POTOMAC-RIVER
The boat started a lazy right turn that would only get worse if they didn't get control of the helm quickly. Fortunately, the two CIA pilots were good. They adjusted to the new heading and brought the portside door of the chopper right over the aft sundeck. Rapp kept his weapon trained on the cabin, and when they were hovering a manageable six feet from the deck he yelled, "Go! Go!"
The man leaped from a squatted position and landed as he'd been taught in jump school, with his weight evenly distributed on both feet and his knees slightly bent. He rolled to his left and came up reaching for his pistol. As soon as he was on his way up the steps to the helm, Rapp yanked his seat belt free and jumped after him. He hit a little harder than he had planned, but he ignored the pain that shot up through his left knee and moved for the steps that led to the cabin.
His thick black silencer probed the shadows first. He could see someone on the floor, but the figure had its back to him. Rapp knew there would be a head down the steps and to his right. Other than that, there were no other places to hide, with the exception of the storage compartment tucked up under the bow. Not having the time or the backup, he jumped to the bottom of the steps, let loose an eight round burst into the closed door of the head, and then yanked it open. It was empty.
Rapp spun and kicked the man who was prostrate on the carpeted floor. His foot caught the man square in the stomach and flipped him onto his side and then back. Rapp leveled his weapon at the man's head and studied his face. The first thing he noticed was the blood dripping from the corners of the man's mouth. Then he noticed the bulging, bloodshot eyes and the burned, blotchy, peeling skin. The guy looked like someone had stuck him in a microwave.
Even so, there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp's brow furrowed and then he said, "Mustafa al-Yamani."
Al-Yamani smiled the vacant smile of a true believer, and coughed up more blood. "You are too late," he said as blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. "There is nothing you can do to stop us."
"Where is Zubair?" Rapp placed the tip of the silencer against al-Yamani's forehead.
"He's dead," al-Yamani smiled, showing his bleeding gums, "and he's the only one who can disarm the weapon." He began to laugh. Almost immediately, though, his entire body was racked with a convulsive spasm that sent more than just blood spewing from his mouth.
Rapp forced al-Yamani's head into the ground with the tip of the silencer and said, "Have a nice time in hell, Mustafa." He squeezed the trigger just once and left the twitching corpse to go back topside.
Rapp burst back onto the deck and signaled for the helicopter to back off. He then took over the helm, turned the boat around, and pushed both throttles to the stops. The engines groaned loudly and the bow came out of the water a few feet. Rapp looked back at the cooler and feared the worst. What a hell of a way to die.
Rapp grabbed his secure digital phone and called Reimer. When the voice on the other end answered he said, "Paul, we've got control of the boat, and we're heading away from the city. You got any bright ideas?"
"Is the weapon armed?"
"I think so."
"How do you know...have you seen it?"
"No. I asked al-Yamani where Zubair was and he told me he was dead. He also said Zubair's the only one who can disarm the bomb. So I'm assuming it's armed." Rapp turned around and looked at the cooler again. "Do you want me to open it up and look at it?"
"No!" Reimer shouted. "Whatever you do don't touch it! I've got a team on the way. They're lifting off from the Mall right now. Where are you?"
"We're going back under the Wilson Bridge."
"Seven miles from the White House," said Reimer. "How fast are you going?"
Rapp looked at the dashboard. "Thirty-five miles an hour, and I think I'm topped out."
"A little over a mile every two minutes. That's good. The further away you get the better."
"Paul, I'm not some damn Kamikaze. I hope you have a better plan than me simply taking this thing as far down river as possible until it blows."
"I do...I do, but just getting you ten miles away could make a huge difference. My people are coming and the Blue Team is on its way up from Little Creek. Keep heading south at top speed for at least six minutes. My people will come up on your six and they'll find a place for you to dock. Then we'll take it off your hands."
Rapp looked back at the cooler again. The two men he had shot were lying one on top of another where Sam had dumped them. For the moment, Rapp saw no better option than to maintain course and speed. "All right, I'll keep an eye out for them."
Rapp hung up and looked at Sam, "Radio the chopper and tell them to follow us."
Rapp kept one hand on the wheel, and with the other he began unzipping the canvas top. When he had it halfway across the windscreen Sam took over and finished the job. The top flapped free and floated away to land in the river. Rapp checked his speed and fuel level and hunkered down for the six-minute dash.
THE MARINA WASalmost exactly three miles from the bridge on the Virginia side. Rapp watched the DOE Bell 412 helicopter circle and come in for a landing. Rapp came in hot, running the engines at full throttle until the last possible moment. He nearly swamped two smaller boats that were on their way out through the channel. The drivers gestured wildly and cursed the crazy son of a bitch who was driving the thirty-seven-foot cabin cruiser so recklessly. Rapp was headed straight for the marina office. Those who hadn't gone to watch the helicopter land in the parking lot looked at the oncoming vessel with fear in their eyes.
Rapp yanked back on the throttles, left them in neutral for only half a second, and then slammed them into reverse. The engines groaned as they strained to slow the forward movement of the boat, and people scrambled in every direction. The boat stopped just twenty feet from the main pier, but its building wake kept coming, rising up over the wood planks and slamming tethered boats against pilings and gangways.
Rapp immediately eased up on the port engine while slipping the starboard engine back into the forward gear. The boat began spinning until its aft was pointed toward shore and then Rapp reversed the starboard engine, sliding the boat backward toward the boat ramp.
A middle-aged man in plaid Bermuda shorts, docksiders, and a polo shirt came out of the office and started yelling. "Who in the hell do you think you are?"
Rapp put the engines in neutral and ignored the man. "Sam, grab those lines and tie us up."
Three men came running across the parking lot, each of them loaded down with a case or bag under each arm. They stopped at the top of the ramp and set their equipment down. The man in the ridiculous Bermuda shorts wasn't done though, and he stormed down the dock shaking his fist at Rapp.
"Listen here, you jackass. In all my years as a sailor I have never seen a bigger bonehead move." The man came right up to the edge of the boat. "Just who in the hell do you think you are?"
"I'm a federal agent," replied Rapp, as he pointed at the dead bodies laying on the aft sundeck. "I killed those two right there, there's a third one down in the cabin, and unless you want to be number four I'd advise you to get your ass off this dock and out of my face right now!"
Dumbfounded, the man just stood staring at the two bodies.
"Now!" Rapp yelled. The man turned and walked as quickly away from the dock as his skinny legs could carry him. A crowd of people were beginning to gather near the top of the boat ramp. Rapp looked up at them and said to Sam, "Radio the helicopter and tell them to land in the parking lot. Have them help you get these people out of here and secure a perimeter."
One of Reimer's guys was wearing a backpack. He walked down the boat ramp and right into the water. By the time he reached the swim platform the water was almost up to his crotch.
"They had to put the doors back on. They'll be here in less than two minutes."
Rapp nodded. "Go up there and tell those people to get the hell out of here."
The tech stood sideways in front of the cooler for several seconds and then yelled back to the other two men, "Gamma eleven, neutron six."
Rapp watched with great interest. "What in the hell does that mean?"
"It means it's hot." The SRT tech walked quickly back up the ramp, his pants soaked.
Rapp looked up at the still-gathering crowd. Sam was trying to push them back. Several people were pointing and asking questions, while others were looking at the CIA helicopter that was now circling overhead looking for a place to land.
Rapp pulled out his pistol and fired two shots into the water. The loud reports got everyone's attention. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. "I want this parking lot cleared right now Goddammit! This is an emergency!"
Everyone finally got the hint and began scrambling for their vehicles. Rapp grabbed his phone and dialed Reimer's number. "Paul, it's Mitch. I have an idea. Why don't we load the device on a helicopter and get it the hell out of here?"
"That's not how we do it, Mitch."
"Why?"
"We have to conduct diagnostics first. Ideally we don't want to move it at all, especially by air."
"Why?"
"An aerial burst increases the range and destruction of the blast. Just sit tight and let my people work. The Blue Team should be there in five minutes, and we'll have the device defused in no time."
Rapp glanced down at the bomb. "Excuse me for not sharing your confidence, but when al-Yamani said that only Zubair could defuse this baby, I think he meant it."
"Mitch, these bomb techs from SEAL Team Six are the best. They'll be able to figure out the fire set."
"And what if they can't?" asked a clearly skeptical Rapp.
"It's never happened before, Mitch."
"Is that in practice or reality?"
"Both."
"Bullshit. You're telling me these guys have defused live nukes before?"
"No...not live nukes, but they deal with working exercise devices all the time. The principle is the same."
"I hope to hell you're right."