“A cognac will be fine,” Nakamura said. “Yes, I suppose I will miss her, but at my age I’ll miss almost everything.”
It was the most human statement the man had made, though it was the direct opposite of what most eighty-year-olds might say. In his life he had gotten everything he wanted, and he had wanted practically everything. Now that he was at the end, he wanted even more.
McGarvey turned with the drinks, but then froze. Nakamura was kneeling at Liese’s side, the detonator still in his left hand.
“Liese,” he said gently. He touched her thigh with the fingers of his right hand, then traced a pattern on her skin.
Nakamura was looking at her legs and pubis, but McGarvey had seen her eyes flutter.
She was feigning unconsciousness.
“Liese,” the old man cooed softly. His fingertips flitted lightly over the lips of her vagina. He slowly bent forward and kissed her there.
Liese moaned softly, her legs spreading slightly, and Nakamura leaned even farther forward.
Her right hand came down to his face to guide him, and her touch spurred him on.
Suddenly she was holding a long, wicked-looking stiletto in her left hand, and before McGarvey could move or say a thing, she plunged the blade all the way to the haft into the back of Nakamura’s neck, angling it upwards into the base of his skull.
McGarvey’s breath caught in his throat. If the bomb went off now, he wouldn’t feel a thing. The entire airplane would be vaporized in a matter of milliseconds, much too fast for his senses to react in any way.
But Nakamura simply relaxed down on top of Liese, every muscle in his body instantly going limp, the detonator slipping out of his hand, the weight of his body pressing against her thighs.
McGarvey dropped the drinks, and sprinted forward to grab the detonator at the same moment Liese shoved Nakamura away and grappled for it.
She reached it first, and held it up in his face, a triumphant look in her eyes, then pushed the button.
Dimaggio came in from above and to the north of the eastbound 747, made a tight nine-G turn, cutting back on his engines and almost instantly dropping his speed out of the supersonic range.
Morgan dropped in on the starboard side of the big jetliner and together they matched speeds, hanging just a few yards off the big plane’s flight-deck windows.
For a moment or two Dimaggio wasn’t sure what he was seeing, although the tail numbers and dove insignia matched his intended target. But he could see the pilot and copilot.
“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading, north of the Hawaiian Islands, please come back. This is the U.S. Naval warplane off your port side,” he radioed.
There was no answer. His communications would be monitored and recorded aboard the Vinson, just ahead of them now.
He pulled out his motorized drive Haselblad camera and took a half-dozen shots of the 747’s flight-deck area, then got back on his radio.
“Red Dog Two, this is One. Marc, what do you see over there?”
“I see the crew, but they look… dead to me, Joe,” Morgan radioed.
“Brood House, this is Red Dog One, you monitor?”
“Roger.”
“What do you advise?”
“Stand by.”
Dimaggio dropped a couple of meters lower, and mindful that the 747’s wing was just aft of his own tail, he eased in a little closer.
From here he could definitely see that the crew was dead.
“Brood House, this is Red Dog One. The crew are definitely dead. I see blood on the back of the pilot’s head.”
“Roger,” the Air Wing CO radioed. “You are authorized to arm and uncage your weapons.
Designator, Yellow Bird three-easy-love.”
Dimaggio quickly flipped through his authenticator book. “Wild Card seven-one-delta.”
“Roger,” the Vinson radioed dryly.
“Red Dog Two, I’ll take aft and starboard.”
“Right,” Morgan radioed back, and they both peeled away, making looping turns right and left, as they climbed to get above and behind the big airliner. They both uncaged their AIM-7F Sparrow air-to-air missiles.
Nothing happened. Liese pushed the button again, but still nothing happened. Nakamura had been lying. The bomb was evidently set on a timer, or there was some sort of a coded sequence in which to push the button.
McGarvey yanked the device out of her hand and got up. But again she was like a wild animal, driven by some inner compulsion to attack and kill. She viciously yanked the stiletto out of Nakamura’s skull and leaped up.
McGarvey stepped aside, pulled out the Bernadelli, cocked the hammer with his thumb and shot her point- blank in the face.
The bullet entered her skull just above and to the left of the bridge of her nose, destroying her face and snapping her head back. She was dead before she crumpled to the deck.
McGarvey turned and sprinted back up to the flight deck, manhandling the pilot’s body out of its chair in time to hear someone on the radio.
“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading north of the Hawaiian Islands, this is your last chance to respond before we fire.”
Chapter 79
“Brood House this is Red Dog One, negative response, advise,” Dimaggio radioed.
The jetliner was one mile ahead and five hundred feet below them. Dimaggio had illuminated it with his doppler radar and had a positive lock for the Sparrow.
“Red Dog One, you have permission to fire,” his confirmation < came. “Repeat, you have permission to fire.”
“Roger,” Dimaggio said, and he reached with his thumb for the air-to-air weapon-release button on his stick.
McGarvey scrambled into the pilot’s seat, snatched up the microphone and frantically searched for the proper transmit frequency selector. Outside, the afternoon was beautiful, with only a few low clouds beneath them, and the pale blue of the Pacific Ocean lost in the haze on the horizon. There were no signs of any warplanes, but McGarvey figured they would by now be above and behind, ready to shoot.
He pushed the microphone button. “U.S. warplanes about to shoot at the Fukai Semiconductor 747 aircraft, do you copy?”
The radio was silent. McGarvey leaned forward as he tried to get a look aft, but he still couldn’t see anything but blue sky. Of course the warplanes did not have to be within sight in order to attack. Some of their missiles were accurate forty nautical miles out.
“U.S. warplanes, this is the Fukai 747 north of the Hawaiian Islands, do you copy?”
“Roger, we copy. You are required to immediately break away from your present heading, do you understand? If so, acknowledge.”
“Negative,” McGarvey radioed. “You’re going to have to get confirmation of what I tell you, but we’ve got to get this aircraft on the ground and soon.”
“Repeat, you are required to immediately break away from your present heading. This is your last warning. If you do not comply immediately you will be shot out of the sky.”
“Listen to me. My name is Kirk McGarvey. I am an American intelligence officer, something you can verify by calling Washington. Everyone else aboard this airplane is dead, including the crew. We’re carrying a nuclear device that is probably set on some sort of timer. It’s hidden in a unit marked hydraulic distribution system-
