Gideon's War/Hard Target (15 page)

“The good news is we didn’t fall into the canal, but the bad news is, we landed on the wrong side.” The armored SMDF vehicle was grinding toward them, from about half a mile away.

“How’s your swimming, sir?”

“Probably better than yours right now,” Gideon said.

“Then you need to get across. If the jihadis send reinforcements, I’ll hold them off till you make it over to the SMDF.” Simpson pulled forward the MP5, which was still strapped around him in a tactical sling.

“We’re both getting over there.”

“No, Mr. Davis, you need to go. Please.”

Gideon pointed toward the bay, which was only a few hundred yards away. “There’s a dock down there. We’ll take a boat across.”

“Our plan was to exfil you and your brother by boat and take you to a naval vessel. The boat’s still on standby.” Simpson pulled out a satellite phone and punched in a number. “I’m calling him so he can meet you there. I’ll follow in a bit.”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the wall in Langley that has a star for every agent who’s sacrificed his life serving this country—”

“Of course, Mr. Davis, but—”

“News flash, Simpson. Your star is not going up on that wall.”

Simpson looked nervously back to the south.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, before speaking into the phone. “Sandpiper Seven this is Uncle Bob. Our air asset is down, but our primary is uninjured. Hostiles are in pursuit. There’s a quay about three klicks west of KM International. I need our water asset there for immediate exfil. Prepare to exit hard. Out.” He folded the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

Gideon draped Simpson’s arm around his shoulder, supporting him as he hobbled down the deserted highway. Blood had soaked through Simpson’s pants and was leaking onto the road, leaving a trail. Gideon didn’t want to say anything, but if Simpson didn’t get to a hospital within the hour, he was going to bleed out.

They had about fifty yards to go when the jihadis appeared on the highway behind them. Turbaned men armed with AKs were jammed in the back of a white pickup. Some hung over the side.

“Make a break for it, Mr. Davis,” Simpson said.

“Shut up, Simpson,” Gideon said. “I told you, your star’s not going up on that wall. At least not today.”

Simpson was in no shape to argue. The jihadi vehicle was accelerating toward them.

From the far side of the canal, the gun boomed from the turret of the SMDF vehicle. But the pickup truck was going too fast to make an easy target, and the armored vehicle’s shells were landing short of it.heiÑ€†

“Hustle up, Simpson,” Gideon urged. “We’re almost there.”

Simpson was trying, but the bullet that hit his leg had hit bone. With every footfall, he grimaced in agony until Gideon was forced to support nearly all of his weight.

Behind them, the jihadis in the pickup truck began shooting.

“Hang on,” Gideon shouted. He crouched and planted his shoulder in the pit of the CIA man’s stomach, lifting him off the ground.

“My God, Simpson, how much do you weigh?” Gideon said as he staggered toward the boat. He was trying to keep Simpson distracted, afraid if he didn’t then Simpson would get all heroic and try to get off Gideon’s shoulder—making it impossible for either of them to make it to the docks.

Out in the bay Gideon saw a boat tearing toward them.

“That’s our boat!” Simpson grunted.

It was a large, powerful boat—something like a cigarette boat—and it spewed a rooster tail a good twenty feet in the air behind it. The seas looked unusually heavy, and it went airborne occasionally, clearing one wave before slamming into the next.

“Put me down,” Simpson said feebly. “You won’t make it if you—”

“Two forty? Two forty-five?”

“Two fifty-five,” Simpson said.

The speedboat was getting closer now, decelerating as it drew toward the quay. Gideon could make out three figures in the boat, all of them armed. He waved at the boat and it steered toward him, still carrying enough speed that it looked as if it would slam into the dock. At the last moment it nosed around sharply, digging into the water and throwing up a wave that sloshed up onto the deck.

Gideon crossed the final strip of concrete, pounded across the last few feet of wooden decking, and eased Simpson over the gunwale.

The captain of the boat had a cigarette in his mouth and a Sig Sauer on his hip. The other two men stood in the bow, MP5s at the ready.

Behind him, Gideon could hear the thump-thump-thump of the heavy machine gun mounted in the back of the jihadi pickup truck. Gideon vaulted himself over the the gunwale and landed on his feet next to Simpson.

“Get Mr. Davis to the airport,” Simpson shouted to the boat captain.

The captain slammed the dual throttles forward, and the boat tore away from the quay as the CIA men kept up a continuous barrage with the MP5s. Before they had made it more than fifty feet, the white pickup truck accelerated straight toward them. They were close enough that Gideon could see the driver, slumped over the wheel, half his head blown off. The truck blasted off the end of the dock and plummeted into the ocean.

As they crossed the canal, Gideon spoke to the captain of the boat: “Drop Simpson off over there so he can get medical treatment.” He pointed to the armored SMDF vehicle.

“Yes, sir.”

As the powerful boat accelerated forward, GideoncloÑ€† verbalized the plan he had been forming since the chopper went down. “Could this boat make it to the Obelisk in this kind of weather?”

“She’ll take you to the gates of hell, sir,” he said laconically. “But without authorization . . .” The captain trailed off, looking questioningly at Simpson.

“Absolutely not,” Simpson said. “Mr. Davis is going straight to the airport and flying directly back to Washington, D.C.”

“Give me your SAT phone,” Gideon said to Simpson.

“Excuse me?”

“Dial the embassy, then give me your phone.”

Simpson grudgingly complied. Gideon identified himself to the operator at the embassy and asked to be patched through to the president.

Within a minute, he was speaking to Alton Diggs.

“Gideon,” the president said, “I am glad to be talking to you.”

“Thank you, sir. Can you give me an update on the Obelisk?” Gideon said.

“Then you already know about your brother. And about Earl.”

“Yes, sir.” Both men shared their personal concern for Earl Parker’s life, then Gideon repeated what he’d seen on CNN, and what he’d been told by Simpson.

“I’m afraid it’s gotten worse.” The president continued after a tentative silence. “I ordered a SEAL team to take back the rig, but the mission failed. And now we’ve got twelve hours left to meet demands that we can never accommodate. To make matters even more difficult, there’s a typhoon about to hit the rig. Our meteorologists are saying the Obelisk will be socked in for the next fifteen hours.”

Gideon did the math. By the time the typhoon passed, the hostages would be dead.

The president quickly added, “But there may be a brief window for us to act.”

“How?”

“Assuming the eye of the storm passes directly over the rig, we are going to drop a Delta Force team directly onto the deck of the rig. They’re getting ready to take off from Hawaii.”

Gideon took a moment to process the president’s report. If Tillman was on that rig, the Delta Force guys wouldn’t be there to take him prisoner. They’d be there to take him out.

“Mr. President, there may be another option,” Gideon said.

“Another option?” the president said dubiously.

“Let me go out there myself.”

“Go out where? To the rig?”

“Yes, sir. Let me talk to him.”

“Your brother has made it very clear he’s not negotiating.”

“Not to me he hasn’t. Once I’m face-to-face with him, maybe I can talk some sense into him.”

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“For God’s sake, Gideon, your brother tried to kill you.”

Gideon said nothing, silenced by the stark truth of this. “Besides,” the president continued, “even if I authorize this, you’ll never make it out there. I told you, the rig’s about to get swallowed by a category five typhoon.”

“At least let me try to make it out there. With respect, sir, I think I’ve earned that chance.”

This time it was the president who remained silent. “Whatever’s going on with my brother, there’s something we’re missing, some reason behind what’s happening that we can’t see yet. I haven’t figured out what it is, but I will.”

Still, the president offered no response. So Gideon laid the rest of his argument on the line. “As I understand it, Mr. President, unless we take back that rig, you’re going to be put in an impossible situation by McClatchy and his congressional cronies, and frankly by most of the people who put you in office. You’ll be forced into a war you don’t want to fight. There is zero downside to you letting me try this.”

When the president finally spoke, his voice sounded weary and frayed. “Fine. If your brother is willing to talk to you, you have my blessing.”

Gideon stared out at the sea, above which hung a low and leaden sky. Huge waves were pounding the jetty at the edge of the bay. But there was no rain, and the wind was not too bad. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck,” the president said, and disconnected.

“This boat?” The captain tossed his cigarette into the ocean. “Wherever she goes, I go.” He was already pulling up to the dock on the far side of the canal. Several SMDF soldiers jumped aboard. One of them was a medic, and he began compressing Simpson’s leg.

As the soldiers carried him out of the boat onto the SMDF vehicle, Simpson nodded weakly to Gideon, bidding him Godspeed. Before Gideon could reciprocate, the captain firewalled the throttle and the boat tore away from the pier.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE NOISE OF THE engines was deafening as the big boat barreled out of the bay and into the mountainous waves of the South China Sea.

The captain drove with one hand and dialed a knob on the radio with the other, a freshly lit cigarette perched on his lower lip. “Put the headphones on, sir,” he said.

Gideon pulled on a pair of green headphones.

“Transmitting now.”

Gideon thumbed the button on the edge of the microphone. “This is Gideon Davis hailing the Obelisk. Do you copy?”

Gideon re="1 T‡leased the button. He could barely make out the sound of static over the roar of the engines and the rush of the wind over the cockpit.

“Obelisk, do you copy?”

This time a voice came over the speaker, barely penetrating the static. “This is the Obelisk.”

“This is Gideon Davis. My brother is Tillman Davis. Who am I speaking with?”

The unidentified speaker answered with his own question. “Gideon Davis?”

Gideon heard the surprise in his voice. Whoever he was talking to probably assumed he was dead. “That’s right.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve been authorized by the president of the United States to negotiate directly with my brother. I’m requesting permission to board the Obelisk.”

The long subsequent pause was filled with static.

“Do you copy?” Gideon repeated.

“Permission granted,” the voice said.

“Who am I speaking with?”

“You’ll have safe passage to board the rig. Over.” Again, the voice had avoided answering Gideon’s question. But before Gideon could ask anything more, the transmission was cut off.

Gideon took off the headphones. The boat captain was regarding him expectantly. “Okay,” Gideon said. “My brother says I can board the Obelisk.”

Timken smiled as he set the radio microphone back in its cradle. He turned to Chun and said, “Bring up Mr. Parker. I need to talk to him.”

Two minutes later, Parker entered the room.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” Timken said.

“Stop smiling like a Cheshire cat and tell me the bad news first.”

“My men never got to Gideon Davis. I don’t know how, but he’s still alive.”

Earl Parker’s gaze was stony. “What’s the good news?”

“Guess who the president is sending to the oil rig to negotiate with Abu Nasir?”

Earl Parker’s left eyebrow rose slightly.

“Sir, Gideon Davis is heading out here on a speedboat as we speak. He’s been given . . .” Here Timken couldn’t stifle an ironic grin. “He’s been given Tillman Davis’s personal guarantee of safe passage.”

Earl Parker nodded. “Well done, Timken.”

“I assume you want—”

“Of course I want him dead. The moment he’s in range, take him out.”

“Understood.”

“You said that before, Timken. And here we are.” Parker turned to Chun and said, “Take me back to thet="ဆ cabin.”

“Sir, there’s something else. That typhoon’s about to hit us.”

“That’s good news,” Parker said. “It means we don’t have to worry about another assault dropping on our heads.”

“Yeah, except that engineer I took out, Cole Ransom? He was coming here to check on the damping system that keeps the waves from tearing this rig apart.”

Parker waited for more.

“This is a billion-dollar rig. It’s not going to fall apart.” But Parker saw that Timken wasn’t mollified.

As if on cue, the floor shook, and deep noise welled up through the rig.

Parker conceded with a grudging nod. “Get the rig manager up here and talk to her about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Parker started to leave but paused in the doorway. “Just make sure you don’t screw up this time with Gideon Davis. He was supposed to be dead before this operation started.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AN HOUR HAD PASSED since she’d been returned to the cabin, and Kate once again found herself being escorted to the upper deck by masked men. She felt the same nauseating buzz of fear. Although her wrists were cuffed behind her, she felt some small consolation that they hadn’t covered her face with a hood this time. It wasn’t much, but she was grateful to have her bearings and to be spared the indignity of bumping into rails and pipes she couldn’t see.

The jihadis prodded her forward, into the control room, and her chest tightened at what she saw through the windows. Yesterday, when the rig had been seized, the sky had been a bright cheerful blue. Now it was low and leaden, and a heavy rain pounded the windows of the control room. To the left of the stairs was the weather station—rain gauge, digital thermometer, barometer, and a wind speed gauge. Its propellors were a blur, spinning so fast she couldn’t see the individual blades.

Below the rig, the waves were looking nastier. She couldn’t tell if they were actually higher than they had been—but the wind was shredding the tops, capping them with crests of white foam. It was a steady, hard wind now, blowing west-southwest without the slightest deviation. Just the sort of wind that made for big waves. Night had not yet fallen, and there was enough light that she could see darker clouds and a heavier sheet of rain bearing down on the rig.

She heard footsteps ringing on the metal deck. Striding toward her, the wind snatching at his uniform, was the American jihadi—Abu Nasir or Tillman Davis, or whatever his name was. The anger and frustration and fear that had been building for hours suddenly erupted from her.

“What did you do with my people?” Kate shouted at him. “I want to see them!”

One of the jihadis slammed her in the kidney with a rifle butt. The pain ran up her side, so sharp it made her nauseated. She lost her balance and fell to one knee. The American said something in a language she didn’t understand, and the jihadi who’d hit her hoisted her to her feet.

“That’s not going to happen, Ms. Murphy. The reason I brought you up here, I’ve got a couple questions about the damping system. I keep hearing that clunking noise, and I want to know if I should be concerned.”

Kate looked at him point-blank and said, “Yeah. You should be.”

“How concerned?”

“Very.” Kate gave him a brief history of the problems with the damping system. She nodded out the window toward the horizon. “That typhoon may take down the rig if we don’t fix it first.”

She was hoping to rattle him, and she could see that she had. But before he could ask her anything more, Abu Nasir was interrupted by a big Asian guy who looked more Korean than Mohanese. “Gideon Davis is hailing us again.”

“What does he want now?”

“Confirmation that you’re giving him safe passage.”

Abu Nasir nodded. “Tell him what he wants to hear,” he said.

The Asian guy ran back down the stairs toward the drill deck. The Obelisk’s radio, Kate knew, was located in the control room on the drill deck.

Abu Nasir turned back to Kate. “Ever hear of Gideon Davis?”

Kate didn’t answer. She had, of course, heard of Gideon Davis. You couldn’t read a newspaper or turn on the TV without seeing Gideon Davis’s face.

“We’re brothers.” The bearded American smiled. “Ironic, huh?”

Kate sighed.

“Am I boring you? Maybe if one of my men tuned you up a little, you’d be more interested in my witty observations.” Abu Nasir laughed. “Well, anyway, the president of the United States has just sent him out to negotiate with us.”

“Good,” Kate said.

“The thing about my brother, we never got along. Every time we talk, we end up in a fight. So I’m wondering if talking to him would be . . . what’s the word I’m looking for? Unproductive?”

As Abu Nasir was talking, several of his men came up on the deck and began setting up a large machine gun on a tripod near the edge of the chopper deck.

The American turned back toward Kate with a shrug. “Honestly, at this point, what would we gain by a bunch of chitchat? Once I’m done here, we’re going to sit down and you’re going to tell me how to fix that damping system.”

A cry from one of his men drew his attention to the far side of the chopper deck. Several other calls followed. The jihadis were pointing out into the sea.

Blasting toward them out of the whitecapped seas was a boat. Given the crazy size of the waves, it seemed a very small and vulnerable craft. But the boat was obviously powerful and was banging through the turbulent waves toward them at a high speed. Kate could make out two people on board. One was piloting the boat and the other was crouched in the bow. The man in the bow was waving at the rig, his hands moving deliberately, unhurried.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her as he started toward the far side of the platform where the jihadis had just finished setting up the heavy machine gun, oblivious to the driving rain.

As the boat got closer, the American leaned over the machine gunner. “On my signal, light him up.”

Kate was sickened. This monster was going to murder his own brother.

The machine gunner leaned forward.

“Not yet.” Abu Nasir yanked the gunner’s shoulder. “Wait.” Abu Nasir lifted his finger in the air, keeping it suspended for another thirty seconds, then dropping it decisively. “Now.”

The noise of the machine gun was astonishing. The cartridges were the size of small bananas, and the concussion rattled her ribs.

The boat veered away from the trail of bullet splashes in the water and disappeared behind the face of a huge wave.

The noise resumed, shell casings cascading onto the deck as the mouth of the big gun spit fire at a thousand feet per second.

The boat swerved again. The burst of gunfire missed the boat, but just barely, and then the boat wheeled, heading up the face of the next wave. As powerful as it was, the vessel had to strain to make it up the wave. Its speed dropped precipitously. The big engines howled as it raced the track of bullets chasing after it.

In the end, the race was no contest. The bullets caught up to the boat, chewed through the stern, set one of its engines on fire, then hit the boat pilot. One moment he was a human being, and the next he was a scrambled mass of blood and tissue, sliding across the deck along with a wash of seawater. It was the most horrific thing Kate had ever seen. Her entire body was trembling.

The crippled boat heeled to the right and headed straight toward the rig, the bullets still smashing it to pieces. The man in the prow was still alive though, crouching like a swimmer about to dive off a cliff. To Kate’s shock, he leapt straight from the boat into the ocean. The boat disappeared from view, obscured by the bulk of the rig. She heard a terrible rending crunch, and the entire rig shook. The boat must have hit one of the massive concrete piers holding it up. A fireball appeared briefly, replaced by a cloud of inky smoke, which was immediately ripped apart by the wind.

“Shoot him!” Abu Nasir shouted.

Every jihadi on the chopper platform leaned over the edge and began firing down into the water.

Kate looked around. Her two guards had moved to the side and were blasting away with their AK-47s.

Nobody was paying her the slightest attention.

Now was her chance. Now or never.

She sat down on thu Nñ€†e wet deck and wriggled her hips until the rain-slick wrist cuffs passed under her butt. From there it was a simple matter of pulling her heels in and passing her arms in front of her.