“Sounds familiar and perfect. Only this time she’s going to be on board. Standing by.”
Brent glanced around at the rest of his team. “Get fast ropes ready! We’re back in the hunt!”
“Roger that,” said Lakota, then she began issuing orders to the others.
So the Snow Maiden wasn’t so clever after all. She’d had her fun back in the Seychelles, but now she’d run out of time and terrain. Brent could already feel the zipper cuffs tightening around her wrists. He moved in front of her, got into her face, and said,
And she would just glower at him with bloodshot eyes, resigned to her capture.
Oh, were it that easy.
Taking a deep breath, Brent continued to watch the satellite feed. The three cyclists neared the end of the road and disappeared into the alcove of a restaurant identified by the Cross-Com’s AI as “Fat Sam’s.”
“What? They’re stopping for an early lunch?” Brent asked Dennison.
“Probably holding back until the hovercraft gets through the harbor.”
“She’s obviously in contact with someone. Can you intercept?” he asked.
“We’ve been trying. New form of encryption. Hard to break. Cutting-edge stuff, say the geeks back here. But they always say that, right?”
Just then the Blackhawk pilot began to wheel around and reported, “In our holding pattern.”
Below lay the leathery brown stretches of sandy beach and the Folkestone pier jutting out like a slightly bent arm serving as the end of a railway line.
After another minute, the three cyclists appeared, heading along Harbour Street toward the hovercraft, just now entering and blasting seamlessly up the concrete hoverport lying near the railroad tracks. They were all holding to-go cups and had probably stopped for a quick drink.
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,
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.
“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
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
