Yet this plane was no Next Generation Stealth Fighter. In fact it wasn’t even equipped with jet engines, but relied on two traditional propeller engines outfitted with state of the art silencers. Its body wasn’t the curvaceous, sleek wannabe star of a new sci-fi blockbuster like the famous B2 bomber, but was in fact the somewhat ungainly frame of a WWII-era Catalina “Black Cat” Amphibious Flying Boat. Outfitted with new technology, it was designed to function as an operational command base for an elite force of soldiers.
There was no insignia upon the plane, no flag, no name. These soldiers belonged to no country.
The Catalina Flying Boat touched down in the waters of the Caribbean, two miles off shore, and pushed through the gentle swell towards the Jamaican coast. Pitch black, with no running lights, it was as invisible in the water as it was in the sky, even as it circled the Palisadoes and deposited eight black-clad soldiers — two abreast on four black motorbikes — upon the spit of land connecting Port Royal to the mainland.
The Hand of Freedom building was dark.
Only a single light shone dimly through the upstairs bedroom window and shortly before midnight that was extinguished. The only light now came from the stars.
Benjamin King ran low and fast, struggling to make sense of the alien world he saw through the Night Vision Goggles attached to his face. A sickly green pall enveloped everything he looked at, including the two figures of O’Rourke and Garcia as they flanked him to either side.
It was a low risk mission, the highest threat coming from a two hundred year old musket, but nevertheless his two escorts treated the assault on the museum as though they were invading Saddam Hussein’s palace.
Crossing the courtyard, they hit the wall, backs to it, O’Rourke with a SCAR Assault Rifle and Garcia with a Heckler & Koch HK416 held at the ready. Garcia silently picked the lock and the three man team slipped into the museum.
Raine watched the team’s progress on the screen of the XGA Rugged Laptop. Its screen set to night-mode, the image gave off very little light so as not to give away his position as he lay in the boughs of a tree to the west of the museum. West worked the controls while Gibbs, Sid and Nadia looked over his shoulder, all clad in black Kevlar armour. Nelson and Murray held sniper positions somewhere around the building, while Sykes and Lake circled the island high above.
He still seethed from another confrontation with Gibbs. He had insisted on accompanying King into the building, declaring that his purpose on this mission was to protect King and help him retrieve the Moon Mask. Since they knew the mask was not present here, Gibbs had argued, his presence was not necessary. He had even tried to confine him to the helicopter but when the heated debate grew overly confrontational, Rudy O’Rourke had stepped in and negotiated this compromise. Raine was allowed to be an observer while O’Rourke took full responsibility for the archaeologist’s welfare.
Raine hated sitting out on the action but he had very little choice. All he could do now was lie in the brittle grass in the grounds of the museum and watch the transmission from King’s NVGs on the laptop screen.
Stopping just inside the courtyard of Fort Charles, leaving the motorbikes with four of his men, the Team Leader led his other three men the rest of the way on foot, moving fast and low.
The strangely shaped building came into view.
The Team Leader ordered the attack to begin.
King followed O’Rourke up the rickety wooden steps. Despite the mission’s low risk rating, he nevertheless felt his pulse racing, adrenaline pumping through him, his own breathing echoing in his skull.
O’Rourke reached the top step and held up a hand in what the archaeologist guessed was military-language for “halt.”
King obeyed and watched O’Rourke pick his way stealthily over the strewn historical bric-a-brac which littered the floor. The African-American’s athletic form appeared as a dark silhouette through the eerie glow of his N.V.G.s.
Sid watched the screen with apprehension, her own heart beating as fast as King’s as she watched her boyfriend move through the dark museum.
“He shouldn’t be in there,” she whispered, more to herself than any of the others. “That woman’s insane. Ben’s not a soldier.”
A reassuring hand squeezed her shoulder, followed by the scarily serious voice of the normally cavalier Nathan Raine. “Benny knows how to handle himself in a fight.”
There was something in the man’s tone that scared Sid. Something certain. Despite Gibbs’ reassurances, she knew, Raine believed that a fight was inevitable.
She turned her head to look up at him but his blue eyes would not meet hers. Instead they focussed beyond the laptop screen, out into the darkness of the Hand of Freedom building. A flock of sea birds took flight, wings flapping noisily into the night sky, the sound seeming to echo in the otherwise unnatural silence.
She felt Raine’s body go rigid beside her, eyes sharp and intense.
“What?” she dared to ask him.
Raine’s voice was flat. Matter-of-fact.
“Something’s wrong.”
Peering through the infrared scope of an M14 Sniper Rifle, the interior of the upper floor appeared in crisp focus to SOG operative Nelson. Through it he saw O’Rourke moving across the landing towards the master bedroom. He saw the civilian scientist, Benjamin King, follow cautiously behind. He saw Garcia sweeping behind him, watching their six.
What he did not see, however, was the black-clad soldier sneaking up behind him.
If the radio call had come through a split second earlier it might have alerted Nelson to the danger. Gibbs’ voice, however, only came over his com at the exact same moment as the black carbon dagger blade slit his throat.
“Nelson,” Gibbs hissed over the radio. “What’s your status?”
The silence spoke words.
Raine’s eyes glared accusingly at Gibbs.
In the seconds after his bold prediction of doom, he had argued with Gibbs, demanding he check in with the two snipers he had positioned around the museum. Gibbs had protested for no reason other than because it galled him to be taking advice from the traitor. He couldn’t, however, give a good enough reason not to and so made the call.
He had grinned almost triumphantly as Murray checked in.
His grin faded at Nelson’s silence.
“Shit!” Raine swore, sensing the trap springing. How he knew it was beyond him. To some it might have seemed as though he was gifted with some sixth sense. But he knew it was nothing more than instinct, honed by years of training, coupled with the ever increasing sense of paranoia which had only strengthened since going on the run.
“Get them out of there!” he ordered Gibbs. Then, before anyone else could do or say anything, he was on the move, darting out across the courtyard towards the museum, ignoring Gibbs’ angry curse.
“Possible bogey,” Gibbs’ voice startled King as it erupted into his ear. “Retrieve the book and evac. Discretion is no longer a goal.”
“Copy,” O’Rourke responded instantly and all at once the slow-motion effect that had encompassed King burst forward with startling speed.
O’Rourke instantly shifted from his stealthy progress across the first floor landing and ran towards the closed door of the master bedroom. He slammed his foot against it and it burst inwards. He swung in, training his rifle on—
“Nothing,” he said in momentary confusion.
“What?” King came up behind him, peering in at an empty room, and the un-slept in bed. “Where’s Mrs Marley?”