by Rob Jones
“That’s right, sir.”
“Continue.”
“Yes, Mr President. Jeremiah Denton was a naval aviator in the Vietnam War who was shot down over Thanh Hoa in the north. He was held as a prisoner of war for eight years, half of which was spent in solitary confinement.”
“What has this got to do with our current situation, General?” Anderson said.
Hawke passed a hand over his eyes and tried to get more focus. “Admiral Denton was paraded on TV by the Vietnamese as a war trophy. His presence was supposed to show the world that American POWs were being treated with respect, but Denton managed to tell the entire world otherwise. Right under the noses of the enemy, while being filmed for their disgusting little propaganda exercise, he told the entire world that he, and the other men being held as POWs, were all being tortured.”
“And how did he do that?” Anderson said
“Haven’t you worked it out yet?” Hawke said, sighing. “Bloody career politicians!”
“Don’t wast our time, Hawke!”
“He blinked the word torture in Morse code while he was on TV, right in front of his torturers. He was a true hero.”
Anderson looked at him like he was crazy. “And you think President Grant was doing the same?”
“I bloody know he was, because when you were shitting your pants about how I was wasting your precious time I translated the Morse and worked out what he was saying.”
For the first time, Anderson was speechless.
McAlister smiled and looked at the Englishman, expectant. “What did he say, Hawke?”
“Unfortunately I couldn’t get the entire message because Kiefel’s elbow moves in front of the President’s eyes at the start and blocks some of it. But the fragment remaining clearly says something about Perseus.”
Anderson scoffed. “What good is that?”
“Thanks to Logan back at the processing plant, we already know he was moved to New York City, so now we have this Perseus clue to go on as well. I don’t know about you but I’d rather have that information than nothing. Get Ryan and Alex on it right away.”
“Agreed,” Brooke said firmly. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this shit, then it’s my Alex.”
*
As the jet screeched down on the asphalt in New York, Hawke readied himself for a fight. He looked outside and saw a military helicopter already on stand-by on the apron, fuelled up, blades whirring and waiting for them. Doyle and Scarlet were already kitted up with their gear and waiting to go. It hadn’t taken Alex and Ryan more than a few minutes to discover that a super yacht named the Perseus was sailed into New York Harbor several weeks ago and was still there, moored to a pier on the west side of Midtown Manhattan.
A few short minutes after touch-down they were climbing above the airport in the same chopper Hawke had spied from the jet and banking in the direction of the Hudson River.
He watched almost dreamily as the world’s most famous skyline approached from the west. They rose higher into the air over the East River and Roosevelt Island, and moments later they were crossing the southern tip of Central Park. It was full-dark and lit by countless thousands of sparkling street lights, but Hawke recalled with a faint smile the last time he had seen it when he, Lea and Ryan were in pursuit of Kaspar Vetsch. They had torn half the park up in the chase and eventually wound up in the custody of the CIA. All of that seemed like another age to him now.
Tonight, the curfew had turned Manhattan into a ghost town, and everyone was locked in their apartments waiting for the danger to pass. Everyone except Hawke and his friends.
The chopper began to descend as they approached Hell’s Kitchen and after a few words were squawked through their earpieces, the pilot deftly lowered the collective and brought the helicopter down into the middle of DeWitt Clinton Park. Before the skids had touched down on the grass, Hawke, Scarlet and Doyle were prepping their weapons.
They sprinted across the park and over 12th Avenue until they reached the east bank of the Hudson and saw the Perseus moored up on Pier 84.
Hawke checked his gun one last time and briefed the others. “All right, we know we can’t storm the yacht fast enough to save the President and stop Kiefel from releasing the weapon. That’s why we’re going underwater.”
“Once a bloody frogman, always a bloody frogman,” Scarlet said.
“Don’t start all this SAS-SBS bullshit,” Hawke said smiling. “The only reason you joined the SAS is because you can’t smoke cigarettes underwater.” He turned and looked at her straight in the eyes, deadpan. “Be honest.”
“I could slap you sometimes, Joe.”
“Will these things still work?” Doyle asked, pointing at his gun. “We don’t do a whole lot of underwater espionage training in the Secret Service.”
“They’ll fire underwater, sure,” Hawke said, “but obviously the range will be reduced. We don’t have to worry about that because we’re not going to do any underwater firing. This mission is about a covert insertion on that bloody yacht and then when we’re on board we find the President. You will then swim with him back to the shore while Cairo and I take-out Kiefel and his cronies and secure the weapon.”
“Got it.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone here that when we’re on board hold the bolts on your weapons back and drain the water from the chambers before you fire.”
They crouched low as they made their way along the pier on the east bank of the Hudson River. Then they used a line of rowan trees as cover as they drew nearer to the Perseus and reached the water-line.
Hawke slipped into the river first. He immediately felt the dark, cold water of the Hudson as it surrounded him. His years in the Special Boat Service meant if anywhere was home, then this was it, but he knew a US Secret Service agent like Doyle, and even to a certain extent Scarlet with her SAS background, wouldn’t be as comfortable underwater as he was. Diving was an unsettling experience for some even at the best of times, never mind in dark, cold, moving water at night, with explosives strapped to your back and the possibility of people shooting at you.
He held his breath and dived silently into the black water.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Vincent Reno paused at the entrance to the luxury Santa Monica beachfront estate and took a few seconds to take it all in. It was in the Spanish Colonial revival style, stretching right down to the beach. It didn’t seem the sort of place that would suit a militant German terrorist with a revenge obsession, but despite the ornate statues and carefully manicured gardens, he knew Angelika Schwartz and Alan Pauling were here. They had to stop them before they launched the drone and released the weaponized bacteria into the skies above America’s second largest city.
Kim Taylor finished briefing the SWAT team and joined Vincent at the hacienda’s outer gates. She whistled through her front teeth as she cast her eye over what she could see of the property through the black wrought-iron gates.
“Place like this must cost twenty million dollars,” she said, shaking her head.
Vincent nodded and smiled. “Amazing what a few arms deals can purchase…”
“Must have a hell of an ocean view out the back.”
Vincent gave a Gallic shrug and tipped his head. “I prefer the mountains.”
“You can have your mountains,” the American agent said. “I want to see that ocean view.”
“But this place is like Fort Knox,” Vincent said. “Are we going over the walls?”
Kim shook her head and grinned. “No, we’re doing it the fun way.”
“You give up the element of surprise?” asked the Frenchman with surprise.
“This is the surprise,” she said, as she ordered an explosive breaching of the gate. “They already know we’re here thanks to Pauling’s extensive surveillance,” she said, pointing to the cameras all over the property. “Plus the perimeter’s covered by our guys. This assault is about going in hard, fast and nasty.”
Vincent nodded his head in ap
preciation and flicked his cigarette into the impressive bank of blue agapanthus flowers swaying in the breeze along the outer wall. “I can do hard, fast and nasty.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the moon, now setting over the ocean. “Ce soir, la lune rêve avec une plus de paresse, ainsi qu’une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins... ”
Kim Taylor stared at him, confused. “What the hell is that?”
“Just some words for the moon, mon ami. Maybe one day I tell you what they mean.” Vincent checked his PAMAS before holstering it and then readied a Heckler & Koch submachine gun for combat.
“If we get through this alive then that’s a deal. I always wanted to impress someone with French poetry.”
Vincent smiled, recalling the time he met Monique in Montpelier. “With these words, Agent Taylor, you cannot fail.”
The SWAT man advanced with some Cordtex and deftly wrapped the pentaerythritol tetranitrate detcord around the central gate-bars either side of the substantial lock before withdrawing to cover. Seconds later the high-explosive detonated and blasted the entire central section of the gates to oblivion. Vincent, Kim and the SWAT team were through and into the property before the smoke had cleared.
The SWAT men sprinted to their designated areas at the sides and rear of the hacienda while Vincent and Kim headed for the main entrance. The hacienda was built around an opulent central courtyard with an expansive swimming pool at its center, and they knew from the satellite surveillance that the helicopter drone was parked on the west lawn in between the pool and the property’s beach-front perimeter wall.
Now, Vincent and Kim blasted their way toward the hacienda’s thick oak-panelled double doors at the main entrance before the Frenchman threw a SWAT-issue flash-bang grenade into the hall. The explosion rocked the stone Tuscan-order columns either side of the entrance and then a second later belched a thin cloud of white smoke out of the hole where the door used to be.
They entered the hall, guns raised and ready for booby-traps, but there was nothing there.
“Clear!” Kim shouted, adhering to protocol in a way that put the briefest of smiles on Vincent Reno’s face.
Glancing up at the top of a long-winding staircase of white marble to ensure there was no one above waiting to pour fire on them, they moved forward into the main section of the hacienda, passing through the largest kitchen Vincent had ever seen.
A vision of his twin boys waiting patiently for breakfast while their mother ground the coffee and warmed the milk flashed in and out of his mind in less than a second. He had to concentrate – those boys needed a father to guide them, not a grave to visit. In his line of work he had seen that happen too many times.
Now, exiting the kitchen and making their way into a games room the fighting began. They dived for cover behind a pool table, and while Kim radioed the attack to the other SWAT men, Vincent peered around the table to see a woman with spiky hair he instantly recognized.
“Angelika Schwartz!” he called to Kim. “Ten meters, behind the bar.”
Kim nodded to show she understood and radioed the information back to HQ.
As bullets raced over their heads and drilled into the wall behind them, Vincent struggled to get an angle with the submachine gun so shouldered it and switched to the PAMAS, firing a ferocious succession of nine mils at the enormous Jägermeister bar mirror on the wall above where Angelika was taking cover. It shattered into thousands of lethal shards which rained down on the German hired-gun. He heard her scream and then the sound of her boots crunching on the glass as she tried to extricate herself from the situation.
Vincent was merciless. Thinking again of his boys, he fired another series of bullets at the woman as she sprinted across the room and dived through the open window into the courtyard. As she ran, she fired her Heckler & Koch USP blindly at them, blasting chunks out of the pool table and sending a shower of tulipwood and maple splinters into the air. One of her bullets hit a No. 8 ball and it exploded into a cloud of phenolic resin which impressed the Frenchman more than it should have.
More submachine-gun fire was coming now from their right, and they darted their eyes outside the games room to see Angelika had rallied two more men with weapons to defend the property. Behind them, on the far side of the pool, Vincent saw Alan Pauling in the dim glow of an exterior louvred wall-light as he fitted the canister of weaponized bacteria to the helicopter drone and crouch-walked across the lawn to the pool house.
“Bastard must be controlling it from there!” Kim shouted, pinned down by the submachine-gun fire. “We have to get to him before he takes that thing off and flies it over L.A!”
Vincent nodded grimly, visualizing all the thousands of innocent men, woman and children sleeping in their beds as they breathed in the bacteria and were instantly turned to stone forever. “That’s the name of the game, mon ami!”
*
On board the Perseus, Kiefel stared at the muscle-bound Jakob with undisguised hatred for a few moments, scowling at the interruption.
“Was?!” he barked at him in German.
“Telefon!” Jakob said, and took a cautious step toward the boss.
Kiefel snatched the phone from him and spoke. “Who is this?”
“It’s the President,” Kimble said.
Kiefel immediately noticed a change in his tone. He sounded… less frightened.
“What do you want, Teddy? I’m busy.”
“I’ve been thinking over the terms and conditions of our agreement and I think it’s time to modify the details.”
“What are you talking about? If you cross me I’ll release your files to the world.”
“Is that worth your life, Klaus? That is the question you must ask yourself.”
Kiefel scowled. “You’re calling my bluff, Teddy? I never thought you had it in you.”
“Don’t push me, Klaus. I know we had a deal but I can’t let you murder Grant.”
“Perhaps you give me some time to think it over.”
“Well…”
Kiefel cut the phone call and turned to Jakob. “Contact the girl in Washington. See to it that President Kimble has an accident.”
“Jawohl,” said Jakob.
“And ready the helicopter. It’s time to start Operation Medusa.”
Jakob nodded and left the cabin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hawke was the first to reach the hull of the Perseus, and gently made his way around to the portside boarding ladder, remaining submerged the entire time. They knew from their CIA briefing while on the flight from New Orleans that the yacht had two stainless steel retractable gangways, controlled by a simple hydraulic system, but the control pads were on deck. They also knew that on the portside near the bow there was a non-retractable ladder, so this was their entry point.
Hawke emerged from the water in silence and drew his SIG. He pulled himself from the water as quietly as he could and climbed up the ladder. On the deck now, he slipped into the shadows and waited for the others. Not for the first time in his life he wondered why he wasn’t in bed, waiting for the dawn of another day in a normal life. That was what most people did, he thought. Who the hell chose to spend their time in freezing cold water under enemy boats?
He did, he guessed, and that was something he just had to live with. For one thing, he had too much trouble imagining himself doing anything else, and that’s what had frightened him about leaving the SBS and starting up his security company. Colliding with Lea Donovan and Sir Richard Eden back at the British Museum that day had in many ways saved his life.
As he waited in the silence of the night, he thought he heard one of Kiefel’s goons on the deck above him moving toward the steps leading down to him, but it was nothing, and then out of nowhere his mind turned to his family. Maybe it was because Alex had been asking him about it all so recently, he wasn’t sure. Alex, and especially Lea, had a right to know about his family and his background, but for some reason he was reluctant to share that part of his life with them.
&
nbsp; Talking about himself wasn’t something he was used to, and neither was he very good at it. Sharing private information with others wasn’t exactly high on the list in the Royal Marines Commandos, and it certainly wasn’t something that the men in his unit of the SBS liked to spend their free time doing either. He had lived like that for so long that now it was normal to compartmentalize his life into subunits like this and keep them apart from one another. When someone asked him to start talking about his family, his first thought was always the same – why?
Now the same noise – a muffled footfall on the deck directly above his head. He held his breath and readied his pistol as he waited, frozen like a statue in the shadow of the steps, but again no one came. Instead, he heard some tuneless whistling and then someone spat into the river.
Doyle emerged over the side of the yacht, slightly breathless with the effort of the underwater swim but otherwise in good shape, and as he moved silently into the shadows to join Hawke, they both watched with relief as Scarlet appeared, the top of her wet hair and shoulders reflecting some moonlight as the clouds shifted above the city.
Besides, he thought, his mind returning to family – it wasn’t just him who liked to keep things to himself. What was Lea doing right now? She was chasing ghosts across Ireland – ghosts he knew nothing about… and she was fighting a battle he knew nothing about, against an enemy he knew nothing about. She had kept it from him in the way he had never told her, or anyone else, about his life growing up in London. Maybe, he thought as he watched Scarlet extract her SIG and cock it, it was time for everyone to start being more honest with each other.
But now it was time to focus. They shared a look which they all knew meant it was time to move out, and began the mission to save the President and secure the weapon.
Halfway up one of the external staircases they noticed a guard who was asleep, lulled by the moonlight and the motion of the yacht on the river. Scarlet won paper, scissors, rock and stalked up to him, grabbing him roughly around the neck with one hand and jamming the muzzle of her SIG into his face.