Lying on the taxiway, he could hear the shouted protests from the crew of the aircraft. It meant nothing. He was free. He could call Bigelow, end this charade, and hopefully restabilize the Middle East. As he tried to stand, he realized he couldn’t move. His legs lay quietly as his mind screamed orders for them to get moving, to lift him up and carry him away. In a sickening rush, he remembered hearing a dry cracking sound when he hit the ground, almost like a piece of timber snapping in a high wind. He was certain he’d broken his back on impact. The belly of the Boeing 767 curled above him like the abdomen of a pregnant whale, a solid swell reaching almost to the ground. He struggled to roll under the hull’s curvature, but he simply couldn’t move.
A tanker truck, its drumlike sides emblazoned with the logo of a septic company, pulled up to the 767, stopping under the sewer outlet of the big Boeing. With practiced competence, three men leaped from the truck and hooked a heavy rubber hose to the plane’s underbelly, while secretly four other men dodged from under the diesel truck and raced to Khalid. After one look, it was clear to these members of the SAS, Special Air Squadron, Britain’s most elite fighting force, that moving Khalid could kill him. However, they were under specific orders to check every aircraft on the apron for anything suspicious and report back to the terminal.
Every second the airport was shut down cost tens of thousands of pounds, and the quicker they could secure the area, the quicker that debt meter would stop spinning. Two men grasped Khalid under the shoulders and dragged him back to the septic truck they were using as cover. They had orders to vet four other aircraft before returning to the terminal, but with Khalid as a possible suspect, the non-com in charge decided to return to base immediately.
Fourteen minutes later, a near-dead Khalid Khuddari was dumped into a spartan office within the terminal, two commandos taking up position just inside the office door. Another ten minutes passed before Geoff Wilberforce strode into the room, his heavy eyelids hanging so low they almost obscured his eyes. His face, florid in the best of situations, was livid, red blotches raised on his throat, cheeks, and forehead. In twenty-eight years of airport management, he was facing the worst day of his life, and he was looking for someone to blame. Rightly or wrongly, it didn’t matter. He was not taking the fall for this situation.
“Hey?” Wilberforce said, slapping Khalid on the cheek as he lay on a steel desk in the abandoned office. “Wake up now or forever hold your peace.”
His body pummeled far beyond human endurance, his mind stretched so tautly it resonated with internal tension, Khalid ratcheted open his eyes and craned his head to regard Wilberforce. His expression was dulled and lifeless, arranged like a mask by the pain, yet he still managed to capture Wilberforce with the power of his eyes, obsidian-sharp and focused.
“I need a phone,” Khalid croaked.
“You may get one,” Wilberforce gloated, “in about fifty years when you’re let out of the gaol. International terrorism is about the only crime this country takes seriously anymore and you’re going to get the full brunt of the law on this one, mate. Your friend shouldn’t have killed a teenager and a priest. Bad mistake.”
“I’m the target,” Khalid said lamely. He struggled to reach his passport and establish his credentials, but his stamina had finally deserted him. “They were after me.”
“Tell it to the bloody judge, you wog bastard.”
A police ambulance carried Khalid Khuddari away from Heathrow, its siren honking like a foghorn as it tore along the route back to London. He was sedated by the paramedics, two veterans of some of the most gruesome scenes in all of England. Neither of them could believe the struggle their newest patient had put up. To the last possible moment before the new round of drugs knocked him out, Khalid was demanding a telephone and trying vainly to explain who he was.
One Hundred Eighty Miles North of Puget Sound
The sea was as dark as a slag heap belched out of a blast furnace, hard and relentless. The waves were undulating furrows arching westward, pushing aside everything that got in their way, including the fishing boat Suzy’s Pride, a bow-heavy purse seiner. The thirty-year-old boat was out well beyond her limit, chasing fish so far into the Pacific that her antiquated radar system could no longer see the jumbled coastline of the mainland.
It was the black hour, the lowest ebb of the night between one and five when everything except the desperate slept. For nearly seventy hours, Steve Hanscom had guided his boat behind a school of feeding sea bass in hopes of coming across a large shoal of Pacific sardines. Such was his luck, he’d had two possible catches scattered by a pod of orcas that had decided to shadow his tired boat.
While at first delighted to point out the killer whales to his young son, Hanscom now cursed the capricious mammals for their dogged loyalty to Suzy’s Pride. A fourth-generation fisherman who realized that there would not be a fifth, Hanscom still tried to make a living from the sea that had provided for his family since the middle part of the last century. With a mortgage on his boat and one on his house and a car that used more oil than gasoline, he knew all too well what a big catch meant to him and his family. Two, possibly three, more runs out into the open waters beyond Puget Sound and he would be bankrupt if he didn’t come up with a big haul.
That was why Steve had pulled his eleven-year-old son, Joshua, out of school for the month and put him to work on the boat. In the few weeks they would have together, Steve hoped to teach the boy what it meant to work for yourself and to in-still the pride that his own father had taught him. In a few months, surely by spring, Steve would be just another guy putting in his time for someone else, but right now, he was his own man, and by God his son would know what that felt like.
Though others would suffer by Steve losing his boat, particularly old George Boudette, the grizzled sea dog who’d forgotten more about fishing than most men would ever know, Steve Hanscom worried most about his own son. Josh had been raised by the lore and lure of the sea. It was simple economics — and the harsh reality that the Pacific Northwest was being over-fished — that was driving him out of business, yet Steve still blamed himself for not being able to pass on the legacy that had been passed to him. He saw it as his own personal failure.
The ship’s wheel moved effortlessly under Steve Hanscom’s gentle touch, the varnished oak made smooth by generations of constant contact. Standing alone in the wheelhouse as he had since Suzy’s Pride had left Seattle, Hanscom watched the depth finder, hoping to see the shoal of sardines pass under the boat again, signaling him to throw the big purse net back over the flat transom.
“I’ll spell ya.” The voice penetrated his personal world, startling Hanscom so that his fists tightened on the wheel.
He turned. “No thanks, Georgie. Get some sleep.”
“I’m eighty years old. I don’t need any more sleep. I’ve had my share until the big one comes.” George Boudette’s eyes were alight with the last spark of life, like a lightbulb burning brightest before it faded forever. George had crewed with Steve, Steve’s father, and, as a boy, Steve’s grandfather.
“How’s Josh?” Steve asked. His son was below.
“Asleep at the radio like Marconi’s assistant,” George said fondly. “You shouldn’t have sent him to bed and told him to listen to the set at the same time. He took your second order a lot more seriously than the first.”