Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

The names seemed to fire something in her, but it wasn’t what he might have expected. Olivia was a frightened child, Calista was unafraid. Calista was a survivor, an instrument of power. And now, she thought, an instrument of retribution. She took Kurt’s hand and stood.

“No,” she said, “this is who I am. I’ll help you find Sienna. But don’t get between me and Sebastian. Because I’m going to kill him for what he and his family have done. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you too.”

“Your choice,” Kurt said. “Either way, let’s move. We don’t have much time.”

With Calista leading the way, the two of them strode the halls. Though Kurt had professed trust in her, he wasn’t about to give her a weapon. He just needed her to get him past the goons who would be guarding the control room. Or at least close enough so he could eliminate them.

“This way,” she said, turning down the hallway on the right. At that moment an alarm began to scream.

Kurt held still, wondering if she’d triggered something. “It wasn’t me,” she said, apparently guessing his thoughts. The sound of automatic gunfire outside the building reverberated through the hall followed by the unmistakable sound of helicopters passing overhead. The Marines had arrived and not unnoticed. The sound of a rocket screaming through the air was followed by an explosion and a flash of light through the windows at the far end of the hall.

“We need to hurry,” Kurt said. He and Calista began to run. They were almost to the end when one of Sebastian’s men came running the opposite way. “Calista,” he shouted. “We’re being attacked. No one is answering at the pen and . . .”

Just then he saw Kurt and quickly guessed that he was part of the assault. He swung a submachine gun around and fired.

Kurt saw it coming, pushed Calista out of the way, and dove to the polished floor. As shells ripped into the plaster behind him, he aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger almost simultaneously. The railgun spat a swarm of lethal iron projectiles that ripped into the man, taking him off his feet and knocking him over. He landed on his back, but the muscles in his hand must have contracted in a spasm because the submachine gun continued to fire, spraying a line of bullets along the wall and up into the ceiling, shattering two of the mirrors and blasting apart a suit of armor.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Kurt said. He got up, helped Calista to her feet once again, and took off down the hall.

At that very moment, Lt. Brooks and the members of the Force Recon platoon were thinking the exact same thing. They’d come in from the coast, flying along the deck, blackedout and watching for any sign they’d been detected or painted by the sweep of a radar beam.

All signs pointed to a clean entry. And then they’d crossed the wall of the sprawling compound and slowed to a hover so the strike teams could begin a fast rappel to the ground. But even as the ropes went out, they’d begun to take direct fire, not from any human targets on the ground but from remotely operated weapons.

From at least three spots in the garden, twin .50 caliber machine guns had risen from small maintenance sheds. They were tracking and turning and firing on the helicopters. One of the Black Hawks was already smoking and pulling away when Brooks gave the order to the rest of them.

“Pull back,” he shouted. “Take evasive action.” The pilot turned the craft away from the fire and began to move out, but the horrible rattling sound of shells ripping through the fuselage told Brooks it was too late. Shrapnel and bits of the cabin were blasted about like confetti. Blood splattered on the wall of the fuselage as at least one man took a hit.

At the same time, the helicopter lurched to the side, and Brooks saw that the pilot had also been wounded. They were spinning and going down.

The copilot took control and tried to right the craft, but they hit the ground with a crunch. The Black Hawk rolled over on its side, forcing the enormous rotor blades into the ground and shattering them into a thousand pieces.

“Go! Go! Go!” Brooks shouted, pushing one man out through the door and then grabbing the wounded pilot and scrambling to safety.

The Black Hawk’s crew and the twelve Marines were clear of the helicopter when it exploded. Three men were injured, as well as the pilot, and a mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had suddenly turned into a desperate fight.

The men took cover near a rock wall and set up a defensive perimeter. Brooks saw the other Black Hawks fleeing to safety. It looked as if they would all clear the danger zone when a missile launched from another dilapidated shed.

The fiery tail of the rocket was easy to track—it raced south after the helicopter and illuminated it in a ball of flame.

“Damn!” Brooks cursed. “We’ve been set up.”

By now men were streaming from the barracks, and small arms fire was whistli

ng past overhead.

Brooks grabbed the radio and called out, “Dragon leader to Dragon team. Stay clear of the fire zone. I repeat, stay clear of the fire zone. Compound is more heavily defended than anticipated. Missiles and heavy-caliber weapons.”

“Dragon Three clear,” a call came back.

“Dragon Four also clear.”

That meant Black Hawk Two had taken the missile. Brooks had no way of determining if anyone had survived the explosion.

Brooks pressed the talk switch. “Dragon Five, what’s your position?”

Dragon Five was the spare helicopter brought in primarily to haul the hostages out, but it also carried two Navy medics.

“We’re still at point alpha. Do you need us?”