Gideon's War/Hard Target (19 page)

As part of the emerging agreement he was negotiating, Gideon convinced the international community to send in teams of bomb specialists to defuse the mines. There were police from the Finnish national bomb squad, retired SAS ordnance specialists, even veterans of the many East Bloc state security forces, which were then in tatters.

A bomb disposal expert named Horst soon arrived in the village. A large ex-Spetsnaz sergeant, he turned out to be a very good bomb guy, except for the regular and substantial doses of medicinal vodka he required to steady his nerves. But the occasional by-product of his alcohol abuse were hands that trembled as if he had Parkinson’s disease. Which was something of a liability in the bomb-disarming business.

One day as Gideon was waiting to hear back from Phnom Penh about some minor point of protocol, a boy ran into the village, sobbing uncontrollably. Several of the children Gideon played soccer with had chased a ball into the jungle. Normally they might not have, but this was a brand-new ball, which Gideon had given them.

Searching for the ball, the boy’s younger sister had stepped on a mine. As Gideon had learned, some antipersonnel mines explode not when you step on them, but when you step off them. That particular kind of mine is called a Bouncing Betty, which is designed to pop up into the air, then detonate at head height in order to kill more people.

The little girl had heard the click of the trigger and realized that if she moved, the Bouncing Betty would blow her head off. So she froze. And now, between breathless sobs, her brother was explaining what had happened. Unless somebody could defuse the mine while she was standing on it, the girl was dead. Gideon went to get Horst, but the bomb expert’s face had gone ashen, his hands were trembling like leaves. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Horst stood and said, “Gideon, you need to be my hands.”

A dozen villagers followed them into the jungle, where they found the little girl standing in a clearing, remarkably composed even as her mother wailed and cried. Her khaki-colored eyes followed Gideon’s movement with absolute trust as he followed Horst’s instructions. Gideon lay on the ground and carefully brushed away the dusty earth surrounding the mine, so he coul goÑ€†d describe the trigger mechanism. Horst confirmed it was an M2A4 bounding mine, then proceeded to talk Gideon through the process until he’d disarmed the trigger. The girl’s mother swept her up into her arms and wept, thanking Gideon through her tears.

It took another three months to finalize the agreement and end the long civil war between the Tampuan and the Cambodian government. During those months, whenever Gideon wasn’t at the negotiating table, he went with Horst on de-mining missions, learning everything he could from the German about mines and munitions—from pressure plates and percussion caps to arming plugs and fuse retainer springs.

Kate listened to his story, rapt.

“So bottom line is, yeah, I think I can disarm the bomb.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been here ten minutes. Let’s get back down to D Deck and see if the coast is clear.”

Gideon slung the tool-laden canvas bag over his shoulder, then he cracked the door open and looked both ways. The corridor outside the electrician’s supply room was empty. Kate suggested he follow her, since she knew the rig best, so they started moving toward the mechanical shaft hatch. Gideon heard a toilet flushing behind a door he was approaching. Kate turned at the sound, meeting Gideon’s eyes, but she’d already gone past the door, which now started to open outward. As it eclipsed their view of each other, Gideon mouthed the word Run, but before Kate could get very far, the door banged open. Whoever was coming out would spot her immediately. Sure enough, Gideon heard the crackle of a radio and a voice on the other side of the door, shouting in a heavy Malay accent, “A Deck! She’s on A Deck!”

Gideon kicked the door out of the way and tackled the man in front of him, spearing him to the floor, when he realized he’d made a mistake. The man wore a lemon yellow jumpsuit and had his wrists shackled behind him with flex cuffs, while a jihadi stood several feet in front of them, his radio raised to his mouth. Only then did Gideon realize what had happened: the jihadi had taken the hostage to relieve himself.

“What are you doing, you moron?” The hostage was a sandy-haired guy with the physique of a college wrestler, and small resentful eyes. The jihadi dropped his walkie-talkie and swung his AK toward them, but Gideon managed to grab the rifle and deflect its barrel as it spit out a volley of automatic gunfire.

Gideon drove back the jihadi—an average Mohanese weighing a good sixty pounds less than Gideon—and propelled him backward until they smashed against the exit door, which opened under their combined weight.

The rain was nearly horizontal in the hurricane wind, and Gideon’s feet went out from under him on the rain-slick decking. He landed hard on his back and lay for a moment, stunned, while the panic-stricken jihadi tried desperately to free his weapon from the larger man’s grasp. Gideon planted his feet on the man’s hips and yanked him forward, driving his feet into the air, launching the jihadi upward, causing his hands to tear free from the rifle.

A horrible scream briefly pierced through the howling wind, then abruptly died away.

Gideon found himself alone on the walkway.

It took him a moment to understand that he had not only propelled the jihadi over his head but had also flung the man clear over the railing. Fightian&Ñ€†ng the wind, Gideon stood and looked over the railing into the water. Sheets of foam sluiced down the face of the massive waves.

The jihadi was gone.

Gideon yanked open the door and was about to reenter the hallway to retrieve the hostage, when he froze. The hostage was lying dead in his own pooling blood. A jihadi holding a Makarov pistol was standing over him and now fired a second shot into the dead man’s head. Then he shouted toward yet another jihadi, who was approaching from the far end of the corridor. Gideon peered around the corner. What he saw triggered a response in his nervous system that caused him to feel as if he were running a high fever. The second jihadi was shoving Kate toward the first, who now raised his Makarov to the back of her head.

They were going to execute her, too.

Only then did Gideon remember that he was holding the AK-47 of the jihadi he’d thrown over the railing. He had never shot an AK before, had never even held one. But it felt familiar and easy. His fingers knew this thing, knew what to do with it before his mind could even begin to process what his body was doing. He pressed the stock to his shoulder and sighted the target.

Seeing this, the second jihadi pulled Kate in front of him to use as a human shield, but a bullet from Gideon’s AK drilled a hole through the bridge of his nose.

Gideon felt as if he were watching a film of a shattered mirror running backward, the pieces knitting together before his eyes, every piece in perfect alignment, his reflected image snapping into focus where only a second earlier there had been nothing but shards and glimmers and fractured glimpses.

He fired a second shot into the jihadi before he hit the ground.

Then he snatched up the tools and collected as much ammunition as he could carry from the dead jihadis. He felt Kate trembling as he wrapped his arm around her and swept her past the pile of dead men. Without a word, they made their way toward the bomb on D Deck that Tillman was threatening to detonate less than ten hours from now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHUN WAS ON A Deck, reading the ID badge of the dead hostage whom Omar had let take a piss. What Chun found there was worse than he’d imagined. Aside from the hostage, Wafiq and Abbudin were also dead, and Omar was missing. Chun’s voice tightened as he gave Timken a damage report, grateful that he was delivering the news over the radio instead of face-to-face. “ID says he’s a diver-welder. His name’s Garth Dean.”

“How the hell did he get loose?” Timken asked.

“He didn’t, sir. Not exactly. His cuffs are still on.”

“So you’re telling me that an unarmed woman and a hostage with his hands tied behind his back took out three armed men?”

“It looks that way.”

Chun heard the anger in Timken’s silence. What Chun didn’t hear were the ball bearings rattling in Timken’s pocket as he formed a simple plan.

“My men are still sweeping A Deck, sir.” Chun said. “She can’t have gotten far.”

“Forget about that, Chun. Just meet me in B-14.”

“Sir, we need to find her.”

“No. She’s going to come to us. Now get down to B-14.”

Timken smiled to himself, pleased with his plan, as he set off for the cabin where he’d secured his high-value hostages.

Big Al Prejean was sitting on the floor of cabin B-14 when the four jihadis walked in. Two were Mohanese and two were American. One was a big guy of Asian descent, the other the bearded white guy who called himself Abu Nasir. Prejean was halfway relieved to see them. Stearns had been talking nonstop since they’d been thrown in the cabin together, and it was driving him up the wall. Not once had the ambassador expressed any remorse or sorrow over the violent murder of his press attaché. Instead, he ignored Prejean and talked nonstop to Parker, speculating that the president must surely be mounting some kind of rescue mission. After all, he and Parker were very important people. Beneath his bravado, the man was petrified.

Stearns stopped talking the moment Abu Nasir entered the cabin.

A soft clacking sound came from inside his pocket as he surveyed the room warily. His right hand was plugged into his pocket, the number 82 tattooed on his wrist. Abu Nasir looked at Parker for a moment, then at Big Al, before finally settling on Stearns, who squirmed under the icy scrutiny of the American jihadi.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stearns said, his nervous voice breaking the silence. “I understand your grievances. You’ve got some legitimate issues with the Sultan, and I want to offer myself as an intermediary. If you let me speak to the president, I’m sure he’ll be willing to listen to your demands—”

“Give me your sock,” Abu Nasir said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your sock. Give it to me.”

Abu Nasir plucked the watch from Stearns’s hand, dropped it on the floor, and brought down the heavy heel of his steel-toed boot. It made a sharp cracking noise.

“Give me your fucking sock. And don’t make me ask you again.”

Stearns didn’t need any more convincing, although it took him a moment to decide which shoe to remove. His hands were shaking as he untied the laces of his right shoe and pulled it off. The stench of sweat-soaked silk filled the cabin as the ambassador peeled off his sock and handed it to Abu Nasir.

CHAPTER THIRTY

KATE’S EARS WERE STILL ringing. Before being shot by Gideon, the jihadi had discharged his gun inches from Kate’s ear and had then fallen on top of her, knocking her to the floor. Gideon had pulled her to her feet and ushered her through the doorway and set out for D-4. Kate was about to thank him for saving her life, but she saw something in his face that stopped her from saying anything. His eyes were opaque, lost in some private thought that demanded only her respectful silence.

They moved at a fast clip toward D-4 without speaking a word. Gideon’s mind kept playing back to the moment he had discovered his mother’s body, the gaping wound in her chest, the empty expression on her face. He remembered piling his father’s guns on the bedsheet and dragging them across the lawn toward the pond behind their house. He remembered throwing them, the splash of each handcrafted weapon as it disappeared into the water. And he remembered his oath, never to fire a gun again.

He remembered standing on the podium at the UN only two days ago, listening to the president of the United States introduce him as a man who “has dedicated himself to that ancient and most sacred cornerstone of our moral code: Thou Shalt Not Kill.”

But Gideon had killed. He had killed without hesitating because he had no other choice. He had killed with ease and efficiency, shattering in a moment the core conviction that had defined him for his adult life. But rather than remorse or even confusion, he felt the bracing clarity of having finally released something he’d held on to far too tightly for far too long. What surprised Gideon most was the whispered voice he heard in his head. Good kill, son.

The warmth of his father’s imagined approval surprised him, although it was short-lived, dispersed by a sudden burst of static that filled the corridor. Gideon and Kate stopped in their tracks as a voice boomed over the rig’s public address system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?”

Kate recognized the sadistic drawl of Abu Nasir, and looked at Gideon.

“Your brother . . .”

“My brother?” Gideon frowned and shook his head. “That’s not him. That’s not his voice.”

Kate studied him for a moment, trying to find a way to explain his evident denial in as sympathetic a way as she could muster. “You haven’t spoken to him in seven years. He’s not the same person you knew.” She went on to describe Abu Nasir, reminding him of the numbers she’d seen tattooed on his wrist. Gideon couldn’t dispute her facts or her conviction. He had barely recognized Tillman in the photograph Uncle Earl had given him, and maybe Tillman’s voice had changed just as dramatically. Could his brother really have transformed into someone who no longer resembled the man fixed in Gideon’s memory?

But the man who called himself Abu Nasir was in fact Orville Tim-ken, and he was now pacing a tight line before the public address system microphone. “I’m directing this announcement to Ms. Kate Murphy, our resourceful host on this fine rig. Wafiq and Abbudin were good soldiers. How you managed to take them out, and do whatever you did to Omar . . . well, all I can say is that I am impressed. So impressed, in fact, that I would like you to join me in cabin B-14 so we can have a little sit-down before things get more unfriendly than they need to ge heñ€†t.”

Big Al realized with relief that Kate had escaped from the jihadis. After they’d taken her the last time, he was afraid they had killed her. Somehow she had not only gotten away but had also managed to take out three of them. That’s my girl, he thought to himself. He met Earl Parker’s eyes with a tight nod of pride. Parker’s face, however, betrayed no emotion.

“I’m here with Mr. Parker, Mr. Prejean, and the Honorable Randall J. Stearns, ambassador to the court of Sultan Ali IV, who has been kind enough to lend me one of his socks.”

Ambassador Stearns looked up fearfully as Timken shoveled a fistful of ball bearings into his empty sock. “Please,” Stearns said, “I’m not giving you any trouble, you don’t have to do this—” Abu Nasir slapped him hard, a crisp, ringing, open-handed strike that reddened his fleshy face and shut him up.

“Ms. Murphy . . .” Timken filled the sock with more ball bearings as he continued to speak, his voice slow and clear so that the microphone could pick up every word. “I am filling the ambassador’s sock with an even pound’s worth of ball bearings.” He funneled more of the tiny metal balls into the open sock, making a clattering sound that was audible over the speakers.

As Timkin tied the sock with a simple knot, Stearns felt a wet warmth spreading through his crotch and down his thighs and realized numbly that he was pissing himself. He stared at the sock, mesmerized, as Timken swung it back and forth like a pendulum until the momentum carried it into a full circle.

“These ball bearings are manufactured by the Timken Corporation, the world leader in ball and roller bearing technology. If I may, Ms. Murphy, I’d like to demonstrate just why the Timken ball bearing is universally recognized as the finest and most durable antifriction device on the market today.”

Big Al started to stand. “Leave him alone, you sonuvabitch—” Chun gave Prejean a sharp push with the sole of his boot. Hobbled by his flex-cuffed ankles, Big Al toppled onto the ground like a felled tree.

Parker spoke softly. “Nothing you can do, Al.”

Big Al knew he was right. There was not so much as a glimmer of humanity animating the man’s cold black eyes. Big Al clamped his lips shut and looked away as Abu Nasir continued his macabre introduction.

“Machined to the most exacting tolerances, it is the go-to bearing for dozens of applications.”

Timken was increasing the speed of the sock’s orbit, which made a soft swishing noise in the air. “I’d have to say, my favorite application is how effectively it delivers an excruciatingly slow and painful death to the enemy.” Suddenly Timken whipped the weighted end of the sock onto Stearns’s shoulder.

Thud.

The diplomat’s scream filled cabin B-14 and echoed throughout the rig. His arm went limp, hanging from his broken shoulder as he held up his remaining arm in a pathetic attempt to shield his face from the next blow. But the weighted sock folded his elbow backward against the joint at an impossible angle.

Thud.

The sickening craoulñ€†ck of shattering bones and joints was punctuated by the ambassador’s agonized cries. A third blow caved in Stearns’s cheekbone and the orbit of his eye, which popped out of its socket and dangled from a cord of blood vessels and cartilage. Another to the back of his skull sent Stearns to the ground for the last time. Timken continued pummelling the ambassador’s dead body, only stopping when the blood-soaked sock finally exploded, sending ball bearings flying in all directions, rattling off the portals and bouncing on the steel decking.

Timken was breathing heavily, waiting for the rolling and bouncing ball bearings to settle before he spoke. “You catch all that, Ms. Murphy?” He sighed theatrically. “Because you forced my hand. It’s your fault I had to end the brief and undistinguished diplomatic career of the Honorable Randall J. Stearns. But I needed to demonstrate my resolve. I’ve got plenty more ball bearings, and unless you come to B-14 and surrender yourself to my tender mercies, I will take off Alphonse Prejean’s sock and show him the same treatment I showed the ambassador.”

“Don’t listen to him, Kate!” Big Al shouted.

“You’ve got five minutes, Ms. Murphy. Ticktock.”

Timken switched off the amplifier, then turned to Chun, who’d had to look away from the carnage in order to keep from puking.

“I feel much better now, Chun. How about you?” Chun nodded. Tim-ken checked his watch, then looked down at the ambassador’s tangled and mutilated corpse. “Clean up this mess.”

Throughout the horrible broadcast of Randy Stearns’s murder, Gideon held Kate tight against him, her body wracked by deep choking sobs. Then she pulled away and wiped her tears. “I have to go,” she said with sudden resolve.

“No, you don’t,” Gideon said.

“Al Prejean is like a father to me, I can’t let that monster kill him—”

“He’ll kill you, too.”

“No, he won’t. Not as long as this storm keeps up. He’s worried about the damping system. That’s what we were talking about just before I got away.”

“You heard what he did.” Gideon’s voice was etched with anger. “Kate, please don’t do this.”

“I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t your call.”

As much as he wanted to protect her, Gideon knew she was right. He was surprised by the strong and sudden connection he felt with this woman, and he found himself unable to release his grip on her shoulders, until she placed her hands reassuringly on top of his.

“You need to disarm that bomb, and you need to do it now,” she said. “Since they don’t know you’re alive, you’ve got surprise on your side. Please.”

He fixed her with a look. “As soon as I do, I’ll come back for you.”

She nodded. “I need to go.”

“Wait,” he said. She regarded him expectantly, but it took Gideon a moment to find the right words. “I’m m tñ€†glad I met you,” he said finally.

Something caught like a fishhook in her gut. “Please don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“It sounds like something you’d say to someone you’re never going to see again.”

He moved his hands from her shoulders to the sides of her face. “Be careful.”

Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “You be careful, too,” she said, then walked past him toward the stairway that would take her to B Deck. He watched as she opened the door and turned back to him.