“So she could be out there still,” said O’Reilly, growing more intrigued by the minute.
Mitchell looked at his mentor. “General, I truly do believe that the Goliath is out there, and I have no doubt whatsoever that Jen’s kidnappers believe so too,” said Mitchell. “I’d wager everything I have that there is where they’ll go next.”
A grin appeared on O’Reilly’s face; he knew that Mitchell was already planning his next move. “So, what do you want to do?” asked O’Reilly.
“Sir, I know this isn’t company business, but I’m on leave, so I’m going to Mauritania to try to pick up Jen’s trail and get her and her mother back,” said Mitchell firmly.
“You can count me in too,” said Jackson, grinning. “You young officers always need supervision.”
“Well, Ryan, while you were away, it became company business,” said O’Reilly, smiling at both Mitchell and Jackson. “A certain Miss Alanis Kim, you remember her wealthy father, don’t you?”
Mitchell nodded. Although they had spoken only a week ago, it now seemed a lifetime.
“Well, somehow Miss Kim’s family learned about Jennifer March’s kidnapping and she convinced her father to put up the money to get her back. Mister Kim told me that money was no object, so it looks like your team just jumped from reserve to active status.”
“Captain, knowing that you would be heading out shortly, I took the liberty of putting together a country file for you and your team,” said Fahimah with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “I’ve also included translated copies of the two diaries describing the storm; it may help guide you to where Jen’s kidnappers could be heading.”
Mitchell always felt himself to be a good judge of character. Looking over at Fahimah, Mitchell knew a good thing when he saw it. “General, this is going to be the most complicated thing we’ve ever done on such short notice, and as I don’t speak Arabic as well as certain members of the organization, and since Mauritania is an Islamic Republic, I’d like to drag Fahimah along with the team as our intel expert. I promise not to put her in harm’s way.”
“The hell you don’t speak Arabic, you just don’t speak it good enough,” said O’Reilly, correcting Mitchell. “Besides, French is widely spoken there as well, but I get your point.”
O’Reilly looked over at Fahimah. The excitement etched on her face was barely held in check at the prospect of her first field assignment.
“Ok, you can borrow Fahimah, but you’d better promise to look after her,” said O’Reilly, shaking his head in defeat.
“Scouts’ honor general,” said Mitchell. “Besides, what could possibly go wrong?”
19
Like an eagle circling on the warm air currents of the noonday sky, the gold-colored helicopter, bearing the Romanov logo of a white two-headed eagle with a sword clutched between its claws, slowly began its descent onto the shimmering helipad. As soon as the wheels touched down, several armed guards dashed over, opened the rear doors, and held them open while the helicopter’s passengers climbed out.
Jen stepped out into the blistering heat and instantly started to sweat. The overpowering smell of oil combined with dusty sand assaulted her senses as she fell into line behind Dmitry Romanov and several of his well-armed bodyguards. The refinery stretched as far as Jen could see. There are thousands of people who must work here day and night, Jen thought.
Corrine March held onto Jen’s hand for dear life; she had no idea what was going on, but knew that it was nothing good. Mrs. March tried to keep up, but Jen could tell that she was scared. With a tight squeeze of her mother’s hand, Jen tried to tell her that it was all right and that help would come.
Since arriving onboard the Imperator, Jen and her mother had been inseparable. Mrs. March had been placed in Jen’s cabin, where they spent hours for the first time in years talking to one another. Jen was relieved when they stepped inside an air-conditioned building and were handed a couple bottles of cool water. Jen gave one to her mother and then opened her own. The cold liquid felt refreshing after the scorching dry heat outside.
The building was an enormous storage hangar, which looked to Jen like it could easily house a couple of 747 Jumbo Jets inside and still have plenty of room left over. The rhythmic sound of their feet hitting the concrete floor echoed through the expansive area.
Jen looked around and spotted the sea container that she had seen airlifted off the catamaran yesterday. Its hinged doors stood wide open. Inside, Jen could see what she took to be a couple of long white metal pods. A cordon of tough-looking and well-armed thugs stood around it, their weapons at the ready. They did not look like locals to Jen. She suspected that Romanov had a private army of ex-military personnel from all over the world in his employ.
At the sound of the approaching footsteps, a pair of twin women walked out from behind the container. Jen was astonished to see them dressed identically in loose-fitting cargo pants and long-sleeved shirts. The only difference was that one was dressed in tan and the other in charcoal black. Jen studied their faces and saw a cold and calculating look in their eyes — a look she had seen before. She knew that they were Romanov’s daughters.
“Ah, my dears, I am so happy to see you again,” said Romanov as he embraced his daughters.
Jen could tell that the one in tan was not as pleased to see her father as the one in black.
Stepping back, Romanov waved Jen and her mother over. “Ladies, I would like you to meet my daughters, Alexandra and Nika,” said Romanov proudly.
Jen felt like a piece of meat about to be sold at the auction, the way the twins disdainfully eyed her up and down.
“So this is the woman who will provide you with the Romanov crown jewels,” said Nika dismissively.
Jen took an instant dislike to the one dressed in tan, the one called Nika.
“I have no doubt of that, and neither should you,” said Romanov curtly, signaling that the conversation was over.
With a snap of his fingers, Jen and her mother were led away and given seats at the far end of the hanger, well out of earshot of Romanov and his daughters.
“Father, I have something to show you,” said Alexandra excitedly to her father.
With a nod, Romanov stepped inside the sea container, his heart racing with anticipation. Right away, he saw, strapped securely onto a couple of industrial-grade steel tables, the instruments of Armageddon. Edging slowly forward, Romanov could barely breathe. He now held in his possession the means by which he was going to right history and forever change his family’s destiny. His plan was going flawlessly. Once he obtained the crown jewels, he would be able to seize control of a nation begging for a strong man — for a Romanov.
“Father, the Russian bomb expert will be here tomorrow to check the bombs over and ensure that they can be armed and remotely detonated,” explained Alexandra.
“Yes, very good,” said Romanov as he tenderly ran his hand over the casing of one of the nuclear bombs, like a lover’s thigh.
“Once they are ready, I will have them immediately flown back to the Romanov Star for onward movement to Iceland. I don’t want anything to get in the way, so I will personally see to the final preparations,” said Alexandra.