Rogue Threat Page 25

  “I’m sorry about that, Matt, truly I am. And I can tell you more.”

  Matt slowly opened the door.

  “Are you always this hospitable to your guests?” Rampert’s words were accusatory.

  “You’re not a guest.” Matt’s adrenaline was pumping. His muscles were taught. He was ready. Memories of the Philippines and the surges of emotions were flashing back in his mind.

  “This house reminds me of my parents’ home,” Rampert said, following Matt down the hallway.

  Peyton stood across the living room, shotgun clearly visible by her side.

  Rampert nodded at her. “Peyton.”

  “Colonel,” she responded.

  “Please, have a seat,” Matt offered, pointing at the wooden chair across from the overstuffed sofa. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks, I’m in uniform.” He smiled wryly.

  “Okay, so talk,” Matt said, sitting on the sofa, the AR-15 propped against the end table. Matt watched Peyton pick up the shotgun as Rampert reached for his pistol. Matt snatched the rifle, feeling the breeze from Peyton swinging the shotgun up to her eye level.

  “I’m putting my weapon on the table!” Rampert’s voice was authoritative.

  Peyton’s shotgun was leveled at Rampert, but he knew it was not a stretch to move it an inch or two. He played out a course of action in his mind where Peyton and Rampert were teaming against him for the tape. It was not implausible.

  “Is she really necessary?” Rampert asked, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at Peyton.

  Matt paused a second. “Peyton, it’s okay.”

  “You people are sure jumpy. What the hell is going on?” Rampert said.

  “After a bunch of Rolling Stones last year yanking everyone’s chain, are you kidding me?”

  “Well, that’s over with,” Rampert said.

  “So you found Lantini?”

  “Of course not. He went deep. Completely disappeared. His trail is colder than bin Laden’s.”

  “Don’t play mind games with me about bin Laden and The Shot,” Matt said.

  Rampert shrugged and looked at him. “Since when did you start following instructions Matt? You had the shot.”

  Matt turned away, sensing this was Rampert’s negotiating routine: get him off balance and then make some outrageous demand. “Tell me about Zachary; what you think you know.” Matt wanted to get to the point quickly.

  “Well, I assume that there is some quid pro quo going here, and that you’ll reciprocate in kind with information that will help us.”

  “This is the quo, my friend. The quid was me letting your ass in the house,” Matt said. His face was stern, jaw set, eyes locked with Rampert’s.

  “Right, well, perhaps we can make some progress, then. This is top secret stuff, but I’m trusting you. So here goes. Your brother commanded the rifle company in the Philippine action, and he was executing exceptionally well. I had a small team in the wood line near the last battle. We were calling in the attack aircraft. If it hadn’t been for Zachary and his company, the Marines would have been crushed. His company destroyed just about every enemy attack helicopter and artillery piece. Classic light infantry stuff. Our strength against their weakness and all that. But they finally wised to Zachary’s tactics and chased him with the likes of an infantry battalion. It was about 300 bad guys massing against them.

  “I had Winslow Boudreaux with me, along with Hobart and Van Dreeves, the two men with us in Canada. Winslow was about fifty meters away and caught a mortar shell not five feet from where he was standing. The explosion nearly vaporized him. Your brother’s action was about a hundred meters away, and we saw him get hit about the time the weather cleared enough for us to get the A-10s in there to provide air support.”

  Matt watched Rampert speak with authority and authenticity. Matt could picture the scene Rampert described as if he had been watching a movie. A thin film of sweat broke across his brow. Matt was traveling back in time.

  “Anyway, Winslow was dead. Hobart and Van Dreeves covered me while I pulled your brother out of the fray. His radio operator was also dead. Good man as well. We recovered Zachary. Van Dreeves, who is primarily a medic, literally saved his life. We kept him on oxygen and plugged his holes until the medevac aircraft got there a few minutes later. Last thing I did was switch dog tags and uniforms between Zachary and Winslow. Don’t ask me why, I just did it.”

  Matt was having a hard time remaining calm. The emotions were so overwhelming that they seemed to be tripping over themselves. It did occur to him that Rampert was luring him in with the seduction of the story. Hold on. Don’t feel like you’ve got to give anything back.

  “We learned that Zachary was going to make it, but he was in a coma. He had taken a gunshot wound to the head, mostly a glancing blow, but enough to knock him out for a couple of months. He had other wounds that, coupled with the two to his head, caused enough nervous system damage for his brain to shut down for a while, until he could recover from the trauma. At first, we were simply trying to keep him alive, but then he started making a miraculous recovery quite unlike anything any of our doctors had seen before.”

  “So instead of contacting us,” Matt interrupted, “you let us believe Zachary was dead. What right did you have?” His fire was back, his trance broken.

  “First of all, young man,” Rampert said, leaning forward and sensing his first small victory, “your brother would certainly be dead if it were not for Hobart, Van Dreeves, and me. I was the one who placed my team in that spot to support Zachary’s company.”

  “That’s your job. Your duty.”

  Matt’s eyes broke away, if only for an instant. Rampert had the momentum now. He knew that Matt felt guilty that while Zachary had been able to save him, Matt was not there for Zachary in the Philippines.

  “Maybe so, but I was there. Where were you, boy, when your brother needed you?” Rampert said, knowing exactly Matt’s remorse and grinding the thought in a bit. “I pulled him back to safety and got him the medical help he needed. I’ve got proprietary rights, you might say.” Rampert smiled a thin, evil grin.

  Matt fumed in silence at Rampert’s smugness. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Maybe so, but, there’s more,” Rampert said.

  Matt stared at Rampert, waiting.

  “I was doing some deep black stuff during the Persian Gulf War. I’ve been face to face with Ballantine. I know what he wants.”

  “I know what he wants also,” Matt said, regaining his composure. “My question is, why do you need Zachary so badly now?”

  “Ahh. The $64,000 question, as they say.” Rampert was acting the petulant bully now. “Your brother knows things that, left unguarded, could be very troublesome.”

  “Such as?”

  “We’re not going there, but the things he knows, if they come back to him, will be difficult for some to deal with. And he will become a liability.”

  “A liability? Proprietary rights? You talk about Zachary like he’s a piece of real estate.” Matt’s voice was low, nearly a growl.

  “It is what it is.” Rampert gestured with his hands. “I’m truly on your side. I’m out to protect Zachary. I’ve invested the last year doing just that and I have no desire to stop now.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “I can’t answer that. So tell me what you know about what happened at Moncrief.”

  Matt began, “I had Zachary in my arms. He was shot in the back, by Ballantine, I presume. Then a grenade came through the window and stunned us for a couple of minutes. I saw Ballantine drag him away before I was able to do anything about it. I chased them down to the river about the time Ballantine took off in the Sherpa.”

  “How do you know it was Ballantine who did all this?” Rampert asked.

  “I don’t. I’m assuming. Anyway, we need to be checking the area around Vermont and New Hampshire. Even Maine. Possibly New York,” Matt said.

  “We’re watching the area with unmanned aerial vehicles,
U2s, and other assets. Nothing so far. It’s a pretty big area, you know,” Rampert said.

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “I need to ask you, Matt, for your own safety, of course, if during the time that you believed Zachary to be dead, you went through any of his things and perhaps found anything you believed to be unusual?”

  “Well, yes,” Matt replied.

  Peyton’s eyes darted to his, squinting as if to say, What are you doing?

  “Yes?” Rampert said, curious.

  “I found out that my brother had two girlfriends, one in Hawaii and one in North Carolina. That dog. I found love letters from Kaoru, a Japanese chick who works as a consultant in Honolulu, and Stephanie, who I believe is a stripper in Fayetteville. Maybe you know her?” Of course, Matt knew that Zach had loved Riley Dwyer and his daughter, Amanda. But he was not giving Rampert any useful personal information.

  “You don’t realize who you’re messing with, son.” Rampert’s eyes were hot coals.

  “Maybe you don’t realize you’ve got a shotgun trained on your head right now. I believe it’s called tactical advantage, Colonel.”

  “Do you want Zachary back or not?”

  “Absolutely,” Matt said. “I’m ready now.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “But you’re supposed to be good, Rampert. I’ve heard about you. Seen you in action. And if you help me find my brother, we might just find what you’re looking for.” If Rampert wanted the tape badly enough, Matt thought, then he could bring to bear the full weight of Fort Bragg’s intelligence-gathering assets behind the effort to find Zachary. It would be a major victory.

  His instincts were telling him that Zachary was supposed to be dead and that the military would not be knocking itself out to find him. The government would be even less eager to find him and perhaps determined that he not return. The ploy of plausible deniability would be blown.

  Zachary was hugely expendable, and if the tape might increase his survivability, then Matt would pursue that option.

  It was all he had.

  Chapter 40

  Atlantic Ocean

  Ballantine’s body was numb with painkillers. Because he needed both hands to fly the Sherpa, he had taken Percocet, one step down from morphine, and he was fighting the drowsiness.

  He reached down and cut the trim, attempting to smooth out the bumpy, low-level flight as much as possible. He snatched a bottle of water from the console. Swallowing against a swollen tongue, he let the water trickle down his throat.

  He had been airborne for several hours. He knew that the Air National Guard was patrolling and that AWACS airplanes were searching for him. Ballantine had also launched two of the Predators, one to fly up the St. Lawrence River. The other was flying toward Detroit, Michigan. Both were diversions.

  Because his ground control stations had been destroyed in Swanton, all he could do is set the computer to launch them from his barn in Vermont. Two hours after he departed in the float plane, the first should have taken off. Another hour later, the second. It was a classic scatter strategy. Limited U.S. resources would get multiple spot reports of low flying aircraft and have to set priorities. With one focused on shipping lanes and another on Detroit, Ballantine figured it would place his aircraft, if detected, as the third priority.

  Also, convincing the Central Committee to not attack airplanes or airports was proving as key to his ability to fly as the stealth technology and tactics he employed with his Sherpa. He believed the Americans focus on avoiding economic ruin, as almost happened after 9/11, and would want to continue to fly their airplanes. His calculation had led him to persuade Tae Il Sung to hold off on threatening the airline industry. So far, their plan had been devoid of attacking anything dealing with air travel.

  Ballantine flew across the glimmering water of the Atlantic Ocean, low enough and slowly enough that if he was detected by radar, it would probably read him as a boat. He was surprised to make it this far, but not overconfident of his chances at making it all the way. To avoid the intense air defense coverage and scrutiny of the capital region, he had slipped off the Atlantic coast through the less populated areas of southern Massachusetts and then paralleled the coast over twelve miles offshore, just outside the United States’ territorial limits.

  His global positioning system told him he was due east of Chincoteague, Virginia. He had heard about the wild ponies that swam the channel at low tide, and he actually registered that it was something he might like to see one day. The possibilities for a painting were limitless. Soft pastel colors of a setting sun against the earth tones of the sand and swaying reeds as spotted horses galloped through a knee-deep strait to reach the island. Fascinating.

  Banking to the west, Ballantine would soon be entering an area heavily monitored and patrolled by military aircraft. He would arrive at his destination in about twenty-five minutes, if everything went according to plan.

  He spotted a small light in the distance, his sight of it enhanced by his night-vision goggles. His adrenaline began to surge for no apparent reason. So far the Percocet had done an excellent job of both numbing his pain and suppressing any emotion. He had lost many friends and the only woman that he might have ever loved in Canada. He knew that, as an international terrorist, emotions were needless burdens; but in his mind, at this moment, he was just an artist.

  And he was a man whose brother had been murdered in cold blood by the American in the back of his airplane. He glanced over his shoulder at the bound and gagged Zachary Garrett. Frankly, he was surprised the man was still alive.

  Ballantine determined the flashing light to be a buoy. He was about to enter the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, which was surprisingly quiet and vacant this evening. The quiet din of the modified turbine engine droned along, causing him to experience a form of highway hypnosis. He was tired, but he knew it would be tragic for the mastermind of the greatest terror attack in history to fall asleep at the controls and bore an insignificant hole into the ocean with his little Sherpa.

  He noticed through his goggles that the peninsula to his right was beginning to narrow, an indication that he was nearing the south shore, where the twenty-five-mile-long Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel would begin. His instructions were to key off the third and fourth islands that connected the second tunnel with the bridges. He looked at his fuel gauge, the red needle resting slightly above the E. Flying low, where the air was thickest, his having to fight the swirling winds had eaten into his fuel supplies. He figured he had about fifteen minutes of fuel before he would need to land.

  He picked up the string of lights that dotted the bridge for several miles. The lights stopped for about two miles, began again, and then, in the distance, stopped for a brief span. His contact had told him to look specifically for the lights. Just east of the north tunnel would be his landing strip.

  He was flying so low that he could see the white caps on the bay surface, and he received an occasional spindrift against his windscreen.

  “Lily Pad one, this is Dragonfly one, over.”

  Ballantine waited for the expected response, and, when it did not come, he repeated his message.

  “Lily Pad one, this is Dragonfly one. Over.”

  “Dragonfly one, this is Lily Pad. Over.”

  “This is Dragonfly. Inbound. Over.”

  “This is Lily Pad. Acknowledge visual. Stay low and hit the runway early. Over.”

  “Wilco. Stand by.”

  Ballantine searched the horizon, his weary eyes straining against the metal night-vision goggle rims. They saw nothing. Hearing a noise that was both unfamiliar and unsettling, he looked at the fuel gauge, the red needle falling below the empty line. He had used all 770 miles worth of his gas.

  The propeller sputtering and straining, Ballantine ripped off his goggles and searched for the reserve tank switch. Frantically, his scrambling fingers found the toggle and flipped it downward. He pressed hard again, ensuring the switch was set. After a moment, the turbin
e picked up the steady hum, indicating it was receiving adequate fuel. He quickly set his goggles back to his face.

  He still could not see his landing strip.

  He determined he might be too low, so he gained altitude to increase his visibility.

  “Dragonfly, this is Lily Pad. Acknowledge visual. Over.”

  “Lily Pad, this is Dragonfly. No visual. Low fuel. Over.”

  “Stand by.”

  Ballantine suddenly noticed a string of dim lights to his right front. He could see the bridge-tunnel about five miles ahead.

  “Lily Pad, this is Dragonfly. I acknowledge visual. Over.”

  “Roger. Winds twelve knots from the southeast. Heading two-seven-zero degrees. Standing by. You must make touchdown within first fifty meters.”

  Ballantine flew past the landing area and then banked hard to the north, making a hairpin turn in the air, his starboard wingtip almost touching the water. He gained altitude, leveled his approach, and picked up the two rows of runway lights. These lights were different. They seemed to be moving some, swaying back and forth, and they seemed to end abruptly, well before he knew he would be able to stop his airplane.

  As he neared the landing strip he knew he would have to perform one last tricky maneuver, much like landing in the creek bed near Moncrief.

  He came in just above the first lights and then pushed down on his controls, nosing over just a bit before pulling up to a level position. The Sherpa’s wheels grabbed the landing strip, lurching him forward but maintaining a steady roll toward the end of the short runway. He throttled back and pressed on the brakes, skidding hard and diving into darkness. He could not see beyond the windscreen. It was completely black.

  Ballantine’s heart was beating powerfully against his chest. Then he realized, Lilypad had built a concealed runway with containers stacked three high on either side and wide enough for his airplane. Ingenious.

  He had made it. Miraculously, he had made it.

  The deck of a merchant ship had been converted nicely into an aircraft carrier.