soldier in the claws gave a pained smirk. "Your gun is empty, and the chopper's going to blow you to hell. You're both going to die. Your only hope is to let us go."
Like hell, Rachel thought, trying to assess their next move. She looked at the bound and gagged man who lay at her feet directly in front of the sub. He looked delirious from loss of blood. She crouched beside him, looking into the man's hard eyes. "I'm going to take off your gag and hold the CrypTalk; you're going to convince the helicopter to back off. Is that clear?"
The man nodded earnestly.
Rachel pulled out the man's gag. The soldier spat a wad of bloody saliva up into Rachel's face.
"Bitch," he hissed, coughing. "I'm going to watch you die. They're going to kill you like a pig, and I'm going to enjoy every minute."
Rachel wiped the hot saliva from her face as she felt Tolland's hands lifting her away, pulling her back, steadying her as he took her machine gun. She could feel in his trembling touch that something inside him had just snapped. Tolland walked to a control panel a few yards away, put his hand on a lever, and locked eyes with the man lying on the deck.
"Strike two," Tolland said. "And on my ship, that's all you get."
With a resolute rage, Tolland yanked down on the lever. A huge trapdoor in the deck beneath the Triton fell open like the floor of a gallows. The bound soldier gave a short howl of fear and then disappeared, plummeting through the hole. He fell thirty feet to the ocean below. The splash was crimson. The sharks were on him instantly.
The controller shook with rage, looking down from the Kiowa at what was left of Delta-Three's body drifting out from under the boat on the strong current. The illuminated water was pink. Several fish fought over something that looked like an arm.
Jesus Christ.
The controller looked back at the deck. Delta-Two still hung in the Triton's claws, but now the sub was suspended over a gaping hole in the deck. His feet dangled over the void. All Tolland had to do was release the claws, and Delta-Two would be next.
"Okay," the controller barked into the CrypTalk. "Hold on. Just hold on!"
Rachel stood below on the deck and stared up at the Kiowa. Even from this height the controller sensed the resolve in her eyes. Rachel raised the CrypTalk to her mouth. "You still think we're bluffing?" she said. "Call the main switchboard at the NRO. Ask for Jim Samiljan. He's in P A on the nightshift. I told him everything about the meteorite. He will confirm."
She's giving me a specific name? This did not bode well. Rachel Sexton was no fool, and this was a bluff the controller could check in a matter of seconds. Although the controller knew of no one at the NRO named Jim Samiljan, the organization was enormous. Rachel could quite possibly be telling the truth. Before ordering the final kill, the controller had to confirm if this was a bluff-or not.
Delta-One looked over his shoulder. "You want me to deactivate the jammer so you can call and check it out?"
The controller peered down at Rachel and Tolland, both in plain view. If either of them made a move for a cellphone or radio, the controller knew Delta-One could always reactivate and cut them off. The risk was minimal.
"Kill the jammer," the controller said, pulling out a cellphone. "I'll confirm Rachel's lying. Then we'll find a way to get Delta-Two and end this."
In Fairfax, the operator at the NRO's central switchboard was getting impatient. "As I just told you, I see no Jim Samiljan in the Plans and Analysis Division."
The caller was insistent. "Have you tried multiple spellings? Have you tried other departments?"
The operator had already checked, but she checked again. After several seconds, she said, "Nowhere on staff do we have a Jim Samiljan. Under any spelling."
The caller sounded oddly pleased by this. "So you are certain the NRO employs no Jim Samil-"
A sudden flurry of activity erupted on the line. Someone yelled. The caller cursed aloud and promptly hung up.
Onboard the Kiowa, Delta-One was screaming with rage as he scrambled to reactivate the jamming system. He had made the realization too late. In the huge array of lighted controls in the cockpit, a tiny LED meter indicated that a SATCOM data signal was being transmitted from the Goya. But how? Nobody left the