Ghost Ship

FIFTY

Aboard the lead Black Hawk, code-named Dragon One, Lt. Brooks studied his men as the strike team continued inbound. Some of the men talked and joked, some checked their weapons and gear repeatedly in some kind of ritual, and others had faces of stone. Different personalities got ready for battle in different ways, but one look told Brooks they were ready.

So far, they’d come three hundred miles south, met up with the tanker aircraft, and completed the tricky nighttime refueling operation without incident. From that point they’d turned southeast and were now tracking for the coast, traveling in formation, at a hundred thirty knots a mere fifty feet above the surface of the Mozambique Channel.

“We’ll be crossing into Madagascar airspace in seven minutes,” the pilot informed him.

“Any word from the Bataan?”

“Nothing yet,” the pilot said. “If we don’t get final authorization by the time we hit that limit, I’ll have no choice but to abort.”

Brooks understood. He was in charge of the mission, but those were the standing orders. “Throttle back a bit,” he suggested. “And take us parallel to the line for a while.” “Sir?”

“It’ll save us some fuel,” Brooks said, “and it’ll give those marine biologists a little more time to make contact.” “You really think they’re going to pull this off?” the pilot asked skeptically.

“I’m not sure,” Brooks said, “but I’d hate to be headed home if they call for help.”

The pilot nodded his agreement, made a quick radio call to the other helicopters, and then banked to the right and began reducing speed. The other Black Hawks matched him, and the headlong race toward the coast became a more leisurely flight parallel to it. There was little danger of them being picked up on radar — Madagascar had only a primitive network. Fuel and time were bigger concerns.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” the pilot said, “we’ve dialed it down to the economy setting. But we can’t do this for too long.” As it turned out, they didn’t have to. Fifteen minutes later, a signal came over the satellite downlink.

“Dragon leader, this is Courthouse. Do you copy?”

Courthouse was the Bataan’s code name. Brooks pressed the transmit switch. “Courthouse, this is Dragon leader, go ahead.”

“You are cleared to the objective. Current target status is green. Friendlies have been identified. Total of fifteen, possibly sixteen. Their location will be marked by a green flare and smoke. Other buildings are believed to hold up to twenty hostiles. Light weapons are indicated.”

A surge of adrenaline pumped through Brooks and he glanced at the pilot and toward the coast like a referee signaling first down. The pilot took the hint, turned inbound once again, and brought the Black Hawk back up to full speed.

“Roger that, Courthouse. We are two minutes from continental divide and inbound to the target. Will contact you on our way home.”

As the mission director from the Bataan signed off, Brooks considered the state of things. In a world that had grown used to watching their military operations play out in real time, this one was being blacked out. There was no feed being broadcast to the Situation Room in the White House, no group of generals and politicians watching the play-by-play as if it were a movie or a big game. With the whole government unsure which systems were still secure and which had been hacked, no one was taking a chance. The powers that be would wait in silence. Eventually, they’d receive a simple phone call from the Bataan’s commander telling them if the mission had succeeded or failed.

As the Marine strike force turned inbound, Kurt made his way around the side of the Brèvard palace. Lights aimed up at the structure meant the last ten feet or so would expose him no matter how the infiltration suit attempted to compensate. Instead of crossing through them, he swung wide, passed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and made his way around the back. There he found an overhanging veranda.

Using a chair to boost himself up, he clambered onto the deck and sprinted forward. He managed to force the door and slip inside.

Thankful that he’d set off no alarm system in the process, he moved into the hall and found himself surrounded by framed works of art, intricate tapestries, and statues that looked as if they might belong in a museum.

He needed to find a stairwell that led upward and began to move down the hall, stopping at the sound of footfalls coming his way from an adjacent corridor.

He backtracked and took cover behind a statue of some Greek hero with a laurel leaf on his head and pressed himself as far into the shadows as possible until the figure passed by.

It was Calista. She was speaking into a radio, giving orders about something. She never saw Kurt or even looked in his direction. As she reached the far end of the hall, she disappeared into a room.

In a house of many rooms, Kurt knew he’d be hard-pressed to find the right one in time. But seeing Calista pass by brought a new idea to mind. Checking the hall in both directions and seeing no one else coming, he moved from behind the statue and backtracked, heading toward the room Calista had just entered.