The Eighth Trumpet (The Jared Kimberlain Novels) (37 page)

“Better not stay out here too long with that coming on.”

“Let’s just see what else can come on, shall we?”

Padrone was trembling with excitement as he ascended the ladder with Danielle close behind. Inside he hit a few switches in the coldness and the drone of a tired fan whirled through the cockpit.

“Won’t be but a few minutes ’fore it’s nice and toasty,” he told her. “Till then we might have to rely on body heat.”

Her response was a roguish smile as he flipped another switch which activated a single light over the console. Doing it in a space surrounded by windows would have bothered Bob Padrone anywhere else. But not here at the bottom of the world with a killer storm coming on fast.

“Now, what do you say we—”

He stopped when he saw the pistol suddenly gripped in the woman’s hand, the stare on her face icier than the frost gathering on the outside of the windshield.

“I hope you’re not too drunk to fly, Captain, because you’ve got seven hundred and fifty miles of it ahead of you.”

“This is crazy!” Padrone protested fearfully when they were airborne. “Case you didn’t notice, there’s a friggin’ mother of a storm heading straight for us.”

“Right now we’re heading straight for it.”

The pilot looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Danielle didn’t blame him.

“They got radar back at McMurdo. They’ll know we took off.”

“What do you expect they’ll do about it?”

Padrone had no answer for that and gazed at the radio, forgetting again that the woman had turned it off.

“You’ve got us headin’ for the friggin’ South Pole, which means we’ve got to climb over the Transantarctic Mountains. There’s nothing there. Believe me.”

“Used to be nothing, Captain. Something changed.”

“Nobody ever goes that way. Nobody!”

“Just my point.”

“Look, let me turn this tub around. Circle for a while. Let’s talk about this.”

The first of the storm appeared before them as nothing more than a few snowflakes sliding onto the windshield.

“Oh shit, it’s gonna be a big one. I can feel it. Cake up our engines for sure and end your charter real fast, lady.”

“Just get me to where I told you.”

“There’s nothing there!”

“Then you won’t have any trouble finding it.”

“You’re gonna get us friggin’ killed!” Padrone blared, clenching his teeth as more of the storm appeared before them in a great white blanket that seemed to be rising out of the equally white landscape beneath it. “Jesus Christ!”

Danielle looked on with similar awe, her resolve tempered not in the least. “Can you climb?”

“Been climbing, lady. These tubs ain’t like jet fighters, and with this kind of air it’s even worse. Least let me turn the radio back on, keep McMurdo abreast of what’s happening. That way if we crash, they’ll be able to—”

“They won’t be able to do a thing. If we crash, we die. Just sooner than everyone else, that’s all.”

Every mile was more nerve-racking than the one before it. The force and brutality of the storm were incredible, tossing the C-130 about at will. It was like being in a boat on rough seas. Danielle had fastened herself into the copilot’s seat as tight as she could.

In the meantime, Padrone had sobered up fast and was performing admirably. He’d given up protesting and had turned his attention solely to flying. He was a good pilot, a damn good one, and he quickly figured out how to time the severest onslaughts of the storm and maneuver the C-130 to ride the winds as much as possible. Watching him was like watching a race car driver manipulate the course, slowing through the especially difficult turns. Speed was not a prime consideration, but he didn’t dare pull back on their thrust for fear of losing the precarious footing the storm now allowed him.

“We’re almost to your damn coordinates,” he shot at her, “and there’s nothing there, nothing on radar. You’re dreaming. Just like I told you.”

Danielle turned the radio back on and handed the microphone to him. “Signal a Mayday.”

“Little late, lady. In this storm McMurdo will never get the message.”

“We’re not sending to McMurdo.”

“Then who the hell are we …”

Padrone gave up and worked the mike as instructed. Then he adjusted the controls and tried again.

“Storm’s swallowing the signals before they get anywhere,” he reported grimly.

Danielle felt as though a blow had caught her in the stomach. Her plan had been to force Outpost 10 to provide them with landing coordinates thanks to the Mayday call. Without those coordinates in such a raging storm …

A vast white thermal blanket rose up before them. There was a thud of impact as something crashed into their nose. The windshield shattered, and small jets of icy air sped through, feeling like needles against Danielle’s face.

Padrone struggled valiantly with the controls, but everything seemed to seize up. He realized that they were going down and blindly felt for the switch that would lock home the landing skis.

Not that it mattered, since they didn’t have enough fuel to get back to McMurdo no matter what. If the crash didn’t take them, the cold would.

Danielle had thrown her hands up instinctively when the C-130 struck the snowy ground spinning. She was aware of screaming, hers or Padrone’s she wasn’t sure, and thrashed for something to hold on to.

Her hands were still thrashing when something white and cruel came up in front of the C-130 as it whirled and delivered a jolting impact that fractured the transport’s steel hull at the center. She was conscious of pain and cold for only an instant before they were replaced by nothing at all.

Chapter 32

KIMBERLAIN WAS WALKING
back down the corridor of Macy’s seventeenth floor at seven
A.M.
Wednesday. Inside Burns’s office a female shape was moving about.

Kimberlain went to the door and peered inside. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet the head of security here at seven.”

“You found her,” returned a ravishing Oriental woman. “The name’s Cathy Nu, Mr. Kimberlain.”

Jared took her extended hand. “Whoops.”

“Apology accepted,” she said with a smile that made her look even more beautiful and radiant. Her dark hair tumbled past her shoulders, and her skin might have been wax, it looked so smooth and flawless. She was tall for an Oriental and lithe. Her handshake had been strong.

“I read the file on you that Mr. Burns left for me, Mr. Kimberlain. And where it left off I was able to fill in with some information obtained from friends in Chinatown.”

The Ferryman smiled slightly at that. “Spent a little time there not too long ago.”

“But made quite an impression. You’ve become a hero to the people of the shops. There are few men willing to stand up to the Tong. In fact, some of the locals insist you were a spirit called from another time to do battle with the enemies of the masses.”

“Only my tailor knows for sure, Miss Nu.”

“Cathy.”

“Jared.”

There was a pause, broken by Cathy Nu. “I assume, now that we are formally acquainted, we can get down to facts. Mr. Burns briefed me extensively over the phone last night. For what it’s worth, I’m going into this accepting everything you say at full face value.”

“It’s worth a lot.”

“Maybe not enough.” She shrugged. “If what you say is true … Well, just for the record, I told Burns we should find a way to cancel. His mind doesn’t operate from a standpoint of security, so he had no real conception of what’s involved here. A two-and-a-half-mile parade route, with maybe two million spectators lined up ten to fifteen deep. That’s just too vast to guarantee anyone’s safety no matter what steps we take, and believe me, plenty are taken even in a normal year.”

“Did he go over my list of recommendations with you?”

“Yes, and I’ve already acted on several. I met with the police captain in charge of their security detail, and you can bet there are gonna be a lot of unhappy NYPD officers on this holiday: he agreed to pull an additional fifteen hundred from the off-duty roster. Some of them are already in place. This is going to cost the city a fortune in overtime.”

“I’ll cry later. What about the air traffic people?”

“Easily accomplished, and I didn’t even have to get overly specific as to cause. All air traffic will be rerouted to avoid the grid over the entire city. Three police and two Coast Guard choppers will patrol the perimeter just to make sure no strays wander over. The Coast Guard choppers are outfitted with special radar they use to nab drug smugglers. They’ll give us plenty of advance warning if any aircraft appear to be approaching.” She stopped. “You don’t think it’s going to come from the air, do you?”

“Do you?”

“Given the scenario you’ve outlined, it’s the most logical and simplest approach.”

“Not when there’s the C-12
plastique
to consider. That changes the rules. The blast radius these explosives can cause from ground level means they don’t need aircraft to accomplish their goal.”

Cathy Nu recalled that section of the report. “A million dead, approximately half the people watching along the route. Okay, what do we do from here?”

“We walk the entire parade route. Take your notebook, Cathy. We’ve got a lot of lives to save.”

“Were you born in Chinatown?” Kimberlain asked Cathy Nu as their taxi did its best to weave through the early-morning traffic.

She nodded. “The eldest of seven brothers and sisters and the only one born within Chinatown’s limits. My parents waited until they were out to complete the family. What was the sense? They had left one China for another within the United States. My father referred to us as two different families representing the different stages of his American life.” Her voice grew distant. “Often he told me he loved me best because I bridged the gap between them. I was eleven before my first sibling was born, and nineteen when my father died. A freshman at NYU with a full-time job at Macy’s. The store saved me. I had to support my family, and they supported me every step of the way. I owe Macy’s so much. If I can help stop this from happening, then … You get the idea.”

“Sure. We all owe something to somebody.”

“So it would seem.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Lincoln Tunnel.”

“I thought we were going to the parade’s starting point.”

“We are.”

“Technically,” she explained when they were inside the tunnel, “Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade starts here tonight at one
A.M.—
Thanksgiving morning actually. The floats that compose much of the parade are worked on year-round in an old candy factory we own on the Hoboken waterfront. We call it the Float Palace. A crew of twenty will begin work on next year’s parade come Monday.”

“We hope.”

“Yes, we hope.”

“Bring your notebook, Cath?”

She produced a memo pad from her purse.

“Good. Here’s the first thing to make note of. Get your police contacts to dispatch a few of their trained dogs to that warehouse to sniff for C-12. Bring them out tonight after all construction is complete.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“Well, the floats are constructed in Hoboken, but nothing larger than twelve and a half feet high and eight feet wide can pass through the Lincoln Tunnel. So at one
A.M.,
when they reach the Jersey side, they’re disassembled for the trip through and then reassembled on the other side.”

“Must be time-consuming.”

“Not really. They’re built to come apart and then go back together, and they’re also incredibly solid. Remember, they carry singers, dancers, and actors who perform, or at least smile and wave, constantly throughout the parade.”

Kimberlain thought briefly. “Fine. We post guards within and on both sides of the tunnel starting at ten tonight. After reassembly, just to be on the safe side, we let the dogs have another go at the floats to be sure nothing new has been added that shouldn’t have been, and we keep guards right on top of them until showtime.”

Cathy jotted down some more notes, adding a few suggestions of her own. They emerged from the tunnel, and she instructed the driver to head back into Manhattan.

“How many floats?” the Ferryman wanted to know.

“Fifteen major this year.”

“Which brings us to the balloons. I remember them from when I was a kid.”

“Don’t we all. There are twelve this year, the most ever. They’re constructed in another warehouse in Hoboken.”

“Composition?”

“Urethane-coated nylon filled with helium and air. They’re composed in sections so that a leak or tear in one section won’t ruin the entire creature. The largest is Superman, at seventy-eight feet. Snoopy’s about sixty including his roller skates. Kermit the Frog’s about the same.”

“Difficult to get them through this as well,” Kimberlain noted as the cab headed back through the tunnel.

“Of course.” Cathy smiled. “They’re inflated a section at a time near the starting line on Central Park West tonight. It’s quite a spectacle. People stay up the whole night with us watching. The balloons are delivered on trucks and laid out flat on sheets of cloth on the street. Nets are placed over them so they won’t escape once inflated.”

Kimberlain felt his neck hairs prickle. “You’re aware that C-12 can be converted into an explosive gas.”

“I am now.”

“Let’s say the enemy has a way of pumping that gas into the balloons mixed with your helium.”

Cathy made some notes before responding. “We’ll check each and every canister before it’s used to inflate individual balloon sections.” She paused and looked at Kimberlain. “Under that scenario, how could they be detonated?”

“Combustion, almost surely. A simple spark would be all it would take. Picture the New York skyline as it rises over Broadway. A dozen snipers, each perched on a rooftop or at a window, with instructions to fire into a particular balloon at a precise moment.”

Cathy Nu sighed nervously and went back to writing. “We’ll have to have men posted on almost every rooftop as well, then.”

“Be difficult to handle all potential windows.”

“Spotters from both ground level and above,” Cathy proposed. “Each with a particular grid to sweep.”