would explode. Out here over the Pacific, it would do no harm. Nor will I shoot you first. I don’t want to die. So it’s a stalemate.”
Nakamura thought about it for a moment. “They’re dead in there. The crew. But what about Endo, and Ms. Egk?”
“He’s dead, she’s out of commission. Put down your gun and I’ll put mine down. You’ll still have the detonator.”
“As you wish,” Nakamura said, and he uncocked his pistol and casually tossed it aside.
“Now yours.”
“I lied,” McGarvey said.
“I’ll push the button,” Nakamura shouted, raising the remote control.
“Go ahead,” McGarvey replied calmly. “Push it, you crazy bastard. It’s just us now.
Push it. Do it.”
Chapter 78
Lt. Commander Donald Adkins, chief of the Combat Information Center aboard the CVN Carl Vinson, was in a foul mood. He figured that from the captain on down, every line officer aboard the carrier was going to end up in deep shit if this mission somehow got away from them, or if the slightest screwup were to occur. The White House is watching: It was the word of the day.
Adkins stood just behind the senior operator’s console in the Air Search Radar Bay, watching the inbound track of the Japanese civilian aircraft. A decision was going to have to be made, and soon. They were expecting it topsides right now.
“Talk to me, Stewart,” he said.
Chief Petty Officer Stewart Heinz adjusted a control on his console. “No change, Commander,” he said. “She’s still losing altitude at a very slow rate, and still inbound at 603 knots on a 281 radial.”
The Vinson was steaming west, into the wind, nearly 435 nautical miles north-northwest of the Hawaiian Islands. The moment the airliner had come up on their Long Range Radar system, the captain had ordered them into the wind at their best launch speed of 38 knots.
A pair of F/A-18 Hornets were waiting in position on deck for the go-ahead.
Adkins glanced over at his chief plotting officer, who shook his head. Nothing had changed. Their best estimate at this point was that the 747 was probably on autopilot, on an easterly course, and descending, that would put it at an altitude of about 5,000 feet somewhere over San Francisco.
“Perfect for a maximum damage nuclear airburst,” Air Wing Commander Roger Sampson had replied when told.
“If he doesn’t stand down, we nail him,” the captain said. “It’s going to be as simple as that.”
“How far out is he now?” Adkins asked.
“He’s just coming across my 125 mile ring,” Heinz said. “If nothing changes, he’ll be overhead in just under thirteen minutes.”
Adkins turned and went immediately to his console, where he picked up his direct line phone with the Air Wing Command Center. “Adkins, CIC,” he said. “The time is now.”
“Red Dog One, ready to launch on my mark,” the command came from Air Wing.
Lt. Joe Dimaggio, in the lead F/A-18 on the steam catapault, sat well back in his seat, bracing his helmet against the headrest. “Red Dog One, ready,” he radioed.
“Three, two, one,” and it was as if a gigantic foot had kicked him in the ass, as the steam-driven ram accelerated his aircraft down the short length of deck, off the bow of the carrier.
Immediately he hit his afterburner, pulled back sharply on his stick, and a second later hit the landing-gear retract button.
Before he passed five thousand feet, his wingman, Lt. (j.g.) Marc Morgan joined him just below and behind his port wing.
“Intercept course coming up,” Dimaggio radioed, as the data was relayed from the Vinson’s
CIC directly into his aircraft computers, and flashed on his HUD (Head-Up Display).
Among other information, he was given the best course and speed to his target. Time to intercept, in this case, was less than four minutes.
“Let’s take a looksee,” Morgan radioed. They were friends, and like most pilots enjoyed an easy comradery, even in combat missions. They’d both flown in the Gulf Crisis.
“Good idea,” Dimaggio replied, and they pushed their throttles to the stops in unison.
“I won’t push the button, unless I’m forced into it, until we reach our destination,” Nakamura said. “But you won’t shoot me, you’ll wait for me to make a mistake so you can take the detonator.”
“We’re heading for San Francisco,” McGarvey said. “But how do you intend on landing the plane…? He cut himself off, and turned to look across at the flight deck and the dead officers. He took a step in that direction.
“Stay away from there or I’ll detonate the bomb now,” Nakamura warned.
“We’re on autopilot heading for San Francisco. But you don’t intend on landing. Once we’re over the city… what, five, ten thousand feet?… you’ll push the button.”
Nakamura’s eyes were mesmerizing. He was a powerful, purposeful man, and had been all of his life. But he was insane, and therefore unpredictable.
“Do you believe that I will do this thing?” he asked.
McGarvey nodded.
“I will, but it is good that you know it. It will make the remainder of the flight more pleasant.” Nakamura motioned toward the stairs. “We’ll go down to the lounge.
I would like to have a drink.”
“We should be near Hawaii,” McGarvey said. “The Navy will probably send someone up from Pearl to check us out.”
“We’re on a legitimate flight plan, approved by your traffic control authorities.
No one will bother us.”
“I’m missing.”
“You won’t be connected with this flight. In any event your government would not dare interfere with me.” Nakamura shrugged. “Even if they are suspicious, they will wait until we land to ask any questions, or to seek my permission to search the aircraft.”
The bastard was right.
“Even in that unlikely event, it wouldn’t matter,” Nakamura was saying, but McGarvey wasn’t really hearing the man. Somewhere between here and the West Coast he was going to have to take the detonator, no matter the risk.
“A drink,” McGarvey said. He uncocked the pistol and stuffed it in his pocket, then turned and went downstairs, Nakamura right behind him. The women were gone.
Nakamura stopped at the galley. “Where are they?”
“They’re hiding. They think you’re crazy.”
“Different,” Nakamura said wistfully. “I’ve always been different.”
There was no answer to that statement. McGarvey led the way into the main cabin.
Liese had evidently regained consciousness long enough to shift position. Her eyes were closed now and her breathing was labored, but she was lying on her back a few feet away from Endo’s body, her left arm twisted under her head as if she were merely lounging. Her long, tanned legs were spread, and her skirt had rucked up over her thighs, exposing a thin line of dark pubic hair. She wore no panties.
“She was a lesbian,” Nakamura said looking at her. “Ernst Spranger told me that at the beginning, though he said she would do my bidding.” He smiled fondly. “And she did. Once she unlearned her bad, Western habits, she became quite good.”
“You’ll miss her,” McGarvey said, going around to a wet bar at the rear. He poured himself a cognac. “You?” he asked over his shoulder.
