had been dispatched by the flying wing. It landed directly in front of the hangar whose massive door gaped wide open like a patient in a dentist chair. A contingent of camouflage-clad Special Ops troops armed with M-16Al assault rifles and grenade launchers, each man a killing machine of formidable power, guarded the outside while another squad explored the hangar’s cavernous interior. The helicopter troops poured out of the side doors as soon as the wheels touched the ground and joined their comrades.
Then the two NUMA men got out and walked into the hangar. The space seemed even more enormous now that it no longer housed the flying wing. Blackened and charred debris left over from their takeoff was scattered throughout the hangar. The rear walls, which had felt the full force and heat of the jet-engine exhaust, were scorched and the paint blistered. They picked their way around the smoldering rubble and went directly to the storeroom. The door was open. The canisters were gone.
“Empty as a bottle of tequila on a Sunday morning,” Zavala said.
“I was afraid of this. They must have brought in another chopper.”
They walked outside to get away from the choking smoke inside the hangar. The Talon had found a flat, dry strip of land and was landing about a quarter of a mile away. They headed to ward the wreckage of the helicopter, hoping it could provide clues to the attack. Blackened corpses were visible in and around the charred hulk. The officer who had led the first wave came over and shook hands.
“I don’t know why you wanted us to come along,” he said, jerking his thumb at the downed chopper. “You boys did fine on your own.”
“We didn’t want to press our luck,” Austin said.
The officer grinned. “This place is as clean as a whistle. We checked the underground bunker as you suggested. Found a couple of dead guys at the bottom of the shaft you told us to watch out for. You know anything about that?”
Austin and Zavala exchanged a surprised glance.
“Joe and I set up a little tiger trap for our guests. We never expected it to work.”
“Oh, it worked. Remind me never to come in your back door without knocking.”
“I’ll remember. Sorry you had to go through all this trouble for nothing,” Austin said.
“You can never be too careful. You know what happened on Atka and Kiska.”
Austin nodded. He knew the story of the two Aleutian Is lands occupied by the Japanese. After U.S. troops were bloodied in the invasion of one island, they planned a massive invasion of Kiska, only to find the Japanese had quietly slipped away the night before.
“The same thing happened here. The chickens have flown the coop.”
The officer surveyed the twisted wreckage again and let out a low whistle. “I’d say you clipped their wings.”
Austin shook his head. “Unfortunately there was something back in that hangar they took with them. Thanks anyway for all your help, Major.”
“My pleasure. Drills are fine, but there is no substitute for a mission where people might actually be shooting at you.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange that next time.”
The officer smiled a tight smile. “From the looks of that old bomber you brought into Nome, I’d say you’re probably a man of your word.”
With that operation a bust, Austin and Zavala accepted the offer of a ride to Elendorf, where they might be able to catch a flight to Washington. When the planes stopped at Nome to re fuel, Zavala volunteered to use his considerable charm and the NUMA bank account to soothe the owner of the leased Maule that had been destroyed. He was coming out of the lease office after agreeing to buy the company a new plane when he saw Austin striding toward him with a serious expression on his face. He handed Zavala a piece of paper.
“This just came in.”
Zavala scanned the message from NUMA: “Gamay and Francesca kidnapped. Trout injured. Come home immediately. S.”
Without exchanging a word they hustled across the tarmac toward the waiting Talon.
Chapter 32
Paul Trout lay in his hospital bed with his chest and nose wrapped in bandages, cursing him self repeatedly for not being more alert to danger. When he and Gamay were dodging the arrows of headhunters their survival instincts were at their sharpest. But their return to the so-called civilized world had dulled their senses. They had no idea that the eyes watching from the van parked outside their Georgetown townhouse were far more savage than any they had encountered in the jungle.
The letters painted on the van’s doors, identifying it as be longing to the District of Columbia department of public works, were still tacky to the touch. Inside the vehicle was the latest in communications and electronic snooping equipment. Bent over the TV monitors and speakers that probed the brick walls of the house were the Kradzik brothers. Watching and waiting did not come easily to the twins. In Bosnia they used a brutally simple routine. They picked their target of choice. Then they and a couple of truckloads of paramilitary troops pulled up to the house in the dead of night, bashed the door in, and dragged the terrified occupants from their beds. The men were taken away and shot, the women raped and murdered, the house systematically looted.
Getting into the Trouts’ townhouse presented a different problem. The house was on a back street, but it was well traveled with pedestrians and car traffic. The street had been even busier than usual since the Trouts returned. The discovery of a white goddess by two NUMA scientists and their dramatic escape from bloodthirsty savages was the stuff of an adventure movie. After CNN released the story a number of journalists had tracked down the Trouts. Enterprising reporters and photographers from the Washington Post, the New York Times, the national television networks, and a handful of disreputable supermarket tabloids had gathered outside their door.
Gamay and Paul took turns politely telling them that they were trying to catch up on their rest and would answer all questions at a press conference to be given the next day at NUMA headquarters. They referred inquiries to the NUMA press section. The photographers took pictures of the house, and the TV people gave reports with its facade as a backdrop. Eventually the river of attention dribbled to nothing. The same news coverage that had fascinated people around the world drew interest from more malignant sources.
Paul was in his second-floor office typing a summary of their experiences into a report for NUMA. In the downstairs study Francesca and Gamay discussed how to put the desalting project back on track as quickly as possible. After Francesca announced that she had delayed her return to Sao Paulo the Trouts had offered her a haven from the hordes of media attention. When the doorbell rang Gamay sighed heavily. It was her turn to answer the summons from the fourth estate. The TV crews were the most persistent, and as Gamay expected she was greeted at the door by a reporter with note book in hand and a cameraman with his Steadicam balanced on a shoulder. A third man carried a flood lamp and a metal suitcase.
Gamay resisted her first urge, which was to tell these characters to buzz off. Instead she forced a smile and said, “You evidently haven’t heard about the press conference tomorrow morning.”
“Excuse please,” said the reporter. “No one tell us about conference.”
That’s funny, Gamay thought. The public affairs people at NUMA were well plugged into the press scene. They were well respected by reporters for being up front with the amazing stories that came out of NUMA. This guy in the ill-fitting suit was nothing like any of the coiffed pretty boys who read the news. He was short and stocky, his hair cut down to the scalp. Al though he was grinning, his face was feral and thuggish. Besides, since when had the networks been hiring news readers with thick eastern European accents? She looked past him, expecting to see a TV truck with disk antennas sprouting from the roof, but saw only a city work van.
“Sorry,” she said, and went to close the door.
The grin disappeared, and he shoved his foot in. Startled at first by the move, Gamay quickly recovered from her surprise. She put her weight against the door until the man winced with pain. She drew her elbow back, preparing to stiff-arm the intruder in the face with the palm of her hand, but the other two men lunged forward and threw their shoulders against the door. She was knocked aside and went down on one knee. She quickly regained her footing. By then it was too late to run or fight. She was looking down the barrel of a pistol in the hand of the so-called reporter. The cameraman had put his video gear aside. He came over and grabbed her by the neck until she could barely breathe. Then he slammed her up against the wall so hard that a nineteenth-century gilded mirror crashed to the floor.
