The cyclists rode a bit faster now, reached the hoverport, set down their bikes, and raced up a small gangway set in place by two crew members.
Brent watched them like a hawk perched on a branch and studying a mouse who’d come up on his hind legs to sniff the air. The swoop and attack were already racing through his mind.
Lakota reported that the team was ready to drop on both ropes.
He nodded, then faced one of the door gunners. He tapped his Cross-Com, indicating that the man should open his intercom channel. He did. “Once she’s disabled, there’s a good chance we’ll take some fire.”
“Don’t worry, Captain. When people shoot at me, I always return the favor.” The guy wriggled his brows.
Brent slapped a palm on his shoulders. “I like your style.”
The hovercraft was a newly designed, high-speed model with hybrid engines, according to Brent’s HUD. With a crew of five and about a hundred passengers, it wasn’t the largest ferry around but arguably the swiftest, able to cross the channel in less than twenty minutes. A few decades prior, hovercraft travel had all but ceased and was only returning in the past few years with a new company, new technology, and a new influx of international businesspeople trying to navigate around chaotic relationships strained by the war.
The craft powered up and slid backward off the hoverport, turned tail, and headed swiftly out of the harbor.
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead, she’s heading out.”
“We’ll give them about ten minutes to move farther off shore. I’ve already got laser strike authorization and controllers on standby.”
“Roger that.” Brent switched channels and asked the pilot about their fuel. They would have enough to complete the mission but probably not enough to get back to base. He could put down somewhere else, though, and had several smaller facilities in mind.
And so they circled, watching as the hovercraft moved farther away.
After several minutes, Dennison appeared: “Laser strike in five, four, three, two—”
Sparks arced high from the hovercraft’s stern, and Brent knew the lasers had done their job. Smoke began billowing, and the broad wake behind the craft began to fade.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hammer! Move in!”
“Roger that.” Brent waved his gloved hand in the air. “Ready on the ropes!”
As the chopper pilot throttled up and took them out and over the English Channel, Brent flexed his fingers and mentally prepared for the descent. The ropes were specially braided, and their gloves were designed of a Kevlar-Nomex outer shell that quickly absorbed the high heat they’d generate while sliding down. Fast-roping wasn’t easy, wasn’t safe, but it sure as hell was, ahem, fast. Grab the rope and slide. Three-meter gaps between operators. And you’d better not get any second thoughts. You loved the adrenaline rush but loathed the idea of being the guy in the middle, with operators sliding above and below you.
The Blackhawk banked around the still-billowing smoke and descended.
Both door gunners swung their 7.62-millimeter machine guns to bear on the hovercraft, and Brent came up behind one, clutching a wall rung for balance.
“Get ready for incoming,” said the pilot. “Here we go.” He brought the chopper in lower, slowing, pitching the nose up a bit until they glided not fifteen meters above the deck.
The gunners kept panning with their guns. Civilians who’d been outside on the deck began rushing back into the enclosed bay, while crew members were throwing up their hands, confused.
Brent listened in as the pilot spoke to the hovercraft’s captain, telling him to prepare to be boarded.
“Keep your eyes on all sides of this boat,” said Lakota. “She could slip off and try to make a swim for it.”
“Is it really a boat?” asked Riggs. “I mean technically—”
“Just watch it!” Lakota ordered.
The captain lodged his protests but was allowing them to board. Brent issued the orders.
Without hesitation the ropes dropped and thumped on the bobbing deck.
“Go, go, go!” hollered Brent.
And drop they did, rifles slung over their backs, gloved hands clutching those ropes, balanced between life and serious injury.
Brent was the last one down, his people already moving forward, rifles raised to begin clearing the deck.
The civilians were understandably shaken, but this was wartime and many were already settling in, realizing that the boarding and search operation was a necessary evil. If they sat quietly and didn’t intervene, they’d be fine, especially since they’d been told that “an American boarding party” had arrived.
As the others went below to continue the search, Brent ordered Park and Noboru to circulate through the passengers with photographs of the Snow Maiden. Within a minute, a few said they’d seen a woman who looked like her heading back to one of the rear restrooms.
After hearing that report, Brent charged toward the stern, went down a narrow flight of stairs, and found the hatch to the restroom locked. He rapped, called. Nothing. He ordered Daugherty and Heston to join him, and Heston grabbed a small prying tool from his web gear and busted open the hatch.
What the hell?
“Captain, did they do this?” asked Heston.
“No, someone else,” said Daugherty.
A short, dark-skinned man, a teenaged boy, and a woman with spiked hair were all piled into the small room. The boy had a gunshot wound to the chest. The man had been shot in the head. Heston moved in, reached down, and turned the woman’s head, revealing a bloody mess. As he did so, the short black wig slipped off, revealing blond hair pulled into a tight bun.
Decoys.
Brent took a step back and began screaming the word No! over and over.
He screamed so loud that even the chopper pilot could have heard him.
The Snow Maiden had to give Patti credit for her assistance and organizational skills. She’d set up the entire decoy run, right down to having the decoys themselves murdered at the last minute so they couldn’t be tortured into confessing. Now there was only one man on board the hovercraft who worked for the Ganjin, and he was just a simple, unassuming passenger, a potbellied, gray-haired old codger more interested in the news flashing across his smartphone’s display than in some boarding party search of his hovercraft.
For the moment, she, Chopra, and Hussein were being driven far away from Fat Sam’s by a taxi driver who’d been paid to take them up to Dover, their original destination. From there, Patti had arranged transport across the channel by private yacht, but that would not happen until nightfall. They would spend the day at the West Bank Guest House, south of Dover, where Patti had made all the arrangements, no questions asked.
Once they reached the house, the driver said he’d already been paid and left. They entered into a main foyer/reception area, where a heavyset woman with shimmering white hair showed them to a room. Chopra and Hussein remained strangely silent, until she closed the door and faced them. “I want to thank you for your cooperation thus far. This could be much more difficult. You’ve made the right choice.”
“I’m starving. When do we eat?” demanded Hussein.
“Relax, you’ll get fed,” she shot back.
“We’re not going to Geneva,” said Chopra. “We’re not leaving this room.”
She sighed deeply for effect and pointed at Hussein. “You’ve obviously been looking for him, and I’ve been looking for you. So now that we’ve all found each other, why can’t we just live happily ever after?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. This is a grave matter. But I guess you aren’t much more than an evil person.”