Frances O’Donnelly, Romano Goldstein, Donald Snow, Olivia Kingston, and Randal Sanford were enjoying a sumptuous dinner in their war room. They were finishing the soup course, a lobster bisque and sipping apple wine from the vineyard. Andrew stepped up to the platform to begin his briefing.
Frances was reconsidering her assessment of Andrew’s competence. Her mind was growing increasingly negative.
“This wine is hideous,” said Donald. “What’s it made of, iodine?”
“It’s their local apple wine, dear; spoils of war, so to speak,” said Olivia. “We mustn’t complain. We’re warriors now.”
“Don’t they have any grapes up here?” Donald said.
“Here,” said Randal, reaching back to the sideboard behind him, grabbing a bottle. “Try this. It’s from a vineyard down the road. A white of some kind.”
“You guys want me to start or are you too busy fussing over the wine?” said Andrew.
Donald tasted the white. “Hey, this is really good. Go ahead, Andrew. Brief away.”
Frances studied the screen behind Andrew, a map with three locations on it—the Directorate’s position at the Zolinos Vineyard, the enemy position at Neddick, and their alternate location south of Cape Ann.
“Target number one is the Nubble Lighthouse on Cape Neddick,” Andrew said. He aimed the red dot from his laser pointer at the map on the screen marked “FITO Target No. 1.” “Target number two is here, somewhere south of Gloucester.” He aimed his laser pointer at a large unspecified area labeled on his map “FITO Target No. 2.”
“I fully expect that target two is abandoned, but we will maintain a contingency plan in place just in case some of their forces are there.
“The objective is to kill all FITO personnel, no prisoners. I have four intelligence indicators from Cape Neddick: a telekinetic energy force from the rocks beneath their headquarters, traces of human FITO activity on my detection devices, and confirmation by one of our most competent seers, Firdos Gaffardi. He has had eyes on two of FITO’s operatives in and around Target One. And fourth, one of my computers conducted a digital search through layers of proxy servers and located a FITO laptop computer at that location. Very sloppy for them to keep that computer online.
“The attack on Target One will be amphibious.” Andrew changed the image on the screen from a map to a live satellite view. Cape Neddick stuck out from York Beach, Maine, like a thumb. The “nub” looked like a tiny island separated from the end of the thumb by a narrow channel one hundred yards wide.
“As you can see from the image here, Cape Neddick is thickly populated. A ground attack through these neighborhoods would be foolish.
“I have procured three vessels to transport our attack force onto the back of the island. We will surprise our enemy from the sea, overrun their weak defenses, kill them all and exfiltrate by sea. The unsuspecting residents of Cape Neddick will never know we were there.”
“Question.” Frances raised her hand. “What about gunfire? Won’t that disturb these residents?”
Andrew waved his hand at Randal, “You wanna take that question, Randal?”
Randal was eager to show off his role as ground commander. He wiped marinara sauce from his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ve trained our crack troops in silent kill techniques,” he said. “Run that video, Andrew.”
The video showed the target range where the Directorate force had been training. The board members watched as a line of twenty large, muscular brutes loaded their crossbows. In unison, at the command of one squad leader they bent over at the waist, pulled back on their crossbow strings, straining to set them in the cocked position.
Randal explained, “All these men are capable of lifting three hundred pounds. As you can see, these bows are designed to hold two hundred pounds of pull. Each weapon holds three cocked arrows, ready to fire—either all at once or separately. They have an effective range of four hundred yards.”
On the screen each soldier reached across his waist to remove arrows from his quiver hanging on his belt, loaded his crossbow, and aimed downrange.
A command rang out from a voice off camera, “Targets, post!” In the distance, a line of twenty men rose up out of a ditch and charged at the bowmen. Frances gripped the arms of her chair. Human targets. Rather than being shocked or repulsed at taking innocent lives simply for target practice, Frances felt a twinge of wicked stimulation.
“Kill!” shouted the voice. All twenty live targets fell to the ground writhing in pain. The other board members watched dispassionately, continuing with their main course—veal marsala, steamed vegetables, and mashed potatoes. Frances gulped downed a full glass of wine.
“Pass me that white wine, Donald,” said Frances. She refilled her glass.
“Charge and finish!” the voice on the video commanded. The twenty soldiers ran ahead, unsheathed their short swords, and quickly dispatched their victims.
Randal said, “Our soldiers will employ the bow and the blade as their primary weapons in our attack. Squad leaders will be armed with silenced rifles and pistols.”
On the screen a box truck drove across the range followed by a crew of men throwing bodies into the cargo box. The warriors had fallen into a file and marched off to the right under the supervision of their squad leader who was beating one of them with a club as they marched.
“We attack the Nubble Lighthouse tonight,” Andrew said, packing up his laptop and projector. “By tomorrow there will be no more Fly In The Ointment.”
“What about the contingency plan,” asked Frances, “on Target Two?”
“I do not expect I will have to brief that plan, Frances,” said Andrew. “If, in the very unlikely event we have to attack Target Two, we will have another meeting.”
Frances noticed Olivia lean her shoulder into Donald and say, “What do you think of ourselves, Donald? We’re a council of war. Out on the frontier. In charge of an army.”
“I know,” said Donald. “Quite invigorating, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, as long as I don’t have to get my shoes dirty,” Olivia said with a chuckle.
Then to the waiter Olivia said, “Young man, where’s the dessert cart?”
Frances shook her head in disgust.
“What are you thinking about, amigo?” said Beto to Henry. They were having a cup of coffee in their trailer before setting out for another day in the boat.
“Marriage,” said Henry.
Beto just sipped and looked over the sports page of the Portland Press Herald. His fishing mate was not as easy to read as the paper. Henry had dug into his FBI data and identified the woman connected with their creepy neighbor. Then he had the police watch her and they found out she was staying at a vineyard in New Hampshire. It was Tobias who told him to text the latitude-longitude to Carlos—for what?
“I can’t stand her and she hates me,” said Henry.
“Patriots still undefeated,” said Beto.
“I bet she hasn’t made the bed since I left.”
“We gonna go fishing or are you going to keep talking about your wife, like you been doing for the last week?”
“She probably hasn’t paid the electric bill or the gas bill.”
“We going back to that lighthouse or we going to avoid it like the fish do?”
“I got an idea,” said Henry.
“Uh-oh.”
Henry laid it out, Beto liked it because it didn’t involve fishing at the Nubble Light or grousing about Henry missing his wife, so they got to it. They drove the Tahoe to Beto’s cousin’s house. They filled the fuel tanks on Water Walker and loaded up their supplies and fishing tackle.
“You figure—what?—three days from here to Gloucester Bay?” said Henry.
“About that,” said Beto, “let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Carlos, have you seen Gabriella?” said Sandy. The two commanders walked together on their daily inspection tour of Task Force Saber’s defensive perimeter around Cielavista. They ch
atted with the fighters, some digging their foxholes into the earth and some building up their fighting position with rocks. Secondary positions formed the next line of defense a quarter mile behind the perimeter in the event the fighters had to fall back. The third fallback position, a ten-foot-high stone rampart protected by a spiked ditch constituted the inner ring. Carlos had designed this fortress to provide the rear guard of Task Force Saber excellent protection for their last stand against the Directorate’s attack. The soldiers had dug two escape tunnels from the interior of the stone fortress to the side of the cliff overlooking the ocean.
“No,” said Carlos. “She must be out on her rock.”
“I just looked out there and she’s not there,” said Sandy. “I don’t recall seeing her all day yesterday. I’m concerned, Carlos.”
“We’ll cease work on the defenses and conduct a thorough search of the premises,” said Carlos. “Which of the horses can communicate with angelic beings?”
“Sadie,” said Sandy. “And your niece, Althea, can communicate with Sadie. I want them with you during the search, okay?”
“Right.”
“Sandy, we need you out on the rock,” said Carlos, and he placed his rough palms on her cheeks. He looked her in the eye, “My courageous sister, ‘no weapon formed against us will stand.’”
“I’ll go out,” Sandy said. “Find my grandmother.”
Andrew was a hurricane of frustration watching Commander Randal Sanford try to lead his battalion of robotic warriors—all brainwashed and hypnotized. When the squad leaders ordered their oversized thugs to line up and board the rental trucks that would transport them to the wharf, the big lummoxes stumbled around in confused clusters. Not having detailed instructions about how and where to line up, which direction to go, which truck to board, where to sit in the back of these large enclosed box trucks, and what equipment to carry, they became more and more confused. Their confusion turned into fear and their fear turned into anger and their anger turned into violence against each other.
A simple movement of personnel from barracks to vehicles, which should have taken less than thirty minutes, took over four hours. Andrew noticed that all the Directorate board members with the exception of Randal were sleeping off their feast. He could do nothing but sit in the ops center and observe the chaos from his window overlooking the ruined vineyard.
In a rare moment of neglect, Andrew failed to monitor his security screens where a faint signal representing human movement on the hills above the vineyard was blinking. He paced back and forth in front of the window overlooking the struggling soldiers, where several violent fistfights had broken out. In one incident, a soldier fatally stabbed his squad mate. There was no punishment, just a reprimand and an order from the leader of that squad to get into line.
Andrew decided he needed to rouse his bosses from their sleep. He went to each of the guesthouses on the far side of the property and banged on their doors with the butt of his pistol grip. It took ten minutes for Frances, Olivia, Donald, and Romano to join him in the gazebo at the edge of the vineyard. A light drizzle seeped into the hazy directors’ clothing.
“We are at war,” Andrew said, unveiling his rage. “You are the war council. You have failed to witness the incompetence of your leaders, especially Commander Randal Sanford. The soldiers in our so-called army are totally inept. Come with me. You need to observe their failure to assemble for their attack on the Nubble Light.”
Andrew and the four drowsy executives walked toward the operations center in the main building. The convoy of trucks was exiting the vineyard. As they watched the line of taillights stream down the driveway, Hank’s demolitions exploded into the night. The multiple blasts throughout the camp threw the board members down onto the muddy ground.
The leaders of the Directorate lay in the mud, deaf and paralyzed.
Hank’s team of nine saboteurs had reached its attack position under cover of darkness. Silently they separated into three sections and moved to their preplanned observation posts. They watched the troop activity in the Directorate’s camp below them. It appeared to them that the entire enemy force was leaving the encampment. Hank was amazed at the chaos.
Eventually the large box trucks loaded with armed brutes lined up on the main road to Sandown. Hank’s men moved quickly and stealthily to their targets—the modular barracks buildings and the main hall. Within a few minutes they lay all the demo and set the timers. Hank’s commandos jogged back to their rally point on the ridge and gathered to watch the results of their work. The six modular buildings exploded simultaneously. Fireballs flared upward from the massive explosions followed by huge plumes of black smoke. Before the echo of those explosions subsided, ten horrendous charges went off in the main hall, sending the twenty thousand square foot structure splintering into the sky in a blazing ball of flames and thunder. The saboteurs headed back to their vehicles at their rendezvous point two miles back through the woods.
The computer in Andrew’s mobile operations center in his van was untouched by the demolitions. It faithfully recorded Hank’s route back to Cielavista, pinpointing Task Force Saber’s true location.
By late afternoon Henry was finally satisfied that Water Walker was ready for the voyage from Cape Neddick to Gloucester Bay. He had Beto follow his exhaustive checklist inspecting every inch of the craft inside and out. Henry triple-checked the navigation instruments. He called the Coast Guard and several harbor masters along their route. He drove to the local marine supply shop and procured two extra marine batteries and had them charged up. He bought bedding and extra clothing, including two sets of wet weather gear.
“Man, we’re not crossing the Atlantic,” Beto said, “we’re skimming the coastline.”
“Okay, we’re all set, Beto. Let’s cast off,” Henry said.
“You sure you didn’t forget anything? How about a few extra tubes of toothpaste?”
“Actually I have four. They were buy-one-get-one-free at the supermarket,” said Henry.
“So what, you bought two and got two free?” said Beto as he untied the bowline.
“Well, yeah, but I had to leave the store after I got the first two and go back in to get the second deal,” said Henry. He pushed the starter button on the console.
Beto shook his head.
A steady rain drizzled down from a cold, dreary sky. Heavy, ashen clouds stretched down to the ocean. Henry cautiously guided Water Walker out of Neddick Harbor to the open sea. The dim October twilight faded behind the grey curtain.
On his surface radar, Henry picked up several boats a mile out to his starboard front. “Three large boats,” Henry said to Beto. Both men smoked pipes now. They concentrated on the instruments and the ocean out the window. The wipers slapped the mist off the windshield. Henry slowed Water Walker down to six knots. The radar showed the three vessels creeping toward the Nubble Light, and then halting in a semicircle around the little island.
“Tobias,” said Beto, “you see this?
“Your angel does not like the looks of those boats. There’s a band of dark angels accompanying them—bad sign.”
“I don’t know whether to get out of here or stay and see if we’re supposed to do something,” said Henry.
“Call the Coast Guard,” said Beto. “Just tell them what you see and let them decide if they should respond.”
“Good idea.”
Into the microphone, “Coast Guard Station Portsmouth, this is Water Walker. Can you hear me?”
“Water Walker, this is Portsmouth”
“I’m reporting some unusual activity off the Nubble Light. Three large motor craft loitering and moving slowly toward the island. Visibility is low, but I have them on radar.”
“Okay, we have Coast Guard auxiliary there in Neddick. We’ll send out a boat to check them out. Suggest you keep your distance. Thanks, Captain.”
“Water Walker, okay. Out,” said Henry.
In a few minutes a fourth boat showed on the radar screen in front of
Henry and Beto.
“That was quick,” said Beto, breathing out a cloud of aromatic smoke into the enclosed cockpit.
The shockwave from a blast rocked the Water Walker—followed by four-foot waves from the explosion. Henry and Beto could see a faint orange-yellow glow through the thick low-hanging clouds. On the radar, the image of the destroyed Coast Guard boat radiated bright red and disappeared.
“Coast Guard Portsmouth, your auxiliary boat is in trouble. I suggest a rapid response from your location. Notify law enforcement. It looks like one of the unidentified vessels fired on your boat.”
“Roger, Water Walker. Quick reaction force is on the way. Keep your distance.”
“We gotta move, Henry. Look,” Beto said, pointing at the radar screen. One of the three vessels was headed toward them at a high speed.
“Tobias,” Henry said, “How ‘bout making yourself useful and churn up the water around that approaching boat? Sink it if you can.”
Henry pushed forward on the throttle and the Water Walker retreated to the high sea. They reached top speed but the pursuing yacht was gaining on them. Henry looked back and watched an unnatural mountain of water swell up in the distance between them and the luxury cruiser. The approaching yacht rose up onto the twenty-foot swell and went momentarily airborne. Then it fell back into the ocean stern-first, became half submerged, and bobbed upright full of seawater. The high speed cruiser stalled helplessly behind them.
Henry looked at Beto and said, “I guess our water boy angel is all right after all.”
Randal directed the captain of his yacht into Portsmouth Harbor and up the Piscatagua River to the private cove where their disastrous voyage had begun thirty-six hours before. He stomped into the boathouse on the wharf.
The other two luxury boats—one towing the swamped craft—pulled up to their slips and tied in.
“Everyone get in here,” he yelled.
The soldiers entered the boathouse. One of the squad leaders ordered them all to sit down on the floor. They looked more like a class of preschoolers after a field trip than an infantry platoon. Mouths open, eyes staring straight ahead they sat, barely aware that they had neither slept nor eaten for two days.
Proof Through the Night Page 19