A growling engine and the squeal of two tires delayed boarding as a high-performance motorcycle skidded to a stop near the ramp. The helmetless rider was a tall, thin fellow wearing round glasses and a little stubble beneath his nose that might have been a mustache.
Sal Galati quickly dismounted his ride, offered a casual salute, and said, "Major Gant, request permission to join, you know, the mission and all."
Gant knew why Sal wanted to come along; he and Wells were good friends to the point that they incessantly chattered like junior high kids on a field trip whenever the team traveled. However, he had already added a third person to what he had originally planned as a two-man insertion.
"Request denied. You will be a part of the follow-up team."
"Then, sir, um, I'm the best shot in the unit and you're headed to an open environment. Maybe I should be going instead?"
Sal had a point. Despite his glasses he was, in fact, the best sniper in the detachment. That, however, did not change anything.
"Negative, soldier. We are executing a high-altitude jump and Specialist Wells has aerospace physiological training. I promise, if there is anything worth shooting you will receive a call. Now stand aside."
Galati reluctantly moved. Wells gave him a fist bump as they passed.
While Gant appreciated their camaraderie, he found it somewhat annoying. He hoped their friendship would not someday get in the way of an objective. As for himself, Thom felt it best to keep his distance from the men, considering he might need to order them to their death at any given moment. Like the brass above, Major Gant understood that while this was a highly trained and unique unit, they were also expendable.
Sergeant Ben "Biggy" Franco met them onboard. This large brute of a man walked with a distinct limp, the result of a Red Rock denizen having eaten a chunk of his leg. He had undergone several reconstructive surgeries and while he would eventually recover, he was somewhat limited in his duties.
He also seemed limited in another way. Prior to the Red Rock mission, Gant had found Franco brash and disruptive, the result of the sergeant's obvious racism toward his black commanding officer.
During the Red Rock mission three months ago, the entity in the bowels of that subterranean complex had reached into the minds of each of the invading soldiers, finding their weak spots. In Franco's case, the entity had turned his prejudices into a weapon, tricking the sergeant into killing two black members of the team. If Campion had not shot Franco and left him for dead, Wells and Gant might have been next.
Ironically, later in that mission a well-placed rifle round fired by Franco saved the day.
Since then, the sergeant would not look Gant in the eye despite assurances that no one held those actions against him. After all, others on the team had been similarly controlled. Indeed, it turned out that the monster trapped in that underground maze had deceived and manipulated many people over the course of many years.
It seemed to Thom Gant that while the mission at Red Rock had ended months ago, they would be dealing with the consequences for years.
"Major, we're loaded and ready to go," Franco reported. "We'll be in Hawaii in a few hours."
Dr. Stacy — huffing, puffing, and sweating — followed inside and asked, "How exactly is this going to get us to Hawaii? Operational range on this has to be, what, nineteen hundred miles?"
Gant smiled and told her, "We have made a few modifications."
General Albert Friez followed a little man with glasses into a corner room at the National Reconnaissance Office.
The name "National Reconnaissance Office" sounded innocuous enough, but in truth the NRO coordinated intelligence from all of the United States' spy satellites.
General Friez wore his new blue dress uniform, complete with all the old badges and medals earned during his distinguished career in the U.S. Army, and while protocol might suggest otherwise, he kept his cap on tight despite being indoors. To General Albert Friez, the uniform was the person. He felt it critical that subordinates saw the medals, the ribbons, and the rank without a glimpse of the human being underneath. This was not due to vanity or arrogance, but because discipline and respect lead to efficiency and results. He could not afford to be seen as a man. That was a luxury long ago discarded.
"This is what we've got on such short notice," the short man with the glasses told Friez as he turned on a rectangular light table and laid out a series of photographs. "Still, I don't see anything atypical in these images."
General Friez stroked his thin mustache as he leaned over the table. The light emanating from beneath the black-and-white photographs provided the only illumination in the room.
"This is all you have? Black and white?"
"Yes, General. The only thing we had on an appropriate trajectory this soon was one of the old KH-11 birds. We're working on other options but based on these images, that doesn't appear necessary."
"I thought all of the Keyhole assets dropped out of orbit years ago."
The NRO representative — who wore a name tag identifying himself as "Springer" — answered, "I think the bosses figured it was helpful to have a satellite in orbit that everyone thinks burned up."
"They could have picked a better choice. I'm looking at images from a satellite that dates back to the Carter administration."
The man with the glasses dressed in a plain white shirt with a plain black tie did not respond. Instead, he shuffled a trio of photographs around the light table. Those photographs depicted scenes from Tioga Island in the South Pacific taken by an aging spy satellite in a sun-synchronous orbit. That orbit resulted in shadows, and shadows helped discern ground images.
Using a pen as a pointer, the analyst started to direct the general's attention, but Friez brushed him aside. This was the not the first satellite photograph he had analyzed.
"People, here and here," he said, more to himself than to Springer. "Groups of a few here, maybe a dozen over there. What's that? That's the airstrip, right?"
"Yes, General. But it looks kind of small for a resort island. It would be tough to land any heavies there."
"Not that type of resort, son. The only people invited to this island are those with their own transportation."
While the images were of relatively low resolution compared to what the general had come to expect from the NRO, they worked well enough to capture what appeared to be just another day at someone's private resort. However, trees — mainly coconut palms and banyans — covered most of that tiny patch of land. That meant something could be hiding away from the bird's eyes.
Still, Friez concentrated on the information at hand. That information suggested several dozen people still wandered the resort grounds. In fact, it appeared a rather large crowd had gathered around a plane that had recently landed. No doubt another of the transient celebrities who made frequent stops at one of the world's rarest places: a "private" island that was literally private.
One nation or another claimed just about every square foot of real estate on planet Earth. But not Tioga. From what he had been able to find out so far, several rich partners owned the place and had crafted it into a secluded getaway. The perfect spot for a senator to meet a mistress during taxpayer-funded trips to the Pacific Rim.
"So what have we got?" Friez spoke, again, more to himself. "No sign of a disaster, people, a few small cars, a plane, and I don't see any structures that aren't intact. So why is it no one answers the phone on Tioga Island?"
"There is a volcano," Springer said and pointed to a photograph depicting a steaming mound on the northwestern tip of the island. "Could that have something to do with it?"