“They have.”
Grant shoved his chair back then got up. “We’re running out of time to find Labeaux, and now maybe the Henleys, sir. Have you had any luck with the rental houses?”
Townsend flipped over two pages of the notebook. “There were three rented within the past two months, but I don’t have renter names yet.”
“Any possibility you could have someone check those three?”
“I’ll get right on it. Where will you be?”
Grant extended a hand to Townsend. “Flyin’!”
As Grant drove out of the parking lot, Adler called Chief Becker directing him to have the chopper brought back to St. Mawgan. What they’d do if they found the boat was a whole different ballgame, aside from the fact they didn’t have a clue on what they were looking for...except it could float.
*
Flying just under four hundred feet and three miles off the Cornish coast, the Sea King headed north to the Isle of Lundy.
Grant and Adler sat near the cargo bay door. Headsets were already in place. Grant rested his back against the bulkhead, while Adler dangled his legs over the side.
Grant heard Taylor’s voice in the headset: “Sirs, we’re approaching the southern part of the island.”
Grant scooted to the open doorway, holding onto his binoculars. “Copy that, Lieutenant. Stay at this altitude and distance from the beach till you’re past the island. We want to start our search at the very north end. Then circle back around and head south. Keep a mile off the coast.”
“What are you looking for, sir?”
“A boat, Lieutenant.”
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. “A boat, sir?”
“Yeah. A boat, and probably bigger than a rowboat,” Grant smirked. “And they can’t see us lookin’ at them, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Understand.”
As the chopper came around, Adler pointed. “Looks like there’s more rain comin’ in.”
“No surprise there,” Grant said disgustedly. The chopper vibrated as it started decelerating. “Okay. Let’s see what we can find.” They were ready to give orders to the cockpit. They raised the binoculars.
Inspector Townsend was correct about the island. This end had little activity, especially with a prospect of bad weather.
Within two minutes, Adler spotted something. “Hold your position,” he said into the mouthpiece to Lieutenant Norris. He readjusted the binoculars. “Skipper, is that a catamaran? Twelve o’clock.”
“Sure as hell looks like it.” Grant moved the glasses, looking for any other crafts nearby. “And it looks like it’s all by itself.” He lowered the glasses, looking at a darkening sky. “Think we’ve got time?” he asked with a wink.
“Let’s do it!”
“Lieutenant!” Grant called into the mouthpiece.
“Yes, sir?”
“Circle back around to the western side and take us inland. Put us down about two hundred yards south of our current position. We’re gonna exit and take a look.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Coming in from the west at a low altitude, the chopper touched down in a field. The short, green grass whipped around in a rotating pattern caused by the chopper blades’ downdraft.
Grant and Adler jumped out. Running two hundred yards across an open field, they finally had some cover by ducking behind mounds of rocks near the crest of a hill. Dropping to the ground, they crabbed their way toward the summit. The ground beyond fell away at a forty-five degree angle. Green grass covered the two hundred foot slope until it converged with sandy beach and rocks.
Focusing their binoculars, they immediately spotted the catamaran. It was anchored no more than fifty to seventy-five yards off the beach. Three men were on deck. A light was on inside the cabin but curtains were drawn. All they could see were shadows. It was nearly impossible to tell how many more were inside. Even though Grant and Adler were looking through binoculars, none of the men they did see looked familiar.
“There’s a Zodiac hanging off the ass end,” Grant said.
“Yeah, I saw it. Look what else there is. Port side, midships,” Adler said in a loud whisper.
Grant moved the glasses. “Shit!” Coils of det cord were set on top of a box of C4, partially covered with a tarp. Grant tugged on Adler’s arm. They scooted backwards till they were clear of the summit, then they hauled ass, running back to the chopper.
Lieutenant Taylor stood by the open door. Grant shouted, “Take us home, Lieutenant!” He and Adler climbed in as the rotors wound up.
On the flight back to St. Mawgan, they had to make a decision about the Cat. With the bad weather coming in, it could prevent the boat from leaving the island. But they couldn’t take the chance. Explosives meant not only lives at the base were at risk, but possibly the town.
Should they contact CID? Brit Coast Guard or Navy? Involve the local police? Or maybe they should just handle it themselves, giving them the possibility of a G2. They needed information, like where the hell was Labeaux? And where the hell were the Henleys?
*
Tafton Manor
St. Newlyn East
The basement of Tafton Manor was the same as it had been for nearly three hundred years: dark and clammy, with a hard-packed dirt floor and stone walls covered with dust. Cobwebs hung from original, rough hewn beams. Against the south wall, narrow, steep wooden stairs led to the kitchen, which was closed off by a heavy wooden door.
Rusted hinges squeaked as Labeaux pulled the door open. Light from the kitchen barely illuminated the first few steps. He stood briefly in the doorway. Feeling along the wall in the dark, he found a kerosene lamp. Lifting it from a hook, he scraped a match against a stone, lit the lantern, then blew out the match.
Holding the lantern in front of him, he adjusted the flame until it glowed brighter. He started cautiously down the creaking stairs. Without a handrail, a misstep could prove disastrous.
Stepping onto the dirt floor, he held the lantern higher, then proceeded to walk toward the back wall. The light finally cast its eerie glow on Jack Henley.
His clothes were soiled and rumpled, a far cry from his usually spotless appearance. There was dried blood below his nose and mouth. A rope around his waist had him lashed securely to a wooden chair. His arms were tied behind his back.
He looked up at Labeaux, squinting from the light, trying to see a face. “Where’s my wife?”
Labeaux ignored the question as he walked behind the chair. Henley tried to turn but Labeaux slapped the side of his head. “Do you know why you’re here, Commander Henley?”
“Here?!” Henley shouted. “Where the hell is here?!” Another slap to his head, only this time with more force.
He had to be sure Victoria was okay. She had to be somewhere in this place. When they were taken by force during the night, with hoods pulled over their heads, she was with him in the backseat. Although she didn’t make a sound, he knew she was there.
When he joined the Navy, Henley memorized the Code of Conduct. He still knew it, backwards and forwards. He’d been to SERE training (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape). His panic made him look like a fool in front of Grant. But now, after all his years of service, he realized this would be his true test of all that training.
“Look,” he said, “just tell me if she’s okay.”
“For now...she is,” Labeaux replied.
Henley breathed an inward sigh, while hoping he wasn’t being lied to. “What the hell do you want?”
Labeaux walked in front of him, putting the lantern by his feet. “I want you to tell me who knows about the documents I have. Do they know how I obtained them?”
Henley stayed expressionless and quiet, silently repeating, over and over, to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut.
Labeaux grabbed a handful of Henley’s hair, jerking his head back. “I’m very experienced at this kind of interrogation, Commander. I usually get the answers I’m looking for.”
“I want to see my wife!” Henley
demanded, trying to shake loose of Labeaux’s grasp.
He barely got the words out when a hard punch just below his sternum rocked him in the chair, taking his breath away. Hunched over, he gasped for air, coughing. Keeping his head down, he eyed Labeaux’s shiny shoes, and intentionally spit on them.
The next punch to his jaw sent him ass over end. His head hit hard on the dirt floor, knocking him unconscious.
Labeaux rubbed his knuckles, then picked up the lantern. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he held the lantern high overhead, pausing to look back at an unconscious Henley. He turned and went up the steps to the kitchen.
Webb was sitting on the counter, but the moment he saw Labeaux, he slid off and went to the other side of the kitchen. Labeaux’s expression was enough warning.
Labeaux angrily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Putting his foot on a chair, he swiped the cloth across his black shoe until the shine returned. Throwing the handkerchief into the sink, he washed his hands, then dried off with a towel, tossing it on the counter. Ignoring Webb, he went into the dining room.
Abu Massi stood by the window looking across the front of the property, when he heard footsteps. Turning, he saw Labeaux walking to the table. He waited until Labeaux was seated, before going to his own chair. With his hands resting on top of the backrest, his dark eyes studied Labeaux. “Who is the person you’re holding in the basement?”
Labeaux leaned back. Returning the Libyan’s stare, he answered, “He’s an American stationed at St. Mawgan, the husband of the woman who obtained the information.”
Surprise and concern suddenly appeared on Massi’s face. “Was it wise to bring him here? I seem to remember you were going to dispose of those who...”
“That’s true, I was. But he’s the best means I have to verify final security information. He’s in charge of the American Explosive Ordnance Disposal team. He has knowledge of flights and weapons.”
Massi finally sat down. “And have you obtained the information?”
Labeaux shook his head. “Not yet. There’s still time.”
“With what’s at stake?! How can you say there’s still time? I would have thought all the information was verified before this!” Massi reacted with agitation.
Labeaux remained calm. “We can’t take any chances.”
“And where’s the woman?”
“I’ve kept the two separated. She’s locked in one of the bedrooms.”
The Libyan rocked his chair back and forth, trying to decide whether he should question further. For the moment, the prisoners weren’t his concern. The weapon was. “Tell me about Monday, Labeaux.”
Labeaux breathed an inward sigh, relieved Massi didn’t press further. “Do you know anything about the B57?” Massi shook his head. “The bomb is due to arrive tomorrow from the United States. It’s a five hundred pound, five kiloton depth bomb. The weapon can be delivered by jet aircraft or helicopter.”
“Helicopter?” Massi asked with some surprise.
“Yes. Helicopter.” Labeaux shifted his eyes to Aknin. “If my research is correct, you are an experienced pilot, and you have been trained to fly helicopters.”
Aknin glanced at Massi, leaving it up to him to respond. “Razzag does have the ability to fly helicopters.” Massi’s worried expression was more than obvious. “I do not understand how you intend to make this happen. There are only three of us, four counting your man out there,” he said, pointing toward the kitchen. “We do not have a helicopter, and that base must be heavily guarded. Please! Explain to me, Labeaux. How can this plan of yours possibly work?”
Labeaux pushed his chair back, having known these questions would eventually arise. Could he get away with his deception? “I’ve hired extra men, using part of the money you’ve paid me. They are very experienced in using diversionary tactics, and very experienced with explosives. I assume the aircraft you flew here has enough fuel to get us to St. Mawgan.”
Massi looked at Aknin, who simply nodded. Then Massi continued questioning. “You said the weapon weighs five hundred pounds. How can...?”
“That’s been arranged.” Labeaux lied again.
Massi pushed his chair away from the table. Aknin stood abruptly. “All right, Labeaux. I have trusted you in our other ventures. Now, I want you to give me any diagrams you have of the base. Razzag and I wish to examine them.”
Labeaux opened a folder and removed one page, sliding it across the table. Then he stood. “While you study that, I have something to attend to.” Without waiting for any response, he turned and went to the kitchen, closing the door.
Backing up against the counter, he took several deep breaths. He never thought Massi would question him as intensely as he had. The other times the Libyans had hired him, he was allowed to plan the attacks himself, without any interference. They trusted him. Of course, this time there was so much more at stake for the Libyans.
Massi kept his eyes on Labeaux until the kitchen door closed. Regardless of Labeaux’s clever answers, Massi remained suspicious, and now...angry.
He looked across the table at Aknin and said quietly, “Razzag, I’m no longer certain things will go our way. I have no choice but to wait until Monday before I determine whether this plan has any chance of succeeding.” Massi drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through tight lips. “I want you to be prepared to use your skills if I give the order.”
Aknin rested a hand on his janbia as he nodded in understanding, but asked, “You mean everyone, sir, correct?”
Seeing the kitchen door opening, Massi nodded, then let his eyes fall again on the paper.
Chapter 17
St. Mawgan
1200 Hours
The chopper was refueled and waiting in the field behind EOD. A steady, light rain splashed against its windshield. Without the heavy weather that had been expected, there shouldn’t be any delay for the new mission to fly Captain Stevens and Lieutenant Adler back to Lundy.
Norris and Taylor were going through a pre-flight checklist one more time. “Busy couple of days, Dan,” Norris commented, as he flipped two switches.
“Yeah. Too bad we don’t get paid by the hour,” Taylor answered.
Norris checked his watch then glanced out his side window. “They should be on their way anytime now. May as well rev it up.”
Just as the engine went to idle, Taylor noticed Grant and Adler running toward them. “There they are.” He rushed from the cockpit and slid the cargo bay door open. “Need some help, sirs?”
Adler handed him two utility pouches. He and Grant shoved their swim fins across the deck, then climbed aboard.
Taylor said, “We’re ready whenever you are, sirs.”
“Give us five,” Grant answered.
“Yes, sir.” Taylor returned to the cockpit.
Grant and Adler were dressed in wetsuits, with swim masks hanging around their necks. Both carried .45s. K-bars were secured in their leg straps.
Sitting on the deck, they checked their waterproof utility pouches. Each pouch was about eleven inches wide, with a waterproof zipper and a Velcro flap. On the outside was an oral inflation tube for sucking out excess air, or for inflation to give extra flotation capability.
Inside was det cord, a small block of C4 and chemical pencils, each with a three minute delay. Grant carried a couple of flares for signaling the chopper when it was time for extraction. Adler had his hypodermic, filled with enough cc’s of “truth serum” in case they managed to run a G2.
Adler reached into the bottom of his pouch. “Need one of these?”
“Affirmative!” Grant laughed, reaching for the foil-wrapped condom. For waterborne ops, especially in sea water, condoms were one of the cheapest and best ways to protect the barrel of weapons.
They attached a pouch around their waists then put on swim fins. If boarding the boat became an option, the swim fins could be deep-sixed.
“Ready?” Adler asked, as he pulled up his hood. Grant nodded.
Taylor was l
eaning against the armrest, looking in Grant’s direction. Grant held an arm overhead, then twirled two fingers.
Taylor responded to
Grant with a thumb’s up. Within seconds the chopper was airborne.
*
Rain pelted the chopper as it flew northwest toward Lundy. The southern tip of the island was close to sixty miles from St. Mawgan. From that point it was another four miles to their DZ (drop zone).
Their options were limited when it came to boarding the Cat. Trying to reach it from inland would leave them too exposed. With the weather as it was, and the position of the Cat close to the beach, a HAHO or HALO was out of the question. (High Altitude High Open and High Altitude Low Open were parachute insertion techniques.) For today’s op, a helocast (water insertion) would be their technique, having the chopper hovering ten feet above the DZ.
They’d have a six hundred yard swim to the target. But being on the eastern side of the island, they should be protected from rough surf.
Taylor came up behind them. “Sirs, we’re just about at the DZ.”
Grant looked up. “Okay, Lieutenant. Officials on the island have been contacted, so they’re expecting us. After we hit the water, you circle back and land at the point we agreed on. I’ll signal with a flare once we’re ready for extraction.”
Taylor nodded. “Aye, aye, sir! And good luck!” He stood by, ready to give any instructions to Norris.
Adler leaned forward looking down at the water, thinking about their upcoming swim. “Six hundred yards. Sorta like BUD/S all over again, huh, skipper?”
“Yeah, except we’re, what? Fifteen years older?” Grant replied, grinning.
“You had to remind me,” Adler answered, as he adjusted his face mask then tightened the straps.
The chopper vibrated as it started decelerating. Norris brought it lower, slowly getting to within ten feet of the water’s surface.
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