BLOOD GURKHA: Prophesy (James Pace novels Book 5) (13 page)

Shannon ran an immediate check of the ocean topography. 'That's far too close to shore,' she challenged. 'We will be at risk so close in, in conditions like this,' she explained further. 'Even if we only poke the top of our sail above the surface, there won't be much water under our keel.'

Appleby had already checked the electronic maps on his personal screen, in his cabin after he'd gone down to receive the coded message. He also knew that his bosses were well aware of the risk they were asking him to take with their billion-pound vessel.

'Take her in,' he ordered calmly. 'We can use the engines to pull her out into deeper water if there is any chance of us running aground. Anyway, I'm damned curious about why these men are so valuable.'

Shannon smiled wanly. 'But don't ask them, remember? You'll get into trouble.'

Appleby flashed an instant smile back. 'Nobody gets aboard my boat without first declaring their intentions, and background,' he said. 'Captain's prerogative, I'm afraid.'

'Makes sense to me,' she agreed. Turning back to her panels, her delicate fingers flew over the touchscreen as she followed Appleby's commands, instructing the computer to adjust course and speed. Instantly, a very slight tremble from the power plant indicated an increase in speed but the submarine's advanced stabilisers meant there was no other indication aboard that anything had changed. 'All done, sir.'

'Very good. I'll be down in my cabin if you need me.'

As Appleby headed down a set of steep steps at one end of the bridge, hanging on to the steel handrails on either side, three of his crew waited patiently at the bottom until he reached them. All three threw him a curt salute which he acknowledged. No words were exchanged as the men climbed the same set of steps, to take their stations on the bridge with Shannon.

Heading down a wide passageway, brightly lit and pleasantly cooled by a continuous circulation of conditioned, purified air, he reached his cabin in a few metres. A solid door, rather than the more traditional curtain, greeted him. Secured with a high-tech lock, Appleby pressed a thumb against the reader and was rewarded by the click as the door unlocked for him. Pushing it inwards, he entered, shutting it firmly behind him.

Large but sparse, with all furniture moulded or bolted down, he settled into a chair at his desk and flicked up the screen built into its top, pulling it upright. As he did so, it sprang into brilliant life, presenting him with a gorgeous screensaver of his wife and son. It had been taken by him, on one of the very rare occasions they had managed a summer holiday together.

Taken on a beautiful beach in Crete, the faces of his past both supported and taunted him. Mixed emotions always hit whenever he looked at their image but he loved them; always would, and wanted to make sure he never forgot them.

'Love you both,' he said softly, which were the same words he always directed at the screen every time he switched it on. Hannah, slightly sunburnt and peeling on the tip of her nose, smiled back at him through gorgeous eyes that were hidden by a pair of fashionable sunglasses. Her curly blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail. In her arms sat Ben, when he was probably only five years old. Appleby's son was beaming with joy. He loved the sea and it had been a wonderful, loving holiday for them all. Having no sunglasses on, his eyes were screwed up against the glare of the Mediterranean sun. It was Appleby's favourite family photograph.

Flicking on the communication icon, their images vanished and were replaced by a string of encrypted messages, now all translated by the security software integrated into one of a dozen submarine computers. A new message had come in and he scanned the contents quickly. His heart sank a little further.

'Running aground might be the least of our worries,' he sighed to himself. 'I'd better not scratch my boat with this madness.'

Or kill us all, he finished his sentence silently to himself.

14

The flight in had been a tricky affair, with the skilled pilots being barely able to keep the Falcon jet below Uruguayan radar and set down in a deserted private airfield, fifteen miles south of the ARC facility. An old field, previously belonging to the military elite that had governed the country until democracy took hold and kicked them out, it had been mothballed more out of political correctness than operational value. Like so many airbases around the globe, the new government had simply emptied the building and locked the gate.

Thirty years on, it was only ever used by clandestine flights, as a stop over to refuel, by friendly nations. Officially, the government would deny ay knowledge, of course, but it was mainly used by the Americans who had helped a great deal with funding in those early days of democratic celebration. Even the Americans had only ever used it half a dozen times so it was no hardship to keep the tarmac strip repaired and a couple of drums of aviation fuel, with a manual pump, tucked under some old tarpaulins by one of the dilapidated hangar buildings.

The McEntire Corporation had full knowledge of all these arrangements, and airfields, that they often used for their less public operations. As a genuine, multi-billion pound international business, the McEntire Corporation had genuine reasons to send its staff all over the globe; negotiating trade deals, funding and supporting Doyle McEntire's personal interest in global conservation. In this guise, however, they tended to stick to regular airports.

Ramsay and Norton performed a flawless landing, keeping all their running lights off and setting down in total darkness, using a mixture of instrumentation and night vision helmets. The base, as they tend to be, was several miles from the nearest settlement which tended to be isolated farms at this particular location. Once down, they were confident they could remain safely hidden until dawn broke. Once they lost the cover of darkness, all four men aboard knew the plane would be forced to leave, with or without Pace and Hammond.

A short walk down a fairly steep, grass-tufted incline was all that had separated the McEntire men from the water. It had taken barely fifteen minutes to get there; Parry and Norton helping to carry the lightweight, now inflated Zodiac and its far heavier outboard motor.

It was ten o'clock at night when the men had parted company, with a promise to return by four o'clock the next morning. Long enough to find out what was going on at the ARC site and, hopefully, get a lead on where to find Josephine Roche. Pace wanted her blood for the attack on Sarah while Hammond held a grudge at the terrible indignity inflicted upon the newest member of their team; Deborah Miles.

Now though, at a little after three o'clock in the morning, with increasingly wild winds slashing all around the parked Falcon and no contact from either Pace or Hammond, Parry and Norton were beginning to fear the worst. Their duty was to Doyle McEntire, however much they both admired the courage of the others. If the deadline was reached, they would leave, without hesitation. Neither wanted that to be the outcome as they sat in the dark cockpit, scanning through the water-streaming windows with their night vision helmets. Time ticked by, with several huge gusts threatening to tip the Falcon on its wingtips until, eventually, the deadline arrived. With no sign of the men, and still no response from the encrypted satellite phones they each carried, there was no choice.

It took every year of their combined flight experience to get the jet safely into the air. Wrestling with the controls at times, making continuous adjustments to flaps and power settings, Parry took the lead and coaxed the aircraft out over the water, keeping it so low that he felt sure some of the higher waves might wash their underbelly.

Already refuelled, courtesy of the Uruguayan government drums, he managed to keep the Falcon under control until they reached a point well outside the country's territorial airspace. At this point, he gratefully powered the luxury private jet up through the storm clouds and relaxed a little when they reached a cruising height of forty thousand feet. Up there, with a new dawn tickling the horizon with pink fingertips and the clouds lying far below them like a fluffy carpet, the Falcon headed for home.

Although they had no way of knowing it at the time, their decision to leave had been the right one. There was no way Pace and Hammond would ever have got back there, even if they had all the time in the world.

After powering the Zodiac out into the teeth of the gale, Hammond had only managed to ride the first two large breakers before an unseen undercurrent had hit the Zodiac in the tail, turning her sideways on to the third wave. Before either man had even realised fully what was happening, the huge wave had hit the boat and flipped it over, dumping Pace and Hammond into the raging, icy Atlantic.

Without immersion suits, or life jackets, they both sank before scrabbling back to the boiling surface, spitting and choking out seawater. Luckily, the next wave had yet to arrive and they were able to strike out for the upturned Zodiac, reaching it just in time for them both to grab hold of one of the side handles.

Numb with cold and shock, the wave smashed down over their heads, trying to drown them quickly and forcing the entire boat under water for several feet before its buoyancy lifted it, and the men, back to the surface.

Their only hope was to get the boat turned over and facing back into the wind and they tried hard to make it happen. After perhaps the fifth attempt, their timing improved enough that they managed to work together, clinging on to the same side, and haul it over. With barely minutes of strength left in their chilled bodies, Pace clambered in, turning to help Hammond in after him.

Luck then gave them a helpful break by managing to have the bow of the Zodiac pointed towards the next wave so that it rode up and over without flipping again.

They drifted north, dragged by the cross current, and also managed somehow to move away from the shore despite the repeated pounding from shore-bound waves. The tide, despite its fury, was behaving very strangely mainly due to a myriad of unseen seafloor features below them that created conflicting currents, undertows and occasional vortices.

It did not matter to them how they had come away from the shore, only that they had. It meant the waves, though still high and angry, now topped off at a little over three metres. If they could get the boat shipshape again, they just might be able to ride out the storm.

Their luck chose not to desert them in their hour of need.

A quick check revealed all their equipment bags were still safely stowed under the webbing around the edges, including their weapons. More importantly, the securing bolts on the outboard motor had survived the initial impact with the killer wave and the engine sat happily in its mountings at the rear. Specifically designed, by the British military, to operate after full immersion, a quick press of the starter button and it revved into glorious life.

With power, they were able to steer the boat out to sea, riding wave after wave until they were far enough from shore to risk turning slight southwards, running along the wave troughs for a few metres before presenting their noses to the wind again every time a particularly high wave approached.

Crabbing their way along the coast, shivering and deflated, the two men knew their chances of getting back to the Falcon, on time, were zero.

'What do you want to do?' Pace asked Hammond, forcing his teeth to stop chattering but having only partial success.

Hammond was only too aware of their misjudgement in not kitting up with immersion suits. Soaked to the skin, in the middle of a storm, neither of them would last much longer out on the open sea.

'We could run back into shore?' he offered. 'We're probably a mile or so up the coast from the ARC site now. With the storm covering us, we should be able to land unseen and strike inland. Maybe find some help, or at least some shelter where we can get dry and warm; start a fire maybe?'

The thought of a warm fire was tempting to Pace but landing back in Uruguay, having already alerted the local military to their intrusion, was asking for trouble.

'They might think we're dead, that's true,' he conceded. A sharp pain was jabbing behind his eyes now as exhaustion and dehydration began to bite. 'You talked to those soldiers. I only sapped them and laid them out against the rock face,' he added. 'Do you think they'll try looking for us when the weather improves?'

'Definitely,' Hammond stated emphatically. 'Their leader seemed a decent bloke and the men clearly trusted him. He won't want to let us escape if he can help it.'

'Thought as much. If we go back, we're probably going to end up caught. Maybe not tonight, or even tomorrow, but in the next few days. We'd end up having to fight it out.'

'That might be better than the alternative.' Another wave chose that moment to crash over them with unexpected violence, drenching them once more with a frozen hand that drew the very breath from their aching bones.

Choking up a lungful of water, gagging for a moment, Hammond wheezed in a deep breath before continuing. 'We don't have a choice. If we stay out here, we're going to die.'

Pace nodded imperceptibly. 'We can't stay here, you're right. Maybe it's time to call for help? Did our phones survive the dunking?'

Hammond reached under the single, bench seat and flipped open a small cupboard. Reaching in with clumsy, numb fingers, he pulled out a clear plastic bag. Inside, two satellite phones were visible, even in the darkness.

The storm chose that moment to intensify again, this time by adding brilliant forks of lightning and thunderous, tumultuous crashes to its natural symphony. The waves, fortunately appeared unaffected. They continued to roll and smash, crest and swamp the little Zodiac as it valiantly fought its way southwards.

Hammond dug out Pace's phone and handed it to him. Waterproof and shock-resistant, these marvels of encrypted technology would fare much better than the human occupants against the weather. Holding it to his ear, hitting a secure number with surprising dexterity, seeing as how he could not feel his fingertips any more, the call connected quickly.

The signal, bounced across three, low-orbiting satellites and was diffused by a further half dozen deceptor relays to prevent any risk of triangulation, connecting within five seconds whereupon a familiar voice responded at the other end.

Baker was relieved to hear Pace's voice. He had been well aware of their trip and had hoped sending them to a site, which he already knew had been deserted for over a month, would keep them busy for a few days while he tried to get a handle on what was going on within the McEntire Corporation. Ramsay and Norton had yet to check in and he had wrongly assumed they were all flying back to London together.

As Baker listened, and his mood darkened, he quickly realised his plan to let them head off on a surveillance job somewhere fairly safe had completely backfired.

'Can you help us?' Pace spoke loudly into the handset and crushed it to his chilled ear to try and hear as clearly as possible. 'We won't make it back to the Falcon. You need to tell Ramsay and Norton to get the hell out of here.'

'They will leave of their own accord,' replied Baker solemnly. 'As for helping you, I already have a fix on your position. We don't have any assets in the area and calling for help from the Uruguayan Coast Guard needs to be a last resort.'

'What do you suggest? We can make it to shore, I think, but we run the risk of having to shoot it out with local garrison.'

Baker frowned and then a weak cough behind him had caught his attention. Turning around, he eyed the prone figure of Doyle McEntire laid out in fresh linen and noted the man's eyes were open. Miraculously, both he and Sarah had survived their individual ordeals. Sarah remained in quarantine but was improving each day.

McEntire had been moved out to his own room, still in the medical facility, after life-saving heart surgery had brought him back from the brink of death. A quadruple by-pass had done the trick but recovery would take many months. Having been fully briefed by the surgeon, Baker knew McEntire would struggle with the wound on his chest and the many on his legs, where veins had been stripped out so they could be grafted to his heart.

Given the all clear from the pathogen, deliberately blown into his daughter's face, McEntire had been awake several times since his surgery. Heavily dosed up with pain medication and precautionary antibiotics; plumbed into several different drips dispensing saline and anti-clotting medication too, his sheer bloody-mindedness shone through.

'I will ring you back in a few minutes, with a plan. Stand by.' Disconnecting the call, Baker moved across to the bed and settled himself down into a chair at the side. His eyes met McEntire in a frank stare. His boss's own eyes were blood-shot and watery but the old fire was evident to behold. When McEntire spoke, his voice was thin but firm.

'They're both alive?' Baker nodded. 'Good. We need to pick them up fast, before dawn.'

'Daylight is only an hour or so away, where they are,' explained Baker calmly. 'We can't get to them that fast. Even an aerial pick-up, using a cable and harness, would take a few hours to set up and a few more to get down to them.

'We have many friends in Brazil now,' McEntire reminded him, forcing a vague smile. 'We do have an asset in the vicinity, do not worry. I have sorted it.'

Baker shook his head. 'Sorry, Doyle. We don't. I have been running the show while you have been incapacitated. I am fully briefed on all our covert operations and asset deployment, including our contacts in the British military. There is nothing close enough to reach them before the local authorities pick them up.'