Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

When the ungainly craft finally touched down on the deck of a Russian guided missile cruiser, he all but jumped from his seat to get off the torture machine. Not waiting for permission, he stepped through the door out into a pouring rain.

The weather was deteriorating in all directions as the guided missile cruiser Varyag and several other ships continued headlong into a storm halfway between Hawaii and the South American coast. Davidov didn’t care. A ship in a Category 5 storm was preferable to another minute in the oversized eggbeater.

As the Mi-14 was strapped down, Davidov was led inside and shown to a cabin. By the time he’d showered and pulled on a clean uniform, the ship was pitching noticeably. He found he had to grip the rail to keep from losing his balance as he moved down the passageway.

He was escorted through “officer country,” to the quarters of Rear Admiral Sergei Borozdin, whose door was guarded by two Spetsnaz commandos. After displaying his credentials, he was shown in immediately.

Borozdin was sitting behind a desk, pretending not to notice the arrival of his old friend. It was a game they played. The two men had come up together, one through the Navy, the other in the party machinery itself—KGB, NKVD and the consular services. They rarely met these days but, when they did, the liquor flowed.

Despite the stereotype of vodka-drinking Russians, both men preferred scotch, specifically single malts from the highlands of Scotland, preferably aged at least fifteen years.

Davidov had brought with him a fine example. He offered it to Borozdin. “Aberlour,” he said. “Gaelic for Mouth of the Chattering Burn. It’s only a twelve-year-old, but it was aged in a Spanish sherry cask.”

Borozdin looked the bottle over with reverence. “The least you could do for sending my fleet into this cyclone.”

Despite the gruff words, Borozdin was pleased. He grinned and reached for two glasses, pouring a taste. “I swear to you, Constantin. If Putin ordered me to destroy Scotland with a nuke, I would refuse and take my chances with the firing squad.”

Davidov laughed and Borozdin filled both of their glasses. The aroma was unique, with a hint of raisins. The first sips were heavenly.

Even then, Davidov swore he could still hear the helicopter blades hacking at the air above him, could still feel his body shaking from nose to feet. “It’s too bad about this storm,” he said as the Varyag rolled appreciably to starboard.

With each swell, the ship rolled and nosed down and then came back up. The waves were hitting the fleet from the front quarter, and they were getting worse by the moment.

“If we weren’t so far behind,” Borozdin said, “I would let it pass and proceed in its wake. We’ve already had to send one of the tenders back; two of its hatches were damaged.”

The Varyag was shepherding a fleet of salvage ships and auxiliaries toward the search zone. It was larger, faster and heavier than the other ships. It was faring better, as a result.

“We must press on,” Davidov said. “At least the storm is delaying the Chinese as well.”

“But what about the Americans?” Borozdin asked. “They’re our real problem. This damned cyclone has done nothing but aid them and ruin our plans. If it hadn’t appeared, they wouldn’t have brought the Nighthawk back early. We would have been in position to catch it when it fell. Now the storm delays us even as the Americans steam south from California in good weather.”

“Yes,” Davidov said wearily. “I know. Not to worry. It shouldn’t matter.”

Borozdin cocked his head and looked at his old friend suspiciously. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“It’s true, the Americans seem to have this cyclone on their side,” Davidov said, smirking. “But we have a Typhoon on ours.”

A few seconds passed before Borozdin got the reference. “TK-17,” he said, referencing the ID number

of the vessel in question.

Davidov nodded. “She’s gone right under the storm and is almost in position. By this time tomorrow, the Nighthawk will be in her hold and on its way to Kamchatka. The Chinese and Americans will never know we’ve taken her and her precious cargo. They will search forever . . . in vain.”

Borozdin looked pleased, but the smile quickly left his face. “Then why are we plowing directly into a Force 5 gale?”

“Appearances,” Davidov said, finishing his tumbler of the Aberlour. “They must be kept up. Otherwise, the Americans and the Chinese might begin to suspect something.”

Davidov finished, pushed his empty glass toward Borozdin and waited. His old friend broke into a toothy grin and gladly poured a second helping of the liquid fire. “To the Typhoon,” he said, raising his glass.

Davidov did likewise. “To the Typhoon.”

14

MS Reunion

Seventy miles east of the Galápagos Islands chain

Kurt stood on the starboard bridge wing of the six-hundred-foot cargo vessel looking through a pair of large binoculars. In the distance, he could just make out four red-hulled boats on the blue ocean. They were lifeboats from the Reunion, repurposed to search for any sign of the Nighthawk.