It was the hardest thing Patrick ever had to do—not to give the order to turn around.
Terrill Samson walked over to check out a noise far louder than the roar of the Sky Masters DC-10 taking off or the sirens on the police and FBI cars still streaming onto the tarmac — the noise of a screaming child. An FBI SWAT officer dressed in full black combat gear and carrying an MP-5K submachine gun was trying to take Bradley James McLanahan out of Wendy McLanahan’s arms.
“Stop resisting!” the officer was shouting. Wendy was now fighting off three FBI agents. “Let the kid go!”
Samson stepped in and pulled the FBI agents away from Wendy and the boy. “Back off, Officer, back off.”
“They’re suspects, General,” one of the hooded officers said. “They need to be handcuffed until we can search the area.
“I said, back off,” Samson said. The big three-star general put his arms around Wendy McLanahan and eased her away from the armored officer. “I’ll take responsibility for these two.”
But Wendy shrugged away from him. “You get away from me, too, Samson,” she cried. “I’d rather be in an isolation cell than be near you.” But Samson continued to escort her away, the FBI agents did not protest, and Wendy turned her attention to Bradley’s screaming and did not resist further.
“Where is Patrick going, Wendy?”
“Go to hell, Samson.”
“This is an investigation only, Wendy — we have no arrest warrants,” Samson said. “But if Patrick disappears with that aircraft, he’ll be charged with interfering with a federal investigation, evidence tampering, and withholding evidence. He’ll be a fugitive. If we find evidence that anyone here conspired with McLanahan to take that plane, this whole place will be shut down and locked up and everyone will go to jail. This is serious, Wendy. You’ve got to tell me where he’s going, and tell me fast.”
“Samson, I’m not going to tell you a thing,” Wendy said, turning Bradley’s eyes away from the red flashing lights to try to soothe him. “But I will ask you one question.”
“I know, I know — you think I’m the bad guy because I won’t go along with McLanahan and help him fight his little personal war,” Samson interjected. “You’re going to ask: Where’s my loyalty? Where’s my integrity? Don’t I care about what’s going on? Why don’t I do something about it?”
“No,” Wendy McLanahan asked. “My question is: are you having fun?”
“Fun?” Samson was incredulous. The place was sheer bedlam, police were leading technicians and engineers away in handcuffs, and her son was screaming in holy terror. “Fun? Are you trying to be funny, Doctor? I see nothing fun going on here.”
“Then you’re just doing your job, is that right, General?”
Samson could not reply. Helping the FBI track down his friend and ex-deputy commander, raiding a private company, and handcuffing men and women he knew and trusted because Patrick McLanahan might be planning to stage an attack on another country was certainly not in his job description. So why was he doing this? Just because he was ordered to do it? “No, I’m not having fun, Wendy. I’m having a really terrible time.”
“I just wanted to check,” Wendy said bitterly. “Because I’m sure you’re not doing this to learn how to be a better person or help contribute to your world. Since the only other reason to do something is to have fun, and you’re obviously not having fun, I’m confused. Why are you doing this?” And Wendy took her screaming son and walked toward the police vans, where she submitted to having a policewoman take Bradley out of her arms. She was handcuffed behind her back, searched from head to foot, and seated in the front seat of the van beside the policewoman and her son.
Terrill Samson wanted to go after her, steer her and Bradley away from the confusion and lights and noise, but he could not make his feet move. His world was unraveling. First the President of the United States, then the Russians, and now the press blows the doors off his command; his deputy commander engineers a one-man war against the Russians and against a powerful Russian mafioso; now he helps the Government bust a private company accused of attacking the Russians. He had no idea what was going to happen next.
But one thing was certain: Patrick McLanahan was a fighter, a warrior, and he was continuing to fight. And so far, he was winning. Maybe not every battle, maybe not even most of them — but he was winning. Terrill Samson sure as heck couldn’t call himself a winner right now.
Somehow, he had to find a way to make himself a winner.
NINE
Over the Black Sea
“There they are, sir,” one of the lookouts radioed. “They look like Russian helicopters. Mil Mi-14s, long-range land-based helicopters. No markings on them.”
“What in hell do they want?” the ship’s captain, Sergei Trevnikov, muttered nervously, restlessly peering at the helicopters through his binoculars. He hoped they were just joyriding or patrolling, since there was no place for helicopters that big to set down on his ship. “Still no response on hailing frequencies or aviation emergency channels?”
“No, sir.”
“Pasasi zalupu!” Trevnikov swore. Trevnikov was the skipper of the Russian oil tanker Ustinov, a privately owned tanker based out of Novorossijsk carrying almost a million barrels of crude oil bound for the big new oil terminal at Burgas, Bulgaria. He was accustomed to supply, medical, and VIP helicopters coming out to the ship all the time, but these three helicopters were unidentified, unannounced, and definitely unwanted.
“Quickly, have the quartermaster break out rifles and side arms,” Trevnikov ordered. He switched channels on his radio to the Black Sea emergency distress frequency. “Russian Federation Navy, Russian Federation Navy, Russian Federation Navy, this is the Russian flag tanker vessel Ustinov on emergency channel, under way ninety-eight kilometers north of Zonguldak, Turkey, heading west on transit approach to the Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas. Three military helicopters are approaching us from the north. They appear to be Russian-made military Mi-14 helicopters. They are unidentified and are not responding to our hails. We request immediate assistance. Over.”
It took several calls, but moments later a Russian Federation Navy radio operator sent the captain over to another channel. “Tanker Ustinov, we read you loud and clear,” the radioman said. “Are you in danger at this time?”
“Danger? Da, byt v glubokay zhopi! Yes, I’m in deep shit! I think these bastards mean to board us! They are maneuvering in on our bow right now.”
“We acknowledge, Ustinov,” the Russian radio operator said. “We are passing along your request for assistance at this time. Maintain a watch on this channel and advise of any hostile action. Over.”
“What should we do in the meantime? Suck our thumbs? Should we stop?”
“Command suggests you comply with their instructions to avoid any damage to your vessel that will render you dead in the water or unable to maintain steerageway,” the radio operator replied. “Are you laden at this time?”
“Hell, yes, we’re laden — we have a million barrels of crude oil on board!” Trevnikov shouted. He paused, decided, and then added, “We are a Metyorgaz vessel. Do you understand? Metyorgaz. Check our records — you’ll learn who owns this vessel and all the oil in it. I suggest you tell that to your superiors, and you had better do it quick.”