Ghost Ship

FIFTY-ONE

Calista was ready to leave. Over the years she’d begun to feel claustrophobic in the family home, a sensation that had only gotten worse over the past few months. Grabbing a small backpack from a shelf in her closet, she began to pack.

Ever the pragmatist, she didn’t care for the clothes or the jewels. Her items of importance were those that would be useful: passports in several names, bundles of cash in a few different currencies, a knife, a pistol, and three spare magazines. The one item of sentimental value she had was a necklace with a diamond ring hanging from it that had belonged to their mother. Sebastian had given it to her.

She eyed the necklace for a moment and then placed it into a side pocket and zipped the pocket shut. Nothing else in the opulent mansion mattered to her. It was all fake. The artwork, tapestries, and the antique furniture were nothing but good forgeries. That’s what their family did. They gave life to lies.

About the only thing she would miss were the horses. As she thought about her favorite, a horse named Tana, which meant “sunshine” in Malagasy, it dawned on her that Sebastian might have rigged the stables to explode like everything else in the compound.

This struck her as cruel. Humankind was fairly worthless in her eyes, but animals, in their innocence, were something else. They had no schemes or desires other than to please their masters and receive their rewards in the form of food and shelter and attention.

She zipped the bag shut and decided to hike down to the stable and turn the animals out. There was no reason for them to burn to death.

Throwing the pack over one shoulder, she left the bedroom, entered her sitting room, and tracked straight for the door. As she approached the door, she noticed it was closed but not shut. That was more than odd, she never left the door unlatched.

She put her hand in the bag, grabbing for her pistol.

“Sorry, Calista,” a voice said from behind her. “I’m afraid it’s game over.”

She froze in her tracks. The timbre of the voice was easily recognizable, as was the calm and certain delivery of the words. She had no doubt that Kurt Austin was standing behind her.

“Toss the bag on the floor and turn around slowly,” he said.

She let her shoulders sag and flipped the backpack into a corner. Pivoting slowly, she found Kurt sitting in a high-backed Victorian chair, aiming a lethal-looking rifle in her direction.

“I believe we’ve done this before,” she said.

“We have,” Kurt replied, standing up. “And we’re going to keep doing it until we get it right.”

She studied him for a moment. He looked out of place with all the armor. Less handsome, less unique. As if he’d read her mind, he pulled off the hood.

“How on earth did you get in here?” she asked. “We have cameras, guards, motion sensors.”

“Nothing’s foolproof,” Kurt said.

That much was certain. “You can’t expect to get out alive,” she said. “We’re ready for you. We’ve been waiting for you to make a move.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really?” he said. “Because it doesn’t look that way to me. Your men at the front gate are half asleep. The gang in the bunkhouse are celebrating like it’s Bastille Day. And we’ve already found the hostages while taking out two of your guards. All without the slightest peep from the rest of you.”

“There are at least fifty men here loyal to my brothers and me. You’re overwhelmingly outnumbered.”

“For now,” he said smugly.

She pursed her lips. So there were reinforcements coming. And coming soon. Her brother was sitting around foolishly thinking they were not in danger yet. Her feelings were torn. Silently she cursed him for his arrogance even as she wished she could warn him.

“If you’ve already won, then what do you want from me?” she asked. “Answers perhaps? Are you still trying to figure out what happened to you on the Ethernet?”

He smiled at her. It was a grin both endearing and proud. “Too late for that,” he said. “I know what happened. Enough of it anyway. It all came back once they debugged me in Korea.”

She shifted her weight. “Then you know if it wasn’t for me, you’d have been killed and buried at sea in the hull of that yacht just like all the others we encountered.”

“Considering that you caused the danger in the first place, that doesn’t really carry a lot of weight with me. On the other hand,” he added, “I do have a newfound appreciation for the importance of remembering the past accurately, thanks to you. That being the case, I thought I’d return the favor.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, growing tired of the conversation.

He studied her with those ice-blue eyes, taking her in, measuring her. Finally, he unzipped a diagonal pocket on the right sight of his vest and pulled from it a folded sheet of paper. He placed it down on the small stand between the chairs, smoothed it flat, and then pulled away.

“Take a look” was all he said.

She hesitated and then stepped cautiously forward, reaching for the paper like someone might reach for a dangerous animal, keeping as much distance between her body and the printed sheet as possible.

She tilted the page to catch the light and gave the image a quick once-over. “What is this supposed to be?”

“It’s a family,” he said. “Believe or not, it’s your family. Your real family.”

She looked up at him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

She noticed he was watching her with a sort of detached, almost professorial look.

“The Brèvards aren’t your family, Calista, the people in the photograph are. The woman’s name is Abigail. She was your mother. Her friends called her Abby. The man’s name is Stewart, he was your father. The two boys are Nathan and Zack — or I should say, they were named Nathan and Zack.”

For reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, she began to feel sick. “You expect me to believe this?”

“Look at the woman. Look at her face. You two could be twins.”

She wasn’t blind, she saw the likeness. It was nonsense. “You think you can trick me?”

He didn’t blink. “It’s not a trick. Your mother was a telecommunications expert, your father worked on satellite guidance. They were both very intelligent people, brilliant in their understandings of math and science. Just like you, I’m guessing. They had a good life in suburban England. Unfortunately, the Brèvard family came along, took them from the world, and made them disappear, the same way you kidnapped Sienna and her children. They were bartered for and used for what they knew the same exact way you and Sebastian and the rest of this sick family have used the people you’re holding hostage.”

She was shaking her head, filled with rage, a kind of rage she was having a hard time controlling. It was unlike her — she was cold, emotionless. Why should this make her so angry? she wondered. Of course he would lie. Of course he would try something to confuse her. But why, if he and his friends were all but assured of victory in their own minds, would he bother?

She felt an urge to charge him, to put her hands around his throat and choke the life out of him if she could. Even if he shot her in response, at least she wouldn’t have to listen to any more of this.

She lunged for him. “You’re a liar,” she screamed.

She slammed one fist into his chest, where it uselessly struck the body armor, and reached for his face with her other hand, intent on clawing out his eyes. But he was too quick and too strong. He caught her arm and stopped it. He spun her around and folded her arms across her chest, holding her from behind.

“I’m not lying,” he said. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But you should know the truth.”

“I don’t want to know!”

“Believe me, you do,” he said. “Because these people are better than the Brèvards. These people loved life, they didn’t abuse and destroy it, and you’re one of them.”

She continued to thrash and tried to slam and elbow him, but it was no use.

“I know what kind of hell it is to wonder what’s real and what isn’t,” he said quietly. “I know what you’re going through right now. I lived it for months, but you’ve had it worse, you’ve lived it all your life. I can only imagine what it’s done to you.”

“It’s done nothing,” she insisted, trying desperately to kick him and pull free.

He turned her around and looked into her eyes. “Your father was killed trying to escape his captors,” he said. “He was gunned down in broad daylight by a man who was never found. He’d been gagged and beaten. He’d been tortured.”

“Stop it!”

“Your mother and brothers fared worse. They’d found a lifeboat on a ship half buried in the sand, but they didn’t have enough water. They died from dehydration, drifting on the ocean a hundred miles from here.”

She froze. “What did you say?”

“They died at sea,” he repeated, “on a lifeboat half gutted with rot. We’re pretty certain they found it on an old ship that was buried in the river several miles from here.”

An image flashed in her mind, it struck like a bolt of lightning. A brief glimpse of the rivets on the dark metal plating, the rushing river, the sediment being scoured away. “A ship,” she whispered. “An old iron ship?”

A second bolt of lightning struck. It was night. There was only a sliver of moonlight to see with. A woman had her by the wrist, leading her toward the hill. Two boys were dragging a small wooden boat from a cave they’d excavated in the sand.

“It’s a lie,” she protested.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “Your truth.”

She’d ceased struggling now, her mind adrift. He continued to hold her tight, perhaps because he couldn’t trust her. But as her legs began to shake, she felt he was holding her up, keeping her from buckling right then and there.

The memories continued to come. Men chasing them. A gunshot ripped through one of the containers. The water was spilling out. Disaster.

“There’s not enough water,” Calista spoke aloud.

More gunshots. The woman fell.

“They shot her,” Calista said to no one.

“She was wounded,” Kurt replied softly. “But it was superficial.”

“She fell down the hill.”

In her mind, Calista heard the woman shout.

“Olivia!”

Calista felt only fear — terrible, swirling fear.

“Mum!” one of the boys had yelled.

“Olivia, hurry!”

More gunshots sounded and the woman turned and ran. Calista just stood there on the hill, while down below, her mother and brothers pushed the small boat out into the water. She saw them climb on board and paddle into the darkness, moving swiftly with the current. She felt the men rush by her, watched as they scrambled down the bank, and listened as they fired again and again into the dark.

But she never flinched. She just stood there and stared until eventually the shooting ceased and one of the men came up to her and took her hand.

“I let them go without me,” she said to Kurt.

She was sobbing, dropping to the ground. Kurt eased her down gently.

“There wasn’t enough water,” he told her. “Not enough for three. Certainly not enough for four.”

She was sobbing and shaking and then suddenly angry again. “You have no right! No right to…”

The insanity of what she was saying cut her off before she’d finished.

“The Brèvard family stole your life,” he said. “Maybe they realized how sharp you already were. Maybe they knew they could mold you into one of them. Maybe they planned to kill you and just never got around to it. But, whatever their reasons, they stole your life. They stole the lives of your family and we think many others. And if you let them, they’ll steal the lives of Sienna and her children and everyone else they’re holding in that oversize Quonset hut halfway down the hill.”

She noticed he kept saying “Sebastian” or the “Brèvard family,” but she knew her part in it. For a second she wanted to scream out, to yell at him, “This is who I am,” to claim it and own it and tell him to go to hell, but the desire faded. And tears returned uncontrollably.

Why shouldn’t her name and memories be false? Everything else around her was a lie.

As she cried, Kurt moved to a spot in front of her and gently wiped the tears from her face.

“Help me get to Sienna before the Marines arrive,” he said. “Sebastian is going to lose tonight. But I don’t want him using her as a shield or killing her in a fit of spite when he realizes it’s over for him.”

She looked up at him. There was kindness and determination in that face. The white knight, she thought. He really was.

“It’s not over for him,” she said.

“It will be soon.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she replied. “You may be early, but he knew a response would be coming. He’s got some nasty surprises waiting for your friends. And he’s got a plan of escape locked and loaded.”

“He couldn’t know we would be coming.”

“Not you, but he knew someone would be,” she said. “He’s waiting for it. While our men are fighting with your forces, he’ll blow this place to kingdom come. The hacking you’re seeing now will end and he’ll disappear — we’ll disappear — and the whole world will assume we’re dead.”

“So history does repeat itself,” Kurt said. “We have to stop him. And we have to stop whatever he has planned. Will you help me or not?”

She looked at him through the tears.

“I’ll trust you,” he said.

“Why would you?”

“Call it instinct,” he said, offering her a hand.

She hesitated. Her true desire was to remain there on the floor, to lie there until the fires came and consumed her. A fate she’d never been more certain she deserved.

“A wise man once told me, ‘We are who we decide to be,’ ” he said. “You have a choice. You can be Calista Brèvard or you can reclaim your humanity as Olivia Banister.”

The names seemed to fire something in her, but it wasn’t what he might have expected. Olivia was a frightened child, Calista was unafraid. Calista was a survivor, an instrument of power. And now, she thought, an instrument of retribution. She took Kurt’s hand and stood.

“No,” she said, “this is who I am. I’ll help you find Sienna. But don’t get between me and Sebastian. Because I’m going to kill him for what he and his family have done. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you too.”

“Your choice,” Kurt said. “Either way, let’s move. We don’t have much time.”

FIFTY-TWO

With Calista leading the way, the two of them strode the halls. Though Kurt had professed trust in her, he wasn’t about to give her a weapon. He just needed her to get him past the goons who would be guarding the control room. Or at least close enough so he could eliminate them.

“This way,” she said, turning down the hallway on the right. At that moment an alarm began to scream.

Kurt held still, wondering if she’d triggered something. “It wasn’t me,” she said, apparently guessing his thoughts. The sound of automatic gunfire outside the building reverberated through the hall followed by the unmistakable sound of helicopters passing overhead. The Marines had arrived and not unnoticed. The sound of a rocket screaming through the air was followed by an explosion and a flash of light through the windows at the far end of the hall.“We need to hurry,” Kurt said. He and Calista began to run.

They were almost to the end when one of Sebastian’s men came running the opposite way. “Calista,” he shouted. “We’re being attacked. No one is answering at the pen and…”

Just then he saw Kurt and quickly guessed that he was part of the assault. He swung a submachine gun around and fired.

Kurt saw it coming, pushed Calista out of the way, and dove to the polished floor. As shells ripped into the plaster behind him, he aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger almost simultaneously. The railgun spat a swarm of lethal iron projectiles that ripped into the man, taking him off his feet and knocking him over. He landed on his back, but the muscles in his hand must have contracted in a spasm because the submachine gun continued to fire, spraying a line of bullets along the wall and up into the ceiling, shattering two of the mirrors and blasting apart a suit of armor.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Kurt said. He got up, helped Calista to her feet once again, and took off down the hall.

At that very moment, Lt. Brooks and the members of the Force Recon platoon were thinking the exact same thing. They’d come in from the coast, flying along the deck, blackedout and watching for any sign they’d been detected or painted by the sweep of a radar beam.

All signs pointed to a clean entry. And then they’d crossed the wall of the sprawling compound and slowed to a hover so the strike teams could begin a fast rappel to the ground. But even as the ropes went out, they’d begun to take direct fire, not from any human targets on the ground but from remotely operated weapons.

From at least three spots in the garden, twin .50 caliber machine guns had risen from small maintenance sheds. They were tracking and turning and firing on the helicopters. One of the Black Hawks was already smoking and pulling away when Brooks gave the order to the rest of them.“Pull back,” he shouted. “Take evasive action.”

The pilot turned the craft away from the fire and began to move out, but the horrible rattling sound of shells ripping through the fuselage told Brooks it was too late. Shrapnel and bits of the cabin were blasted about like confetti. Blood splattered on the wall of the fuselage as at least one man took a hit.

At the same time, the helicopter lurched to the side, and Brooks saw that the pilot had also been wounded. They were spinning and going down.

The copilot took control and tried to right the craft, but they hit the ground with a crunch. The Black Hawk rolled over on its side, forcing the enormous rotor blades into the ground and shattering them into a thousand pieces.

“Go! Go! Go!” Brooks shouted, pushing one man out through the door and then grabbing the wounded pilot and scrambling to safety.

The Black Hawk’s crew and the twelve Marines were clear of the helicopter when it exploded. Three men were injured, as well as the pilot, and a mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had suddenly turned into a desperate fight.

The men took cover near a rock wall and set up a defensive perimeter. Brooks saw the other Black Hawks fleeing to safety. It looked as if they would all clear the danger zone when a missile launched from another dilapidated shed.

The fiery tail of the rocket was easy to track — it raced south after the helicopter and illuminated it in a ball of flame.

“Damn!” Brooks cursed. “We’ve been set up.”

By now men were streaming from the barracks, and small arms fire was whistling past overhead.

Brooks grabbed the radio and called out, “Dragon leader to Dragon team. Stay clear of the fire zone. I repeat, stay clear of the fire zone. Compound is more heavily defended than anticipated. Missiles and heavy-caliber weapons.”

“Dragon Three clear,” a call came back.

“Dragon Four also clear.”

That meant Black Hawk Two had taken the missile. Brooks had no way of determining if anyone had survived the explosion.

Brooks pressed the talk switch. “Dragon Five, what’s your position?”

Dragon Five was the spare helicopter brought in primarily to haul the hostages out, but it also carried two Navy medics.

“We’re still at point alpha. Do you need us?”

“Negative,” Brooks said. “Remain there until I contact you.”

“We’re not going to leave you down there, Lieutenant.”

“You will if I order you to,” Brooks replied. “Stay clear until I tell you otherwise.”

Putting the radio down, Brooks looked around at his men. Three of them were injured. That left nine, plus the copilot, who had to do more than fly at this point.

“Jones,” Brooks called to one of the men. “Get your squad to the south. Make sure no one flanks us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dalton, Garcia, you’re with me. We’ve got to find those guns and that missile battery and take ’em out.”

“Yes, sir,” the men replied in unison.

Under a covering fire, the three men moved out, racing fifty yards to the north and then scampering up the wall onto the next terrace.

As the unexpected battle raged all around the compound, Joe remained with the hostages. He could tell by the din of the explosions and the volume of gunfire that something had gone wrong.

“Everyone get on the floor,” he said. “Flip those tables over and pile up those mattresses.”

Almost on cue, gunfire ripped through the top of the building. Joe hit the deck along with everyone else. Prayers could be heard in three different languages. The sound of children whimpering needed no translation.

“I thought we were leaving?” someone asked.

“So did I,” Joe muttered.

Wondering what had gone wrong, Joe crawled to the door and pushed it open a crack. Flames lit up the sky at the bottom of the hill.

He heard the sounds of the helicopters maneuvering in the distance and the report of the heavy machine guns. Over the headset, he heard Brooks calling out that they’d been shot down and warning the others away. Across the terrace he saw two separate groups of men rushing down the hill and firing wildly. Between these men and the men from the barracks, the Marines from the downed helicopter would soon be badly outnumbered.

Joe knew his help was needed, but if he left the hut the hostages would be utterly alone and defenseless.

He studied the action a moment longer. It was all going on down the hill from where they were, with the sounds of another battle raging at the main house. But to his right, out to the south, all was quiet.

“Time to go,” he said. “Don’t want to miss the bus.” He began waving them up to the door, pointing to the right, where it was dark and quiet. “There’s a wall about seventy yards away. Get to it, climb over it, and keep going. Don’t stop until you’re at least a thousand yards from here and you’ve found some kind of shelter. A ditch, some bushes, a stand of those weird trees, anything that can hide you.”

He handed Montresor the green flare. “If you see any helicopters overhead, light this and hold it up. They’ll know you’re the hostages and not enemy combatants.”

As Montresor and the others gathered around the door, Joe took another look outside.

“What about my mom?” Tanner Westgate asked. “Kurt will find her,” Joe said. “You can count on that.” The little faces streaked with tears clutched at Joe’s heart.

When each of the young children was holding hands with an adult, Joe snuck forward, made sure the path was clear, and then waved them out.

He led them about halfway, and when he was certain they were clear of the firefight he pointed toward the wall. “Go,” he said, urging them forward, “get over that wall and don’t look back.”

As the prisoners scrambled into the darkness, Joe turned back toward the sounds of engagement. Gazing down the hill, he could see the firefight in all its nighttime iridescent glory. From the tracer fire it was clear that Lt. Brooks and his men were getting shot to pieces from three sides as thirty or forty of Brèvard’s men slowly closed in around them.

Joe began to move forward. “Unbelievable,” he whispered. “All this time I’ve been waiting to call in the cavalry and it turns out I am the cavalry.”

With that thought in mind, he pressed forward, unsure of what, if anything, he might achieve.