Six hundred feet from the deck of the Grant, seconds from impact and moving at terminal velocity, King made three quick jerking motions with his hand. At once, the team deployed their chutes. With a snap, the descent slowed only four hundred feet from their target. They coasted in a straight line, past the back of the ship, then swung around the bridge and headed for the main deck. The team landed as though choreographed, one at a time, pulling in their chutes quickly before a stiff breeze pulled them from the deck.
Crew with brightly colored jumpsuits — green, purple, blue, and brown, each color designating their specific jobs on the flight deck— ran out and helped collect the chutes of the most unusual deck landing any had seen. They were used to catching roaring jets, not a five-man special ops team.
A tall man with eyes as blue as the surrounding ocean and wearing a bright white officer's uniform approached King with a grin. King took note of the eagle insignia on the man's collar and the four yellow bars and single gold star on his shoulder. He offered a salute, that as a Delta operative he rarely had to do, but when in Rome… or on a Navy carrier… it was always nice to show the respect expected. "Captain Savile."
The captain returned the salute and smiled. "That was the damndest thing I've ever seen. What the hell was that bird you jumped from?"
"You might have a higher pay grade, Captain, but I'm afraid I get to keep a few secrets."
Savile laughed. "Well, considering the ship you're standing on doesn't officially exist, I won't tell anyone I saw your stealth transport if you don't tell anyone about my next generation supercarrier."
"Deal."
After the team finished freeing themselves from their parachute harnesses, Savile motioned for them to follow him. "We've got cabins squared away for you if you need some—"
"No need," King said. "We need to hit the island before nightfall."
Savile looked at the sun, just about to dip below the arc of blue ocean. "Better double-time it, then. The shorelines around these islands are deadly to approach during daylight and suicidal at night."
"Suicidal missions are what we do," Queen said as Savile opened a hatch.
Savile turned around and looked each of them in the eye. At that moment he realized his five guests had probably seen more action and taken more lives than the ships in the battlegroup and thousands of souls manning them combined — real soldiers — the kind he enjoyed working with.
TWENTY- TWO
"You look like a seventies porn star," Rook said as he gave King a once-over.
King smiled as he looked in the bathroom mirror. The thick black mustache pasted on his top lip, combined with his messy hair; loose, white button-down shirt; and pleated khaki pants was enough to make him laugh, despite the grim situation. He looked ridiculous, though entirely convincing for his role. "I am but a French sailor," he said with a thick French accent. "I am traveling the world with ma petite co-chonne."
The gray steel door clunked open and Queen entered the cold utilitarian bathroom without a knock. Dressing and undressing in front of each other was part of the job. "Your little pig, huh?"
King grinned as he saw Queen's outfit, equally humorous, though much more flattering.
"Wow," Rook whispered when he saw her short shorts, sandaled feet, and poofy, white half-shirt that did little to conceal the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her long legs, stomach, and arms still held the tan she got during her time on Ocracoke Island and accentuated her toned muscles.
Looking in the mirror next to King, she pouted her red lips and batted her eyelashes. She looked at Rook and with an equally thick French accent said, "Oh ma puce, you will burn holes in my blouse if you continue to stare at me with those devilish eyes. Then… I will have to rip them out." She waggled a finger at him. "Tsk, tsk, tsk."
The door opened. Knight stuck his head in, smiled at their outfits, and said, "Your yacht is incoming. Time to go."
Queen followed him out the door.
"What the hell is 'ma puce'?" Rook asked.
"My flea," King said with a grin. "It's a term of endearment."
"Term of endearment, my ass," Rook said as King left the bathroom. He hastily applied a layer of black face paint. "Ma puce, huh?" He smiled. "I could live with that."
It was only twenty minutes after their arrival, and the sun was nearly below the horizon. Daylight would only last for another hour as the last of the sun's rays reflected off the atmosphere. The team waited on deck, King and Queen dressed for a private cruise and Knight, Rook, and Bishop clad, head to toe, in black wet suits. Supplies and weapons for King and Queen would be stowed away on their yacht once it arrived, but the other three carried their armaments and supplies on their backs, chests, and over their shoulders. They looked ready to wage war.
Savile stood with them, waiting for the arrival of the vessels the team would take to shore. Seeing King and Queen dressed in their disguises made him grin. He'd heard that Delta often wore disguises, but never pictured them like this.
A chopping in the distance drew their attention.
"You got to be shitting me," Rook said with a shake of his head and a grin.
A slate gray, heavy-lifting CH-53 Sea Stallion he 1 icopter pounded into the air above the Grant. But it wasn't the chopper's grasshopperlike cockpit or massive whipping blades that surprised the group, it was the unusual cargo that hung on steel cables beneath the bird: a forty-five-foot dual-hulled catamaran. The pristine yacht gleamed white and bore the name Mercury. The Sea Stallion lowered the yacht to the water below the deck of the unmoving USS Grant, in the process bringing the cockpit of the helicopter level with the deck. When the cables went slack, the pil ot grinned, saluted, then cut the yacht loose. The freed yacht bounced in the high swells but had no trouble staying perfectly upright, thanks to its extremely stable double-hull design.
After the copter peeled away the group approached the deck edge and peered down at the yacht bobbing in the water. "Where did you find a yacht out here?" Knight asked.
"As far as I know," Savile said, "someone on your end tracked the thing using its GPS unit. Had a couple of helos intercept and… requisition the ship. I was told the owners were paid twice its value, but they were none too pleased to have their cruise interrupted."
King shook his head, amazed at the resources being pulled together at the last minute. "Deep Blue." He said it lightly, but Savile overheard.
He snapped his head toward King. Deep Blue's call sign had become near legendary in the past few years as he worked behind the scenes and shifted military units across the globe like they were his own personal chess pieces on a world-sized board. "Deep Blue, huh?"
King nodded.
"Suez canal. Two years ago."
King met his eyes. "You were on the Halsey?"
"Hell, was that you five?"
Five grins answered the question. "I'll be damned. You guys saved more than five thousand souls that day. Like lightning from the sky." He shook King's hand.
Savile remembered the day well. As captain of the newly commissioned destroyer, the USS Halsey, he had been ordered to the gulf, along with the rest of his battlegroup, by way of the Suez Canal. As the canal passes through Egypt, whose relations with the U.S. and her allies is at times strained, the passage of any U.S. military must be completed without incident. Any military action taken in the canal could easily be seen as an act of war. The problem created is that any ship passing through the canal is essentially a sitting duck. Savile found out later that the CIA had picked up chatter about an attack at the canal, something similar to the attack on the USS Cole off the coast of Yemen. But the powers that be decided to keep quiet about the threat. Issuing a warning might make sailors jumpy enough to take potshots at the wrong people and set off an international incident.