Safia darted for a quick look at the road bordering the wharf. “It’s got to be the truck. It’s the only thing moving.”
“The shooter wants me,” he said, searching for the magpie guys. “I’ll be returning the favor.”
She met his gaze. “Then I’m going after Vaghn. I want to meet this idiot.”
He kissed her, deep and quick. “Watch your six, love,” he murmured, and she squeezed his arm.
“You too. Don’t be a hero.” She shifted past him and walked inside the warehouse. She crossed the damp concrete and out the right side door. Riley turned his attention to the shooter, and thought it was almost flattering to be such a threat.
CIA communications expert Ellie Mullins sounded like she was twelve and far too young to be in this business, Max thought, but she was no slouch. Safia had downloaded the flash drive from the station back-up, and Ellie was searching for a new encryption program because nothing Dragon One had was working. Max wondered how many fingers were in this operation by now, because he didn’t trust the CIA to keep their mouths shut, but Ellie had assured him the flash drive was her station file.
On a pad he made a list of the items in Vaghn’s pack. Remembering a pen-light, he added it, then tried the combination of scribbles again. He wasn’t ready to believe the scrap of paper was insignificant. It was the same sequence. If it weren’t, he’d consider it was doodling, but the repetition said Vaghn was committing it to memory. The contradiction with that theory was Vaghn had photographic recall.
Alone in the air conditioning, he tried different configurations of the same sequence. It read like garbage, and reminded him of a spam email address. Above the fridge, the TV was on CNN and occasionally, he switched it to a local news station till he couldn’t stomach the scene. In most instances, they had to use bulldozers to move the buildings off the dead. He wanted to go down there. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept Sebastian was dead, it was the lack of proof. But from what Riley described, there wasn’t anything left to get even a DNA sample to test. Max sighed, tried another sequence, then rubbed his face. After refilling his mug, he reached for a landline and dialed the morgue.
Sonsoral Islands
South of Palau
The morning sun was sizzling hot by seven A.M.
She’d argued with Travis yesterday about going ashore and when she’d finally caved in, it was too dark to consider it. Exactly what the sneaky sot wanted, of course. One would think she’d be wise to his manipulations because normally his Scots charm didn’t work on her. She admitted he was right, but not to his face. He’d be a bother to live with if she did.
Her hand on the throttle, she angled the skiff away from the ship and pointed it toward the shore. She pulled her floppy hat low, her body lacquered in sunscreen. Wearing a tank style wet suit and dive boots, she was protected from any poisonous plant life, and though sweat spilled down her back beneath the neoprene rubber, she came prepared, as Riley had taught her. Circling her waist was a utility belt with her specimen bags, brushes, and a small shovel evenly spread in pouches and loops. She didn’t expect to use any of it.
Jim was in the front, watching the land through binoculars. He hadn’t said a word since they lowered the rubber boat into the sea. He glanced at her, then back to the island.
“You buggered about going back?”
He frowned for a second. “No. I’m just eager to get something that would explain this.” He touched his wound.
“We know there’s something alive there, so all we have to do is prove it.”
“Capture?”
“Ha! Not on your life. We don’t have cages and frankly, nothing on this island is getting on my ship.”
He smiled, his body relaxing a bit. Finally, she thought, though he still looked ready to jump overboard. Nearing the shore, she gunned the engine, pushing them onto the sand. They hopped out and dragged the boat further up the beach. She looked back at the ship and waved, and in the distance saw Travis on the bow. He wanted to join her, but she had to have someone completely reliable and trusted to remain on the ship.
For the sake of caution, she tried the radio, then turned her back and looked at the tree line bending in a deep curve on the aqua blue and white shore. Lovely. The south side was rock and she spied the formation Jim mentioned before. Water had eroded a cavity in the stone, hollowed like a yawning mouth. Waves barely made it to the small inlet cave.
She looked at Jim, pleased to see him smile. “You’re the guide here, Doctor Clatt.” She waved him on.
He chuckled under his breath. “You’re the field experience.”
“There you go now. I knew you’d see why we make a great team.” She marched toward the tree line beside him.
He stopped on the edge and flicked on his flashlight. “In there, you can’t see clearly it’s so dense.”
At the hem of the jungle, she turned to wave to her husband again, then ducked into the darkness. It was bright enough to see, but Jim wasn’t taking chances. It made her nervous, a man his age so spooked. Likely well and good that she didn’t tell him about the radio making noise. Trav knew; she couldn’t hide anything from him, but bone digging wasn’t her only goal today. She wanted to find that hand radio. It had definitely come on, but what she heard was up for debate.
“I was digging over here,” he said, taking a few steps deeper, then halting in a small clearing. The soil was sandy and the footprints from their last visit were visible. No wonder. The air in the shadowed circle was still and heavy. She felt cocooned, the suffocating enhanced by the climbing temperature.
“Where was the attack?”
Jim pointed, and she moved past him, flicking on her torch light and nudging aside the vegetation to see the ground. She didn’t find anything but a couple crab tracks and moved further in, the flashlight necessary now. Piercing sunlight came with the breeze, then went dark. The flicker made it hard for her eyes to adjust. The ground was dense with rotting vegetation, the undergrowth smothering it, and each step tossed the odor of compost. She found an opening in the jungle floor, and with her shovel, she dug but after a few minutes dismissed it and moved left.
Then Jim called to her, and she stood, then hurried back to the clearing, but didn’t see him. He shouted and through the foliage she saw him wave his arms over his head. He was several yards ahead near where he was attacked. She strode to him.
“Don’t go off alone. We’re stronger in pairs.”
“Your brother’s words?”
“No, my mum’s.” She smiled and looked to see what he’d found. It was just a bit of sand about five feet wide but a palm tree had fallen over.
“Take a look at this.” He shined the light.
Bridget bent and inhaled a sharp breath. “My word.” The gulley in the land had eroded and exposed a small skull. She knelt and drew out her digital camera, snapping pictures. Then she brushed at the skull and lifted it out. “It looks like the skulls found on Flores Island.”
Scientists believed it was a tribe of smaller humans and had dubbed the skeletons Hobbits. Pinpricks of excitement raced through her blood when she realized this skull could confirm they’d lived and migrated.
“Your prize, sir.” She gave him the skull, then photographed him inspecting it. “What’s your assessment?”
“Washed up here. The typhoons swallow this island.”
“I disagree.”
“I concur.”
She looked up, her camera poised. Agreeing to disagree? Some men needed to get out of the lab more often, she thought, then said, “How so?”
“That tree was in the ground recently, in the last year or so. I don’t think a storm knocked it over. Air barely gets in here.”
That proven by the sweat dripping into her dive boots, she thought and studied the toppled palm. It fell left from where it once stood, yet the top was caught in the taller trees, dark green vines woven around it and reaching to the snag. She shined the torch to the tops. It was almost cavelike, only
a shimmer of radiance, more sensation than sunlight.
Jim examined the skull. “The remains are old,” he said. “Under layers of earth and worn by the sea before they ever landed there.”
“It could very well be from inhabitants centuries ago.” She thought of the “Hobbit” bones of Flores Island again.
“Perhaps, but . . .” Jim walked to the far side of the tree base and pointed. “This is recent.”
She looked down at the thready, dry root system, yet the surrounding earth was wet and held a distinct depression. “A large nut or perhaps just a rock that rolled free?” she said, looking for evidence.
“To make a depression that smooth?” He squatted and gestured to the shape. “I believe it’s the heel of a foot.”
She looked at him. It was a stretch to surmise that and he knew it. “Just what did you see in here, Jim?”
He met her gaze. “Something small and hairy.”
“With claws,” she added though she doubted he needed that pointed out.
He stood and watched his steps as he worked his way around the print. “There’s a couple more that lead away.”
Into the center of the island, she thought, and wasn’t ready to venture that deep. All right, she admitted. I am scared. She had enough education to know that nothing should survive on this island except plant life, yet here it was. Proof. She took several photos, then waited for Jim to decide.
When he followed the prints, Bridget thought, Mary mother, now he’s brave?
For extra measure, she drew her dive knife, bloody thankful she could do more with it than cut bait.
Singapore
Barasa nursed his morning coffee as he watched the screen of Vaghn’s laptop. Behind the small window waiting for a password, the screen was a vibrant digital language he didn’t understand, nor care to. He’d already brought in specialists, all unsuccessful. Its creator still refused to give him the sequence or passwords. Vaghn was well trapped in this bargain, but Barasa admitted he was mildly impressed with the scientist’s resistance to interrogation. The vigor and rebellion of youth, he thought, sipping. Or fear of the Professor.
Vaghn would feel regret, he supposed, if he were awake. Keeping him complacent with narcotics simplified Cale’s day. He admitted he was far more curious about the outcome than he was concerned with the threats. The Professor and his pretty colleague were a mystery, as was their final purpose. They enjoyed their manipulation. It was a mutual trait. Testing limits was often more satisfying than filling his bank accounts. More sport in it, he thought.
His phone rang, and he responded, still watching the screen.
“Yes.”
Setting down his coffee, he tried a random sequence for the sake of it. It failed.
“Yes?” He checked the number. Blocked. “Speak.”
“Ready your jet, and your cargo.”
He frowned at the deep voice he didn’t recognize. “For where?”
The caller rattled off coordinates, and Barasa scrambled for paper to jot it down. Annoyed they couldn’t simply text it, he knew they were fanatical about trails. “I’m not going anywhere without proof.” He tossed the pen on the desk.
“Daedalus.”
The call ended without another word, and he closed the phone, studying the coordinates. He was neither a pilot nor a navigator, and the longitudes and latitudes made little sense. It’s why he hired people, he thought, and pocketed the slip. Rahjan would know, but it would have to wait until the Ghurka soldier cleaned up a few lingering details.
E Ring
Pentagon
David entered the general’s office and thought, The man hasn’t slept. He didn’t know what was going on, but the push to decode the transmission had kept him up half the night. The general waved toward the coffee, and pressed a finger to his lips for silence. David respected it and went to the service, remembering Price making him set this up and keep it hot eighteen hours a day when there was a coffee service in the headquarters. He poured himself a cup and took a seat in the leather chair, sliding his feet to the ottoman. He was okay with this, he thought and took a moment to empty facts from his brain, then pep it up with caffeine. The door opened and Colonel Jansen entered, stopping short when he saw them, feet propped up and quiet. As if on cue, he left his briefcase by a chair, got some coffee, and did the same. It was another ten minutes or so before General Gerardo sat up straighter.
“Stalling isn’t going to improve the day,” he said. “David?”
He opened the file. “I have not broken the encryption, sir. NSA agent Deets has it and is searching for the primer. However, I’ve narrowed the send from two east coast companies with the capabilities to send and receive. Pike Silicone. It’s a plastics company that trades with China and it’s regularly monitored for that reason. The other is Noble Richards Incorporated. One of our military contractors.”
Gerardo nodded, and his gaze flicked to Colonel Jansen.
Uh-oh, David thought and continued. “The file needs passwords and I’m tracking it backwards, trying to . . .” he stressed. “It hopped a lot of satellite networks before it landed. The stream maintains a tone for a long time and that helps to track the sounds. This contractor has access and authorization to send data files through government satellites. I couldn’t go further. Noble Richards projects are black classified.” He shrugged. “Out of my pay grade.”
Lately it was the pat answer for not taking an investigation further, a bit of leftover from an administration of secrets and sleight of hand, David thought. McGill had shaken up the CIA and tried to get the agencies to pass information faster, but it was the clearance of each piece that stalled investigations, like now. He closed his file and took a sip of coffee.
“Do you know where it landed?”
“Not yet, sir, but it’s definitely Asia. I’ve traced it as far as Turkey. A network in Istanbul. The hop before that was Zaire.”
Colonel Jansen was frowning at the file on his lap, and David spoke his thoughts. “Sirs?” he said. “I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole story.”
“Give it all to him, Hank,” Gerardo said, then looked at David. “Your pay grade doesn’t go up, but your clearance just did, understand?”
“Yes sir.” Like everything else, he thought, a big fat secret.
“The military contractor, NRI, works on Department of Defense Research and Development projects,” Jansen said. “They are supervised and required by contract, at the completion of a project to turn everything over to the U.S. government. All computers are cleaned of references by our people.”
David eyes rounded. “Forgive me, but what are we talking about here? Ordnance? Communications?”
“Weapons using the latest technology.”
David sat back in the chair, laid the file aside, then went for more coffee. “What do you believe it is?”
“Coming from NRI, it could be any number of projects. They’d lost their contract a few years ago for violations, and only recently regained it.”
“They shouldn’t have. Lobbyists and congress made that mistake,” Gerardo growled into his coffee mug before drinking.
David set the carafe aside and faced them. “Then since it’s a U.S. company and had restrictions, this communication is an act of treason.”
“We feel so, yes,” Jansen said.
“How long do we have?”
“Every moment counts. NRI developed an explosive, and we believe it was used in Singapore.” His eyes flared. “A canister was stolen. That satellite image I wanted you to look at?”
David nodded. It was in his computer and he’d been running some programs to decipher a single foggy shadow.
“It’s from the theft a few days ago.”
“I think it’s a foot, a very small one. Maybe only four or five inches.”
Jansen frowned. “Animal?”
“It’s not clear enough even with digitizing it, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s human.”
Singapore
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br /> Tracking the biomarker on her phone, Safia crossed the water-sheened concrete to the far side to the open doors. Sunlight splashed over piles of buoys and nets tossed against a fence and when she cleared the mess, she bolted. The truck slowed and she pushed harder, zigging around a vendor’s truck and the men buying breakfast. When the truck stopped and started backing into a garage Safia walked behind a neat row of forklifts and slipped up to the open doorway. It was a produce delivery from local farmers, she thought, spotting another truck on the other side, men unloading wooden crates of bananas. Behind that was a flower truck. She moved closer when the driver climbed out, then opened the tailgate. From her position, the cab looked vacant. Workers lined up to do the fireman’s carry to unload the overstacked flat bed. It was almost empty and no Vaghn. She was about to search the truck herself when her cell vibrated and she backed away to answer.
“I can’t reach Riley,” Max said. “The biomarker is degrading too fast. It dissolves in seventy-two hours and its got at least forty hours left.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s exposed to air. It’s not inside Vaghn anymore. We’ve been juiced.”
She looked at the truck, empty now. “Damn.” She tried to hail Riley on the comm-link. He’d adjusted it because side by side, the device would reverberate, yet at this distance, it should be clear. She wasn’t getting anything. Safia started walking back toward the first pier and put her phone to her ear again. “Max, get Ellie to reach Riley. I think he can hear me, but he’s not responding. He had a shooter to deal with.”
She heard Max curse, then say, “Don’t let another of my buddies die.”
Her heart clenched. Oh man. “I won’t.”
Twelve
Riley spotted his shooter. It was easy. He’d made no effort to conceal himself.
The sniper shouldered the rifle and ambled down the scaffolding platform, then paused for a moment to look down at Riley, daring him. No. Challenging him. Then he disappeared into the lift and sent the wire cage down. But Riley was already across the road to the shack, pushing past the workers and running down a dirt hill to the yard below. Behind the equipment, he slowed, his boots crushing shells covering the ground. The lift door was still swinging on its hinges and he used a dozer’s bucket for cover.
Fight Fire With Fire. Page 18