“Jesse, what about the hostages? Where are they?”
Jesse frowned. “Still in the gym as far as I know.”
“We’ve been told they’re in the Atrium restaurant.” Colby’s voice was urgent. Even though he couldn’t be seen, Jesse shook his head.
“No way. I’ve been on the stairwell since early morning. They couldn’t have moved them without my knowing. Sorry about this, Dent,” he added, “I guess I’ve kind of blown it.”
There was a momentary pause as Colby thought over the information. Then he asked the vital question: “Jesse, has the girl done anything yet? Are the hostages still safe?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything. She thought Kormann might be planning to move them but so far nothing…” he stopped. The wall of the building was vibrating and there was a heavy thud of machinery from inside.
“Just a minute, Dent,” he said urgently and, heaving himself to his feet, skied to the edge of the unloading platform.
Someone had switched on the massive electric motor that powered the cable car. Far below, he could see the car at the bottom station, a tiny figure emerging from the control room. Jesse dropped the phone and scrambled for his binoculars, focusing them quickly on the platform. The eight times magnification suddenly swam into view and he could recognize the dark-haired, sunglassed figure he had seen previously, boarding the cable car and moving to the internal control console.
The controls were at the very front of the car and he could see clearly through the large windows. It was Kormann. Jesse dropped to his knees and grabbed for the phone again.
“Dent? You there?”
“What is it, Jesse?”
“It’s Kormann. He’s in the cable car and he’s on his way up. It’s started!”
“Hang tight, Jesse. The cavalry’s on the way.”
BLACKHAWK HELICOPTER 2
TAIL NUMBER 348719
WASATCH COUNTY
1203 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
FRIDAY, DAY 7
Dent passed the cell phone to the marine sergeant beside him, then pressed the transmit button on the headset that connected him to Maloney.
“Colonel, this is Colby. He’s making his move. Let’s go!”
His voice was a gabble of excitement and instantly Maloney’s voice came back at him. “Confirm we are go.” The marine wanted to be absolutely sure of what he’d heard, Colby knew. He spoke clearly and slowly this time.
“This is Agent-in-Charge Colby. On my authority: Begin the assault. Go! Go! Go!”
“Roger, go. All units: launch and attack your targets.”
Colby felt the floor lurch under his feet again as the Blackhawk rose to ten feet above the ground. Then, fourth in line behind the two lead Apaches and Maloney’s Blackhawk, it skimmed over the ridge. Now only open ground lay between it and the hotel.
FLYING EAGLE CABLE CAR
TOP STATION
SNOW EAGLES RESORT
WASATCH COUNTY
1203 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
FRIDAY, DAY 7
Jesse, from his vantage point above the hotel, heard the choppers first—a rising roar of jet engines and whacking rotors. Then he saw the first of them, the two narrow-bodied Apaches that were to clear the way for the troop carriers.
The cable car had passed the first pylon. It was almost a quarter of the way up the mountain and Jesse watched as it slowly hauled itself up the thin wire cable. Already, one of the Apaches was moving to intercept the cable car. The thin-bodied attack helicopter was armed with missiles and a rotary-barreled mini-gun and he watched it rapidly moving in for the kill.
The four drab-painted Blackhawks had cleared the ridge now. They fanned out in a line abreast, jinking to throw off the aim of the gunners on the roof. The first hammering rattle of the fifty calibers opened up and Jesse saw pieces fly from the ship second from the left in the line. Black smoke poured from the cowling below the big rotor blades and instantly the chopper began to lose height. It landed heavily on the uneven slope, about a mile out from the hotel, enveloped now in the black smoke that welled from its ruptured oil lines. He could see tiny figures running from the downed aircraft.
A second Apache was closing on the hotel, smoke pouring back from the rotary mini-gun slung beneath its chin. There were bullet strikes on the concrete balustrade around the roof, then Jesse saw a flash of light and a line of white smoke curved toward the helicopter as one of the Stingers fired.
The pilot had been in the act of firing off a volley of rockets as he saw the missile fire. He jerked the Apache into a hard right break, the salvo of rockets sent screaming over the top of the hotel building to explode harmlessly in the canyon wall half a mile away. A small section of the hill collapsed and slid slowly down into the canyon. It was a warning of what could happen if too many shots went astray.
As the Apache curved away from the Stinger, hugging the canyon wall, banked almost ninety degrees, the fifties opened up again on the incoming Blackhawks. Another troop carrier was trailing a thin banner of smoke but the remaining three kept coming into the face of the fire. Then another flash of light signaled the launch of another missile from the roof—but this time, the target wasn’t heading for the hotel.
The lead Apache, swinging wide to intercept Kormann in the cable car, had presented a clear view of its hot jet exhaust to one of the Stingers. It was a target that the heat-seeking missile couldn’t resist and its operator heard the lock tone rise to a warbling shriek, while the red “locked on” light beside the sight burned brightly. He squeezed the trigger and the missile arced away.
Jesse watched in horror as the white smoke trail seared toward the Apache, unseen by the pilot or gunner. It seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if making a last minute course correction, then flew straight into the jet tailpipe where its warhead exploded, showering shrapnel fragments into the interior of the engine.
The disintegrating engine components, whirling at several thousand RPM, added to the destruction and the Apache staggered, then seemed to tear itself apart in midair. Like a shot bird, it lurched to one side, then fell into the valley below, spilling burning jet fuel in a large circle around the wreck as it hit the ground.
He grabbed the phone again. He was still connected to the FBI agent. “Dent! Dent!” he yelled, then Colby replied, also yelling to be heard over the racket of the Blackhawk’s straining jet engine.
“Jesse! I hear you!”
“The Apache’s down, Dent. They got it before he could stop Kormann. The cable car is still coming!”
In the Blackhawk, Dent Colby ducked instinctively as heavy caliber bullet strikes slammed into them. The shooting from the roof was too good and they’d need the remaining Apache’s covering fire to make it to the ground below the hotel, where the fifty calibers couldn’t depress far enough to reach them. Also, he realized now, if he ordered the attack helicopter to go after the cable car, it would expose itself to the same tailpipe shot from another Stinger. He could lose both attack birds.
“Jesse! Can you stop the cable car? If he’s left hanging up there, he can’t blow the charges. The avalanche will sweep away the pylons and take him with it. Just buy us some time then we’ll take care of him.”
Jesse glanced through the small window beside him. The operator’s hut was on the far side of the terminal building and there was bound to be an emergency stop somewhere in there. If all else failed, he’d simply take out his .45 and blow the control panel away.
“You’ve got it,” he replied grimly.
The entry door to the terminal was fifteen yards away, uphill. He turned, clumsy in the skis, and bent to release one, setting the phone down on the bench as he did so. The movement saved his life.
A line of ragged holes punched into the shaped metal side of the building. At the same moment, he heard the rattle of an Ingram, and looking up, saw Pallisani and his three companions running from the trees toward him. The doorway was between him and them and he knew he’d never have time to get his skis off a
nd reach safety.
Pallisani fired again and the bullets whipped all around him. They were still at extreme range for the short-barreled machine pistols but they were closing by the minute. He had to move, and move fast. Instinctively, he jump-turned in the skis and skated desperately away, heading downhill to where the ski runs started, opening the distance between himself and the shooters. He heard yelling behind him and more shots, and two or three of the 9 millimeter slugs cracked the air above his head like whips. Below him, the cable car continued to make its way up the mountain.
FORTY-NINE
THE GYMNASIUM
CANYON LODGE
WASATCH COUNTY
1206 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
FRIDAY, DAY 7
Alston signaled to the two men beside him. All three of them were mercenaries, with long experience in close-quarter combat like this. At his signal, they broke cover and dashed to the far side of the corridor, spraying shots in the direction of the gymnasium doors some fifty feet away. There was a rapid volley of return fire and 9 millimeter slugs tore chunks from the rendered concrete walls. But their sudden movement had caught the lone shooter by surprise and neither man was hit.
The three mercenaries were under no delusions as to what they had to do, Kormann or no Kormann. The radio was alive with reports of incoming choppers and the sound of machine-gun fire. Their only chance of survival was to get the hostages under their control once more, to hold them as a bargaining chip for their own escape. If the rescue team arrived and found the current stalemate, Alston and the others were toast, and they knew it.
Alston looked across to the opposite corner, caught Milgate’s eye and nodded. The other man leaned around the corner and sprayed the door with a burst from his Ingram. As he did so, Alston, knowing that the shooter at the door would be concentrating on the opposite side of the corridor, stepped half clear, the Stinger tube already on his shoulder.
There was no lock-on light or tone because with no heat source, they had disconnected the infrared seeking head. But the target was one he couldn’t miss—a double set of doors fifty feet away. He centered the crosshairs on the door and pressed the trigger. The pause before the rocket launched was only half a second or so but it seemed forever to him as a bullet slammed the wall beside him, showering him with concrete chips. He flinched and the crosshairs moved fractionally, then the launcher fired, throwing the missile clear of the tube. Halfway to the door, the main rocket motor ignited and the corridor was full of acrid smoke and howling noise.
Ralph, emptying the Beretta at the machine-gunner, saw Alston too late. He saw the Stinger leap clear of the tube and scream toward him as if in slow motion, the vast smoke trail behind it obliterating everything else from sight. Then the rocket slammed into the right-hand-side door, smashing it into huge shards of toughened glass and hurling it open, scattering the hastily constructed barricade with the sheer force of its momentum. The warhead didn’t explode—the oblique impact wasn’t enough to crush the detonator. But the out-of-control rocket, capable of reaching out and nailing a fast-moving jet, transformed its speed and energy into an irresistible battering force as it slammed through the doorway, scattering the barricade and hurling Ralph to one side, slashed cruelly by the broken safety glass and already dying from horrific burns as the white-hot exhaust flame flayed the clothes and flesh from three-quarters of his body.
The last-minute wavering of Alston’s aim meant the rocket hit the right-hand-side door, not the center gap. So it was deflected slightly as it smashed through the glass, then more so as it hit the chrome uprights of a Nautilus weight machine. It toppled end over end, the rocket motor sending a deafening scream through the room, caromed off the floor, spinning for a moment like a giant Catherine-wheel, then slithered at blinding speed toward the outside wall, slamming into the painted concrete, crushing the nose-cone and finally, finally tripping the detonator inside.
The three-kilogram warhead exploded in a flash of orange flame and a cloud of white-hot metal shrapnel.
There were fifty people huddled behind a hastily erected shelter within thirty feet of the explosion. The shrapnel ripped through the blankets and exercise machines. Four of the hostages died almost instantly. Another eight were injured by the shrapnel, Senator Carling among them.
Nate Pell, Tina Bowden and Carl Aldiss all survived. Blinded and coughing from the choking smoke, which would account for another two lives within the next eight hours, they huddled together behind an upturned weight bench, flinching as shrapnel rang against the metal base. Then Pell, coughing, was on his feet, pistol in hand, as he yelled to them.
“They’ll hit us in the smoke! Get up! Get up!”
His battle-hardened instincts knew that the guards would follow up the confusion caused by the explosion. He staggered toward the doorway, sensing Tina behind and beside him. He thought he saw a shadowy figure in the smoke ahead of him and fired twice. Somewhere close at hand he heard an Ingram’s tearing rattle. Whether it was Carl Aldiss or one of the mercenaries, he had no idea. His eyes stung, streaming tears and he felt a savage hammer blow in his right leg, felt himself falling, felt the sickness and nausea of shock welling up inside him as he hit the hard nylon carpet.
He sensed a figure above him and tried to raise the pistol, but a soft hand touched his face and he realized it was Tina, crouching over him to protect him.
“It’s okay!” she was saying, her voice racked by a fit of coughing as the smoke seared her throat. “It’s okay!” then he heard the sharp bark of her pistol and he felt his eyes closing.
THE WALL
SNOW EAGLES MOUNTAIN
WASATCH COUNTY
1208 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
FRIDAY, DAY 7
It dropped away before him. Steep. Impossibly steep. Unforgiving and undefeated.
Fear and self-doubt made the near-vertical snow face seem even steeper as Jesse hesitated at the top of The Wall.
The four gunmen would be after him any minute. He could ski down Drifter and leave them behind, take cover in the trees and hope that everything worked out all right. Odds were he’d survive. Even if Kormann set off an avalanche, Jesse could ski out of its path, back into the center of the canyon. The danger area lay between the top station and the hotel itself, he knew, and he could avoid that, given the time.
But below him lay the means to stop Kormann. All he had to do was reach it. And to reach it, he had to ski The Wall.
Not just ski it, but stay on his feet and stay in control, because if he fell, he’d slide and tumble all the way to the bottom. He took a deep, shuddering breath. This was more than a simple personal test of courage and commitment, more than a battle with his own fears. If he surrendered to the fear this time, he was surrendering the lives of the fifty hostages, condemning them to a thundering, suffocating, crushing death.
He hesitated, breathing deeply, gathering his resolve. Fittingly, the steep wall of snow that stretched below him was in shadow, dark and cold under the close-growing trees that lined either side of the narrow chute. He glanced quickly back up the track to the top station. His pursuers were just visible a hundred and fifty yards away, rounding a bend in the trail, floundering on the uneven snow. Out to his right, the cable car continued to climb inexorably up the mountain, now nearly halfway through its journey.
Behind him, a rattle of automatic fire, but no sound of the bullets passing nearby. The range was still too great for that. He took a deep breath, flexed his legs, bent forward, willing himself to go, yet, at the last moment, unable to commit himself.
Go! His mind screamed. Go now!
And then he did, the scream torn from his mind and emerging from his throat as a high-pitched keening yell and he thrust up and out with his legs and thighs, angling his body out over the giddying drop below him, plunging fifteen feet down through the cold air and then feeling the impact of skis against the soft snow, feeling them dig in and hold as his knees flexed to absorb the landing, feet and skis at forty-five degrees to the fall
line and his mind screaming at him: Stay out with the upper body! Stay out!
Then reach far down the face and plant the pole… slamming it in too hard but never mind style, he’d reached far enough to keep his upper body facing the terrifying slope… now thrust with the knees and thighs and spring high and clear, letting his legs rotate back through one hundred and twenty degrees, while his upper body hardly moved… and down again! Feel the skis thrusting into the snow, the edges biting and controlling and holding him as he maintained that vital upper-body position.
Scream and jump again! Up and out and down again, thrusting, controlling and Christ don’t lean back into the mountain! Leap out and up again, fighting the urge to rear back, away from the steep, dizzying drop below, getting it under control again and now a rhythm was beginning to assert itself: jump and turn and jump and turn and he felt an almost primal surge of satisfaction at being in control, of giving himself over to the rhythm as his fears scuttled back into the dark hole from which they had emerged.
Don’t turn when you want to, he’d been told years before, turn when the rhythm wants to. And now he did that, obeying the rhythm, leaping, twisting, regardless of the fact that every time his skis drove into the snow face they set off mini-avalanches of their own, falling through fifteen to twenty feet of space with each jump before his skis made their tenuous contact once more on the near vertical slope.
And there was the timber platform, just below him, and he dug in with the skis and threw arms and upper body way, way out over the abyss, holding them there against all seeming logic and every demand of intellect, as he felt the exhilarating downhill rush slowly dragged to a halt by the resistance of the skis in the thick, powdery snow.
And it was over.
He’d dropped a few feet below the platform and now he shuffled hurriedly back uphill, sliding forward until his skis grated on the rough, untrimmed planks beneath the covering of snow. He released his bindings and stepped clear of the skis, running the few steps to the canvas-shrouded shape at the outer edge of the platform.