One of the stews screamed and an instant later there was a shot, and then a second, from somewhere forward and above.
McGarvey braced himself for the explosive decompression, but after a second or two, when it didn’t occur, he went to the half-open sliding door and cautiously looked out into the galley, toward the stairway and the door to the communications center.
The two young stewardesses were huddled together in the galley, a look of abject terror on their faces. They shrank back when they spotted McGarvey.
For a long beat McGarvey couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Two shots had been fired. At whom? The crew on the flight deck? Why?
But then it came to him in a rush, and he had the very bad feeling that it was already too late. Nakamura was insane, but he was also dedicated and brilliant.
Shoving the sliding door the rest of the way open, McGarvey stepped across to the stairway. There was no sound from above, only the dull roar of the jet engines.
He turned back to the young women. “Did Fukai-san go upstairs to the flight deck?”
The women shrank even farther back into the corner. They were shaking, tears coursing down their cheeks.
“This is important for all of us. We may be killed. Did he go upstairs?”
One of the stews nodded. “Hai,” she whispered.
“Is there anyone else up there except the pilot and copilot?”
The young woman shook her head.
“Where did the guards go?”
“They did not come with us.”
“What about in there?” McGarvey asked, motioning toward the communications bay.
“No one there. Fukai-san operates the equipment. No one else.”
“Hide yourself somewhere,” McGarvey said. “And no matter what happens do not come out until we have landed.”
Making sure that the Bernadelli’s safety catch was in the off position, McGarvey made his way upstairs. At this point it didn’t seem likely that any of them would survive this flight, but he’d at least wanted the young women out of the way for now.
Except for the light coming from the open door to the flight deck, the upper level was in darkness, all the windowshades pulled down.
He could see the pilot and copilot still strapped in their seats, slumped forward.
They were not moving.
Nakamura had killed them, leaving no one to fly the plane.
McGarvey cautiously came up the last two stairs at the same moment Nakamura stepped out of the shadows to the right.
“Don’t shoot or the bomb will explode,” the Japanese billionaire said. His voice was gentle, almost dreamy. In his right hand he held Endo’s Heckler and Koch, in his left a small electronic device like a television remote control, his thumb poised over the button.
McGarvey pointed the pistol at him. He could not miss at this range. The bullet would kill the man, but it would not exit his body to penetrate the pressure hull of the airplane.
Nor would it stop Nakamura from pressing the button, even if it was only by reflex action. If the man was telling the truth, and there was no reason to think he was not, the bomb would explode.
But before they made it to the West Coast, if they got that far with no one flying the plane, McGarvey told himself that he would have to take the chance. There was no other choice. But for the moment, at least, there was still a little time.
“What do you want?”
“Drop your gun.”
“I won’t do that,” McGarvey said. “You won’t shoot me, because I might manage to fire back, and the bomb would explode. Out here over the Pacific, it would do no harm. Nor will I shoot you first. I don’t want to die. So it’s a stalemate.”
Nakamura thought about it for a moment. “They’re dead in there. The crew. But what about Endo, and Ms. Egk?”
“He’s dead, she’s out of commission. Put down your gun and I’ll put mine down. You’ll still have the detonator.”
“As you wish,” Nakamura said, and he uncocked his pistol and casually tossed it aside.
“Now yours.”
“I lied,” McGarvey said.
“I’ll push the button,” Nakamura shouted, raising the remote control.
“Go ahead,” McGarvey replied calmly. “Push it, you crazy bastard. It’s just us now.
Push it. Do it.”
Chapter 78
Lt. Commander Donald Adkins, chief of the Combat Information Center aboard the CVN Carl Vinson, was in a foul mood. He figured that from the captain on down, every line officer aboard the carrier was going to end up in deep shit if this mission somehow got away from them, or if the slightest screwup were to occur. The White House is watching: It was the word of the day.
Adkins stood just behind the senior operator’s console in the Air Search Radar Bay, watching the inbound track of the Japanese civilian aircraft. A decision was going to have to be made, and soon. They were expecting it topsides right now.
“Talk to me, Stewart,” he said.
Chief Petty Officer Stewart Heinz adjusted a control on his console. “No change, Commander,” he said. “She’s still losing altitude at a very slow rate, and still inbound at 603 knots on a 281 radial.”
The Vinson was steaming west, into the wind, nearly 435 nautical miles north-northwest of the Hawaiian Islands. The moment the airliner had come up on their Long Range Radar system, the captain had ordered them into the wind at their best launch speed of 38 knots.
A pair of F/A-18 Hornets were waiting in position on deck for the go-ahead.
Adkins glanced over at his chief plotting officer, who shook his head. Nothing had changed. Their best estimate at this point was that the 747 was probably on autopilot, on an easterly course, and descending, that would put it at an altitude of about 5,000 feet somewhere over San Francisco.
“Perfect for a maximum damage nuclear airburst,” Air Wing Commander Roger Sampson had replied when told.
“If he doesn’t stand down, we nail him,” the captain said. “It’s going to be as simple as that.”
“How far out is he now?” Adkins asked.
“He’s just coming across my 125 mile ring,” Heinz said. “If nothing changes, he’ll be overhead in just under thirteen minutes.”
Adkins turned and went immediately to his console, where he picked up his direct line phone with the Air Wing Command Center. “Adkins, CIC,” he said. “The time is now.”
“Red Dog One, ready to launch on my mark,” the command came from Air Wing.
Lt. Joe Dimaggio, in the lead F/A-18 on the steam catapault, sat well back in his seat, bracing his helmet against the headrest. “Red Dog One, ready,” he radioed.
“Three, two, one,” and it was as if a gigantic foot had kicked him in the ass, as the steam-driven ram accelerated his aircraft down the short length of deck, off the bow of the carrier.
Immediately he hit his afterburner, pulled back sharply on his stick, and a second later hit the landing-gear retract button.
Before he passed five thousand feet, his wingman, Lt. (j.g.) Marc Morgan joined him just below and behind his port wing.
“Intercept course coming up,” Dimaggio radioed, as the data was relayed from the Vinson’s
CIC directly into his aircraft computers, and flashed on his HUD (Head-Up Display).
Among other information, he was given the best course and speed to his target. Time to intercept, in this case, was less than four minutes.
“Let’s take a looksee,” Morgan radioed. They were friends, and like most pilots enjoyed an easy comradery, even in combat missions. They’d both flown in the Gulf Crisis.
“Good idea,” Dimaggio replied, and they pushed their throttles to the stops in unison.
“I won’t push the button, unless I’m forced into it, until we reach our destination,” Nakamura said. “But you won’t shoot me, you’ll wait for me to make a mistake so you can take the detonator.”