“All clear,” announced Jonah.
He flipped the hatch open and climbed out, followed by a wincing Buzz.
Dr. Nassiri held Alexis by the waist, helping her out of the tank, then climbed out himself. He smelled of a strange mixture of expensive soaps, laundry detergent, and fish. It was decidedly unpleasant, but dealing with it would have to wait. He followed Jonah to the bridge, passing Buzz as the former soldier cleaned his injured face in the galley sink.
Looking at the radar screen, Jonah nodded. The helicopter was heading back to Malta; they’d not succeeded in cutting off the engines despite their efforts.
“We’re receiving broadcast radio telemetry,” said Jonah, squinting at a computer screen. “They’re re-classifying the Conqueror as a hazard to navigation and recommending sea-based interception. We’re in the clear.”
Despite Jonah’s proclamation, Dr. Nassiri felt anything but safe.
CHAPTER 6
His face creased into a deep scowl, Charles Bettencourt stood on the far corner of Anconia Island’s floating jetway with arms crossed as the cold sea air brushed over the tarmac. The imposing oceanic city rose behind him, glittering tower blocks of glass and steel on three massive platforms. His lawyer stood beside him, mimicking his concern with similarly crossed arms.
Then he spotted the helicopters, five Blackhawks coming in low. Still distant, they flew in an attack formation, tight, fast, and on an intercept course with the long jetway. Chaos erupted. Medical personnel popped up gurneys and IV lines, stacked bandages, and checked oxygen lines. Volunteers with medical experience stood out of the way as best they could, rocking from foot to foot with evident tension. Dozens of armed security personnel clustered in small groups, each decked in a collage of armor and weaponry.
Behind him, a single Gulfstream G-4 jet spun up engines to a screaming pitch, forward thrust pushing against orange plastic stop-blocks. The aircraft bucked and vibrated, engines drowning out all other sounds as the assembled personnel covered their ears. It was his, or at least it should be. Today, it would be a medical transport, rushing the wounded to a Level I trauma center in Munich.
Bettencourt didn’t even want to think of what blood would do to the made-to-order Venetian carpeting he’d recently had installed. Perhaps some good would come out of the situation and he’d finally have an excuse to get that Gulfstream G-650 he’d had his eye on.
The five helicopters drew close; he could hear the dull thumping of the rotors slicing through the African air.
“Should we help?” asked his lawyer. “When they come in, I mean. Do you think they’ll need us to unload the wounded? Assist the medical personnel?”
“You’re wearing a $15,000 suit,” snapped Bettencourt. “A suit I bought you.”
One of the helicopters dropped from formation, gradually losing ground and altitude to the other four. Harsh white smoke poured from the engine compartment, trailing behind the machine. The rear tail kicked out like a drift car in a hairpin curve, pulling the airframe into a flat spin. And then it simply dropped out of the sky, nosing down, smoke trailing, violently smacking into the ocean. The blades chopped into the waves, splintering as the engine ground to a halt, leaving the stricken hulk to bob in ocean whitecaps.
Many of the civilians stood frozen, but several of the soldiers leapt into one of the nearby tenders, one of which roared to life and sped towards the stricken airframe. It appeared to Charles that they’d reach it before it sank. Either way, the helicopter was well insured. That would go a long way to mitigate the disaster with the Conglomerate.
The remaining four helicopters approached the jetway, flared, and landed hard. Bettencourt put his hand up to protect his face as dust and debris washed over the collected personnel. An IV bag stand fell to the ground, its bag splitting open, spilling saline solution over the thin layer of asphalt.
The helicopters bore witness to the battle: shattered glass and blood stains, punctured aluminum pockmarked with bullet holes and burn marks. They’d been in a hell of a fight.
Colonel Westmoreland, chief of security operations, stepped from the nearest helicopter and into the chaotic scene. He was a massive man, made all the more massive by his Kevlar/ceramic armor and heavily customized G36 assault rifle.
Bettencourt’s lawyer approached Westmoreland first, ducking under the still-spinning rotor blades.
That’s probably a mistake, Bettencourt thought with a flicker of amusement.
Sure enough, Westmoreland shoved the lawyer with almost enough force to knock him down. The lawyer didn’t wait to see what would happen next and turned tail to sprint away. Westmoreland took off his Kevlar helmet and hurled it at the lawyer, narrowly missing his heels. His closely shaved head matched the starkness of his callous expression.
The men in the tender managed to pull one last soldier from the drowning helicopter before it turned belly-up and slipped beneath the surface, disappearing from view. The tender spun around and buzzed back towards the pier.
Colonel Westmoreland pushed his way past the medical personnel and reached into the lead chopper. The mercenary dragged out his struggling prisoner, a shabbily dressed Somali, hands bound, black hood covering his head.
“He’s captured one!” said the lawyer. “One of the pirates!”
“Not sure why,” mused Bettencourt. “They don’t bargain for their own.”
Ignoring the chaotic scene, Westmoreland dragged the struggling man away from the crowd and towards the side of the pier. Bettencourt followed him, watching as the colonel put the man on his knees at the edge of the pier, whipped off his hood, and placed a 9mm pistol against the back of his head.
“Bad day, Mr. Westmoreland?” Bettencourt asked, approaching him from behind.
Colonel Westmoreland turned to face his boss, shook his head, and turned back. The man at gunpoint wasn’t a man; he was a boy, maybe only fourteen or fifteen. His small frame, clad in filthy, threadbare rags, quaked with fear.
“Hey,” Bettencourt said to the kid. “You speak English?”
The pirate said nothing. Bettencourt slapped him lightly on the side of his face. “English?” he asked again.
“Fuck your mother!” shouted the pirate in a voice nearly an octave higher than expected. Bettencourt chewed down a snicker; the kid sounded like a Brooklyn cabbie who hadn’t been tipped. Not great at making his own case for survival — maybe too young to realize that capture and a bullet to the back of the head meant more than a red splash screen and a re-start from the last save point of his video game. He shook his head at Westmoreland and stepped away from the edge.
The colonel holstered his pistol and yanked the hood back over the boy’s face, ending any further conversation. Behind them, the doctors and volunteers continued the grim task of triaging the wounded; some turning their attention to the mangled, bloody men zipped inside black plastic bags.
Bettencourt put an arm around Colonel Westmoreland’s massive shoulders. It was the sort of consoling gesture he imagined might be appropriate for the occasion.
“What happened out there?”
“Dalmar happened.” Westmoreland practically spat the words. “Dalmar fucking Abdi happened. Come with me, I have something to show you.”
Grabbing the hooded prisoner, Westmoreland stomped off the jetway with Bettencourt and his lawyer following close behind. Bettencourt’s jaw clenched, his deep scowl returning.