Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (75 page)

 
          
“What
do we do, sir?” the pilot asked.

 
          
“Keep
going,” Patrick replied. “Take the next taxiway onto the runway, get airborne
as soon as you can.”

 
          
“We’re
pretty close to gross weight, sir,” the engineer said. “An intersection takeoff
won’t give us enough accelerate-stop distance.”

 
          
“Just
do it,” Patrick said. “If those choppers get any closer and block our path,
we’ll all be in jail before you know it.” The pilot made a sudden turn onto the
intersecting taxiway, and while the copilot and flight engineer frantically
completed the pretakeoff checks, the pilot swung right on the runway, lining up
for takeoff.

 
          
“General
McLanahan, this is Earthmover.” Patrick heard Lieutenant-General Terrill
Samson’s voice in his head through the implanted transceiver. “Better shut it
down. The FBI is going to block the runway.”

           
‘Terrill, what did you do?” Patrick
asked.

 
          
“Yes,
l told them you might be here—hard to believe, but the FBI didn't know about
Sky Masters or this facility,” Samson said.

 
          
“So
you told them.”

 
          
“I
cooperated with a federal investigation,” Samson retorted. “They have a warrant
to search the facility and all the aircraft. You need to cooperate with them.
Shut it down. Don't continue the takeoff. You'll kill everyone on board that
plane.”

 
          
“Then
I wish you were on board with me, Samson,” Patrick said bitterly. He shouted to
the pilots, “Get this thing in the air!” The last thing he saw over on the
parking ramp was a large group of armed FBI agents surrounding Wendy, his son Bradley,
and the others. One FBI agent had an M 16 pointed at his wife and son. the
muzzle just inches away. Wendy was clutching their son tightly, afraid to move.

 
          
The
FBI’s Jet Ranger helicopter had just set down about three-quarters of the way
down the runway. The pilot immedi ately realized the DC-10 wasn't going to
stop, and yanked the helicopter off the runway and quicktaxied clear. The DC-10
had started to rotate to takeoff attitude at that spot, and the wmgtip vortices
sent the chopper spinning and flipped it on its side.

 
          
“McLanahan,”
Terrill Samson’s disembodied voice said, “what has gotten into you? You may
have killed that helicopter crew! Are you crazy?”

 
          
“If
any harm comes to my family. I’ll be looking for
you,
Samson,” Patrick
vowed.

 
          
“They're
taking Wendy and your son into custody,” Samson said. “She won’t be placed
under arrest unless she fails to cooperate. I advise you to orbit the field and
burn down fuel until you can land right back here.”

 
          
“Not
one hair disturbed on either of their heads,” Patrick warned. “I hold you
responsible.”

 
          
“I
am not your enemy, Patrick!”
Samson thundered. “Dammit, don't you
understand? The ghost of Brad Elliott has got you completely screwed up. Don't
let it affect your family as well. If you don’t give yourself up, Patrick, I
can’t be responsible for what happens to them.”

 
          
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 Mcl^anahan 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.

Over the
Black Sea

Several months later

 
          
“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.”

 
          
It
was indeed quick. Only a few minutes later, a different voice came on the
radio. “Tanker
Ustinov
,
this is Commander Boriskov, commander of the destroyer
Besstrashny,
Seventy-ninth Destroyer Group, Novorossijsk,” came the announcement. “We copy
you are being interdicted by unidentified military helicopters in treaty
waters. Describe any markings you see and any weapons visible.”

 
          
“They
are big fucking transport helicopters,” Trevnikov replied. Now the Russian Navy
was doing something. Mention “Metyorgaz” to them, and they all start quaking in
their boots. No one, not even the Russian Federation Navy, wants to fuck with
Pavel Kazakov. “I don’t see any markings or weapons.”

 
          
“We
acknowledge. Patrol and action aircraft and vessels are under way,” the
commander said. “We recommend you reverse course if able and do not give
permission to be boarded.”

 
          
“Well,
no shit,” Trevnikov said. “But I will miss my offload slot if I come about.”
The new Metyorgaz terminal at Burgas.
Bulgaria
, which had just opened, was one of the
largest and finest in all of
Eastern Europe
. The new Metyorgaz pipeline from Burgas to
Vlore
,
Albania
, was cutting the cost of transporting
petroleum to markets in
Western Europe
by thirty percent at least, which meant huge profits for all users. As
a result, the Burgas terminal was always booked, and reserved slots could be
held open only for very short periods of time. A delay of even six or seven
hours could mean sitting at anchor in the
Black Sea
for days waiting for another slot. “Can't
you send a fighter jet out here to scare these bastards away?”

 
          
“We
are readying armed aircraft at this time,” the Navy commander said, “but it
will take them some time to reach your position. You will help us by reversing
course. Acknowledge.”

 
          
“All
right, all right.” Trevnikov said. To his helmsman, he ordered, “Helm, hard
about.” He liked giving that order, because it took big tankers like the
Ustinov
,
over two hundred meters long and over one hundred and fifty thousand
tons, almost an hour and about thirty kilometers to execute a course reversal.
“I am executing a heading change, coming to starboard to heading
zero-six-zero,” Trevnikov radioed.

 
          
“Very
well,” the Navy guy said. “Where are these helicopters now?”

           
Trevnikov searched the horizon and
followed his bridge crew’s pointing fingers. “About two hundred meters off my
bow,” he replied on the radio. “They are carrying fuel tanks. They look like
torpedoes, but they are fuel tanks. My men tell me they are Mi-14 transport
helicopters. They are approaching amidships ... wait! I see ropes! They are
throwing ropes down from the helicopters . . they are rappelling down from the
helicopters! Soldiers! Commandos! They are invading my ship with commandos!
About eight from each helicopter! They are on my deck, moving toward the
wheelhouse!
There are commandos on my ship!”

 
          
“Remain
calm, Captain,” the Russian navy commander said. “Our patrol aircraft is less
than ten minutes out, we are dispatching jet aircraft, and we have a warship
about two hours away. Can you secure the bridge?”

 
          
“Against
commandos? For two hours? Are you insane?” Trevnikov ordered the doors shut and
barred. He had no illusions that he could put up any kind of defense against
them, but he was determined to try. He had his crew members take cover in front
of the helmsman’s console, where they had good cover and could see both bridge
wing doors, and he secured and locked the two weather doors and the inside
passageway door. Four of his crew members were armed, two with automatic rifles
and the other two with automatic pistols.

 
          
Ten
minutes later, the steel weather door on the port side of the bridge blew open.
To the captain's surprise, a lone, unarmed figure stepped into the doorway.
“Open fire!” the captain shouted. All four men began firing as fast as they
could. The figure simply stood there ... and stood there. He never went down.
They must have emptied eighty rounds on him—he was less than ten meters
away—but he did not go down.

 
          
“Astanavleevat’sya!”
the officer shouted in very poor Russian, with a definite Western accent. “
Gyde
deerektaram?”

           
“Who are you?” the captain shouted in Russian. The air was thick and
hazy with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Did they have blanks or noisemakers in
their guns? Why didn’t he go down ... ? “What do you want?” To his men, he said
in a low but urgent voice, “Reload quickly, dammit!”

 
          
“Gyde
deerektaram?”
the figure repeated.

 
          
“Speak
English—your Russian is giving me a headache,” Trevnikov shouted, now in
English. “I am the captain. What in hell do you want on my ship?” At that
moment, the starboard-side weather door blew open too, and just like the first,
another figure stood, unarmed, in the doorway. One crew member with a rifle
opened fire, emptying a thirty-round magazine on him in five seconds—but like
the first, he did not go down. The first armored terrorist just stood there,
calmly observing while his partner was shot at with a rifle.
“Who are
you?"
the captain repeated, his eyes bugging out in sheer terror now.
“What do you want?”

 
          
“I
want you to shut up and do as you are told,” the first commando replied. “Drop
your weapons and no one will get hurt. I promise.”

 
          
“Ssat
ya na nivo hat'el
!" the executive officer shouted, and he raised his
reloaded pistol at the first man, who had taken several steps toward the
Russians. But before the XO could fire, they heard and felt a snap of
electricity emanating from somewhere on the figure’s body, and the XO flew
backward, crumpled against the forward bulkhead, and lay jerking and twitching
in muscle spasms on the deck.

 
          
“Drop
your weapons
now!"
the second figure ordered. They did. and they
all stood up from behind the console with their hands raised in surrender. More
commandos ran in and quickly began to search the bridge crew. They quickly
bound the bridge officers’ hands behind their backs with nylon handcuffs, all
but the captain, and led them away.

 
          
“Your
ship is now under my command.” the first figure said in an electronically
synthesized voice, like a robot’s. The captain stared in disbelief at him. He
was dressed head to toe in what appeared to be a thin gray outfit, with a
full-face helmet and a thin molded baekpack. There was not a mark on him from
bullets or from anything else. The captain noticed small protrusions from his
shoulders that looked like electrodes— probably the source of the shock beam
that had disabled his executive officer.

 
          
“You
are hijacking an
oil tanker?
In the middle of the fucking
Black Sea
? Do you have any idea of what the hell you
are doing?”

 
          
“We’ll
see,” the strange commando said. He began issuing orders to his men as they
herded the bridge crew out. The second commando, dressed in the strange but
obviously very effective body armor as well, departed the bridge.

 
          
Trevnikov
stepped closer to the masked commando. “Do you know who owns this vessel,
asshole?”

           
“Metyorgaz,” the commando replied.

 
          
“And
do you know who owns Metyorgaz?”

 
          
“Metyor
IIG.”

 
          
“And
do you know—?”

 
          
“I
know perfectly well that Pavel Kazakov, the Russian gangster and drug lord,
owns this vessel and all the oil in it,” the commando said, with a hint of
triumph in his voice. “But you won’t be making any deliveries for him anymore.”

 
          
“That
is not your first mistake today,
aslayop
,” Trevnikov said. This time it
was his turn to give the terrorist an evil smile. “But it could very well be
your last. When Comrade Kazakov finds out some American commandos in silly
dance costumes hijacked his tanker, he’ll take great pleasure in roasting you
all alive.”