Power Down (48 page)

Dewey suddenly sensed movement inside the aircraft. Glancing up at the doorway, he saw the black leather boot of another man slip from the cabin into the cockpit, the pilot, he guessed. Dewey ripped the Colt from his shoulder holster, moved toward the bottom of the stairs. As the muzzle of a machine gun suddenly appeared in the door, Dewey quickly analyzed the pace of the barrel’s movement, waited another half second, timed it, then crept quickly up the stairs and fired as the shooter’s head appeared. Dewey’s bullet ripped the left side of his skull clean off, his face a bloody wash against the walnut of the jet’s minibar.

A sharp kick suddenly struck Dewey in the left knee from behind, and he fell down the stairs, rolling to the hard tarmac. It was Karim on him. The Arab, broken arm to his side, followed with another hard kick to Dewey’s bad shoulder, then another kick to the right arm, which sent the .45 spiraling out of Dewey’s hands to the ground. Despite sharp
pain in his shoulder, Dewey stood up, only to be met with a knee in his groin, then a furious left arm strike, this time at Dewey’s chin, which took a glancing blow.

Dewey struggled to gain his balance. Karim’s martial skills were impressive. He had to act quickly, he knew, or the Arab would take him down.

Dewey watched as the Arab’s torso started to turn, anticipating the next kick as it swung roundhouse through the air; Dewey pulled back just in time, ducking, the boot passing his head within an inch. Dewey reached to his ankle, pulled the Gerber from the sheath, and by the time the terrorist’s leg was back on the ground, Dewey thrust forward, stabbing the knife blade an inch above Karim’s left knee as deeply as he could thrust it, more than four inches deep, then ripped it sideways, severing all ligaments and cartilage. Karim screamed and fell to the ground, clutching the maimed knee.

Dewey pulled the Gerber from Karim’s leg, took a step back, pulled the hat from his head, and picked up the Colt from the ground. The blood had started to flow in earnest from the shoulder wound, and he glanced at the fresh stream running to his elbow. He wiped the bloody knife blade on his pants.

As he lay on the ground, the Arab’s left hand suddenly shot up to his mouth. Dewey lurched down at him, stomping his boot onto the arm, keeping it from the terrorist’s mouth. He knelt atop the Arab’s chest, his knee pressed hard against his neck. He took the Gerber blade, inserted it into the terrorist’s mouth, vertically, so that the sharp part of the blade was pressed to the man’s tongue, the serrated razor teeth of the upper blade against the roof of his mouth, then pushed in. The terrorist groaned. Blood suddenly streamed from the fresh cut lip, from the tongue, but the Arab’s mouth was now propped open by the knife and he could not close it if he tried. Dewey reached his hand inside the open mouth, felt the molars. The top left one popped loose and Dewey removed it. Looking down, in the faint light from the cabin of the plane, Dewey saw a small white pill: cyanide.

“Don’t worry, you’ll die soon, Karim,” said Dewey, standing back up. “Just not yet.”

Dewey holstered the weapon, then dragged Karim up the stairs of the jet. He pulled him to the back of the thin aisle between the big leather seats on each side of the plane’s tight cabin. Dewey flipped him over, took his left arm, the good one, and pulled it upward until it too snapped at the elbow. Karim screamed out again in pain. Dewey ripped his uniform shirt off, then tore it into strips. The first he used to tie around the Arab’s mouth, drawing it tight, tying it off. The second strip he wrapped around the man’s thigh, making a tourniquet to stop the blood flow from the deep gash above the knee. He then tied a third strip around Karim’s good leg, at the knee, and tied it off to a piece of steel beneath the frame of a seat. He tied another around Karim’s forehead, creating a tight clamp which he tied off to another piece of steel, so that he could not move. The last strip Dewey tied around his own shoulder, about the bandage, trying to stem the flow of blood from the homemade yarn suture, now ruptured. He ignored the pain. He stared for a moment longer at Karim, then turned. He dragged the dead pilot down the stairwell, pulled him to the back of the security van, then lifted him inside.

He climbed back inside the Gulfstream, waiting. He looked at his watch: 4:40
A.M.
The private terminal remained lifeless. He walked back to check on Karim. Still alive, not moving. He returned to the cockpit and waited. At 4:55, he saw movement. A man exited the terminal building and walked down through the rows of aircrafts. He walked to a small, old model, white citation jet. The entrance steps to the jet suddenly came down, the man climbed the steps, entered the plane. Dewey moved. He quickly descended the Gulfstream’s stairs, then sprinted toward the citation, more than a hundred yards away, its back to him as he ran. When he got to the plane, the steps were down. Dewey climbed the steps, pulling the Colt from his shoulder holster. He looked right. The cabin was empty. He ducked into the cockpit, Colt cocked to fire. A gray-haired man with a white polo shirt was sitting in the captain’s chair.

“Are you the pilot?” Dewey asked as he entered the cockpit.

The man looked up, startled. “Yes,” he said with a thick Spanish accent.

“Who are you?”

“Come with me,” said Dewey.

“Yeah, right.” The pilot laughed. “Get out of here before I call airport security.”

Dewey raised the Colt and aimed it at the man’s head. “Stand up, do what I ask, and I won’t kill you.”

The pilot raised his hands. “What do you want?”

“Right now? You to shut the hell up,” said Dewey. “You’re flying to the United States. Once we land, I promise you’ll be safe.”

The man sat in the captain’s chair. He was silent, and looked at Dewey with disgust.

“Let’s get going,” said Dewey.

“I need my first officer.”

“You’ll do a fine job without him,” said Dewey. “Let’s go. Up.
Now.
”

Dewey pressed the weapon into the pilot’s head as he stood. He moved it to his back, then followed him down the stairs as he descended.

“Straight ahead,” said Dewey. “And before you think of screaming or running, don’t. I
will
kill you.”

They walked down the dark row of planes. They boarded the Gulfstream.

“I’ve never flown a Gulfstream,” said the pilot.

“Now’s your chance,” said Dewey.

The man looked back down the cabin aisle, noticed Karim, tied up and bleeding; he gasped in shock.

Dewey pointed the Colt at the cockpit, encouraging him to enter. The pilot sat down in the leather captain’s chair. After acclimating himself to the cabin, he turned the plane’s controls on and prepared for takeoff. After a few minutes of checks, he inched the plane forward and moved across the tarmac toward the runway. He put the headset on. Dewey reached out, yanked them off.

“I need to get clearance—”

“Take off,” said Dewey. “Stop fucking around.”

The jet moved slowly to the end of the runway. The sky was beginning to ashen as morning approached. A faint, dark outline of ocean was visible behind hills above the airport. At the end of the runway, the pilot pushed the throttle forward and sped down the runway, blasting into the sky.

Dewey waited until they were several minutes out of Cuban airspace, then tried to call Jessica, but had no coverage. He put the headset on and turned on the radio set.

“This is an emergency,” said Dewey. “I am an American flying out of Cuba and I need to speak with the FBI.”

“Aircraft transmitting on guard,” came the voice. “This is Miami Center. State your request.”

“Can you switch me to a secure frequency?”

“Move to 132.2.”

Dewey entered the new frequency, keyed the mic, then said, “My name is Dewey Andreas. I need you to do a phone patch immediately to FBI Washington, Jessica Tanzer. She is the deputy director for counterterrorism.”

“Hold, I’ll need to speak with my supervisor.”

“Do what you need to do. But make it quick.”

Dewey waited for more than a minute. Then he heard a click in his headset.

“It’s Jessica. What’s going on?”

“I’m in the air, headed for New York City. I have the terrorist, Karim, in the back of the plane.”

“My God, what—”

“I need you to set up a pharma team in New York,” said Dewey. “Teterboro is the closest airport to the city. If that doesn’t work, use Newark.”

“Both airports are closed. There’s a snowstorm up and down the East Coast. Whiteout conditions, the works.”

“Just get a team there. You have to have one in the city, right? If not, ask CIA who they’d use if they had a situation in the area. Worst case put a team in a truck from D.C. We’re going to be in the air for several hours.”

“I’ll get a team there,” said Jessica. “Can you ask him some questions before we get him into U.S. airspace?”

“Believe me, I’d love to,” said Dewey, looking to the back of the cabin. “Me interrogating him won’t do any good. He tried to swallow a cyanide
pill he had jammed in a tooth; he’s not going to respond, in my opinion, to pain. I’ll end up killing him, which is exactly what he wants.”

“Got it. Let me go to work. Keep the headset on.”

“I also need you to clear us through customs, FAA, et cetera.”

“I’ll handle that,” said Jessica. “I’ll clear you through to Teterboro. I’ll head up there too. Tell your pilot the weather is horrible. Teterboro, JFK, Newark, and La Guardia are all shut down because of the blizzard.”

“Right,” said Dewey, glancing over at the pilot, whose forehead ran with sweat. He looked back at Dewey, fear in his eyes. “Better get them to plow the runway.”

“I’ll make sure they’re ready to plow when you’re close.”

“What about Indiana?” Dewey asked.

“They found something in a locker. Belongs to a worker named Mahmoud. Probably your Mahmoud. He’s been at Notre Dame for almost six years. Maintenance guy. I’ll know more in a little while.”

“Got it disarmed yet?”

“No.”

Dewey stared out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. The ocean was a dark black carpet for as far as he could see. Far, far off in the distance, he could see the beginning edge of coastline. It would be the first time he’d been inside the United States since he left more than a decade ago. He felt a tightness in his stomach—and then the warm rush of adrenaline he needed.

NOTRE DAME STADIUM
SOUTH BEND, INDIANA

The small team of bomb experts had gathered just outside the large, basement-level suite of rooms that served as the maintenance facility for Notre Dame Stadium. John Banker, head of the FBI munitions team, the “Bomb Squad,” as it was called, had been rushed to South Bend. Banker and one of his deputies, Stella Galloway, had just begun to carefully disassemble Mahmoud’s locker.

Banker faced several tough decisions. They could detonate the bomb remotely. They also could bring in one of the FBI’s bomb “robots” and attempt to defuse the bomb by remote control, from a safe distance. But Banker was old-school. He knew the greatest chance of successfully defusing the bomb, given the amount of time, was to do it himself, even though the stakes were considerably higher. Besides, based on what they saw at Long Beach, detonating the bomb remotely was not an option. There was no such thing as a “remote” detonation when the result would mean the destruction of one of the country’s most famous athletic facilities and Lord knows how much of the university itself.

Banker ordered the other munitions experts who had arrived on scene, many of whom he’d never met before, to leave the facility. To a
man, they all refused to leave. Even John Garvey, the head of maintenance for the stadium, refused to leave the building.

Banker and Galloway didn’t bother putting on protective gear; it wouldn’t have mattered.

As the gathered group watched, only Banker knew the true import of the situation. Jessica had briefed him on his way to South Bend. Dewey Andreas had tortured the information out of Mahmoud just a few hours ago, but time was passing quickly. If there was any sort of set check-in time between Mahmoud and his bosses, and Mahmoud didn’t make contact, the bomb could be set off remotely.

Banker now noticed a faint gasoline aroma wafting up from the removed floor of the locker, a smell most casual observers would never have noticed.

Beneath the floor plate of the locker, Banker shined a light on what looked like a spongy, clear pillow of material. It was mashed down and completely filled the two-by-four-foot space.

On one side of it sat what looked like two stainless steel tubes within a glass cylinder, a pair of small red wires sticking up into the air.

“Bingo,” Banker said quietly, handing the light to Galloway. He reached down and pulled the cellular trigger from the octanitrocubane.

UNITED PARCEL SERVICE
REGIONAL DISTRIBUTION CENTER
RENO, NEVADA

Sergeant Greer Osborne from the Reno Sheriff’s Office climbed out of the van. In his left hand, he held a letter-sized FedEx envelope. K-9 was painted on the back door of the vehicle, and Osborne glanced quickly at it. He opened the back door to the van.

“Okay, Maude, come on, honey.”

A large, black and brown German shepherd jumped out of the back of the van, then sat and looked up at Osborne. He clipped the leather leash to the dog’s collar. As the dog sat obediently looking up at Osborne, he pulled a small Ziploc bag from the FedEx envelope. Inside the Ziploc bag, Osborne withdrew a small swatch of cloth. He held it up in front of the dog’s snout for a few seconds, then put it back in the bag.