Checkmate Read Free Page B

close; the memories were haunting.
    Grimsdottir said, “Projected impact point is False Cape Landing, just south of Virginia Beach. You’ve got fourteen minutes.”
    “Any sign of life aboard?”
    “None. The infrared signature is so hot we can’t tell if there are warm bodies aboard.”
    Lambert said, “Best to assume so, Sam. What’s your time-to-target?”
    “Nine minutes.”
    “Not much time. The F-16s are authorized to shoot four minutes after you land.”
    “Then I guess I better show up early,” Fisher said, and signed off.
    He flipped his trident goggles down over his eyes and switched to night vision, then rotated his body, head down, legs straight out and up. The Goshawk responded instantly and dove toward the ocean.
    He kept his eyes fixed on the OPSAT’s altimeter as the numbers wound down:
    2000 feet . . . 1500 . . . 1000 . . . 500 . . . 300 .
    He arched his back and swung his knees to his chest. The Goshawk shuddered. In the gray-green of Fisher’s NV goggles, the ocean’s surface loomed, a black wall filling his field of vision. Come on . . . . The Goshawk flared out and went level. The horizon appeared in the goggles.
    Call that the Goshawk’s extreme field test, Fisher thought, giving the parafoil a silent thanks.
    He checked the OPSAT. The freighter was two miles ahead and slightly to the east. He banked that way and descended to one hundred feet.
    He tapped APPROACH on the OPSAT’s screen and the view changed to a wire-frame 3D model of the Trego bracketed by a pair of flashing diagonal lines. He switched his goggles to binocular view and zoomed in until he could see the faint outline of the ship’s superstructure silhouetted against the sky. He saw no movement on deck. Astern, the ship’s wake showed as a churned white fan. Aside from the port and starboard running lights, everything was dark.
    Sam zoomed again. Two miles beyond the freighter’s bow he could see the dark smudge of the coast; beyond that, the twinkling lights of Virginia Beach.
    And half a million people, he thought.
    He matched his angle-of-descent with the OPSAT’s readout until he was one hundred feet off the Trego ’s stern, then arched his back, lifting the Goshawk’s nose. As he flared out and the aft rail passed beneath his feet, a gust of wind caught the Goshawk. Fisher was pushed sideways, back over the water. He twisted his body. The Goshawk veered right. He bent his knees to take the impact.
    With a surprisingly gentle thump, he touched down.
    In one fluid movement, he reached up, pulled the Goshawk’s “crumple bar” to collapse the parafoil, disengaged his harness, then dragged it to a nearby tie-down cleat in the deck and locked it down using the D ring.
    Suddenly, to his right he heard a roar. He glanced up in time to see the underbelly of an F-16 swoop past, wing strobes flashing in the darkness. Then it was gone, climbing up and away.
    Giving me fair warning? Sam wondered. Or wishing me good luck?
    He looked around to get his bearings, tapped his earpiece, said, “I’m on deck,” then drew his Beretta and sprinted toward the nearest ladder.

3
    WHEN he reached the top of the ladder, he dropped into a crouch and ducked behind a nearby crate. He went still, listened. Aside from the rhythmic chug of the Trego ’s engines and the snapping of tarps in the wind, all was quiet.
    He called up the ship’s blueprint on the OPSAT. He was on the main deck; the bridge was near the bow, some four hundred feet away. To get there, he could either duck belowdecks and make a stealthy approach, or make a straight sprint in the open. His preference would have been the former, but time was not on his side.
    He keyed his subdermal: “Tell me something, Grimsdottir: Exactly how hot is this ship?”
    “You mean how long can you stay aboard before you start glowing?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Hard to say, but I wouldn’t linger more than fifteen minutes.”
    “Good to know. Out.”
    Fisher took a breath and started