Rogue Threat (50 page)

She quickly ejected the magazine and replaced it with her last twenty rounds, pressing the detent button and slamming the bolt forward. As she was changing magazines, the admiral escaped from the room. She stood and ran after him, hoping he would lead her to Matt.

The old man leapt through a small metal door and into a stairwell, turning to fire at her, two rounds pinging off the wall next to her head.

She fired back, aiming intentionally high so that he would continue. He went down another flight of steps, Peyton close on his heels. He burst through the door to the flight deck, Peyton popping another couple of rounds at the gap in the closing door. This time it worked. She found the door open and leapt through it, doing a combat roll on hard metal as she sought cover quickly.

She saw two Chinese sailors running for their weapons. She fired two rounds, dropping them in succession. She saw another sailor to her right as she moved to hide behind a Predator.

She fired another two shots at the sailor to her right, wounding him at worst, killing him at best. The admiral was running away down the long axis of the runway. He was harmless, she figured, but leveled the weapon at him and blew off one of his calf muscles from nearly seventy yards away.
Not bad,
she thought to herself.
He might be able to provide some useful information after this is all over if he doesn’t bleed to death
.

“Peyton O’Hara!” a voice called out. “Peyton O’Hara!”

It was Ballantine. She knew it had to be. Then she saw Ballantine walking to the center of the runway, near the Sherpa. He was holding Matt close to him, knife to his throat. Behind them, she could see the Sherpa’s open cabin door. There was a body in the back, facing the opening. That had to be Zachary Garrett, she determined. Her mind was racing. What to do?

“I see you, Miss O’Hara. So step forward, or I will slit your boyfriend’s throat.”

Peyton paused, then stepped forward holding the rifle to her cheek, sighting the best she could in the dim light. Ballantine had his right arm over Matt’s chest with the knife to the left portion of Matt’s neck. His head was almost directly behind Matt’s head, and the only exposed portion of his body available for a shot was his right arm.

“See, if you kill me, you don’t get your tape back,” Matt said. He was looking at Peyton, who was walking slowly in their direction, rifle leveled at them both.

“Yeah, I’ve got the tape,” Peyton said, picking up on Matt’s lead.

“That’s where you’re wrong, O’Hara. I have the tape. Your brilliant boyfriend had it in his pocket.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ballantine. He gave it to me before coming up the ship, and I’ve got it right here in my pocket. What you’ve got is a fake,” she said, moving slowly.

“And we both know that you’re not the martyr type. Never were, never will be. You want to live in peace in some country with beautiful pastels to inspire your paintings,” Matt said.

Ballantine’s silence was telling, Peyton thought. She added, “You want to make sure about that tape, don’t you? Think about it. Why the hell would he come up here with that tape?”

“I’ll just have to take my chances,” Ballantine said. “Drop your rifle or I will kill him. Now.”

Peyton figured their time had expired. She had moved slightly to an oblique angle where she could take more of a shoulder shot.

“Okay, you win Ballantine, but what do I get in exchange?” she said.

“I’ll kill you first,” he said, “so you don’t have to watch.”

She squeezed her trigger finger, feeling the hammer of the weapon fall and her mind willing the bullet to a specific spot. She saw the round impact a bit lower than she had intended but squarely into Ballantine’s upper bicep. She immediately knew she had probably shot Matt as well, but if he got medical attention, he could survive. Maybe.

Matt spun away and she saw blood on his shirt, confirming her fear. Ballantine reeled back, the knife never leaving his hand, slicing into Matt’s clavicle. Matt quickly grabbed at Ballantine’s arm and, despite tremendous pain, thrust it downward while bringing his knee up, snapping Ballantine’s forearm.

The knife fell to the ground. Matt quickly retrieved the knife, only to see Ballantine bolt for the airplane. Peyton had a shot, but Matt’s movement blocked her line of fire, causing her to lift and shoot high her last bullet.

“Damn it, Matt. I had him,” she shouted, tossing the weapon to the ground and running toward them.

Matt sprinted to the airplane and pulled at Ballantine, who was climbing into the pilot’s seat and cranking the engine. Ballantine swatted at Matt, who was coming at him over the passenger seat. Peyton suddenly appeared on the other side of the airplane as the engine sputtered to life.

Matt lifted the knife and drove it into Ballantine’s chest as the airplane began to roll forward. But Ballantine refused to give up, the blood pouring over his shirt and spraying from his right lung into Matt’s face.

The plane was now moving along the centerline of the runway, gaining speed. Somehow Ballantine was still maneuvering the Sherpa.

Peyton was outside the pilot’s door, hanging onto the lower wing stanchion with her feet barely inside the cockpit. She pushed Ballantine with her left leg. Matt retrieved the knife and drove it deep into Ballantine’s heart, ending any doubt about his future status.

Matt pushed the dying Iraqi in between the pilot and copilot’s seats toward the back, where Zachary was. Reaching across Ballantine’s legs, he grabbed Peyton’s hand and helped her into the airplane, now doing donuts on the deck.

Peyton slid into the pilot’s seat and grabbed the controls, turning the Sherpa back toward the catapult.

“There are more sailors over there,” Matt said, pointing. “And we’re out of ammo.”

“They still think Ballantine might be piloting this thing. We’ve probably got about two minutes until they figure it out.”

They looked at each other and then down at Ballantine, who was rapidly dying, and Zachary, whose status was unknown.

“We’ve got one choice. When was the last time you flew one of these things?” Matt asked.

“Let me think,” she said. “Never? Yeah, never.”

“Never.”

“I did helicopters, remember?”

“Okay, same thing, right? Rev it up real high and go into the air?”

“Let’s hope so,” she said, studying the instruments and controls.

Peyton reached full throttle and then released the brakes and shot along the centerline. Two Chinese sailors watched, raised their AK-47s, and began firing.

Chapter 59

Chesapeake Bay

“Delta six, this is radar control, over.”

Rampert’s steady voice crackled over the radio net. “This is Delta six, over.”

“This is radar control. We’ve been sorting through a lot of clutter down here over the last hour, but think we might have something. There’s a small, steady mark on the radar heading southwest from your location at about seventy miles an hour. Those Predators can do that speed, which would be slow enough to take it off our normal radar procedures. The interesting thing is that it’s flying at eight hundred feet above ground level.”

“Have you mapped out where it’s heading?”

“All we can do is follow the UAV’s azimuth. If you look at the range of these things and the 207-degree azimuth it is on, well, it’s going toward your command center at Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base.”

Rampert thought for a second. That would make sense. Destroy the temporary headquarters of the homeland defense command system and then take on other targets. That would be the perfect first target. It had to be a Predator.

“Thanks.”

Turning to Hobart, Rampert said, “What has Pope got that they can scramble?”

“Nothing. Everything’s over in Afghanistan or Iraq. Langley’s still on its butt. Be another thirty minutes before they can scramble a jet. Tomcat two six is still broke at Oceana. Tomcat one six is all we’ve got left.”

“Are we broke or what?” Rampert said in disgust.

“We do have one option, boss,” Hobart said, looking at him.

Rampert paused, knowing exactly what Hobart was talking about.

“Kill the Queen Bee . . . destroy Dr. Insect’s software . . . keep the Predators from communicating,” Rampert said, more to himself than Hobart. He had replayed the scenario in his mind once he had been able to believe it.

The two warriors stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, then Rampert pressed the talk button on his radio.

Jack Rampert said a brief prayer for the Garrett family and any other innocent souls on board the
Fong Hou
, then spoke into his headset.

“Tomcat one six, this is Delta six,” Rampert said.

“This is Tomcat one six. Go ahead.”

“This is Delta six. We have permission to destroy the
Fong Hou
container ship. I want you to first destroy the command and control cell in the bridge of the ship. Then I want you to put a Maverick through the bow of the ship where they have been launching those Predators. We don’t necessarily want to sink it, but if that happens, we’ll deal with it.”

“Roger. Understand. Anything further?”

“Negative. Execute.”

Rampert had Mike position them again for front row seats. This time it was to watch the destruction of the
Fong Hou
. He watched the F-14 circle once and rise into the air. He could see the missile release from its rack and leave a streaming vapor trail as it made its way to the bridge of the ship. Rampert was a soldier and he knew that he had just ordered the sacrifice of good men in the name of the greater cause. But the idea of which cause and for whom left him with the slightest flutter of doubt, an emotion utterly unfamiliar to him.

Despite Rampert’s misgivings, the missile exploded with a brilliant impact, destroying the entire superstructure of the ship. The F-14 screamed overhead as it arched skyward from its first bombing run.

“Roger that,” Hobart said into the headset, applauding the direct hit.

“Roger that,” Rampert repeated in a hushed voice, knowing he had probably just killed some people that didn’t need to die. “Zachary and Matt Garrett are heroes.” He looked at Hobart.

“Heroes often die, sir.”

“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them, but we’ve got to destroy this ship and get Tomcat one six on afterburners down to Fort Bragg.”

“Tomcat one six, this is Delta six. Prepare for run number two,” Rampert said.

“Roger. Out.”

Rampert said another small prayer.

Chapter 60

Aboard the Fong Hou

Peyton sped the Sherpa along the centerline of the runway, tracers screaming past the fuselage and disappearing into the darkness beyond.

“It’s tough to hit a moving target,” she said under a forced breath, voicing more of a hope than a fact.

“You did pretty well back there with the admiral,” Matt said.

“Yeah, but I’m an expert marksman. Shot expert in basic,” she said.

Bullets were pinging off the Sherpa as they began to gain altitude. Suddenly they felt a shudder and heard an explosion to their rear that ricocheted through the cockpit.

“What the hell was that?” Matt said, hoping they had not elevated too early and hit the roof of the shell.

He looked back and saw the Chinese sailors running from a fireball that had blown off the doors of the stairwell and was seeking the oxygen of the bow opening.

“Fireball moving this way. Step on it, Peyton. Step on it!”

“I’m full throttle,” she said, focused ahead. The plane began to lift again.

“Not yet!” Matt shouted. “We’ve got a roof over our head.”

“Damn it, I’m doing the best I can,” she said, wrestling with the controls.

“Okay, here it comes,” Matt said.

“I’ve got it!”

Matt watched as she pushed forward on the controls to fight the aircraft’s natural tendency to lift at these speeds. As they approached the bow opening, Matt saw the fireball on their tail and then, looking skyward, something that made his heart stop.

“What the hell . . . ?” Matt yelled.

“Don’t say that. We’re almost there,” she said. The Sherpa popped into the clear. Matt watched the incoming missile as Peyton pulled back on the steering column, providing maximum lift to the light airplane at the same time it shot from the elevated bow. The billowing flames reached out for them, licking at the tail of the Sherpa as the Maverick screamed past them at supersonic speed, slamming into the bow of the ship.

Peyton struggled against the turbulence created by the second explosion.

“What was that?” Peyton shouted.

Matt looked to the rear as Peyton fought to keep the Sherpa above the waters of the Chesapeake.

“You don’t want to know. Keep flying this mother,” Matt said.

Peyton stayed low, fighting the airplane, pulling back on the controls and trying to cut the trim at the same time. “Are we okay?”

“I think so. How are your flaps? Flaps okay?” Matt said.

“This piece of junk doesn’t have flaps!” Peyton shouted.

Suddenly she leveled it about thirty feet above the water. Peyton found the right combination of speed, altitude, lift, and pitch, and there it was.