Deadly Echoes (30 page)

Just before the big 212 lifted off the deck, Buck burst out of a hatch and unleashed a burst of machine gun fire at the open door of the departing helicopter. He ducked back inside as his fire was returned, the slugs ripping all around his position. The helicopter lifted off the
North Star,
lowered its nose, and quickly accelerated away.

“Janie!” Donovan yelled. “Erica's in the water! Get us down there now!”

Janie nodded as she dipped the nose and banked left to cut around the stern of the ship.

“Donovan,” Lauren said calmly, “I'm locked onto Erica's heat signature. She's alive, and she made it back to the surface. She's trying to kick and stay afloat.”

“Where!” Donovan began looking at the wake behind the ship. The chance of spotting a person in the churned-up water and rough seas was remote at best. Lauren was their only chance.

“Tell Janie to turn twenty degrees to the left. The target will be fifty yards straight ahead.”

“Twenty degrees left, fifty yards.” Donovan repeated and Janie immediately turned the chopper and brought it down to ten feet above the waves.

“Keep going,” Lauren urged. “She went under, but I still have her position marked. Get ready.”

“We're almost on top of her!” Donovan relayed to Janie.

“Ten feet,” Lauren reported.

Donovan opened the door. He spotted her as she broke the surface, gasping for air, kicking and trying to take another breath before the next wave forced her under. Without thinking, Donovan held onto the rope Jason had left behind and climbed out onto the left skid. Janie flew by feel, looking back over her shoulder and jockeying the helicopter up and down in rhythm with the rolling waves. She timed the next wave perfectly, and Donovan reached
out and clutched Erica by the collar of her sweater, the water crimson from her blood. He pulled her close and managed to heave her out of the water until he had her under both arms. Her skin had gone shock white, drained, and nearly lifeless. Pure adrenaline propelled him as he ignored the ocean, the waves, and his own pain, and lifted until he was sitting on the edge of the door with Erica's hip resting on the skid. One last backbreaking heave and he rolled her halfway into the helicopter. Janie did the rest by climbing and banking the 407, letting gravity help tumble them both onto the floor of the chopper. Donovan turned Erica on her back and checked her pulse. He couldn't find one. She'd stopped breathing. He tipped her head sideways to clear the water from her mouth and then began CPR.

“Donovan!” Janie yelled over the slipstream. “Buck needs you! We're heading back to the ship.”

“Why!” Donovan yelled back.

“He's in the engine room and he can't control them. He can only shut them down and he says that won't stop the ship. You need to get to the bow of the tanker and manually drop the anchors.”

“Do it!” Donovan said as he kept working on Erica. He compressed her sternum with both hands and counted out the repetitions, silently urging her to live. He glanced outside. They were less than thirty seconds until touchdown, and he could feel desperation rise at the thought of abandoning her. He leaned in to give her mouth-to-mouth when she suddenly groaned and vomited up seawater. Without hesitation Donovan yanked the first-aid kit out of its housing and ripped it open. He found scissors that he used to slice the snap-tie that held her hands. He cut open her sweater and found the gunshot wound as well as dozens of smaller lesions that appeared to be burns, evidence of Nikolett's interrogation.

Donovan found the source of the blood. She'd been hit in the flesh just under her left arm. The bullet had only grazed her, but it had made a nasty furrow in her skin. He tore open a handful of dressings and pressed them to the wound to try to stop the
bleeding. She gasped for air, and Donovan used the last remaining seconds to open a roll of elastic bandage to wrap around her wounds to help maintain the pressure. He could feel the helicopter settle into a hover as Erica's eyes fluttered open. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.

“I knew you'd come,” she mouthed, her voice far too weak to overcome the noise of the chopper.

“You promised me once you'd do the same for me if I ended up in the ocean.” Donovan felt the skids touch the deck. “Janie! Leave me here! Get her to Anchorage.”

Erica managed a weak smile.

The moment the skids touched, Donovan squeezed Erica's hand, grabbed the tactical radio, and stepped out onto the deck of the
North Star.
He closed the door, ducked under the blades, and ran until he reached an elevated gangway that stretched the length of the ship. It was built above the oil manifold piping on the main deck and gave him a clear path to the bow. Behind him, Janie lifted off the pad and sped away.

Donovan began to run. The wind and rain peppered his skin. He ignored the elements, the burning pain in his back and thigh, and kept going. He had no idea how to drop the anchors. All he knew was he had to get it done. As he ran, he felt a slight aberration from below his feet, then another one, stronger this time. Donovan felt the ship shudder, and he slid to a halt, wrapped his left hand around one of the metal stanchions along the handrail. A glance told him the water ahead of the ship wasn't deep blue—they'd reached the shallows.

“Buck, we're going to hit! Brace yourself!” Donovan said into his walkie-talkie. He heard a distorted reply. Then the radio flew from his hand as his legs whipped out from under him with his arms pulling against the railing as the massive ship ran aground. The sickening, shrieking sound of tortured steel being ripped apart filled the morning air. The shock waves from the failing metal vibrated and resonated through the entire ship.

When the screeching of twisting metal faded, Donovan felt the
deceleration forces release his body. The only sound came from the roaring twin engines still trying to propel them forward. Moments later, one engine quit, followed by the other. The sudden silence seemed eerie. Donovan released his grip from the railing, giving silent thanks he hadn't gone over the side of the twenty-foot-high elevated gangway. His radio was nowhere to be seen.

He pulled himself to his feet, moving aft to the nearest stairwell. He hurried down to the main deck and once there, maneuvered through the maze of pipes until he was leaning over a railing amidships. Below him he saw dark-blue water of the sound, but as he looked forward, he could see where the pristine blue water suddenly gave way to a shallow shelf that ran all the way to shore. Groans from the still-creaking metal rose from under the hull, continuing to resonate through the ship. The water near the bow was churned brown, and for one sickening moment, Donovan thought the ship was leaking oil. Closer inspection told him the brown stain was mud and debris boiling up from below the ship. He hoped the ten-foot barrier in the double hull had done its job.

Donovan felt his legs quiver, recognizing the effect of the massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through his system. Stepping away from the railing, he began to run toward the distant stairs that would take him to the bridge. His bad leg ached unmercifully, and his lungs burned as he topped the six flights of stairs. His attention was riveted upward as a blue-and-white helicopter roared overhead. Gun barrels protruding from open doors, the Alaska State Troopers were in full tactical mode. The helicopter hovered as armed men in full battle dress rappeled down to the deck. Just as quickly, the helicopter lifted off again, circling. From the railing, Donovan heaved his Glock over the side of the ship, making sure it cleared the hull and plunged into the ocean.

Breathing heavily, he pushed through the hatch into the bridge and found Jason's body, the bullet wound in his neck clearly evident. All the way across the length of the bridge, piles of shattered glass littered the carpet. Donovan hurried to the main control console, where panels had been pried open, wire bundles ripped out
and severed. Frantically, he searched for the picture he was sure Garrick had left behind.

He couldn't help but think how Eco-Watch had been outmaneuvered. Garrick had really done a number on him today. Erica, the tanker, and now Donovan Nash, Eco-Watch's chief operations officer, was moments from being discovered onboard the bridge of a hijacked Huntington Oil supertanker that had just run aground. Donovan was still searching when the deafening noise of a helicopter filled the bridge. He looked up as the helicopter rose above the line of windows and hovered there. He saw a trooper with an automatic weapon aimed at his chest. A voice over the loudspeaker ordered him to put his hands behind his head. Donovan had run out of time. He had no choice but to raise his hands in surrender.

“Michael.” Lauren eased into the cockpit as they taxied the
da Vinci
toward the small armada of official cars, both civilian and military, awaiting their arrival. “I've got the disc from today's flight. I don't know who's waiting for us, but I'm going to find the highest ranking official and get in his face and see if my Defense Intelligence Agency credentials will make anything good happen. I can't believe the military ordered us out of the airspace. You don't think they would have really shot us down, do you?”

“They weren't happy; no use calling the Air Force's bluff. How long were you able to track the helicopter?” Michael asked.

“Not long, I saw the tanker run aground, and by the time I went back to search for the chopper, they were gone.”

“I radioed Janie. As soon as she drops Erica at the hospital, she knows to come here and get ready to go back out.”

Michael eased the
da Vinci
to a stop, set the brakes, and shut down both engines.

“Let's see what's waiting for us.” Lauren lowered the airstair and stood in the doorway. A woman, appearing to be in her mid-forties, ended a phone call, spoke to those around her as if issuing orders, then strode toward the plane. When she came to the steps, she stopped and peered up into the Gulfstream.

“Please, come aboard,” Lauren called out.

The woman climbed the steps. Trailing her were two men. One took up a position at the foot of the stairs, the other followed the woman.

“I'm Special Agent Kathleen Martinson, FBI. How many people are aboard this plane?”

“Myself and two pilots,” Lauren replied. “I'm Dr. Lauren McKenna, Defense Intelligence Agency.”

“I know who you are. My man needs to make a quick sweep. Then we can talk.”

“Of course.” Lauren stepped aside to allow the agent access to the cabin. The search was brief, and when he finished, he joined his fellow agent at the bottom of the stairs.

“Have we met before?” Lauren asked.

“No. I only know you by reputation and what's in your FBI file, though we have several acquaintances in common, one being the director of the FBI.”

“Agent Martinson, I've got something to show you. Please follow me.” Lauren offered Agent Martinson a seat in front of the HD monitor she'd been sitting at all morning. “Before you say anything or make any uninformed decisions, you need the truth of what took place today. I saw all of this as it was happening, and you need to see it as well.”

“Dr. McKenna, please spare me the preamble. You have my undivided attention. I'm well aware of your reputation and qualifications as well as this airplane's capability. Now, what is it I'm about to see?”

“These images were taken this morning.”

“Before we begin,” Martinson said. “Why exactly were Eco-Watch's assets out seemingly patrolling the pipeline as well as Prince William Sound?”

“Operating on a hunch by Eco-Watch's chief of operations, Mr. Donovan Nash.”

“A hunch developed from what source?”

“An informant who believed that the pipeline might be a target,” Lauren said.

“Continue,” Agent Martinson said.

“The individuals aboard the Eco-Watch helicopter, besides the pilot, are Mr. Howard Buckley, Eco-Watch chief of security, Mr. Jason Mahoney, a private security consultant, and, of course, Mr. Nash.”

“I'm aware of Mr. Nash. His reputation precedes him.” Martinson turned to face Lauren. “I can also assure you that your husband has the respect of some of the powers that be, but not all of them. I've heard the term ‘loose cannon' used to describe him. Would that be accurate?”

“Would it?” Lauren answered the question with a question, curious where this was going.

“I understand while he was in Hawaii he leaped from a helicopter onto a runaway ship. Does that sound like your husband?”

“Did he save the ship?” Lauren fired back, angry that this was the first she'd heard of this event, and that she was forced to play defense in blind support of her husband.

“Yes, he did.”

“So he was effective. How does that make him a loose cannon?”

“Point taken. How effective was he today?”

“Please, just watch.” Lauren had no intention of discussing Donovan with the FBI, or anyone else for that matter. Lauren switched on the monitor and initiated playback starting the moment the
North Star
was spotted.

“No audio?”

“Video only,” Lauren replied. She and Donovan had been talking via satellite phone, which was a separate system. Thankfully, there was no direct interface between the data recording.

“We'd been up north toward Fairbanks when I intercepted Coast Guard communications indicating problems locating a tanker as well as its escort vessels.”

“Yes. I already know about your initial conversation with the Coast Guard in Valdez. Did you know you were ordered to vacate the airspace above Prince William Sound?”

“Really? I remember that initial call being cut off.” Lauren's feigned puzzlement was the best she had, and Martinson seemed to have bought the lie, at least for the moment.

“Continue.”

Lauren hit play, and the two of them watched the entire video in silence.