imaging photos of the island and Fort Mahoud itself. A dedicated U.S. bird launched six hours ago had shot the Oman recon photos Hawke was looking at now. The mood inside the pilothouse was grim. It had rapidly become obvious to both men that their early plan of getting the hostages out by air would be well nigh impossible.
Ahmed, having grown weary of the endless strategizing, had wandered out onto the afterdeck and found himself a comfortable patch of precious shade. Despite all the pitching and rolling, he was now lounging in one of the old-fashioned steamer chairs lined up along the stern rail. His chair was carefully aligned amidships for minimum yaw, facing aft. He was reading a ten-year-old copy of Architectural Digest, happily flipping through the pages. He seemed to have decided that, since he was going to be living aboard this old tub for a few days, he might as well make himself as comfortable as possible.
The desolate island of Masara lay just off their port beam, bleak and, so far, uninhabited. It was basically little more than a large rocky outcropping situated a few miles off, and lying parallel to, the coast of Oman. So far, the only island residents Hawke had observed were massive flocks of white flamingos. Ahmed had told him that morning that the bird-watching in the afternoon would be spectacular. Oman was the central corridor in the migratory pathway of thousands of exotic birds journeying between Asia and Africa.
Hawke had thanked him for this very useful information but said that he was far more interested in whirlybirds at the present moment. He was searching for some place, hidden from the spy cams above, where he might put a chopper on the ground. A wide spit of sand revealed at low tide might even be sufficient. Hell, anything remotely flat would do.
So far, nothing. No smooth hilltops, no elevated plateaus, no roads. Hawke saw nothing remotely resembling a place to set even a small bird down. Nor did the surveillance photos reveal any flat surfaces within or atop the fortress that looked large enough to accommodate a helicopter.
Finally, there were no large interior courtyards, a thing that Hawke had been hoping for. He concluded there was simply no place to land aircraft of any kind on Masara. This “simple snatch,” as Brock had come to call the mission, would clearly have to be accomplished from the sea. Getting this job done was, to all appearances, going to be an extremely difficult proposition.
Somehow, he and Brock had to figure out how to storm this bloody fortress, subdue a few dozen French mercenaries, rescue the sultan and his harem, and get them safely back out to Cacique. And they had forty-eight hours to figure it out. Brick Kelly had called Alex on the sat phone earlier in the day. He said events were moving very rapidly in Washington and London. The president and the British prime minister had just issued a joint statement saying that any invasion of Oman by any foreign government would have serious consequences.
“Don’t let us get to that point, Alex,” Brick had said before he hung up. “And don’t get caught. Brock’s already a no-name NOC. As you well know, you’re an honorary one. The U.S. has no dog in this fight. Got it?”
Hawke now looked over at the man standing at the old-fashioned wooden wheel, feet planted wide apart, eyes peeled for shoals.
“Captain, how do they get supplies out to this island? Food and drink for the museum staffers, I mean?”
“Please call me Ali, sir,” the captain said, smiling back at Hawke.
“All right, Ali, tell me about the supply situation.”
“There is a long steel dock, sir. Built into the rocks just below the fort. Where the daily tourist ferries tie up. The supply ship, she comes once a week. She ties up there, too.”
“A supply ship,” Hawke said, “Same day each week?”
“Yes, sir. Comes every Saturday night around nine. Day after tomorrow. Just like clockwork, sir.”
“Very helpful, thank you.”
“In about fifteen minutes we’ll be rounding Point Mala, sir. Then you’ll be able to see our beautiful fort in 3-D living color.”
Hawke had taken an immediate liking to the Cacique’s skipper. He’d already decided he could trust him. Years of exposure to sun and salt air had weathered his skin to a fine, nutty brown. He was a good-looking fellow, in his midforties perhaps, with thick black hair just going grey. His large brown eyes were sad and watchful above the jutting nose. He had strong white teeth and a mouth that, while smiling at the moment, could easily harden into a fierce line when the shooting started.
Hawke had sized the captain up as both a steadfast friend and a merciless enemy. He was glad to have him aboard.
“Here’s our problem,” he now said to Brock, tapping his index finger on a faded drawing appended to a larger elevation of the fort.
“The twin towers,” Brock said with only a trace of irony.
“Right. Standing guard over the only entrance in the entire structure, according to Ahmed. Look here. These steps leading up from the sea to the entrance. I have them rising fifty feet above sea level, leading up to this main gate. The only way in or out. If I were Rommel, I would have put heavy machine guns in those towers. High-rise pillboxes. I would imagine the Chinaman in charge has done the same.”
“No way inside from the rear?” Brock asked.
“No. The rear of the fort is built right into the bluff facing the sea. Surrounded on three sides by solid rock. Whoever built this bloody castle was thinking ahead.”
“We can’t sneak up behind them, we can’t land on their roof. Looks to me like we’ve got to go up the front steps and knock on the front door.”
“With the towers providing overlapping fields of fire.”
“Turning anyone attempting to mount the steps into hamburger.”
“And any approaching vessel to scrap iron. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it, Harry?”
The captain turned away from the wheel.
“All right, Commander, you can see the fort just coming into view on our port bow!” Ali said. “I won’t be able to get any closer or slow down, I’m afraid. Otherwise it will look like we’re looking.”
“Let’s go see this thing,” Hawke said.
He and Brock got up from the table and quickly moved outside onto the afterdeck. Ahmed put down his magazine and looked up as if pleasantly surprised by all the commotion. “Hate to disturb your studies, old fellow,” Hawke said. “Apparently Fort Mahoud just hove into view.”
The three men ran for’ard and stood at the rail on the port bow. Hawke and Brock both had their glasses trained on Point Mala. Gulls and terns whirled about above the towering waves that hammered the ragged and rocky shoreline. The air was misty along that point of land, and it was difficult to see much from this distance.
Hawke found himself watching with not a little apprehension as Cacique plowed through the deep, rolling waves and bits and pieces of the fort became more and more visible. They had the thing almost abeam now, and as soon as this huge wave receded, he’d have a much better idea of what he was up against.
Hawke was both thrilled and appalled by what he saw. Fort Mahoud was far more forbidding in reality than on paper. Huge waves continously smashed against its battlements and retreated. It stood there as it had for centuries, back against the sheer-faced wall, impregnable and unassailable.
It was as magnificent an example of military architecture as he’d ever seen. The fortress was built of whitish stone that seemed to gleam in the late-afternoon sun. It was battlemented, crenellated, and towered. The most imposing aspect was the looming, perfectly circular towers facing the sea. He could see the wide steps now, leading up to the large arch of the gate. It appeared to be a massive iron-barred affair that was raised or lowered from within the fort.
“See that gate?” he said to Brock standing beside him.
“Oh, yeah. I was just checking it out. I got one word for you. Semtex.”
“Yes. Assuming there is still someone alive at the top of the steps to set the charges.”
“I guess we can forget about coming down that cliff face.”
“I guess so,” Hawke said.
Fort Mahoud had been purposefully designed and built with its back hard up against a sheer perpendicular wall of reddish rock. The rock face swept up smoothly above the fort, with neither a crevasse nor a crack to be seen, for a good five hundred feet up to the top. Any thought of a nighttime abseil down that vertical cliff face was now clearly seen to be impossible. It was obvious that the only possible approach was the suicide steps leading up from the sea.
“Is this as close as we can get?” Brock asked.
“It won’t get any better closer up,” Hawke said. “What do you think, Irontail?”
