Though the rotors hadn’t felt great hidden in his crotch, Michael was happy to see that they fit onto Purple Sky’s spindles. He carefully lined up the numbered rotors in the correct order at the zero marker on the ratchet. Michael knew the correct re-installation was essential. Without it, any attempt to communicate with the Chinese satellite would be a failure, and as such, he took an extra second ensuring each of the rotors was snapped firmly into place. With the final rotor positioned, Michael latched the code machine’s back cover with an audible click.
Now came the moment of truth. Michael knew the auxiliary jets had been fired which meant there was a chance, however remote, that the ancient lead acid batteries would have picked up enough of a charge to sustain a transmission. The lithium ion power pack with its dual alligator clip leads had been provided for this contingency, but Michael would have to wire it and right now he just didn’t have the time. So he did the next best thing. He flipped the switch.
At first there was nothing. Michael glanced down at the blinking LED on the detonator. Nineteen seconds. He reflected without humor that if he didn’t get a snap or crackle out of old Purple in the next few moments, things were definitely going to go pop. The next two seconds seemed to last an hour. It was as if time had attenuated to the point that it had actually stopped. Nothing happened. The cockpit was perfectly still. And then Michael heard his snap. It was more of a click accompanied by a low buzz really, but there was no question that the code machine had sparked to life. Michael didn’t waste any time verifying the code he had received. He had heard the seventeen digit number clearly through Kate’s ear piece. And he had remembered it, just as he remembered most everything else: 5-6-9-1-2-3-6-8-1-4-6-6-1-7-2-4-3. He entered the digits feeling the whole craft shudder. Then he hit the return key, literally launching his body through the hatch before his finger had even left the keyboard. As he moved he caught a clear glimpse of the man who now stood outside on the Horten’s bat-shaped wing.
Chapter 58
The day he was old enough to drive, Michael’s dad taught him how to handle a gun. His father told him that both a car and a bullet could be lethal, the difference was the car had another reason for existing, the bullet existed only to kill. If you picked up a gun you had to be willing to use it. That was the nature of a gun. They went to the local gun club, both to the rifle range and the handgun facility. Michael liked the rifles. They suited his personality. You could shoot from a distance and be precise. You could be very exacting about what you intended to do. But he was decent enough with a handgun too. He practiced with a Browning 9mm. His dad explained that in general terms most 9mms were fairly similar. Their accuracy was greatly reduced over the rifle, but they made up for it in portability. They were weapons designed to incapacitate or kill your fellow man. You had to know that before even picking one up. You had to understand the circumstances under which you would use such a weapon — when your own life or the life of someone you loved was in danger. And you had to stop thinking about it right there.
What Michael liked about his father’s instruction was that it took the gray area out of it. There was no debate. The gun came out to protect your life. If someone tried to take your life from you, it was your duty to protect it. Period. Michael believed that. He would never pull a gun if he wasn’t sure he could pull the trigger. But that didn’t mean that he had to pull the trigger. Not if there was a better way.
***
The man on the wing was dressed in a black Novex jumpsuit, but even in the low light Michael couldn’t mistake the glint in Ted’s green eyes. He was working quickly, systematically removing the Semtex charges from the wings of the aircraft. Michael slid down the polished rails of the Horten’s ladder and ran for cover. The gunfire that had pierced the night air had been replaced by the eerie rhythm of heavy breathing and boots on gravel. Huang's men were running as well. Michael could only hope that Ted, who had been so busy ripping the Semtex off the wings of the Horten, had a plan for its disposal. His answer was a scream.
“Chopper!” Ted yelled.
Ted lobbed what looked like a rucksack at Michael. Michael caught it like a football, and knew that the game was now in his hands. Michael had left the countdown timer in the cockpit of the Horten, but the time left made very little difference now. He was holding at least twelve pounds of wired Semtex. He had to throw it and he had to throw it fast. Swinging the rucksack like a sling, Michael extended his arm allowing the rucksack a full rotation in the air before letting it fly. For a fraction of a second he felt certain that he had waited too long, but he could do nothing about it now. Huang’s men streaming down the hill toward their helicopter, Michael hit the dirt.
A moment later, the world was awash in blinding light. The inevitable blast of hot air was followed by the roar of the explosion. As the echo dissipated, Michael heard the crackle of fire which he guessed to be the burning helicopter, followed by two high pitched tones. They sounded like an angry elevator buzzer, or the whine of a circular saw, or perhaps, he thought, a beacon to indicate that the code had been sent.
Michael pulled himself up from the ground. Huang’s men had hit the deck long before reaching the chopper. There were two new sets of headlights on the scene now with another following. Michael disregarded them. He had more pressing concerns.
“Ester?”
There was no response.
“I know you’re there. I can see you.”
Michael crawled forward until he was able to recognize Ester in the darkness. She moved toward the Horten without acknowledging him. Ester grasped at her side where the bullet had hit her, a widening stain darkening her blouse. Before Michael could call out again, her telephone chirped.
Ester said two words. The first was in Japanese. The second was, “Yes.” Ester then entered a number into the phone and tossed it to the side.
“Wait!”
Michael recognized the voice. It belonged to Kate. He heard her breathing behind him. A magnesium flash fizzled from Ester’s mobile, self extinguishing before it had time to land on the ground. Ester pulled a short hand hewn blade from its sheath and sank to her knees.
“No!” Michael screamed.
Ester was close now, not more than ten feet away, but despite Michael’s protestations, there was nothing he could do to stop her. He watched her bite down, detecting a bitter almond odor as she did so. Michael hadn’t smelt it before, but he thought he knew what it was: potassium cyanide, the choice of both Hitler and Eva Braun before her — a fast-acting poison to take the edge off of what came next. Michael saw only a brief flash of polished steel as Ester plunged the blade through her white buttoned blouse into her abdomen. She worked the blade from left to right and then abruptly up. By the time Michael reached her she was barely breathing, a dull beatific look in her eye. He knelt down beside her and took her by the shoulders.