Pulse

TWENTY- TWO

"You look like a seventies porn star," Rook said as he gave King a once-over.

King smiled as he looked in the bathroom mirror. The thick black mustache pasted on his top lip, combined with his messy hair; loose, white button-down shirt; and pleated khaki pants was enough to make him laugh, despite the grim situation. He looked ridiculous, though entirely convincing for his role. "I am but a French sailor," he said with a thick French accent. "I am traveling the world with ma petite co-chonne."

The gray steel door clunked open and Queen entered the cold utilitarian bathroom without a knock. Dressing and undressing in front of each other was part of the job. "Your little pig, huh?"

King grinned as he saw Queen's outfit, equally humorous, though much more flattering.

"Wow," Rook whispered when he saw her short shorts, sandaled feet, and poofy, white half-shirt that did little to conceal the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her long legs, stomach, and arms still held the tan she got during her time on Ocracoke Island and accentuated her toned muscles.

Looking in the mirror next to King, she pouted her red lips and batted her eyelashes. She looked at Rook and with an equally thick French accent said, "Oh ma puce, you will burn holes in my blouse if you continue to stare at me with those devilish eyes. Then… I will have to rip them out." She waggled a finger at him. "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

The door opened. Knight stuck his head in, smiled at their outfits, and said, "Your yacht is incoming. Time to go."

Queen followed him out the door.

"What the hell is 'ma puce'?" Rook asked.

"My flea," King said with a grin. "It's a term of endearment."

"Term of endearment, my ass," Rook said as King left the bathroom. He hastily applied a layer of black face paint. "Ma puce, huh?" He smiled. "I could live with that."

It was only twenty minutes after their arrival, and the sun was nearly below the horizon. Daylight would only last for another hour as the last of the sun's rays reflected off the atmosphere. The team waited on deck, King and Queen dressed for a private cruise and Knight, Rook, and Bishop clad, head to toe, in black wet suits. Supplies and weapons for King and Queen would be stowed away on their yacht once it arrived, but the other three carried their armaments and supplies on their backs, chests, and over their shoulders. They looked ready to wage war.

Savile stood with them, waiting for the arrival of the vessels the team would take to shore. Seeing King and Queen dressed in their disguises made him grin. He'd heard that Delta often wore disguises, but never pictured them like this.

A chopping in the distance drew their attention.

"You got to be shitting me," Rook said with a shake of his head and a grin.

A slate gray, heavy-lifting CH-53 Sea Stallion he 1 icopter pounded into the air above the Grant. But it wasn't the chopper's grasshopperlike cockpit or massive whipping blades that surprised the group, it was the unusual cargo that hung on steel cables beneath the bird: a forty-five-foot dual-hulled catamaran. The pristine yacht gleamed white and bore the name Mercury. The Sea Stallion lowered the yacht to the water below the deck of the unmoving USS Grant, in the process bringing the cockpit of the helicopter level with the deck. When the cables went slack, the pil ot grinned, saluted, then cut the yacht loose. The freed yacht bounced in the high swells but had no trouble staying perfectly upright, thanks to its extremely stable double-hull design.

After the copter peeled away the group approached the deck edge and peered down at the yacht bobbing in the water. "Where did you find a yacht out here?" Knight asked.

"As far as I know," Savile said, "someone on your end tracked the thing using its GPS unit. Had a couple of helos intercept and… requisition the ship. I was told the owners were paid twice its value, but they were none too pleased to have their cruise interrupted."

King shook his head, amazed at the resources being pulled together at the last minute. "Deep Blue." He said it lightly, but Savile overheard.

He snapped his head toward King. Deep Blue's call sign had become near legendary in the past few years as he worked behind the scenes and shifted military units across the globe like they were his own personal chess pieces on a world-sized board. "Deep Blue, huh?"

King nodded.

"Suez canal. Two years ago."

King met his eyes. "You were on the Halsey?"

"Hell, was that you five?"

Five grins answered the question. "I'll be damned. You guys saved more than five thousand souls that day. Like lightning from the sky." He shook King's hand.

Savile remembered the day well. As captain of the newly commissioned destroyer, the USS Halsey, he had been ordered to the gulf, along with the rest of his battlegroup, by way of the Suez Canal. As the canal passes through Egypt, whose relations with the U.S. and her allies is at times strained, the passage of any U.S. military must be completed without incident. Any military action taken in the canal could easily be seen as an act of war. The problem created is that any ship passing through the canal is essentially a sitting duck. Savile found out later that the CIA had picked up chatter about an attack at the canal, something similar to the attack on the USS Cole off the coast of Yemen. But the powers that be decided to keep quiet about the threat. Issuing a warning might make sailors jumpy enough to take potshots at the wrong people and set off an international incident.

So when five motorboats powered through the canal, making for the port hull of the Halsey, Savile could do nothing but keep watch and hope they were just trying to get a good look at one of the world's most powerful ships. When the five boats passed through the invisi ible border that marked the point where they could normally open fire, he became worried. Even more so when, despite his warnings via a loudspeaker, the boats continued in a straight line. They nearly sank the USS Cole with one boat. This was five. Savile shook his head, realizing what was about to happen, but then someone shouted "Look in the sky!" like some scene right out of a Superman movie.

Savile stepped out of the bridge and saw five black specks flying in at a sharp angle, one behind each of the approaching motorboats. Looking through a pair of binoculars he saw that the five figures were dressed, head to toe, in black and bore no insignias or flags. They swept in, with fabric stretched tight between their outstretched arms and legs, gliding more than falling. At first he feared they were part of a two-pronged attack, but quickly realized that even the most well-funded terrorist organization could never pull off a stunt like that. His suspicions were confirmed when, just ahead of the five approaching boats, the five-man team popped their chutes and immediately opened fire with silenced weapons. In under thirty seconds the five motor-boats were disabled and taking on water. The attack had been averted in near silence, leaving only a few pissed-off terrorists trying to tread water as evidence. The five-man team hit the water, disappeared from view with their chutes, and never resurfaced.

"Hate to break up the reunion," Rook said, "but where is ourboat?"

Savile pointed to a small black zodiac tied to the Grant. Rook glanced at the small boat, which looked beyond insignificant next to the Grant and Mercury, then back at the yacht, then at King and Queen. "Bastids."

Twenty minutes later, Rook clung to the side of the zodiac as a stream of muttered curses flew from his mouth with every lurch up and over a wave. From the deck of the USS Grant, the ocean had looked calm, but upon launching they had discovered six-foot swells and a stiff breeze brought on by the cooling night air. Bishop piloted the eight-foot inflatable boat while Rook provided a counterbalance to Bishop at the bow. Knight, whose smaller stature made him the most likely to be catapulted from the inflatable, sat low at the center, gripping a plastic handhold.

Darkness had consumed the ocean as they rounded Inaccessible Island and made a straight shot for the back side of Tristan da Cunha. This helped conceal their approach, but also made each wave a nasty surprise.

The zodiac bounced, catching air as Bishop kept the throttle opened up, and careened into the next wave head on. Frigid water cascaded over the front of the boat, soaking Rook and spraying the other two.

Though the circumstances were uncomfortable and the ride perilous, all three maintained calm. As they approached the island, even Rook's muttering ceased. The mission had commenced and each man knew the life and death of the others depended on their professionalism.

The zodiac sprung up again, but not from a wave. The contact was solid and dead center. Knight bounced into the air as though he'd just landed on a trampoline. He landed next to the now immobile boat. If not for the ocean floor being five feet beneath he would have had to shed his gear or drown. Without a word he began slogging toward shore as waves pounded his back and threatened to smash his body against the rocky coastline.

Rook and Bishop slid out of the ruined boat into the cold water.

"On three," Rook said.

Bishop nodded as Rook began counting. On three they hefted the zodiac off the rock and let it sink beneath the waves, erasing all trace of their incursion to Tristan da Cunha.

"All clear," Knight said from shore. They met on a rocky crag.

Bishop motioned to Knight. "Took a heavy hit. Any damage?"

Knight shook his head. "It'll bruise. I'll be fine."

After shedding their wet suits and changing into dry, jet black fatigues, they donned night vision goggles and, though exhausted and beaten from their oversea insertion, began the long rocky trek toward the small forest that lined the base of Tristan da Cunha's volcano. After setting up camp, their mission would begin in earnest.