“Jax approach,” she radioed. “LongRanger Three-Niner-Five Tango has been hit by gunfire, but I’m going to stay close to the yacht.”
“Niner-Five Tango,” an excited voice said, “we have help on the way!”
Jackie scanned the water in every direction. “I don’t see anything that’s going to be able to stop the yacht.”
A calmer voice broke in. “There are two armed F/A-18s that have been recalled from a training mission. They’ve been ordered to sink the yacht.”
“Oh, my God,” Jackie said to herself, then took a breath and keyed the radio. “On whose orders?”
“The Pentagon, ma’am,” the controller answered in a pleasant voice. “From what we understand, it came straight from the secretary of defense.”
Taking time to compose herself, Jackie spoke slowly and clearly. “We have a friendly on the yacht. Repeat, we have a friendly operative on the yacht. Do not fire on the yacht until he’s clear. Do not fire on the yacht. Copy?”
“Stand by.”
“Let me speak to management.”
“Stand by.”
Jackie darted another look at the carrier and commenced a shallow descent toward the yacht. She estimated four minutes until the yacht entered the channel. Come on, Scott. You don’t have much time.
A hail of gunfire rang out as Dalton leaped sideways into the stateroom and slammed the door. He drew the Glock from the small of his back and made an educated guess as to where Ramazani was standing in the passageway.
“Well,” Scott said loudly, “I guess you win.”
“I always do.”
The terrorist leader sounded as if he was in front of the entrance to the stateroom. Scott fired three rounds through the thin wooden door and heard a clatter as Ramazani’s rifle hit the deck.
Scott kicked the splintered door open and caught a glancing blow as Ramazani swung the rifle upward. Dalton grabbed both ends of the weapon and slammed the terrorist against a bulkhead. Although Ramazani was bleeding from a stomach wound, he fought back with brutal ferocity.
Calling on all the strength he had, Scott threw the terrorist into the opposite bulkhead, then caught him with a vicious uppercut. The blow fractured Ramazani’s jaw and rendered him semiconscious.
Nose to nose, Scott held him against the bulkhead. “I think this cruise is about over, don’t you?”
Ramazani mumbled a few incoherent words as Dalton released his grip on him. When the terrorist leader slid to the deck, Scott grabbed the AK-47 and rushed into the master stateroom to get a fresh magazine. After checking the passageway for other crew members, Scott stepped over Ramazani and headed for the aft ladder leading to the sun-deck.
“Jax approach,” Jackie said, then fell silent when she saw Scott climbing the ladder leading to the sundeck and bridge. Thank God.
“Who’s calling approach?”
With a sense of relief, she aimed the helo toward the yacht. I have to get him off the yacht.
“Jax approach,” she said mechanically. “Niner-Five Tango has the agent in sight. I’m going in to pick him up.”
“Negative! Negative!”
Jackie ignored the controller and started her approach to the sundeck. The yacht appeared to be riding lower in the water. It looks like we ‘re down to about three minutes.
“We have two fighters closing from eighteen miles,” the controller exclaimed. “They’re supersonic and cleared to fire on the target.”
“Dammit!” Jackie radioed in a flash of anger. “Listen up! There’s an American agent onboard! He works directly for the national security adviser! Do not open fire on the yacht until the agent is clear!”
“Ma’am, we don’t give the orders. We just pass ’em along.”
Jackie concentrated on leveling off thirty yards behind the yacht. “Well, pass this along to the fighter pilots. The operative is a former naval aviator — a Marine Harrier pilot.”
Reaching the sundeck, Scott crouched behind an inflatable dinghy as the first mate fired a burst at him, then ducked into the pilothouse. Dalton waved Jackie away and fired a few rounds through the door to the bridge. A moment later the first mate stumbled out on the sundeck and fell to his hands and knees. Bleeding from wounds in his chest and neck, he crawled forward a few feet and collapsed facedown on the deck.
Scott was about to rush the pilothouse when something clamped around his ankle.
Lieutenant Commander Carl Zukowski keyed his radio. “Easing the power, easing the power,” he said to his wingman, Lieutenant Alan Swindell.
“Stand by the boards… boards,” Zukowski said as the pilots “popped” the speedbrake to rapidly decelerate as they approached the yacht.
“We’ll get a visual ID,” Zukowski radioed in a laid-back voice, “then set up for a firing pass.”
“Ah, roger.”
“Wildcat Four-Fourteen,” the Jax approach controller said to Zukowski, “be advised that a government agent is onboard the yacht. A civilian helo is in the process of picking him up.”
“Copy,” Zukowski said as he searched for the yacht and the helicopter. “Tell ’em to hurry ‘cause we’re runnin’ outta gas.”
“I’ll pass that along.” The controller paused a moment. “By the way, the agent on the yacht is a former Marine pilot.”
Swindell glanced at his flight leader’s plane, then keyed his radio. “That won’t be any loss.”
Startled by the unexpected attack, Scott lashed out at Ramazani as the terrorist stabbed him in the lower leg with a six-inch Kalashnikov bayonet. Swinging the rifle with both hands, Scott mashed Ramazani’s face flat, breaking his nose. The stunned man fell off the ladder and landed headfirst on the wide transom, snapping his neck. Although Ramazani was still alive, he could not do any more damage.
Grimacing from the searing pain in his leg, Scott yanked the blade out of his calf, then heard a familiar sound above the beat of the LongRanger’s rotor blades. He looked up to see two Hornets screeching low over the water in tight formation. Uh-oh, it’s time to checkout.
Scott turned and looked toward the Mayport Naval Station. The Kennedy was a tempting target and the speeding yacht was turning into the channel. We’re going to hit the boat in about two minutes.
Struggling to his feet, Scott again waved Jackie away and limped toward the pilothouse. Firing short bursts through the open door and the aft bulkhead, he was halfway to the entrance when the captain suddenly opened fire.
Jackie watched in horror as Scott dropped to the deck and returned fire. A man in a blood-soaked shirt stumbled onto the sundeck, then staggered backward in a series of spasmodic jerks. His legs crumbled under him as he dropped his AK-47, then fell against the wheelhouse and tumbled head over heels into the water.
She looked up to see the two Hornets rolling in for a firing pass. “Jax approach,” she frantically radioed, “tell them not to fire! The agent has gained access to the bridge! He’s in command of the yacht!”
“Wildcat One is rolling in hot,” Carl Zukowski radioed, then talked to his wingman. “Alan, hold your fire on this run. I’m going to shave the bow off and hope our Marine friend is bright enough to jump ship.”
“Copy,” Swindell replied. “I’m in cold.”
“Jax approach,” Zukowski said. “Wildcat One and Two are running on fumes — we gotta have answers.”
A long pause followed.
“Wildcat Four-Fourteen,” a deep voice said with the sound of authority, “your orders are to sink the yacht… at all costs. Do you copy?”