Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“You should see me at rush hour.”

“Something tells me I’d rather not.”

“First time I’ve ever been late for a meeting and not ended up in traffic,” Joe said.

“This section of Madagascar is pretty sparsely populated,” Kurt said. “According to the map, the biggest town in a fiftymile radius is a place called Masoarivo and it’s only eight thousand people.”

“Lucky for us,” Joe said. “Doubt we’ll see another car out here.”

Kurt agreed, but livestock was another story. In sections where the rainwater had pooled, they’d passed grazing cattle and sheep. “Watch out for cows,” he said. “As I recall, you hit one in the Azores and had to fight for the town’s honor as part of your community service.”

“I was exonerated,” Joe insisted. “A court inquiry ruled the cow to be at fault and fined her for grazing without a license.”

“We don’t have time to go to court,” Kurt replied, laughing at the memory, “nor do we have a replacement front end handy. So just be careful.”

Joe promised he would do just that as they raced onto a straightaway and he stomped the gas pedal to the floor once again.

A mile and a half from the Brèvard property they slowed. In place of blazing headlights, Joe and Kurt pulled on their night vision goggles. The Humvee became a growling beast of the night, hidden in the darkness.

“I can see the fence up ahead,” Kurt said. “Pull off the road here. We can hide the vehicle behind those trees.”

Joe allowed the Hummer to slow on its own, he manhandled the wheel and took them off the dirt road and onto the soft ground with its waist-high grasses.

They came to a stop behind some low-lying brush and the wide trunk of a strange-looking tree that grew straight up like a concrete pillar. The only branches on the tree sprouted seventy feet above at the very top. It looked more like a giant stalk of broccoli than a tree. Several more of the odd trees grew close by.

“I feel like I’m in a Dr. Seuss book,” Joe said.

“Baobab trees,” Kurt said.

“Trees like this won’t give us a lot of cover.”

“We shouldn’t need it with the suits,” Kurt replied as he pulled off the oversize cotton tunic and rolled it into a ball.

As Joe did the same, Kurt removed the night vision goggles and clipped the breathing regulator onto a notch at the shoulder. The small tank of compressed air that would be used to cool his breath was strapped to his side.

He scanned the fence. It was rusted old barbwire, already broken in places. There was no sign of anything more modern protecting the land at this point, but Kurt didn’t want to chance it.

“According to the GPS, it’s about half a mile from here to the compound, over this low dirge and then up a long slope,” Kurt said. “We need to cover that ground in no more than ten minutes. That’ll give us fifteen minutes of thermal invisibility once we reach the compound walls.”

Joe nodded and slipped the satphone into a zippered pocket of the infiltration suit. Into another pocket he slid the extra clip for the railgun. “I figure we travel as light as possible and leave the rest of this stuff behind.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Kurt said. “Let’s go.”

They switched on their suits, pulled the hoods over their heads, and readjusted the night vision goggles. Kurt took point crossing the road, heading into the tall grass on the other side and moving quickly to a break in the fence.

Joe followed, staying close. “I’ll give them this, these suits work as advertised,” he said. “I’m ten feet behind you and really have to work just to see you. Even through these goggles you’re more of a shadow than anything else.”

“I’m going to head straight for the point on this ridge,” Kurt said. “Stick close. If you get lost, give me a birdcall or something.”

“The only birdcalls I know are Woody Woodpecker and Daffy Duck.”

“That’s despicable,” Kurt said, lisping the words in his best imitation of the cartoon duck. “Let’s go.”

With that, Kurt was off. Joe followed, finding he could track Kurt more easily by the sound of his feet scuffing through the brush and grass and over the dusty soil of the higher ridge. They came down the other side of the ridge and onto a sloping field that ran all the way up to the granite formations behind the compound. At the base of those rocks the lights of the plantation house were clearly visible.

Kurt checked his watch. “We have thirty minutes to confirm that the hostages are there and radio in. Any later and the Marines will be turning around.”

Joe nodded and Kurt began to move again. They couldn’t run full out, but a brisk jog would do the trick. Halfway up they encountered a small heard of zebu, the horned cattle seeming skittish at the approach of something they could smell but not see.