Like a mantra she repeated to herself exactly what commands she would have to type to abort the two missiles once she could access the computer again. The clock told her she wouldn't have that time.
"Sir," Colonel Hurst called out, "I have the Patriot battery commander on the line. He's reporting negative strikes on the inbound. They've shot their wad. It's going in. Four minutes, fifty-five seconds until Tel Aviv hit. Eight minutes, fifty-five until we get it."
Many in the War Room were watching the two red lines creep closer to their targets. Others, like those in a sinking ship, were writing notes to loved ones, despite the knowledge that such notes would most likely never be recovered. Some were desperately trying to get an outside line, trying to call their families.
General Lowcraft knew that discipline had broken down, but he understood that there was nothing they could do and that was precisely the reason people were reacting the way they were. He keyed the microphone.
"Major Parker, I don't want to disturb you, but it would be most helpful if you did whatever it is you said you could do to abort these missiles."
"You fucked up trusting her," Hill said, twisting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his cuffed hands.
Lowcraft turned to the former national security adviser. "As you said earlier, the most important thing is that I take responsibility. And I do."
McKenzie had heard the Blackhawk long before he saw it. He watched Thorpe jump into the water, even as the voice in his ear reported ten seconds out. McKenzie looked up and saw the C-130 roar by overhead.
The rope was caught by the whiskers and dragged into the exact center. A sky anchor clamped down on the rope and held it in place, while just above the anchor a blade cut the blimp free.
Thorpe was swimming hard toward the Zodiac. He was five feet away from McKenzie when the rope suddenly went taut and McKenzie's grinning face was yanked up out of the boat into the air.
Thorpe twisted and reached out, grabbing the rope leading to the money pod. He pulled in a bit of slack and pressed it through the snap link on the chest of his parachute harness. He was just in time, as the slack in that rope was ripped out of his hands and the rope, pod, and Thorpe were lifted into the air, the latter sliding down the rope until he slammed into the top of the pod.
Tied together, the two men and the money cleared the trees at the end of the pond and flew off to the south, dangling at the end of the rope tether leading to the C-130.
The pilot of the C-130 went into a steep climb, the rope caught in the sky anchor, now pulling back along the belly of the plane by both the plane's speed and attitude. In the rear of the C-130, the Colombian mercenary who McKenzie had hired for this job was watching the procedures from the back ramp. "Shit, man, we've got two people and the money! I thought there was only supposed to be one. We also got a helicopter trailing us!"
"Just grab the rope!" the pilot yelled.
The mercenary extended the arm of the crane and lowered a hook on a steel cable toward the rope.
"Fuck!" McKenzie yelled, seeing Thorpe ten feet below him. Wind whistled by at a hundred and thirty knots, twisting and turning the rope.
Thorpe reached into the green pouch and pulled out the small black box inside, slapping the metallic rear against the money pod and pushing a button. Then he wrapped both hands around the rope, getting both feet fixed on the top of the money pod. He began climbing.
Parker looked up. The clock turned to two minutes and then below. The radio crackled to life again.
"Anytime now, Major, would be most helpful," General Lowcraft's voice was quite calm.
Parker watched the screen. She knew it was almost there, but not close enough. "I'll get it, General," she replied, her fingers poised above the keyboard for lack of anything else to do.
McKenzie looked down at the snap link on the waistband of his harness. His hand wavered over it. He knew if he released it, the pod and Thorpe would drop away and he would be free. Thorpe climbed closer, over halfway up the rope.
McKenzie kicked at Thorpe's face, narrowly missing. Thorpe grabbed hold of the foot and used it to get even closer, wrapping his arms around McKenzie's legs.
Inside the C-130, the mercenary had hooked the rope. He threw a lever and the steel cable pulled up the rope until it locked in place in the crane itself. Then he threw another lever and the winch slowly began to wind the rope in.
Dublowski had both arms around Tommy and was watching from the Blackhawk, mesmerized as the two men dangled at the end of the rope. The helicopter was following the C-130, a half mile back. The brown line of beach and the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico and international water beckoned just ahead.
"Fuck you!" McKenzie screamed, removing his hand from the snap link and reaching down with his artificial arm and striking at Thorpe.
"Give me the control for the nuke," Thorpe yelled back. "You're finished."
"Bullshit!" McKenzie replied. "You're finished."
They were less than fifty feet from the back ramp of the C-130 now and both could see a man standing there with a submachine gun in his hands.
"You don't have to blow the nuke," Thorpe pleaded.
McKenzie grinned and reached around his neck with his good hand and held up the remote on its red strap. "You're so fucking naive. You lose!" He pulled it off and tossed the remote away into the air.
Thorpe didn't hesitate, swiftly pulling the release on his chest strap and falling away from the rope.
In the Blackhawk, everyone gasped as the figure fell away from the line. The other figure and the pod moved more quickly now, gaining on the ramp.
Thorpe could see the red strap streaming behind the remote as it plummeted to earth. He arched his back and freefell headfirst in that direction. Below lay beach and surf. Thorpe prayed that the remote would hit the beach and not the water.
The wind whistled in his ears but he knew that he was falling as quickly as the remote and that their trajectory would be basically the same. He kept his eyes on the red streamer, less than four hundred feet above the ground. He held on until the last possible second, then pulled the ripcord, the chute billowing out, two hundred feet above ground all the while watching the red streamer go down and land on the sand.
Thorpe grabbed the risers, dumping air, going down faster than safety dictated toward the landing spot. He landed, feeling something in his lower left leg crack as he hit the ground too hard.
Thorpe cut loose the chute and pulled himself through the sand toward the remote.
The clock in the LCC was now down to 1:00. It changed to:59.
Parker had watched the computer boot up every day for the past couple of weeks during their daily checks. She knew the computer still had more than a minute before it was booted. Her hands were still poised, but her lips had stopped mumbling the programming and were now praying.
Six miles above the surface, the ICBM was coming straight down. The nose cone was glowing bright red from the speed. Directly below was the tiny square of the LCC compound with smoke drifting out of the shattered concrete.
McKenzie was now level with the back ramp, the rope pulling him in. His feet touched metal and he stood up inside the plane, unhooking himself from the rope. He joined the mercenary as the money pod bumped against the back ramp, then slid over and into the cargo bay.