This was a good thing for the Army major with the scarred face.
He had admired the white truck with the silver stripes from the second he saw it on the dock at Basra.
And now, it was his.
Chapter 7
It was a place that did not show up on any tourist maps—yet it looked like somewhere just about any tourist in south Florida would want to visit.
It was called Seven Ghosts Key by some. It was an island located about forty-five miles south of Key West, deep in the Florida Straits.
Five miles long and a half mile wide, it was covered with palm trees—some real, some not—and various other kinds of tropical fauna. It was surrounded by very light blue water. A huge coral reef dominated its northern side. A white sandy beach stretched along its southern end.
The center of the island boasted what appeared to be a small airfield, one capable of handling civilian aircraft like Piper Cubs, Cherokees, and so on. Close to this was a dock with facilities for a few dozen sport-fishing boats and yachts, with gasoline pumps, a repair shack, and bait barrels also on hand.
The main part of the resort was a cluster of six buildings located next to the airport. Three were obviously hangars—though to the trained eye they might have appeared a bit too large to handle only private airplanes. Two more buildings looked like motels—brightly colored one-story framed structures with lots of windows. The fifth building looked like a warehouse. The sixth was a restaurant. It was of vintage 1950’s design, its roof and gutters adorned with ancient-looking patio lights that were turned on both night and day. Its expansive deck looked out over the calm waters to the north of the key.
The only vehicles ever seen on the island were powder-pink jeeps. Their sole purpose seemed to be for transporting fishermen from the docks to the restaurant and back, yet rarely did any of these vehicles move from their parking lot behind the boat slips. The pristine beach on the south side also appeared very inviting, with its pearl sand, its field of beach umbrellas, and the waves gently lapping against its straight-as-a-razor shoreline. Yet rarely could any visitors be spotted there, or anywhere on the island for that matter.
This was because Seven Ghosts Key was not what it seemed. First of all, its runway was actually two miles long—four fifths of it invisible, hidden by cleverly painted camouflage and intricately placed fauna. The restaurant, while serving as a mess hall as well, was crammed with millions of dollars of military communications equipment. What appeared to be an air- conditioner vent-house on its roof actually contained a Hawk antiaircraft missile battery. One of the large hangars boasted facilities big enough to house more than a hundred people. A second held enough weaponry to outfit a small army. The third actually served to store aircraft, many of which had never been seen by a civilian eye. The pink jeeps all carried Uzi machine guns or M- 16CGS NightVision-equipped rifles. And the “motels” held even more mysterious things inside.
No, Seven Ghosts Key was not what it seemed.
It was, in fact, another very secret place.
When Marty Ricco woke up, the sun was shining in his face. He hadn’t felt such warmth in months.
Where the hell was he? Certainly not in Thule anymore…
He sat bolt upright, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and it slowly came back to him. He was still on the airliner. The same one he’d climbed aboard in Bangor, Maine, the night before, per his new orders. It was an old, battered, noisy turboprop of a type he didn’t think existed anymore. They’d been hopscotching in it since midnight, setting down at least four times for refueling or bad weather or both. Somewhere along the way, Ricco had fallen into a fitful sleep. Now he was awake and the very hot sun was shining in his face.
He looked about the cabin. Gillis was sprawled over three seats across the aisle from him, sleeping restlessly. The ancient airliner had room for about fifty people. Yet from what Ricco could see, he and Gillis were still the only passengers on board.
He sat all the way up now. Where the hell had they been flying to this whole time? He looked out the window and found himself staring down at a lot of bright blue water. And at this, a smile began to spread across his face. It was a strange sensation; he was by habit a dour man. But now, though it seemed his facial muscles had to break through six months of ice to accomplish the feat, it finally happened. His first real smile in half a year.
But it would not last very long because a moment later the old airplane began shuddering madly. Its engines screaming in protest, it began to fall out of the sky. Panic ripped through Ricco. That clear blue water was coming up at him very fast. He looked over at Gillis, who was still sleeping. Then he looked back out the window and saw the water getting closer… closer… closer.
Ricco lunged across the aisle to shake Gillis awake. There was no way he was going to die alone like this. But just as he began jostling his partner, there was a sudden thump and guttural screech. Ricco put his nose back up to the window and saw they were down and rolling along a runway.
Awakened by Ricco’s panic and the landing, Gillis did a long stretch and yawned.
“We here finally?” he asked sleepily.
“Yeah,” Ricco replied, trying to sound calm as he caught his breath. “You missed a great flight….”
It took a while, but the airliner finally rolled to a stop next to a stairway that had been placed out on the runway. Ricco looked out the window again. They were at a small air base of some sort. One runway, a few buildings. Lots of palm trees. A nice place.
He and Gillis gathered their duffel bags and made their way forward. The plane’s access door opened and they stepped out into the morning sunshine. It was already blistering hot even though the sun was just barely above the horizon.
“We in the Caribbean?” Ricco asked Gillis.
Gillis yawned. “Good guess, I’d say.”
They walked down the stairway and dropped their bags on the tarmac. That was when the airplane started pulling away. This surprised them; they’d just assumed the pilots were getting off too. But this was not the case. The pilots had never even slowed down their engines. Ricco tried yelling up to them, but the airplane had already backed up and was taxiing away. It turned back onto the runway and quickly took off again. In all, it had spent no more than a minute on the ground.
“What the fuck is this?” Gillis roared. “They’re just leaving us here?”
“Where are those a-holes Delaney and Norton, that’s what I want to know?” Ricco asked, looking around desperately.
But they could see no one. The base looked absolutely deserted. Had they been dropped at the right place? Were they supposed to wait here for someone? Or was this part of some elaborate hoax?
“If those two assholes are scamming us, I’ll kill them,” Gillis declared.
They stood there, next to the stairway, for five minutes, trying to fathom their strange situation. The sun got higher and the wind blew hotter, but still they could not see a living soul anywhere. They were both wearing their heavy thermo-wear arctic flight suits and they were beginning to broil in them.
“Let’s get out of the sun at least,” Ricco finally said.
They began walking. The first building they reached was the restaurant. They stopped at the front door and listened. Voices… They could hear a group of people talking inside. Or at least they thought they could. Gillis tried the door, but it was it locked. They both pounded on it for almost a minute, but no one answered. Then they listened again, but the voices had gone away.