Iron Orchid (Holly Barker 5)

PROLOGUE

TEDDY FAY HAD ALWAYS BEEN a planner, and he had a plan now. He hadn’t expected to be rousted from his cottage in Islesboro, Maine, by the FBI, but when it happened, he had his escape route already prepared. The tunnel had taken him out of the house, and while they were searching the coast, he had headed for the little island airstrip.

For the past few weeks, Teddy had been methodically killing people with whom he disagreed politically, and, as he had expected, the nation’s law enforcement agencies had not taken it kindly. But he had been a step or two ahead of them all the way, and he was a step ahead of them now.

He had been in the air for an hour, now, and he was approaching the Kennebunk VOR at six thousand feet. He had been flying the day before at low altitudes, full rich, and he had burned a lot of fuel. He was down to nineteen gallons, now, and burning thirteen an hour. He couldn’t land at an airport, because the airplane would be discovered when the sun came up, and the FBI would know where to stop looking. He needed to ditch the Cessna where it wouldn’t be found.

Where would that be? He looked down at the Maine coast. There were few lights on, except in Kennebunkport, a short distance ahead.

Then something roared past him on either side, shaking the Cessna 182 RG and frightening him badly. What the hell was that? When he had calmed himself, it occurred to him that, maybe, he wasn’t as far ahead of them as he had thought. He switched his radio to the emergency frequency.

“Cessna 182 retractable, do you read me?” a young man’s voice asked.

The two jet fighters would have already started their turn back to him. Teddy pressed the talk button. “I read you loud and clear,” he said.

“This is the United States Navy,” the young man said. “You are instructed to turn on your transponder, your navigation lights and your strobes, then to make a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and fly a heading of zero six zero until you have the beacon of the Brunswick Naval Air Station in sight, then to land there on runway two. Do you read?”

“Negative, can’t do it. I don’t have the fuel.” That was no lie. He was down to almost eighteen gallons. It would take a little time for them to locate him again. Without the transponder on, he was only a primary target on radar, and a small one, at that. The moon was in and out in the partly cloudy sky, and they would have trouble getting a visual on him, too.

“Then you can land at Portland International on the same heading. You’ll be met there.”

“Negative, Navy. Can’t do it.” Teddy was a couple of miles from the beach, and he turned toward it, flipping on every light on the airplane. He wanted to be seen now. The two jets roared past him a second time.

“Listen, pal,” the young voice said. “I don’t give a fuck if you dump that thing in the Atlantic. My instructions are to force you to land or shoot you out of the sky, and those are my intentions. What’s it going to be?”

An excellent question, Ted thought. He was no longer a step ahead of them, and he had no doubt that the young pilot meant what he said. He began tightening straps and unbuckled his seat belt. “Navy, do you read me?”

“I read you,” the pilot said, “and I have a visual.”

“I’m afraid I can’t fly back with you, and it would be best if you stay well clear of me.”

“Don’t worry, little guy; I’m not going to bump into you.”

They would be setting up their shot from landward, so that any rounds that missed would end up in the sea. “That’s not what I mean,” Teddy said. “Just stay well clear.” He was coming up on the coastline, now, and he dropped the landing gear to slow him down quickly. The two jets blew past him again, causing him to laugh. “Sorry about that, fellas,” he said into the mike.

Half a mile to the beach. Teddy reached into the duffel next to him and took out a package the size of a thick, hardcover book. He unlatched his door and stood by, watching the beach. The moment he crossed it, he lifted the door off its hinges and let it fall from the airplane. He moved the gear lever to the retracted setting, and while it came up he hung the duffel around his neck and set the timer on the package to thirty seconds.

He didn’t waste another moment. Clutching the duffel to his chest, he rolled sideways and out of the airplane, counting. “Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three…” He wanted to be as far below the airplane as possible before it blew. On ten he tucked the duffel under his arm, grabbed the rip cord handle and pulled.

The chute opened with a jerk, and a moment later the sky lit up and the shock wave hit him. Two pounds of plastic explosive made quite a bang. A split second later he heard the noise, but he was too busy trying to control his wild swinging to pay attention.

He finally stabilized as the two jets roared over him, creating more turbulence, but it was manageable. As the water came up toward him he pulled two cords and stalled the chute, nearly stopping his descent. He stepped into the Atlantic Ocean as if into a swimming pool.

His feet touched bottom almost immediately. The water came not quite to his waist. He was already wading in when the chute collapsed into the water behind him. He struggled on toward the beach, maybe fifty yards away, trying to keep the chute from filling with water, while holding the duffel high and dry.