by Jeff Rovin
“Albatross,” the man said.
“How many men left onboard?”
“Five.”
“That makes nine. Your crew should be—”
“One man died,” he said, shivering. “The sickness.”
Grace stepped back to the float and Rivette pointed into the cabin. “You might want to tell them there’s a first-aid valise in the back.”
“Thank you,” she said, and passed along the information. She told the Chinese it was all right to close the door. They did so at once.
“How do you know they won’t fly after us?” Rivette asked.
She showed him the knobs before tossing them in the sea. Then she used her elbow to disable the radio. Two strikes in the faceplate did the job. The moves were cold but they could probably rig a replacement for the controls and at least sail over to the recovery site on Marion Island.
Grace entered the dinghy followed by Rivette, who was fussing with the too-small parka, jamming his hands down the front and into the pockets.
“You ready?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She handed him the seaman’s radio.
“Remember this word: xìntiānwēng,” she said.
“Shin-wan-weng,” he said. “Is that the ID word?”
“Yes,” Grace said as she sat beside the motor and made sure the radio was on. “Hopefully, they’ll blame your mask and the engine noise for the muddle.”
“I’d like to see how you would have done with Sawubona,” he said, though his voice was drowned out by the throaty gurgle of the engine.
Grace was thoughtful, distracted as Rivette sat beside her.
“You think they saw the jets that brought us?” Rivette asked after practicing xìntiānwēng several times.
“The corvette would have.” She nodded.
“So they’ll be waiting for some kind of surprise, especially when they only see two of us.”
“This will be your show. We’ve got to get the doctor and we can’t let the Chinese get away with the bug. Not a lot of options going in.”
“No,” Rivette agreed. “We gotta do what it takes to make all that happen. Sting of the Wasp. Hey, you ever wonder if we’ll get STFted?”
“Never,” she replied.
Rivette did not know whether she never wondered that or whether she thought they would never get bloodied. He would ask again when he did not have the mask on. He liked and respected her Daoist beliefs and wondered what the ancient Chinese had to say about odds and luck.
Right now, though, he took the time to make sure the Chinese firearm was not frozen or stiff and that his own two weapons, under the parka, were in good working order.
* * *
Attracted by the landing of the aircraft, Commander van Tonder had gone to the western wall in time to see the action that took place some two hundred feet below.
Ensign Sisula had briefed him about the Americans and the plan, and the commander was eager to be a part of it. This was about more than the sovereignty of his homeland. It was about preventing the world from getting and exploiting another weapon of mass destruction.
Those were, to him, not just duties. They were moral trusts, akin to his deep religious convictions. He was proud of Sisula and, more than that, grateful for the help of whoever the two heroic Americans were below. In all his years of military service, he had never seen someone run at a boatful of primed firearms. And not just survive but win. He had no idea what their plan was going forward. He hoped it was as brash and as successful as what he had just seen. Tired and hungry, with a partner who was ill and cold, van Tonder feared that if they did not get relief soon, Mabuza would die.
Returning to the helicopter to run it for warmth—more to help the pilot than himself, since the sun was rising higher and warming the ridge—van Tonder gave the Americans a few minutes.
He was surprised to find Mabuza awake.
“Unless … I was dreaming … we’re in a war … with China,” the lieutenant said.
“It’s true,” van Tonder told him. The commander was smiling. “Tito, it’s great to have you back!”
“The sun … man … feel it.” The lieutenant tried to move.
“Easy, fella—”
“No, I have to … my ass is asleep.”
“You’re back.” Van Tonder grinned.
“What about … Ship Rock?”
“Still open, still toxic. Gotta find a way to shut that down before—there’s a Chinese ship down there, wants it.”
“Bastards.”
“Yeah. Sorry I can’t give you water—the mask. You have to keep it on.”
The lieutenant nodded and shut his eyes.
“Hey, help is coming. Americans are on the island, cutting loose.”
“You … helping?”
“About to.” The commander picked up the Milkor BXP submachine gun. “Sit tight, there’s a doctor somewhere around. We’ll get him.”
The lieutenant nodded again and, giving him a reassuring clap on the shoulder, van Tonder headed for the northern ledge.
His spirits were high and the step quick—until he neared the ledge and saw something he was not expecting or wanting to see.
The corvette was moving toward Ship Rock.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.
November 12, 2:24 A.M.
Sitting in his office, the door closed, Matt Berry was a tired but caffeine-jittery man who wondered whether his boots on the ground would start or avert an international conflagration.
President Midkiff was asleep and National Security Advisor Harward had gone home. Both had received updates from the CIA about the latest “kill zone” in East London. The president had called to ask Berry what he knew.
“Williams and Breen are in the middle of that,” Berry had answered truthfully. “I’m awaiting an update.”
That was also true, as far as it went. What he was waiting for were results. So far, both teams were naggingly silent.
Reports were coming in from European and American intelligence services that Russia and China were both converging on parts of South Africa with tactical support or confrontational military assets. Some reports said that Pretoria had invited the Russians in. Other reports said that South African Naval jets had been seen in the skies over Marion Island, buzzing a Chinese corvette that was—according to Beijing—“on a legitimate regional patrol and prepared-to-assist status” regarding the South African airline crash.
In the middle of that was Black Wasp, and on their agenda—as far as Berry knew—was a request for information about police movements in the smallish beach resort city of East London. Hopefully, one of the two teams was in a position to collect samples of what everyone seemed to want.
The National Reconnaissance Office had the answer for Chase Williams about his curious interest in East London police activities. Berry texted the information to him in the form of a map, complete with patrol car numbers where applicable. Berry had texted a question at the end:
What is this going to get us?
Williams had replied:
The stuff that nightmares are made of.
Berry did not know if Williams had intended to pervert either The Tempest or The Maltese Falcon. In any case, the deputy national security advisor took it as a grimly hopeful sign that they were closing in on the target ahead of Moscow or Beijing.
And there was still the playing field to the south. The Department of Naval Intelligence and the NRO jointly reported that the Chinese corvette and patrol boat were still in their off-shore and near-shore positions, that a helicopter was still down in the ground zero quadrant, and that one of the civilian rescue planes had traveled from the crash site to Prince Edward following a communication from the SAN outpost on Marion Island.
“It is not clear whether Chinese or South African naval personnel are in control of the SAN station, or what the deployment status is,” the report concluded.
Those two organizations knew noth
ing about Black Wasp. Yet even with that knowledge, he could not begin to theorize what Lieutenant Lee and Lance Corporal Rivette were up to.
That concerned him, but not as much as the idea that he might have overestimated their abilities and that the two were dead, captured, or floundering. Yemen had been all four Black Wasps together, each drawing on the strengths and abilities of the others.
Not this time.
He hoped the president got back to sleep. Berry would be getting none till this was over.
Williams was off, Berry thought as he drained the last of his coffee and turned to a sandwich that had been sitting on his desk for three hours. What was unfolding in South Africa was more than a nightmare. It was a fast-evolving, quick-burning flashpoint for a global confrontation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
East London, South Africa
November 12, 9:30 A.M.
One of Claude Foster’s greatest assets was that he listened. Regardless of whether he was interested in what was being said, in his office or at a bar, in a steam room or at a sporting event, he let it in.
That was how he had found Katinka. She and fellow graduates had been up all night and getting coffee at a shop when he went there for breakfast. He heard her say she was going to start looking for a job that very day.
“There’s no time to waste,” she had said. “This is when the diamond concerns are scouting.”
Unlike Dumisa, who encouraged his gun runners to report on what their fellows said and did, Foster had never wanted to create an environment of paranoia. That was what made people stop talking.
Foster had heard Katinka ask for an advance years before, to build her boat shed. That was why he had opted to make her home their first stop. He had to hide the van but not abandon it. He needed to communicate with Dumisa or Mila Merch. Dumisa would help him sell the core samples—for a large percentage, but still paying more than extortion. With her human trafficking network, Mila was best equipped to get someone out of the country. Foster needed to regroup and resume his negotiations.
Katinka was limp, staring at nothing in the passenger’s seat as they pulled into the driveway. Foster had removed his mask but he had left Katinka’s on. Her strong, stonecutter’s hand was holding the breathing apparatus. He did not want to tinker with whatever made her quiet, secure.
Foster was not even sure what he would do with her. He wanted to bring her to keep her from prosecution. But he could not afford inert baggage—which she appeared on the verge of becoming.
He stopped at the shed, pulled up the door. Katinka’s scooter was parked in the rear and he moved it through the back door to make room. Then he tried to turn the van around to back in—just in case he needed to hit a full-on exit. There wasn’t enough room. But the shed was close to the street and he could slam out if need be. The shadows inside were deep and he left the shed door open.
Leaving Katinka, he lifted the rear floor panel and selected a handgun and a submachine gun. If they were found, he would use the core samples only as a final measure.
Feeling momentarily safe in the semi-darkness, Foster sat on the edge of the van, listening to the sounds of occasional traffic—both on the road and increasingly in the air as the government no doubt issued an all-safe alert.
Either they have more hazmat gear than I suspected or they must know something about this thing that I do not, he thought.
It was time to take this in a new direction, and he finished placing the call that had been interrupted at the office.
* * *
“You asked who we were,” Williams said to the helicopter pilot. “I’m going to tell you.”
Still waiting outside the helicopter, the Op-Center director had just received the map from Berry. Removing the scanners from clusters of police vehicles, Williams was left with three blips. One was overlaid with the East London bureau of the South Africa Post & Telegram newspaper. Another matched the address of a home for senior citizens—more likely than not, a retired police officer. The third was on a residential street not far from Nahoon Beach.
“What’s your name?” Williams asked.
“Vic Illing.”
“Vic, I’m Chase, and we are working with the government to stop these attacks,” Williams said.
“I figured.”
“Oh?”
“A general’s office booked me. And … you got a lot of clanky gear.”
Williams showed the man the map on the tablet. He pointed to the spot near the shore. “We believe the perpetrator is here.” He dragged his finger to the beach. “I want to go here.”
“I can do that, as soon as the authorities say I can.”
“Well, that’s it—you can. I wouldn’t ask you to fly any place that isn’t safe.”
Breen came jogging back just then.
“I think I’ve narrowed the geography,” the major said. “They’ve got traffic cameras at the major intersections but nothing along the tourist and recreational routes.”
“So, the beach,” Williams said.
“Right. If we follow the shore—”
“No need.” Williams showed him the tablet. “Confirms what I just received.” He handed Breen the tablet then looked back at the pilot. “What do you say, Vic? This toxin rises and it flows with the wind. Only has a life span of about an hour. We’ll be going in the opposite direction.” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. “Yours if you’ll do it. Just take us to the beach and stay there until the all clear.”
Illing looked at the money and then at Williams. “I don’t need that. Just stop this loon—that’s enough for me.”
“Thank you.”
The men boarded, the chopper rose to one hundred feet, and just five minutes later they were settling onto the beach.
“Made it, like you said,” Illing said with open relief as he killed the engine. “God bless ya.”
The passengers selected a mask and a handgun each from their gear. Before getting out, Illing handed Breen his card while Williams texted Berry:
En route to Plymouth Rd site to try and buy.
“I’ll wait for you, if it’s all the same!” Illing said as the men ran down the beach. “Come back safe!”
Williams raised an arm to thank him but did not look back. The two men ran slowly from the beach onto the asphalt that followed the coast.
Beach Road was devoid of pedestrians. An occasional ambulance passed, the EMTs wearing masks.
“They must have wanted everyone mobile,” Breen said.
“Smart—quick quarantine,” Williams said.
It was warm going on hot as the sun baked the big, open shoreline. Following the GPS on Breen’s phone, the men turned into the residential area.
“How do we approach him?” the major asked.
“Hands up, mask and gun visible. Tell him we want to bargain.”
“You think he’ll believe us?”
“Why not?” Williams said. “He’ll know from our voices that we’re not South African.”
Breen nodded. He also didn’t think the man would shoot first. Foster might be ruthless, but he seemed too cool an operator for that. Breen also did not think there was any threat from his accomplice. He briefed Williams as they ran. According to the research he had done on the short flight over, the house belonged to a gemologist named Katinka Kettle, twenty-five. She worked for MEASE and had no criminal sheet.
The men slowed as they neared the house. There was a walk to the front door and a driveway.
Williams was not breathing as hard as his companion but the old Op-Center had left him softer than he should be. Then he felt the weight of the gun in his hands.
That was not true in every way, he thought. He had, without hesitation, put a bullet in the forehead of a terrorist in Yemen. He wondered if he would do that again to be sure of saving lives … or let a negotiation play out. There was a line a person crossed where it was not just the rule of law but his moral compass that was at risk.
“I think you should talk for us, Co
unselor,” Williams said quietly. “Starting curbside? I’ll be watching the surroundings while you watch him.”
Breen nodded. When they reached the house they stood at the curb, facing the walk unmoving, arms raised.
“Mr. Foster!” Breen said. “We’re here about that item you have for sale.”
The only thing they heard for what seemed dangerously too long was the wind from the beach. It carried a misleadingly pleasant smell of salt water and rose gardens.
“Americans?” a firm male voice finally replied.
“That’s right.”
Another hesitation. Then, finally, an answer.
“Come down the walk, slowly, hands up, single file.”
“Understood,” Breen said.
Breen shouldered in front of his companion and crossed the sidewalk to the flower-lined slate walk. He saw the shed to the right, set back a little from the house and hidden from the neighbor by a high hedge. That was where the driveway led. The door of the structure was open but all was shadow inside.
“Stop there,” the man said when they had reached the part of the walk that turned from the house to the shed. “You came prepared, I see.”
Breen looked from the man to the mask then back. “In every way.”
“Ah,” Foster said. “Good. Both of you toss the guns and masks and you come here—the other man stay where you are. In case of gunfire, you’re a target.”
“No one knows you’re here but us.”
“How is that, if you don’t mind?” Foster asked.
“Our people tracked your police scanner,” Breen said as he flung the handgun and mask toward the hedge. Breen tossed his onto the small front lawn.
“Damn. Clever,” Foster said. He half turned. “Katinka, turn it off. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” a voice replied faintly. It sounded beaten.
Foster turned back to the men. “You may approach … slowly.”
Breen said, “Before we continue, may we confirm that you have what we want?”
Foster hesitated, then said, “Come.”