When she got into the air, she finally relaxed. Maybe she would have some answers soon. She had been looking at the enormous oil platform out the side window when the thud of an explosion came overhead. Wild screams erupted from all the passengers, including herself. The pilot had calmly compensated for the loss of control on the way down, keeping the helicopter upright all the way until they slammed into the sea.
It took a few seconds for Dilara to shake off the cobwebs after they hit the water. One of the other passengers threw open the sliding door. The pilot was slumped in his seat, unconscious. Dilara could see that the copilot’s arm was pointing at an awkward angle. Before she could ask the others for help, they all jumped out of the helicopter. She sloshed through the water pouring in through the open door. They would only be afloat for a few more seconds.
She yanked the seatbelt off the pilot. By that time, the water was over her waist, and the pilot floated out of his seat. The copilot, wailing in agony every time his arm hit something, staggered to the door. She wrestled the pilot to the exit just as the helicopter sank beneath the surface. With one last kick, she propelled both of them out, and the three of them rose to the surface.
Now, as she struggled to keep the pilot’s face up, she resolved to find the people responsible for this, the same people who had murdered her father. Something that Sam had told her was so important to them that they were willing to kill at the slightest provocation. She had to find out what it was, and this Tyler Locke guy was going to help her. They didn’t realize it yet, but they would find out they had messed with the wrong woman.
A new noise penetrated the growing gloom. An engine. She whipped her head around. The wind made the direction of the sound hard to pinpoint. Then she saw it. An odd orange vessel of some kind, shaped like a bullet. It came to a stop and bobbed on the water about 600 feet away. A hatch opened on the back, and she could see a figure step through and begin hauling people on board. The other helicopter passengers.
She lifted the arm she wasn’t using to support the pilot and waved it madly, kicking to keep herself upright.
“Over here!” she yelled. A sense of relief swept over her, and she let out a cry of joy. They were going to make it.
Logan tried to join her shouting, but he was too weak. His head dipped under the water every few seconds, and each time he came up sputtering. If they didn’t get here quickly, Logan would go under and wouldn’t come back up.
She yelled more loudly, but she couldn’t see any response. The boat bobbed in and out of her view, the hatch on the back no longer towards her. For a second, she feared they were leaving, but then the boat grew larger. It was approaching. They had seen her.
The boat pulled alongside and stopped when the aft end was even with them. She had been paying so much attention to the lifeboat that she’d forgotten about Logan. The hatch flew open, and a tall man with tousled brown hair looked around for a moment before diving into the water right about where she’d last seen Logan.
He stayed under for what seemed like hours but must have been only a few seconds. He surfaced, holding Logan under the chin. He handed Logan to a massive black man standing in the hatch who hauled Logan up like he was a doll.
Next, the swimming rescuer took the pilot from her and passed him up into the boat.
He turned to Dilara and, in defiance of the cold weather lashing at them, smiled. “Your turn, young lady.” He didn’t seem bothered at all by the cold water, simply focusing his blue eyes and perfect teeth at her. She found the effect oddly charming considering their circumstances, and it put her at ease.
Dilara reached up to the black man, who hoisted her up with one motion. Instead of taking the closest seat, she went back to see if Logan and the pilot were okay. Logan breathed raggedly between bouts of vomiting seawater, while a third rescuer bent over the unconscious pilot.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked through chattering teeth.
The third rescuer nodded. “He’s got a pretty nasty bump, but he’s still alive.”
“Thanks to you,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see the man from the water dogging the hatch closed. She sank into a seat, exhausted and shivering uncontrollably. The man took a wool blanket from a storage bin and draped it over her. The warmth of the blanket felt wonderful.
“How are you doing?” he asked. In the better light of the boat, Dilara could see a thin white scar trailing down the crease of his neck. His eyes seemed to be boring into her own. He took her hands and rubbed them with his own.
“You don’t have an espresso machine on this boat, do you?” she replied. Her teeth snapping together made her sound like she had a stutter. “Because I could use a double-shot about now.”
The man showed that bright smile again, but Dilara could see he was just as cold as she was.
“Our barista is out right now, but we’ll get some nice hot java in you soon,” the man said. “You must be Dilara Kenner.”
She cocked her head in surprise. “That’s right. I didn’t expect a personal welcome. And the tall, dark, and rugged stranger who saved me is?”
“Well, I don’t know which one of us you’re referring to, but the he-man over there is Grant Westfield, the man you saved is being attended to by Jimmy Markson, and I’m Tyler Locke.”
For a moment, she was too shocked to speak. The very man she’d come to talk to was right in front of her. Instead of the 55-year-old geek she’d been expecting, he was a man in his mid-thirties, not much older than she was, and looked more like a brawny fireman than a nerdy engineer. She coughed and said, “Dr. Tyler Locke?”
“I don’t think there’s a need to get formal. I prefer Tyler, but Ty works, too.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“I might ask you the same thing. You’ve gone through a lot of trouble just to meet with me. What’s so important that you’d risk death to find me?”
The shock and exhaustion must have taken its toll. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out of her mouth.
“I want you to help me find Noah’s Ark.”
SEVEN
For an hour, Captain Hammer Hamilton had been trying to raise someone on the radio of the private jet, but it was useless. All he got was static. Not that he expected anyone to answer. The only radio was in the cockpit, which he’d been staring at since he rendezvoused with the 737. The plane simply cruised along on its course with Hammer and Fuzzy shadowing it, passing over LA without incident. A mile away, the KC-10 tanker that had already refueled them once stood by in case they needed a refill, which would depend on how far the 737 made it.
Hammer had never seen anything like it. The closest thing he could recall was the private jet of Payne Stewart, the golfer. It was a Lear 35 that had leaked its cabin air soon after takeoff from Florida. Everyone on board had died of hypoxia, but the jet kept going on autopilot. It didn’t stop until it ran out of fuel over South Dakota and crashed into a field.
Fighters had been sent to intercept Stewart’s jet, but the windows had frosted over, so they couldn’t see the plane’s interior. Frosted windows suggested a loss of pressure. The poor bastards on board probably never knew what happened, and the NTSB never got to hear the pilot’s last words. The cockpit voice recorder only tapes the last 30 minutes of flight, which in the case of Stewart’s plane was long after they had succumbed.
The difference today was that the pilots had vanished. The windows weren’t frosted, which made an oxygen leak unlikely. Hammer could clearly see that no one was in the cockpit. He didn’t care what kind of emergency happened on the plane, no way would both pilots leave their seats.
Of course, it could all be an elaborate ruse. Another possibility was that there were hijackers on board, and they had done something with the crew and passengers. But what? Herded everybody into the back of the plane where there were no windows? The hijackers would still need to fly the plane, and Hammer had seen no one in the cockpit.
He supposed the passengers could be dead. Shot, or maybe gassed. But still, most of the passengers would be visible slumped over in their seats, maybe even some blood on the windows. Hammer had seen the plane from both sides. All the window shades were wide open. Nothing. Not one person.
