and running from him. Even if the Prime Minister hadn’t been surrounded by bodyguards, there was no way he could predict where anyone would be four seconds into the future.
“What’s happening?” screamed Matthew Bailey as he squatted by the laser sight.
“I missed,” said Lovell. “I don’t know how, but I missed.”
“What do you mean, you missed?”
Lovell looked up. “I had him in my sights, and I fired, and then at the last moment someone got in the way.”
“You mean one of his bodyguards walked into the bullet?”
Lovell shook his head. “No, some guy threw himself at the Prime Minister. The bullet got him in the chest, dead centre. Now everyone’s running off the field. I can’t get a clear shot.” He put his rifle back to his shoulder. The bodyguards had disappeared into the safety of the tunnel.
“Can you fire again?” Bailey asked.
“No,” said Lovell.
“What about Carlos and Schoelen? Have they fired?”
“I don’t know,” said Lovell.
Patrick Farrell looked anxiously over at Bailey. “What do we do?”
“We keep calm for a start,” said Bailey. “No one will know the shot came from the airship. Just take us back to the airfield.” He got to his feet and headed back to the co-pilot’s seat. “Keep talking to air-traffic control, tell them we’ve a problem with the camera and that we’re heading back.”
As Farrell put the blimp in a slow left turn, Bailey spoke into his radio microphone, a worried frown on his face. “M-M-Mary, are you there? M-M-Mary?” There was no reply.
The words came out slowly and Kelly had to strain to hear. “Did we get him?” asked Mary, her grip tightening on Kelly’s arm.
Kelly looked down at the baseball diamond. The First Lady was being ushered to the tunnel, surrounded by armed Secret Service agents. A helicopter thundered overhead, its rotor wash tugging at their suits. More agents were pushing the Prime Minister into the darkness of the tunnel, out of danger.
Kelly cradled Mary’s head in her lap. The blood had stopped bubbling from her chest, replaced with a pink froth. “Yes,” Kelly whispered.
“You’re sure?” gasped Mary, her eyelids fluttering.
Kelly saw the Prime Minister disappear into the safety of the tunnel. “Yes,” she lied, “I’m sure.”
Kelly felt Mary shiver and then relax. Blood dribbled from the corner of Mary’s mouth and down her neck.
Cole Howard ran out of the sky box, past the President and his entourage of Secret Service agents amid a forest of Uzis and Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns.
He took the escalator, jumping the stairs four at a time. On the ground level he saw the Prime Minister and his security team heading in his direction and Howard unclipped his FBI badge from the breast pocket of his suit and held it aloft. “FBI!” he yelled, to make sure that there would be no confusion. The American and British bodyguards were all edgy, with their fingers inside the trigger guards of their weapons, and the Prime Minister appeared to be in a state of shock. An older Secret Service agent, a Uzi held aloft, was screaming at them to move faster and looking over his shoulder as if he expected to see pursuers.
Howard sprinted down the tunnel, shouting all the way that he was with the FBI. He had to squeeze by the First Lady and her bodyguards before he burst out of the confined space and into the huge stadium. He heard a public announcement reverberating around the arena, calling for everyone to remain calm. Howard could see spectators streaming towards the exits while others were standing in shock. Howard looked up. In the distance he could see the airship turning and heading away from the city. A deafening beating sound filled his ears and he tilted back his head. Directly overhead was a National Guard Huey helicopter, coming in to land. The downbeat of the rotors sent dust and sand whirling around Howard, stinging his eyes and making it hard to breathe. He ducked his head and put a hand over his mouth as the helicopter went by and landed about fifty yards away.
When he looked up the Huey was on the ground, its rotors still turning. Howard jogged towards it, bent double at the waist. Hands grabbed for him and half pulled, half dragged him inside and almost immediately the rotors speeded up and the Huey leapt back into the air.
Carlos pushed the maid’s trolley to one side and checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Satisfied that there was no blood on his face or clothes, he picked up his briefcase, stepped over the body of the dead Secret Service agent, and let himself out of the room. In the elevator a pretty brunette with a name badge identifying her as an assistant manager smiled and asked if he was enjoying his stay.
Carlos returned her smile and nodded. “It’s a fine hotel,” he said. When the elevator arrived at the ground floor she held the door open for him and allowed him out first, wishing him a good day. They were always so polite, the Americans, thought Carlos as he left the hotel, swinging the briefcase. Overhead, a National Guard helicopter was climbing into the air.
Cole Howard yelled at the pilot to head for the airship, but his voice was lost in the roar of the turbine. A crewman in an olive flightsuit handed him a headset and showed him how to operate the microphone switch. Through the intercom system Howard explained that there was a sniper on board the airship.
In the back of the Huey with Howard were the National Guard crewman, a hard-faced Secret Service agent in a dark grey suit and ubiquitous sunglasses and a SWAT sniper in black overalls.
“What’s the plan, can we shoot the blimp down?” asked the agent.
“Wouldn’t it explode?” the crewman cut in. “Aren’t they full of inflammable gas or something?”
“You’re thinking of the Hindenberg; back then they were full of hydrogen,” said the pilot. “These days they use other gases that don’t burn.”
“So we can shoot holes in it?” asked the sniper.
“I guess so,” said Howard. The Huey was climbing rapidly and his stomach turned over. He took deep breaths, trying to quell his unease.
“I dunno about that,” said the pilot. “Look at the size of it, it’s as big as a whale. You could put a hundred holes in it and it’d still stay up for hours.”
The Secret Service agent had his fingers pressed to his earpiece. “They tried to shoot the President,” he yelled.
“He’s okay, I saw him,” shouted Howard.
“You sure?” said the agent.
“Really,” said Howard. “Your guys got him out safely. He’s okay.” The agent looked relieved. Howard turned to the SWAT sniper. “What about the engines? Could you put a bullet in the engines?”
“I could try, but this isn’t the steadiest of shooting platforms,” said the sniper. “We’d have to get really close. And the closer we get the better a target we are for the guy on board. You’ve got to remember he isn’t being shaken around as much as we are.”
Howard nodded. He patted the pilot on the back. “Can you call up the other helicopters, get them to hover nearby?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the pilot.
“Tell them there’s a sniper on board, so they’ll have to stay above it.”
“Okay,” said the pilot. Over the headset, Howard heard him giving instructions to the other helicopter pilots.
Howard looked around the cargo compartment. Behind the crew member was a winch and a bright orange harness. Howard pointed at the weapon hanging from a sling under the Secret Service agent’s jacket. “What are you carrying?” he asked.
“Uzi,” said the agent.
Howard nodded. “I think I’ve got an idea,” he said, slipping off his jacket.
“There’s a helicopter heading this way,” shouted Rich Lovell, pulling the barrel of his rifle inside the gondola and squatting on the floor.
“They can’t know we’re involved,” said Bailey. “Just stay down out of sight. We’ll be okay.”
Lovell’s right foot was sticking into the neck of the bearded cameraman and he pulled it away with a look of disgust on his face.
“What do we do?” asked Farrell.
“We keep on our present course all the way back to the airfield,” said Bailey. “We land this thing, we tie you
