“Roger that,” O’Rourke, replied.
“Where are you?” David Sykes whispered from the pilot seat, eyes scanning the night sky as he kept the large helicopter on course, high above the two motorbikes. Almost as soon as the enemy plane had taken off he had lost radar readings and visual. He had seen the B-2 Stealth Bomber in operation before. That sleek, world famous aircraft used a combination of state-of-the-art reduced acoustic, infrared, visual and radar signatures which made it all but impossible to detect and track. But despite being coated in radar-absorbent materials, without the unique design characteristics — a smooth, slender shape and a one-of-a-kind flying wing design — its stealth-mode would be ineffective.
Yet, regardless of whatever radar-absorbent material this enemy plane was coated with, the fact remained that it was a boxy, unwieldy, even archaic design, not used by the U.S. military in decades. Both radar and the naked eye should have been able to see it with no problem.
But David Sykes, despite sitting inside one of the most state-of-the-art cockpits in the world, was effectively flying blind. He felt like a stranded swimmer, treading water in an ocean where a shark lay in wait.
The glow of Kristina Lake’s satellite terminal reflected upon her features — blond hair, swept sternly back, pale face hard, yet undoubtedly attractive out of uniform.
“Okay,” she said into the radio. As a rule the CIA Special Operations Group refrained from using ranks or call signs or anything else which would associate them with the American government. “You should be entering the town now. Turn right onto Norman Manley Highway. I’m going to lead you around the target to cut them off.”
On the ground, Raine threw the bike into a sharp right hand turn and flew down the long, straight road. There was still no sign of King and Sid, which only prompted him to drive faster. He swerved around an old banger which trundled up the road with a traditional all-the-time-in-the-world Jamaican pace.
“Take the next left,” Lake ordered.
Raine cut in front of an oncoming van, earning an elongated screech of tyres and a sharp honk of the horn but he ignored it as he ducked into the rabbit-warren of little streets which riddled Port Royal, following Lake’s directions, twisting left, then right, then left again.
The crumbling stonework of the colonial buildings stretched past at a blur as he guided the bike down narrow allies, avoiding dumpsters and packing crates and the occasional late night stroller.
“Okay, now take the next—”
“Shit!”
Sykes threw the helicopter into a sharp, stomach churning lurch to port as the streaking ribbon of an AIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missile whooshed on by. Behind it she could see the enemy plane suddenly appear, dropping down from the blackness of the night sky. It looked almost like one of those optical illusion pictures where by only by holding it at the right angle would the image on it be realised. To Lake, it looked as though the Caribbean night sky were the canvass and the enemy plane the painting.
“Which way?!” Raine shouted through the cockpit speakers, even as Sykes brought the helicopter out of its awkward tumble, the G-force lessening under his expert guidance.
She checked her console. “Damn it! Double back, you’ve overshot—”
“Belay that!” Sykes cut her off. “Get the hell out of there!”
Lake snapped her head around. Through the cockpit window she saw the black plane drop towards the ground and open fire with its multiple machine guns on the tiny figures of Raine and O’Rourke on their bike.
The bullets tore into the ground just behind Raine’s back tyre, the big black plane thundering down above him. He pulled back on the handlebars, lifting the front wheel off the concrete road. O’Rourke grabbed him around his chest to prevent from falling backwards as he spun the bike on its rear wheel only, a full 90 degrees and shot into an ally just as the stream of bullets shattered the road they had just occupied.
The Catalina swept on by, banking just above the rooftops, the thunderous air of its propellers punching into Raine’s bike and threatening to topple it. He kicked out, struck a dumpster and up-righted the bike. He refused to slow down as he raced down the alley, directly towards a wooden fence.
A dead end.
Raine twisted the bike’s throttle harder, squeezing every last ounce of speed from it.
“Shiiiittt!” O’Rourke called out as soon as he realised Raine’s intentions. He gripped the driver tightly around the waist as Raine pulled hard, lifted the front wheel off the ground once again, inches from the fence.
The force of the impact was shocking. The front wheel crashed through the rotten panels and the fence literally exploded, huge splinters of wood cart-wheeling away down the street.
The front wheel slapped back against the uneven roadway of a larger side street and Raine cut west, dodging potholes as he lanced into the night.
“Talk to me, Lake!” he called into his radio.
“They’re coming about for another pass!” Sykes warned even as he threw the chopper into evasive manoeuvres, lurching down just as a trail of tracer bullets erupted from the Black Cat.
Lake was trying to do a dozen things at once — work as Sykes' co-pilot, monitoring the enormous banks of computers and guidance systems, manning the Super Stallion’s armaments and guiding the team on the ground. Raine’s bike appeared as a red smudge on her infrared, now directly below the chopper. She also tracked two more red blobs which headed towards the western harbour.
“Take the second exit on your right,” she told Raine.
“Lake,” Sykes snapped at her. “Shoot the goddamn bastards!”
The Catalina rushed towards them, fast and furious, its design, though antiquated, nevertheless intimidating. Once upon a time, the Catalina Flying Boats had been the workhorse of the U.S. Navy, its amphibious landing capabilities making it perfect for either search-and-rescue missions or bombing operations, heading deep into Japanese territory during WWII. Now, it was as though a ghost of those famous planes, now outfitted with modern technology, was haunting the skies of Jamaica. Fast, silent and deadly.
Lake worked the Super Stallion’s gun controls and let rip with a barrage from the chopper’s shoulder mounted machine gun. The Catalina was almost hit and banked hard, almost completing a 360 barrel roll as it escaped their weapons fire.
Sykes adjusted the chopper’s torque, pivoting the vehicle where it hovered in the sky above the Caribbean island. Lake kept the volley of machine gun fire chattering away, chasing the aeroplane. It began to climb so Sykes altered pitch, bringing the helicopter’s nose up to allow Lake a better shot. But, try as she might, the black plane stayed seconds ahead of her leading bullets.
Then, in front of their eyes, once the Catalina increased altitude above the Super Stallion’s, it vanished from sight, literally appearing to fold back into the blackness of the night sky. It vanished from radar at the same instant.
“Holy mother of god,” Sykes blasphemed. “What the hell is this thing?”
“Lake!” Raine pleaded through the cockpit speakers. She snatched her attention away from the ghost plane and glanced at the heat signatures over laid on a satellite map.
“Left! Turn left!”
Raine followed the delayed order to the letter and twisted left, mounting the sidewalk and ducking down a tiny ally between two buildings. It was barely wide enough for the width of the handlebars, the cobblestone walls of the old town blurring by as he raced down it.