“If the CIA believes the plane’s original crew is being held prisoner,” he asked, “then who is flying the gunship these days?”
Wisely, Smitz had prepared a response to this query ahead of time. Not an answer per se, just a response.
So when the question was asked, he just took a deep breath and with a straight face replied: “I’m sorry, that information is also classified.”
It was dark by the time the briefing broke up.
Those assembled received two hypodermic injections each—booster shots to ward off any foreign germs they might run into overseas—as well as a cupful of pills that would supposedly do the same thing. They were told to report back to the billets and await individual mess call.
One of those attending the briefing would not be staying for evening chow, however. He was the man in the black flight suit and Keds sneakers and wearing the cap with the subtle-sexual phrase about angels on it.
The cap was actually an inside joke, a gift given to him by his wife. His name wasn’t “Angel”—it was his code name. Even Smitz didn’t know what this guy’s real name was, or his rank, or even if he was in the military, or who he worked for if he wasn’t. But the orders said he would attend all of the briefings on the program. Indeed his presence would be crucial to the success of the raid.
But at the moment, he had other places to be.
So he was glad that the sun had gone down before the briefing was called to an end. He waited, staying behind as the grumbling attendees got their shots, swallowed their pills, and filed out of the Big Room. Then, after a brief conversation with Smitz and Rooney, he slipped out the back of the restaurant and began climbing the sand dune located behind the building.
The dune was about fifty feet straight up and was by far the highest point on Seven Ghosts Key. He reached the top and took a good, long look around. The stars were bright already and the moon would be coming up very soon. If he squinted his eyes real hard, he could see a faint green light to the south. This was the ragged glow of Cuba. To the north, the night sky had a yellowish tinge to it. The color of Florida.
He could see no lights in between, though. No vessels in the nearby waters. No airplanes flying overhead. This was good. For what he was about to do, he could not have any witnesses.
Certain that the coast was clear—literally—he reached into his pocket and took out a device about the size of a TV remote control. He pressed three buttons in sequence and watched the tiny LCD screen light up. It began flashing the numeral .100 at two-second intervals.
Angel hit a few more buttons, and the numerals changed to .200 and began flashing every second. A few more buttons pushed, and now the screen read .300 and was not flashing at all.
“That was easy,” Angel said to himself.
Now he held down a red button at the base of the device and then looked up. Off to the west, in the thick starry sky, a faint blue light appeared. It was moving very fast. So fast it was over the western tip of Seven Ghosts Key in less than ten seconds. That was when Angel let up on the red button. The deep blue light stopped directly above him, two miles up. He pushed the red button twice, and now the blue light began to descend.
Within fifteen seconds, it was no more than fifty feet above his head and still coming down….
A minute later, Angel was one hundred miles away.
Chapter 10
Off the west coast of India
The early morning sun was climbing over the East Arabian Sea.
The small fleet of fishing boats, trawlers, and motorized junks, having departed the west India port of Kordinar just after the midnight tide, was now making good headway as the winds shifted westward.
The vessels—twelve in all—were loaded with a variety of cargo: black-market computers, TVs, silk, American-made jeans and sneakers. A few political refugees. A few escaped criminals. Many families, some going on vacation to the Persian Gulf states. Many had children with them. Some were carrying infants.
They were heading for Oman, a full day’s journey if the seas stayed calm. On arrival, those with merchandise to sell would become rich for a year’s time. Those fleeing the authorities would be free. Those heading for a somewhat perilous shopping vacation would have the malls and sands of Oman, Bahrain, and the UAE awaiting them.
But because their cargo was considered precious in these waters, the small fleet of boats would have been prime pickings for the sea pirates known to ply this part of the ocean, preying on the defenseless. That was why there was a thirteenth vessel in the fleet—in fact, it was leading it.
It was an Osa-class gunboat. It had been hired by the voyagers to provide protection for their trip.
The Russian-exported gunboat was well equipped. It held a crew of sixteen, only four of which were responsible for the forty-four-foot vessel’s operation. The rest were gunners, loaders, aimers, and computer guys. The gunship boasted twin OTO-Melara 76-mm guns both front and back, plus torpedoes with ultra-sound targeting capability. But the gunboat also carried the dangerous Starwind missile, essentially a knockoff of the terrifying Israeli-built Raphael antiship weapon.
The Starwinds were accurate, easy to use, and had an extremely high kill record. One could sink a midsize cruiser; two could devastate an even larger ship. The Osa gunboat had a dozen such missiles on board. As such, its firepower was equal to some of the capital ships of the world’s biggest navies.
The travelers had paid the gunship’s crew handsomely, and were cozy in the knowledge that the money had been well spent. Already during the voyage they had spotted pirate vessels sailing out on the horizon, like jackals shadowing a pack of wildebeests. But the pirates weren’t foolish—they knew their smaller, lightly armed vessels could never take on the kind of firepower that the Osa gunboat carried.
That was why they had paid for a little firepower of their own.
They first heard the noise about ten in the morning.
There was a little wind and the sea was throwing some spray, and that combination made a distinctive sound. The noise caused by the thirteen vessels and their various power plants also made a distinctive noise—but it was rather high-pitched and mechanical.
This approaching sound was deeper, more ominous. As if the sea itself was groaning.
For most of the travelers, it was the last thing they would ever hear.
The airplane came out of the west.
It was flying low, its silhouette outlined by the heavy overcast, displaying its grayish, ghostly image.
The crew of the gunboat saw it first. One of their forward gunners doubled as a lookout, and he had picked up the thing on his binoculars about three miles out. It was little more than a growing speck at that point. Still, it didn’t take long for the lookout to realize what it was.
He turned to sound the alarm, but before he knew it, a long stream of red and yellow fire went right over his head. It came so close to him that for an instant, he actually felt its heat, which was hot enough to short circuit his IF gear.
The next stream of bullets was more on the mark. It hit the lookout and the other three crew members at his gun station dead-on with a quick splash of fire and light. A mere three-second burst—four hundred projectiles in all—destroyed the gunboat’s forward twin weapon, its turret, and one quarter of its crew.
The huge airplane roared over the stricken Osa several seconds later. The wash from its propellers kicked up the sea as no winds could ever do. Those still alive on board watched as the airplane did a long slow bank, passing over the rest of the ragtag fleet and back towards the gunboat again.