Phantom

Fifty-two

“Navy Blue, this is Big Red One, over.”

“Go ahead, Big Red One.”

“We located the target. He got by us. Seen anything unusual out there?”

“Uh, roger that, Big Red. We saw some kind of a UAV zipping around the backstreets and alleys of the villages. Damnedest thing you ever saw.”

“Could you pinpoint his direction, Stony?”

“Repeat, did you say ‘his’?”

“Roger. His. The aerial vehicle you saw is not unmanned. It’s our target. We’re out of the residence and headed across the piazza. Taking light fire, but nothing we can’t handle alone. Where was the target headed?”

“Looked like it was headed for the marina.”

“Stony, you’ve got to get there as fast as you possibly can. I think I know why he’s bound for the marina.”

“Why, over?”

“The big white yacht on the pier across from the fuel dock. Cygnus. Has to be his escape route.”

“On our way, Commander.”

“Listen carefully before you approach the target. That vehicle is armed with multiple fifty cals capable of firing simultaneously in three-hundred-sixty-degree rotations. Lethal fire in all directions.”

“Roger. Hold on, sir. One of our rooftop snipers has just spotted him. He’s definitely headed in the direction of the marina gate. He’s in a fucking flying wheelchair!”

“Has your sniper got a shot?”

“Negative. He’s disappeared into the backstreets.”

“Blue and Red teams converge at the gate. If Blue gets there first, keep going. Fight the fight, don’t fight the plan. Try and take him with an RPG. Maybe we’ve got time to board the yacht before he escapes.”

“Affirmative, Big Red One. We’ll get him, before or after he boards the yacht.”

Hawke and the Red Team made it across the piazza and into the confused maze of narrow streets. Hawke had memorized the fastest route to the gate in case it all went bad and they had to escape in a hurry.

R ed Team arrived at the gate to find Blue Team pinned down under heavy fire. Saffari’s men had erected steel barricades to cover the man’s escape. They were pouring fire into the street where Stony’s men were taking whatever cover they could find. Hawke found Stollenwork emerging from an alleyway and into the street. He had an RPG attached to the muzzle of his M-16. He fired it at the center barricade and ducked back into the alley.

When the smoke cleared, Hawke could see that the damn thing had barely been dented. Hawke had a quick word with Stokely and Brock and then ordered his men to take whatever cover they could find and return fire. Then he ducked into the alley where he’d seen Stony disappear.

“Stony,” he said, crouching beside the man. He was jamming another mag into his assault rifle.

“Shit. That flying bastard is getting away.”

“Maybe not.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve sent my two best men up to the rooftops of this building and the one across the street. From that height, they can put fire on the enemy behind the barricades.”

Stony didn’t say anything, just smiled.

“Meanwhile, we can pick off as many of these guys as possible,” Hawke said, stepping out into the street and opening up with his M-16.

Five minutes later, they were storming the barricades, shooting the few remaining survivors on their way to the gate and then, the marina. When they emerged from the tunnel on the other side of the wall, they were cheered by the sight of the big white yacht, still moored to the pier to their right.

They raced down the central dock until they came to the “T” at the end. Left was the fuel dock and the captured patrol boat, right was Cygnus, moored at the end of the dock.

“Let’s move,” Hawke shouted, sprinting the length of the long steel pier.

He arrived first, staring up at the white hull of Saffari’s yacht. The first thing he noticed was that there were no mooring lines securing the yacht to the dock. And no crew casting off, yet the yacht remained in place, despite current and wind. The only possible explanation was that the hull was somehow attached to the pier underwater.

The second thing he noticed were lights up on the bridge deck. He could see figures inside the wheelhouse, and black smoke was pouring out of the two big red stacks amidships. No sign of Darius Saffari and no gangplank available for him to board the ship.

“Gangway must have retracted into the hull,” Hawke said to Stony and Stoke, who’d arrived first. “See that section that looks like a very large hatchway in the hull? Has to be it.”

“Yeah,” Stoke said, “but explain why there’s no crew on the deck, heaving lines ashore, casting off, getting under way.”

“Good question,” Stony said. “Let’s get aboard and find out.”

“Get aboard how?” Stoke said.

“SEALs carry grapnel hooks now, old-timer. We can get aboard anything.”

“Old-timer? Shit. Son, my SEAL team in the Mekong Delta was carrying grapnel hooks before your mammy met your pappy.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re an ex-SEAL? I didn’t know. No excuse. I apologize.”

“No time to apologize. Just get your hooks up on the gunwales and let’s get aboard this damn ghost ship.”

Four grappling hooks flew into the air simultaneously, easily catching the gunwales high above.

Stoke looked at Stony and smiled. “All is forgiven,” he said.

W ith four lines dangling down the side of the hull, it didn’t take long before every man was aboard, assembling on the foredeck and awaiting further orders from Hawke.

Hawke stood in the center of them, staring up at the illuminated wheelhouse on the bridge deck. He could see men up there behind the windows, but there was no movement, nor any movement anywhere. The big ship felt deserted, devoid of any crew at all. A ghost ship. Something was clearly wrong with this picture. But Stony had seen Darius flying down the pier toward the yacht.

He was either aboard.

Or he’d elected suicide over capture and was now at the bottom of the sea.

“Spread out,” he told the men. “We search this ship from stem to stern, every inch of the damn thing. Unless our little flyboy decided he was better off in paradise, he’s on board this yacht. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to kill him. That’s a direct order. I’ve no intention of taking him alive. Go.”

Hawke grabbed Stoke’s sleeve.

“Stick with me. We’re going directly up to the bridge. I want to check something out.”

There was an exterior metal staircase, four flights, that led directly up to the bridge wing outside the entrance to the wheelhouse. Hawke, followed by Stokely, took the steps two at a time.

They reached the top and burst inside, weapons at the ready.

“Cardboard cutouts,” Stoke said.

“Yeah.”

There were five of them. One at the helm, and two on either side.

“He’s playing for time,” Hawke said, disappearing down an illuminated staircase that led to the interior of the deck below. “C’mon, old-timer!”

The staircase ended at a small corrugated steel platform, semicircular with a railing. More steps led down from it. It was virtually pitch-black, with a faint reddish glow visible far below.

“Say something, Stoke. Loud.”

“Something!” Stoke shouted as loudly as he could.

The word reverberated, echoing loudly within the steel hull.

Hawke snapped on the powerful light on his M-16. Stoke did the same. The two brilliant white beams pierced black nothingness beyond and below. He’d known there was something odd about the vessel the instant he’d seen it. Now, he knew. Cygnus was an empty shell and nothing more. But why? What was the point?

“Where the hell is everybody?” Stoke said.

“Locked out. I’m sure all the hatches and doorways are sealed shut. Just in case somebody got curious. Let’s go down and find out where that red light is coming from.”