Code of Honor полностью

Ryan studied the map, thinking. “What do we have in the area?” He needed the thumb drive that contained Calliope, but he was more concerned about his people. He didn’t know Adara Sherman well, but along with John Clark, Ding Chavez had run his protection detail when he was with CIA. Now it was time to return the favor. Humans over hardware — every time.

“USS Fort Worth is one hundred ninety nautical miles to the south,” Commander Forestall said. He was one of the most consistent briefers Ryan had ever seen. “She’s steaming out of Darwin, patrolling her way to the Philippines on antipiracy duty. NOAA reports a sea state in the Banda Sea between two and three so the Fort Worth could push it and be on scene in under four hours.”

“She has a helicopter on board?” Ryan asked.

“That’s correct, Mr. President. An MH-60 and an MQ-8 Fire Scout UAV.”

“Good,” Ryan said. “This reef looks like it would make a boat rescue problematic.” Ryan arched his back, feeling it snap and crack. “All possible speed,” he said, then looked up. “Out of curiosity, who’s the skipper?”

“You’ve heard of him, Mr. President,” Forestall said. “Capable man.”

The sun was up, and Chavez could see at least a dozen of Deddy’s heavily armed compatriots waiting at the end of the airstrip. At least he thought he could see them. His head was on fire, and his vision skewed like he was looking through two pairs of glasses at once.

Grinning maniacally, the copilot attempted to line up on final. Deddy argued that he should land there because the nearby road Adara had pointed out had been abandoned because it was too rocky and short. It was, he said, overgrown with vegetation, and far too dangerous. Chavez explained in none-too-gentle terms that, though the men waiting below would surely kill him and Adara, he would shoot both the pilots in the head as soon as they were on the ground. Where landing on the nearby road was risky, landing on the airstrip meant certain death for everyone on the plane.

The Hawker had broken off to land on the actual airstrip. The F-15 pilot was reluctant to shoot a business jet out of the sky when it wasn’t an immediate threat. Chavez couldn’t blame him. The Monday-morning quarterbacks would have a field day with that one. Still, Chavez was certain that he was going to get to meet Habib very soon on the ground.

They were supposed to rendezvous with the Fort Worth on the south side of the island — but there was no place there to land.

The Hawker’s impact with the Cheyenne’s tail gave little horizontal control on landing. They hit hard, slamming Chavez sideways into the wall of the cabin. Reflexively, he reached for the armrest, feeling the bones in his wrist snap in the process. Well, shit, he thought. That was going to be a problem. He could shoot left-handed, but a fight wouldn’t be much fun. The break didn’t hurt much, at least not as bad as his pounding headache. He was still too hyped on adrenaline — but before long, that wouldn’t be enough. Chavez caught Adara’s eye. They’d worked together long enough that she would be able to tell from the strain on his face that something was terribly wrong. He didn’t want to advertise his injury to Deddy, but she needed to know he was far from a hundred percent.

Other than a cut on her chin, she seemed to be all right. He touched his wrist and shook his head to try and silence the pain before switching the pistol to his left hand.

The airstrip was a scant two miles from the road where the Cheyenne touched down, both on the north side of the island. Adara flung open the back door and they were down the stairs as soon as the plane skidded to a stop, leaving Deddy and the chuckling copilot still on board. Chavez didn’t hold much hope that they would make it out of this alive since they’d allowed themselves to be hijacked, but he had no time to worry over them.

He’d gotten a look at the terrain before the plane landed. The island was small and, apart from the fishing settlement on the north side, sparsely populated, with just a few pearl shacks around the periphery. Only five or six miles across from north to south shores, the interior of the island was a long hogback ridge. The northern slopes looked slightly steeper, while the southern side stepped down into a narrow valley before reaching the protected lagoon. The navigation chart put the tallest point at four hundred and fifty meters, not too tall in the great scheme of things, but every inch of it covered in thick jungle vegetation.

Chavez and Adara hit the line of vegetation at a run, wanting to put as much distance between them and the Cheyenne as possible before Habib’s friends arrived.