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“S-O-S,” I key.

“SOS? What's happened?”

“E-N-G-I-N-E-F-A-I-L-U-R-E.”

“Engine failure? Where are you?”

“O-N-D-E-C-K.”

“But you reported ops normal.”

“F-O-R-C-E-D-T-O-S-A-Y.”

“Forced? You were forced? Who forced you?”

“J-O-N-A-S.”

My body quakes with adrenaline at the sound of Jonas's voice. “Ah, what's this?” he asks, entering from my left, through the main cabin door.

“Jonas?” Eric's voice is frantic. “Is he there with you now?”

I press and hold the push-to-talk button, hoping Eric can hear whatever happens now.

“Take off your helmet,” Jonas orders.

I comply and he pulls my hair aside with an aggravated yank.

“Ahh … naughty girl,” he says, shaking his head. “Take off your gloves.”

When I do, he reaches for the press-to-talk button and presses it himself. Leaning close to my ear, he says, “Hello, Romeo. The little lady is going off line now. And by the way, she's going to pay for this.”

The slap across my face that follows is such a shock that the cry escapes before I can stop it.

“Sara!” Eric screams. It's the last thing I hear before Jonas rips the radio from my ear—rips it apart, actually—and throws it across the cabin.

Lego and Messy stand glaring as I put my hand to my stinging cheek.

“Okay, my pretty, you may take your seat and we'll be on our way,” he says, pointing to the cockpit.

“Eric will find us,” I say. “He'll fly right here.”

Jonas starts laughing. “My dear, your Romeo is over one hundred miles away at the moment, searching for a submarine that doesn't exist.”

That's why the targets were so far apart. They had to keep Eric and the SEAL team clear.

“He'll radio for help,” I say. “He'll send backup. This will never work.”

“We'll be long gone before any help arrives, I assure you.”

Jonas reaches for my survival vest and removes the radio clipped to my front pocket. He relieves Messy and Lego of their radios in the same manner.

“Can't have you calling for help again. Now, get in.”

I breathe a small sigh, knowing I still have Captain Plank's pistol tucked safely inside my vest pocket, out of sight. For what use, I don't know. But at least I have it.

Before I turn to enter the cockpit, I notice something. The radio Jonas pulled from my ear and threw across the cabin is no longer on the floor. I glance up to Lego and Messy and we share a brief look before I take my seat.

“All right, boys,” Jonas says. “Time to resume your aircrew duties, if you please.”

Jonas climbs into the seat next to me.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He reaches across the cockpit and unzips my survival vest. I watch, deflated, as he removes Captain Plank's gun.

“I was there when Mr. Plank told Mr. Amicus you were to have this,” Jonas says, turning the gun in his hand. “Something about how impressed he was with your ability to perform under pressure. Your
courage
and
bravery,
” he says mockingly.

Jonas allows himself a hearty laugh. “What a disappointment! Love, you're supposed to
use
this!” he says, waving the gun in front of my face. “Bloody hell, what the fuck are you carrying it for if you're not going to use it!”

My heart falls … I'm about to start up this aircraft and fly him and his team away from here, following his instructions to the letter, enabling this assassination attempt to go forward. I haven't put up the valiant fight, nor have I attempted even one small act to thwart his attempts at hijacking this aircraft.

My god. What would Captain Plank say? Or Lieutenant Colonel Tyson? Or anyone else in the briefing room that day who was sizing up my ability to perform under pressure.

Jonas accurately reads what I'm thinking. “I would pose the same question as Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he says. “You know, that part about keeping your head together when it mattered. Would you say you're succeeding?”

I stumble, lost for an answer. “I … I don't know.”

“I think not,” he says. “Which is exactly what I was counting on.”

He tucks the gun hastily into his waistband even though he wears a vest containing a thousand pockets.

“Knew you wouldn't disappoint,” he says with a smile. “Now, start it up.”

And here I go again, without hesitation, flicking the switches for the battery and starter units.

But Sara, you do have a plan. It's a long shot, but you have an idea. It's just not time yet
.

“Yeah, right,” I mutter to myself.

The engines fire up and the rotors begin to spin. Jonas orders Lego and Messy to open the engine cowling to ensure their hose repair is holding. After they report in the affirmative, I scan the gauges, all of which show normal readings. Although I doubt they were able to repair the wiring for the caution panel light and the oil pressure gauge. Wait, check that. Messy is a flat-out genius when it comes to electronics, so there's every chance he did indeed fix them.

“Messy, are the gauges…?”

“Yep, ma'am, those are good readings there.”

Incredible.

Before we lift, Jonas reaches to the radio switch and turns it off. He also turns off our transponder. Damn it. The transponder provides automatic radar identification to anyone who's interrogating, like air traffic controllers or other aircraft or ships. He has just shut off the only way we can positively identify ourselves.

“After you lift, stay overhead the ship,” Jonas says. “No higher than fifty feet.”

As we ascend, I suck in my breath as the tips of the rotor blades pass within a hair's width of the upper decks.

“Let's move it,” Jonas commands. “Clear to go.”

I exhale once we're clear of the superstructure, and turn the aircraft to arc around the front of the ship. I'm flying with fifteen souls onboard—three SAS members, eight “civilian” men, Lego, Messy, Animal, and me.

“Ma'am, am I clear to get up for the post-takeoff checks?” Messy asks.

“No checks are necessary,” Jonas says. “We're only ensuring flyability.”

“Uh, sir, I beg to differ,” Messy says. “Since you've gone around cuttin' things, I'm a little more concerned than usual.”

Jonas pauses here, thinking through the request. “Okay, you may do your checks. One false move, though, and my man Collin pulls the trigger, explosives or no.”

“Fuck, you think I'm gonna mess with shit? Take the helicopter down in a blaze of glory just to stop your sorry ass? Fuck no!”

“I'm surprised at your attitude, Mr. Messina. Very un-American.”

“Yeah, you've been watchin' too many cowboy movies,” Messy says. “So can I get on with this?”

“You may proceed.”

“Roger that. My expendable ass is up.”

In any other situation, the beauty of the sunrise would have captured my full attention. Pale blues have given way to purples and pinks, the sky now spotted with wisps of cloud that scatter above a flash of orange.

As I fly circles in the light of this new sunrise, the enormity of the yacht comes into clear focus. Three decks rise above the flight deck, including the patio area I noticed earlier, and two decks run underneath. Where the waterline meets the hull at the most aft end of the ship, a flat wooden deck runs across it—a loading platform.

Below the level of the flight deck, but above the waterline, the outlines of several hatches are visible along the hull. The longest must span at least forty feet. I suspect it's the entrance to a cargo bay of some sort. Next to it, a twenty-foot cutout in the hull houses the pontoons of a Zodiac. The opposite side of the ship is structured similarly, but with extra space for a small motorboat stored just adjacent to a second Zodiac.

Judging by the churning roil of white water constituting its wake, the ship is headed somewhere fast. Oddly, it still travels toward Kuwait, even though the ports are closed.

“Drop to ten feet and stay there,” Jonas says.

The longer we fly, the more assured he becomes that the engine is indeed working as advertised. He feels comfortable going lower and there's a reason he's doing it. He's hoping our radar signature will get lost in the noise of the waves below us.

I scan the horizon for any hint of land, but see none. Based on the maps we consulted during the brief, we're over twenty miles from shore. And the threat of sharks, sea snakes … very real. I've heard many tales from fellow helicopter pilots who have watched hammerheads cruise in schools by the hundreds just under the surface in the Gulf. And the sea snakes? They're regularly spotted feeding on the remains of deceased livestock, tossed overboard from the cargo ships that were transporting them.

Which leads me to thoughts of what's going to happen next. Jonas is going to kick the four of us out of the aircraft. If we're high and fast when he does so, we may not survive the fall. Which, of course, is what he wants. Poor Animal. Even if we're low and slow, he still might not survive the jump. Although, I would have to say that if anyone could survive in the state that he's in now—one, possibly two bullet wounds to the abdomen—it would be him. Tough as nails, Animal.

Other options? Well, the crazy plan I've been thinking about since I bandaged Animal is the only thing I've got. And it's an awful plan because I don't know if I can bring myself to do it.

If I want something else, I only have about five minutes, probably less, to figure it out.

 

45

“You know, ma'am, we have some un-fucking-believable luck with foreigners, don't we?” Messy says.

I hope he's prolonging his post-takeoff checks. A little stalling now would definitely help.

“I mean, fuck, remember that Italian exchange pilot?” he says. “What was his candy-ass name? Alfredo Francesco Ciarro Signori? Remember that guy? Fuck, I thought he was off
.
Really
off
. But he doesn't hold a candle to these guys.”

“Cut the chatter, Mr. Messina,” Jonas warns.

What on earth is Messy talking about? Italian exchange pilot? We've never worked with an Italian exchange pilot. Alfredo Francesco—

And then I feel it. That subtle shift in the aircraft when the automatic flight control system shuts off. I look for the caution light, but it's not on. The AFCS is definitely off, though. Off … It's
off
. Alfredo Francesco Ciarro Signori … A … F … C … S.

Messy was telling me the AFCS was off. But it wasn't off when he said it. He told me before it happened. Which means he just shut it off. And he must have done it past the junction that sends the signal to the caution panel so it wouldn't light up. He turned it off and nobody knows but the three of us, because Lego would also recognize it instantly.

Why? Why turn it off? I take a chance.

“You know, Messy, I do remember him, and he was
definitely
off. But I don't know why.”

“Well, I reckon 'cuz he was an overconfident son of a bitch. Remember how he thought he could fly anything, anywhere? Even outfly our pilots? What a jackass.”

“Enough!” Jonas snaps. “Aren't you finished yet?”

“Almost, sir,” Messy says.

Overconfident
 …
Thought he could fly anything
 … Jonas. He's talking about Jonas. Messy's banking on the fact that he won't be able to fly without the AFCS.

Messy was planning on taking them down in a blaze of glory after all, but only after we'd left the aircraft.

I think I can firmly put Messy in the brilliant category, right alongside Eric and Lego.

And this actually works perfectly with my long-shot plan.

If we're moving fast, at a normal cruising airspeed of eighty or ninety knots, I'm betting Jonas would still be able to fly the aircraft, even with the AFCS off. It wouldn't be smooth, the aircraft pitching and bucking a fit, but it would be controllable.

But if I can bring the aircraft to a hover before transferring the controls, and now especially with the AFCS off, it would seal the deal. I'd bet my life he wouldn't be able to fly it … which is exactly what I'm going to have to do.

“Okay, sir, aft cabin checks complete,” Messy says. “Good to go back here.”

“Which means you are also good to go,” Jonas says. “My dear, take a heading of three four five and stay at ten feet.”

Ten feet. The low part is there for us. Now for the slow part. Ever since Jonas ordered the descent, I've been backing off on the airspeed, now down to seventy knots. It's still too fast.

“Collin, please escort our friends to the aft ramp and be sure to have them take Mr. Amicus with them,” Jonas says.

Thank goodness. He's going to let them jump with Animal. My fear had been that he would push them out separately. Maybe the guys can support him somehow during the fall.

“All set aft,” Collin says.

“Cheerio, boys,” Jonas says in farewell.

Jonas leans over in the passageway and looks into the aft cabin to watch them jump. This is my chance. I bottom the collective lever and pull back on the cyclic—a maneuver called a quick stop—that rapidly bleeds airspeed. The airspeed indicator spins down from seventy knots to less than twenty in just a few seconds. I pray that they jump when they realize I'm slowing.

“What the fuck!” Jonas says.

“They're out!” Collin reports.

Oh, no. I can feel the rage from here. Jonas is smokin' mad.

“Okay, tricky girl,” he says in a low voice. “Let's speed up then, shall we? You aren't going to have it so easy.”

I push the cyclic stick forward, gaining airspeed, thinking five steps ahead to what I need to do next.

“Pity that Marxen won't be here to see this,” Jonas muses. “Arrogant prick.”