The Matarese Countdown (23 page)

“This is
nuts!
” exclaimed the pilot, staring out the chopper’s side window panel. “It’s one of
ours
, an SOA … He’s heading right for us! Now he’s sideslipping—the markings … good
Christ
, they’re … 
ours
. Get on the horn, I’m going
evasive!
”

These were the last words spoken. There was a shattering explosion, blowing apart the aircraft. What was left of the
helicopter spiraled down to the water below, a fiery ball that disappeared rapidly as it sank.

The radar-tracking operator at Langley frowned at his upper-right screen. He punched several buttons, enlarging the images, then called out to his supervisor. “Bruce, what’s going on?”

“About what?” asked the middle-aged, bespectacled man at the desk in the center of the large, antiseptic room.

“I lost Silent Horse.”

“
What?
The
Chesapeake
run?” The supervisor sprang to his feet when the operator continued.

“It’s
okay!
” he went on quickly. “It’s back. Must have been a power glitch. Sorry.”

“If it happens again, I’ll break out with hives. Silent Horse,
Jesus!
The way those bastards in Congress are yelling, we probably haven’t paid our electric bill.”

Within minutes, and when the excited callers could get through, the police authorities in Prince Frederick, Tilghman, Taylors Island, and the Choptank River received a total of seventy-eight calls concerning a fireball in the early-evening sky, an explosion of sorts, a plane perhaps. Immediate inquiries to major and minor airports and airfields produced no information, much less confirmation of such an event. The police in Prince Frederick reached Andrews Air Force Base, a military/government complex, whose circumspect press-relations officer was duly courteous, sympathetic, and offered no concrete answer to any direct question. He simply was not aware of recent or ongoing atmospheric experimentation but, naturally, he was not in a position to deny the possibility. The American taxpayer was well served by the military’s constant search for safety procedures and weather evaluations.

“The PR idiot at Andrews won’t stay on or get off the pot,” said the chief of police in Prince Frederick to the desk sergeant. “It was probably one of those low-flying reflecting
weather balloons is the way I see it. Pass it along to the others and let’s get back to work—if we have any.”

The slow-moving skiff, its small engine puttering quietly, made its way out of the Choptank River and into Chesapeake Bay. The two elderly fishermen in soiled overalls, one aft, one in the middle of the motorized rowboat, held their poles out on opposite sides of the craft, trawling for the hungry early-evening fish. They would return to the river-bank picnic site where their wives tended to the fired grills, confident their husbands would come back with their supper. They had been doing so twice weekly for a number of years; they were automobile mechanics in the same garage, and their wives were sisters. It was a good life. They worked hard and the Chesapeake rich with their fancy cars provided steady employment. But best of all were these picnics, when the sisters would gab and the guys could diminish the bay’s fish with their expertise and a couple of six-packs.

“
Al
,” said the man at the helm. “Lookee over there!”

“Where?”

“On my side.”

“At what, Sam?” asked Al, turning around.

“That round thing floatin’ over yonder.”

“Yeah, I see it. And there’s another, to the left.”

“Yep, I see that, too. I’ll head over.” The boat careened to the right, approaching both objects. “I’ll be schnozzled!” cried Sam. “Them’s life preservers.”

“You get yours, then swing around and I’ll pick up the other.” Each did so, pulling both objects into the skiff.

“Wowee!” shouted Sam. “These is real U.S. Air Force issue. Musta’ cost mebbe a hundred or even two hundred dollars apiece!”

“Probably three hundred, Sam. Ten bucks to make and the soldier boys buy ’em for three, mebbe four hundred. You heard about them toilet seats and the wrenches, right?”

“Sure did.”

“That’s why our taxes is so high, right?”

“Right, so let’s get a little of our own back. We’ll keep ’em, right?”

“Why not? All these years we never had a life preserver.” Al held up his solid white ring in the fading light.

“We never needed one,” said Sam. “This old thing is as safe as a cement whale.”

“A cement whale would sink, buddy.”

“Then we’ll keep ’em. You know, when we was comin’ out of the Choptank, I heard one of those helliocopters headin’ upstream. You think he lost ’em?”

“
Naw
,” objected Al. “The soldier boys are trained to get rid of things like this. Then they got to buy more, like the cracked toilet seats and the lousy wrenches. I read somewhere it’s part of the system.”

“Hell, I’m patriotic, goddamn it. I was at Anzio and you was at that place in the Pacific nobody can pronounce.”

“Eniwetok, buddy. A piece of crap.”

“So we keep these, right?”

“Why not?”

“Good. Now let’s catch some more fish before the beer runs out,” said Sam.

No one knew what happened; nobody understood; everything was madness. The Langley chopper approached touchdown, the ground crew in place, when suddenly the aircraft swung up to the left, automatic weapons blazing from the open supply portal, killing or severely wounding the soldiers gathered below. Then, just as suddenly, the helicopter veered to the right, sweeping over the compound as if looking for another target. It was swiftly apparent: the estate’s great house, the mansion that overlooked the enormous lawn and the boathouse. The chopper circled, ascending as it did so, to make its final run of devastation.

Stunned by the thunderous explosions of gunfire, Scofield and Pryce ran to the south windows, the direction from which came the staccato bursts and human screams.

“Good
Christ!
” shouted Brandon. “They’re coming in after us!”

“It’s too concentrated,” disagreed Cam rapidly. “One source—
look!
My God, it’s Silent Horse! What the
hell?
…”

“Wanna bet, kiddo?” countered Scofield. “It’s mocked up to
look
like Silent Horse! It’s heading toward us. We’re out of here!” Bray started for the door.

“
No!
” yelled Pryce. “The north balconies!”

“
What?
”

“There are two drainpipes. We don’t know what he’s carrying. Can you handle it?”

“Try me, sonny boy. I’ve got to find Toni!” As one, both men raced to the French doors across the room, flung them open, and stepped out on the small balcony with the wrought-iron railing. The helicopter thundered above, the roar ear-shattering as the aircraft headed north, slipping into a turn.

“
Bombs!
” yelled Pryce. “It’s loaded with bombs!”

“He’ll be coming back to blow this place to Jupiter—”

“He’s got to get more altitude unless he wants to blow with it. Let’s
go!
” Each man climbed over the railing on opposite sides of the balcony. They reached out, half lunging, grabbing on to their respective drainpipes. Like two panicked spiders, hands below descending hands, at moments in sheer slides, they plummeted to the ground as the chopper swung up into its turn to reach a safe altitude for a bombing run. “Stay down and as close to the foundation as you can,” ordered Cameron. “He’ll make at least two or three passes to unload that junk.”

“Even in my senility I figured that out,” said Scofield. “When he goes into his first pass, dropping his load, we can get away from here.… I’ve got to find
Toni!
”

“Do you know where she went?”

“She said something about the boathouse—”

“Why not?” Pryce broke in. “If worse comes to a lousy worser, we can zigzag across the bay.”

“Your grammar’s impeccable,” mumbled Bray. “Here
comes
the son of a bitch!”

What followed was nothing short of complete horror. The entire top floors of the great house were demolished, leaving only fires and smoke and debris where once stood architectural grandeur.

“Let’s
go!
” repeated Cameron. “Down to the boat-house! We’ve got at least forty seconds because his second pass will come from the south.”

The two figures ran across the descending lawn as the mocked-up Silent Horse continued its reign of terror. Billows of fired smoke curled into the sky as the lethal explosions shook the earth. Breathless, Scofield and Pryce leaned against the wall of the boathouse, watching the devastation. “Did you
hear
that?” asked a washed-out Brandon.

“I certainly did and
do!
” replied Cam. “And I want that bastard in front of my weapon, preferably at close range in front of his face.”

“No, son, the other stuff!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pops, the automatic fire. Our boys have regrouped and are going after that chopper!”

“Tell that to those who didn’t survive.”

“Wish I could,” said Scofield, his lined features filled with sadness. “
Toni
,” he abruptly yelled. “Let’s go inside and see if she’s here!”

She was, and the scene under the sloping roof of the boathouse astonished both men. For across the slip where the Chris-Craft bobbed in the water, Antonia held an automatic in her hand. It was aimed at Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose, who was holding a portable telephone, but not the sort issued by the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Remembering what you said about our colonel here and her phoning from the boathouse on two separate occasions, Mr. Pryce, I decided to make her my personal surveillance.” The explanation was interrupted by a series of deafening explosions from outside.

“There goes the rest of the house, Colonel,” said Cameron in quiet, ice-cold fury. “Were you running the strike from in here? And how many others were killed, you
bitch?
”

“It will all be explained to you—if necessary,” said Montrose calmly, coldly.

“It better be right
now
!” exploded Scofield, reaching into his belt and pulling out a handgun. “Otherwise I’ll blow your pretty face apart. You’re working for the enemy!”

“If it appears that way,” said Montrose, “it’s devoutly to be wished.”

“You’ve been calling the White House!” roared Pryce. “Who’s your contact, who’s the mole, the
traitor
at Sixteen Hundred?”

“No one you’d know.”

“I’d better learn now, or I’ll tell my friend here to put a bullet in your head.”

“I think you would—”

“You’re goddamned right I would! You’re garbage.
Talk
, bitch!”

“Apparently, I have no choice.”

“You
don’t
.”

“My contact, as you call him, is close to the President, an authority on clandestine activities. I was—
am
—in a unique position to render a service.”

“
What
position? What
service?
”

“The enemy, as you called them, kidnapped my son. He was taken from his school in Connecticut. Unless I supposedly do as they ask, they’ll kill him.”

A final earthshaking explosion shook the boathouse. Three windows were blown out, the fragments of glass showering over the Chris-Craft. Beyond, clearly visible among the debris, was a helium-filled red balloon attached to a destroyed upper window frame. It had miraculously survived, fluttering at the end of a long string.

It was the marker that led the killer aircraft to its target. Someone in the compound had been following Beowulf Agate, and minutes before the strike knew exactly where he was.

T
he body bags and the wounded were airlifted out of the compound within the hour, the few stunned, uncomprehending local police kept at bay by the federal authorities. The relatively distant neighbors, horrified by the noise but unable to observe the site, which was prohibited, demanded explanations. They were given, in the main, hastily concocted “classified” fictions relative to drug interdiction. Four estates went on the real-estate market immediately, despite assurances that the successful “operation” had been completely shut down.

According to the radar-tracking tapes, it was assumed that the false Silent Horse had maneuvered due east over Delaware’s Bethany Beach and out into the Atlantic, where it disappeared off the screen. Supporting confirmation came from the Patuxent River Naval Air Station in Nanticoke, southeast of Taylors Island. Their own interceptor screens showed an unidentified aircraft passing rapidly toward open ocean water when it abruptly was erased.

The professionals were in agreement, for it was known strategy where terrorist acts were concerned. The killer helicopter had headed for an Atlantic rendezvous where the crew bailed out, to be picked up by boat. Also, it could be assumed that prior to abandoning the chopper, a preset explosive
was activated, blowing up the aircraft moments later, sending the remains to the bottom of the ocean. The Matarese was precise in all things.

Frank Shields walked with Scofield through the once peaceful, lovely compound. All around were painful sights of the carnage, mainly from the smoking debris of the destroyed great house. Shattered doors, windows, walls, and columns were nothing more than smoldering ruins, some as far away as six hundred feet, the length of two football fields.

“It’s like a battlefield after a clash between two armies,” said Bray solemnly, “only in this case, we didn’t even know we were in combat. The
bastards!
… And it’s my fault! I could have stopped the whole thing and I’ll never forgive myself.” Scofield’s words trailed off quietly, painfully.

“I don’t think you could have stopped it, Brandon—”

“Come on, Frank! You said you wanted us out of here and I said
no
. I’m a stubborn, pig-headed old fool who doesn’t realize he should stop giving orders! I’ve been away too long to have the authority.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, or even absolve you from all responsibility,” Shields broke in. “I’m simply saying you couldn’t have stopped it.”