The Emperor's Revenge

SIXTEEN

Eddie Seng nudged the bow of the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat, or RHIB, onto the narrow beach a half mile up the peninsula from Vlorë Castle. It scuffed the sand with a sound barely louder than the nearly silent electric motor that he was using instead of the powerful twin outboard diesels that could push the RHIB over fifty knots. The boat was specifically designed for use by Special Forces around the world and allowed Eddie, Franklin Lincoln, and Mike Trono to remain unseen and unheard from the castle.

With heavy cloud cover blotting out the crescent moon, the midnight landing was so dark that the three of them wore night vision goggles. Eddie shut off the motor while Linc and Trono anchored the RHIB to a rock. Dressed all in black, they were difficult to see even with the goggles. Without a word, they grabbed their packs and weapons and crept up a switchback path, worn into the side of the hill, leading up to the road.

At the top, Eddie peered over the edge. Pocked asphalt stretched to the castle a half mile in one direction and to a small town five miles the other way, where the peninsula jutted from the mainland. Potent spotlights around the castle gate and easy sight lines from the battlements made a land approach suicide. But visibility from those lights ended a quarter mile away from them, so Eddie was confident they’d go undetected.

No cars were in sight.

“Clear,” Eddie said quietly into his throat mic pressing against his neck.

Eddie and Linc took up prone positions, Eddie aiming his M4 assault rifle toward the castle and Linc facing the town. Eddie nodded at Trono, who raced across the road and started climbing the telephone pole. Using crampons attached to his boots and a belt slung around the wooden pole, he scurried up as easily as a squirrel.

“Look at him go,” Linc said. “Those flyboys love heading for the sky.”

Mike Trono, slender of build and with fine brown hair peeking out from under his wool hat, had served in the Air Force as a pararescue jumper, and then raced powerboats to get his adrenaline fix, before joining the Corporation. Being one of the few non — Navy veterans on board the Oregon made him the frequent target of ribbing.

“‘Aim high’ is our motto,” Trono said into his mic as he hoisted himself up. “Linc, what’s the Navy motto? Oh, right, it doesn’t have an official one.”

“Don’t need it,” Linc said. “That’s how much more awesome we are than the Air Force.”

That got a small chuckle from Trono, who was now at the top of the pole.

“I see power, telephone, and fiber-optic lines,” he said.

“The fiber-optic line gives them a fast Internet connection for their hacking activities.”

“Not for much longer,” Trono said. “Planting the C-4.”

After a few minutes, Trono announced that the charges were in place and climbed back down. He took up watch while Linc jogged a hundred yards in the direction of town to lay low-reflection spike strips across the road.

Eddie took out his binoculars and trained them on the Albanian Coast Guard base at the end of the harbor next to town. There were two patrol craft tied to the dock, but no large cutter. Eddie couldn’t see any movement.

When Linc was done, he jogged back, and the three of them crouched down along the side of the road.

Eddie keyed his encrypted shore-to-ship radio.

“Welcome Wagon here,” he said to Hali, who was manning communications on the other end in the Oregon’s op center. “The reception committee is all set. Let the Chairman know he can start the party.”

The Nomad 1000 submarine hovered in its spot next to the castle, submerged at periscope depth. Already in his drysuit, Juan stood behind Max, who was piloting the sub. The view from the periscope’s remote camera showed no one on the wall, looking down at them.

“Hali tells me that Eddie and his team are in place and set,” Max said.

Juan checked his watch. “Right on schedule.”

“Eddie is a stickler for punctuality.” Max turned to look at Juan with a serious expression. “After you’re away, I’d like to hang around. Just in case. Linda doesn’t need me.” Linda was back on the Oregon in command of the ship.

“I need you to get back to the Oregon and stow Nomad. Once we nab Whyvern, we’ll have to get out of here pronto, and Nomad’s built for comfort, not speed.”

The sixty-five-foot-long Nomad could dive to a depth of one thousand feet and had an onboard air lock, perfect for clandestine insertions like the one they were about to attempt. She looked like a miniaturized version of a nuclear sub, with a polycarbonate nose, where Max sat, and robotic claws jutting from the chin. Including a pilot and copilot, she had room for up to ten people.

Juan slapped Max on the shoulder and went into the passenger compartment. Gretchen, Murph, and MacD Lawless were making their final preparations.

Gretchen and Murph were on the mission for their expertise in finance and computers, while MacD was along for his skills as a former U.S. Army Ranger. MacD was short for his middle name, MacDougal, which he liked marginally better than his first name, Marion. Muscular and blessed with a face of a heartthrob — though his features were now covered with black greasepaint like the others — he gave Gomez Adams a close race in the good-looks department.

As he pulled on his drysuit over the same black combat gear they all wore, MacD unleashed his syrupy Louisiana drawl on Murph. “Ah know these guys like their funny names, but what in the world does Whyvern mean?”

“A wyvern is a type of dragon,” Murph replied. “It has two forelegs, and a snake’s body, and probably came from the—”

“Ah know what a wyvern is, but why is this guy called Whyvern. He got no legs?” Then MacD saw Juan pulling his drysuit over his combat leg and winced at the question.

Juan smiled. “Don’t worry, MacD. I’m sure Whyvern makes do fine with just a tail.”

Gretchen chuckled at that. She knew about his missing leg. Not only had she been amazed that she hadn’t noticed any difference in his gait, but she’d been fascinated by the hidden compartments in the titanium-reinforced prosthesis, which had room for a .45 caliber ACP Colt Defender, a ceramic knife, and a wad of plastic explosive and a detonator no bigger than a deck of cards. A single .44 caliber slug could be fired from the heel.

“Remember,” Juan said, mainly for the benefit of Gretchen, who wasn’t accustomed to their routines and coordination, “this is a quick snatch-and-go, so we’ll avoid engaging Simaku’s men, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Eddie’s ready at the post-extraction rendezvous, so let’s get going.”

The plan was to get into the castle silently, abduct Erion Kula, and go out through the front gate using one of Simaku’s own cars, dropping spike strips behind them. The sharp prongs would puncture the tires of any pursuing cars, giving them time to escape with Eddie’s team on the RHIB.

Juan opened the air lock hatch and gestured for Gretchen to enter. “Ladies first.”

“Chivalrous as always,” she said, and climbed inside the cramped confines.

Juan squeezed in with her, holding his helmet so that he wouldn’t have to clamp it onto his suit until the last possible moment. The drysuits were clumsy, but they would keep their clothes from getting soaked. Wetsuits would leave telltale trails of water during their infiltration.

With their bodies pressed together and facing eye to eye, the awkwardness came back. Juan could tell Gretchen felt it as well, but both of them were too professional to say anything. They had a job to do.

Juan reached for the valve that would flood the air lock. “Ready? This is your last chance to bail out if you’re having second thoughts.”

She tilted her head at him as if to say Really? and clamped the helmet to her suit. “Do it.”

Juan opened the valve and water rose from the floor. The drysuit kept the cold at bay. He attached his own helmet while watching Gretchen. She had her eyes closed in a meditative state, and he could feel a slight press of her body with each deep breath she inhaled.

Juan shook his head and focused on the mission. When the readout indicated that the pressure was equalized with the water outside, he opened the hatch. He swam up, and pulled the packs behind him, before helping Gretchen out. They crouched on the deck of the sub, the ocean surface just ten feet above them, as they waited for Murph and MacD to complete the same process.

When everyone was out and the sub was sealed again, they swam for the cliff face, which plunged down from the castle into the water like a rocky wall. There was just enough room to pull themselves onto a small ledge they’d identified in their reconnaissance. No one on the wall would see anything amiss unless they happened to be looking straight down.

They quickly stripped off their drysuits, and Juan shoved them into a container that was attached to a nylon line leading back to the sub. The rest of them retrieved their equipment and weapons from the drybags.

“Our feet are dry,” Juan said to Max over the comm link. “Reel it in.”

“Starting the winch,” Max replied. “See you soon.”

The container slipped into the water and was pulled back to the sub. No sense in leaving the expensive drysuits behind.

MacD withdrew a crossbow from his pack and loaded it with a rubberized three-pronged hook connected to a rope that disappeared into the bag. He nodded at Juan.

Juan keyed the radio linked to his throat mic. “Do you read me, Hali?”

“Loud and clear, Chairman.”

“We’re in position.”

“Roger. Gomez spotted you from the drone as soon as you climbed out of the water. Pretty eerie.”

“I bet. Any guards up above?”

“They just finished their quarter-hour sweep. You have fourteen minutes until the next one. No one is in sight on the wall.”

“Good. Keep us posted if you spot anyone.”

“Absolutely.”

Juan looked at MacD. “Let’s make like Spider-Man.”

MacD grinned and shouldered the crossbow. With a press of the trigger, the hook arced silently up over the battlement, trailing a rope ladder behind it. MacD slung the crossbow over his back and pulled the ladder down until the rubberized hook was firmly snagged on the wall above.

“We’re good to go,” he said.

Gretchen stepped forward and flashed a smile. “Ladies first again?”

Juan shook his head and put his head through the sling of his silenced MP5 submachine gun. “This time, you’re second.” He insisted on being first in and last out on a mission whenever possible.

He tested the rope ladder and found that it could hold his weight. A glance at his watch told him that there were thirteen minutes left before the next security patrol.

That is, if the guards kept to their regular schedule.

Juan put his foot into the lowest ladder rung and began to climb.