the Predator bore through the cavern. Quickly, though, the Predator was free of the runway, dipping a bit off the bow’s elevated ramp. He gained rudder control and pulled the joystick to the rear, gathering altitude as he left the throttle full. Like playing a video game, he thought, though much more deadly.
The nuclear bomb weighed about thirty pounds and pulled down on the nose of the aircraft, forcing him to fight against gravity. He had flown the Sherpa overloaded with fishing gear enough to know not to fight to gain altitude, instead nosing over and letting the engine catch up with the workload. Ballantine tipped the nose forward just a bit and immediately was rewarded with a smoother ride.
Through the camera, he could see that the unpiloted Predator was probably one hundred feet above the glimmering water of Chesapeake Bay. Headed east, he would soon bank the aircraft to the south and then to the west over Virginia Beach, setting it on course for the command center at Pope Air Force Base and Fort Bragg.
Ballantine tilted the joystick slightly to the right, bringing the Predator to a southbound course. He began picking up the lights of Fort Story and the strip along the beachfront, and then he turned the Predator some more. The aircraft was actually quite responsive and easy to maneuver. The sterile environment of the Predator monitor did not provide the hum of the engine and the bumps of the wind — those extrasensory items that give a good pilot the feel he needs.