SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (18 page)

"Help me hold her steady," Vega grunted. Nolan put his hands on the column. The pilot was exhausted. He'd aged ten years in ten minutes from the colossal strain of keeping the aircraft in the air.

"I've got it," he told him, "You look all in."

"I feel all in," he smiled, "It brought it all back to me. The last time I flew one of these things it was bad."

"But you got her off the ground."

"I did."

He was silent for a couple of minutes. Then, "That time there was structural failure. The machine broke up on landing."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"No."

"Okay."

Nolan became used to the heavy controls, the need to battle to stop a yaw to starboard that would send them into an uncontrolled spin. Incredibly, they gained height. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but they reached three and a half thousand meters, and he set the trim and throttled back slightly. They were on course for Miami, but whether they'd make it was in the lap of the Gods. He glanced at Vega.

"How's the fuel?"

A pause. "We're good, more than enough to reach our destination." He looked out the window, "One moment."

He played with the buttons on the console, and Nolan looked aside to see a white haze emerging from the defunct starboard engine. He pointed it out.

"What's that?"

"Nothing important. There was smoke coming from the engine. It was probably smoldering before we feathered it. I used the extinguishers to make sure."

"Got it."

They flew on. Vega dozed in the pilot's seat, no doubt from exhaustion, and too many years of boozing and hanging around bars. Nolan checked and double-checked their course, and saw they were over the sea, heading straight for Miami. When he looked down, he could see the choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico, waves with white caps rolling in from the Caribbean. If they put down there, they'd be in serious trouble. The chances of this aircraft carrying lifejackets and rafts were less than zero. They had a thousand klicks to travel, most of it over water. He rechecked their speed and made a rough calculation. They were flying slower than normal because of the loss of one engine. If they were lucky, they'd be there in six hours.

He looked around, as Will entered the cockpit and asked how it was going.

"Could be worse. Our friend," he nodded at Vega, "did a great job. He knows how to fly. I mean, really fly."

"But does he know how to land on one engine? That's what I'm worried about," Will smiled.

"We'll soon know. Everything okay in back?"

"We're good. Sitting on a hard, cold, aluminum floor is a chore, but we'll survive. Ryder had a mad moment with Eva. He accused her of invoking God's wrath or something like that, for being a whore. She punched him, real hard. Told him to shut his stupid Texan face."

"I bet that went down well."

"Yep. I think he's praying for the dark angel to swoop down and carry her to the pit of hell."

"Could be a long wait."

"Yeah."

They watched the unending panorama ahead of them, ocean and more ocean, plenty of boats, big and small.

No doubt many of them are smugglers,
Nolan thought to himself,
The Latin America
growth industry, maybe it
’
s time to invest in some shares.

"Boss, have you given any thought to when we get there?"

He turned to look at Will. "How do you mean?"

"Well, we gotta land sooner or later. The question is, where?"

Vega opened his eyes. "Montez has a strip next to his place."

"You're awake! How're you feeling?"

"Like shit." he grinned, "but I've been worse, a lot worse."

"What's the deal with this strip?"

"While I was dozing, I was thinking the same as your friend Will. Obviously, we can't go straight into Miami International, not without papers."

"My thoughts exactly," Will grinned.

"So I thought about Montez's strip."

Nolan was instantly suspicious. "You know about it, how?"

"I flew in once, a smuggler flight when a pal of mine was ill."

"Okay."

He went on. "It has the advantage of being well away from the nearest law enforcement offices, customs, and immigration. Which I imagine is the reason he chose the location. But you know we're likely to run into a squad of armed men when we land."

They talked it over for several minutes, but they had little choice. They had to intercept the fugitives before they began the final leg of their journey to New York City. Except they still had no idea of how they were planning to reach their target, whatever it was. One thing was certain, the tangle of ruined, burning buildings, and dead bodies that would follow the attack.

"I'll talk to Evers, see if he has anything that may help us. CIA are bound to have ongoing operations in Miami."

He left them to go aft and returned several minutes later. "Danny found a window where he can get enough of a signal for the satphone. He's asking around."

"Understood."

Minutes later, Evers came forward.

"I'll take it," Vega murmured, "I guess you have things to discuss."

He put his hands on the column, and Nolan turned to listen.

"There's good news and bad news," he said immediately.

"Give us the bad bit first."

"My people were surprised we were overflying the Gulf. There's a storm warning, and it's due to hit in a couple of hours."

They stared down at the sea. The white caps of the waves were bigger as the swell built up in strength. The real telltale was the boats. The few that remained were heading at high speed for the nearest harbor.

"What's the good news?"

"Our intercepts report unusual activity around Montez's facility. They can't explain it. There's also an Iranian registered cargo vessel waiting offshore. And a powerboat tied up to his wharf."

"What's the big deal about that? You'd expect to tie up a boat at a wharf."

"That's the thing. This one's a beast, an H&Z high-speed powerboat, big enough to carry at least nine men. And she's fast enough to evade most things on the water."

"I still don't get it. What's the connection?" Nolan persisted, "They can hardly travel all the way to New York in a powerboat."

Evers sighed in frustration. "Look, guys, I joined CIA as an analyst. I shouldn't have been down in Panama when I first met up with you. Another guy got sick, and I jumped at the chance to go see the wide, wicked world."

"You saw more than you bargained for," he chuckled.

"I guess. My work with CIA is to connect the dots, and here's how I see it. They want something fast and powerful to hit their target before anyone sees them coming. That boat hits the bill. To reach New York City, they'd need a vessel to transport them. I checked, and that Iranian ship has suitable derricks to winch the H&Z aboard and plenty of deck space to stow it. They could load the boat, hide her under a tarpaulin, and carry her to New York. They stop outside the territorial limit, and at the right time, drop her into the water. Hey presto, they come barreling inshore to make the hit."

"Hit what?"

Evers shook his head. "That's the sixty-four dollar question. I don't know."

"I still don't get it," Nolan shook his head, "A powerboat that can carry nine men, how fast can it go, thirty, thirty-five knots? They'll see it coming and blow it out of the water."

"Ninety knots, I checked," Evers affirmed, "That's a minimum, depending on how they've modified the engines."

"You're joking," Will said, shocked, "Ninety knots?"

"Ninety knots."

"Oh, fuck." He shook his head in astonishment, "How do we stop that thing? They could hit a shore-based target in less than two minutes from leaving the mother ship."

"That was my conclusion."

"What about your people? If you pass all this on to CIA, they have to act."

"I tried that already. My boss told me to stop playing James Bond and report in to the nearest office. He said the idea of Islamic terrorists hitting a major target in New York City was a fantasy. He asked me did I want to evacuate Manhattan because a rowboat was coming down the Hudson. Stupid bastard."

"They're all scared of making the wrong call," Nolan said thoughtfully, "We have one option. Press on, locate these men, and stop them. Or kill them, as John-Wesley put it so eloquently."

Vega switched on the radio. He'd kept it off. If anyone called them, there was nothing useful they could say. They heard the weather warning, repeated over and over.

'The US Coastguard has advised all small vessels to head for port without delay. Commercial craft, be advised the forecast winds are predicted to reach Force Ten to Twelve. If you proceed, you do so at your own risk. Any aircraft overflying the Gulf of Mexico vector either north or south, find a place to land. The storm path is approaching from the Caribbean, passing over Cuba.'

They were looking at Nolan for a decision. He gave them the only one possible.

"Stay on course. We have one chance at this, and that means driving this aircraft straight down Montez's throat."

"It'll be difficult, flying through a severe storm with one engine out," Vega murmured. His eyes moved all the time, looking ahead, checking the gages, and adjusting the controls.

"Who said it was going to be easy?"

There was a silence in the cockpit. For a few moments, no one spoke. All they could hear was the drone of the single engine, the slipstream rushing past the fuselage, and the rattle of loose rivets and fixtures, part of the package for a vintage aircraft. Will broke the silence.

"I'll go back to the cabin and talk to the others. We need to be ready."

"For the storm, or gatecrashing Montez's party?"

He didn't look back. "Both."

It was almost two hours later when the first indications of the storm became apparent. A powerful gust sideswiped the plane, and Vega had to fight to keep them in the air. He fired up the radio once more, and they listened to the doom-laden predictions of the progress of the storm. The fuselage bucked again, and Will was thrown through the cockpit door into the cabin. While Vega worked to correct the yaw, Nolan went aft to check on his number two. He'd landed heavily but was okay

He looked around the cabin. Ryder had wedged himself into a corner, from where he squinted around the cabin, watching. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Eva.

Weird. That's the only way to describe him.

Nolan looked at him and shouted across, "You okay, John-Wesley?"

"Me?" He bared his teeth in a cold smile. There was no humor in his eyes, just ice, "I'm fine. You know we'll wreak the Lord's vengeance for this day's work?"

"How come?"

He regretted asking, as soon as the words came out.

"It's in the bible. 'And of Jezebel also spake the Lord, saying, the dogs shall eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel.' We are flying into a storm, yes?"

"Yep."

"It's God's punishment. We're gonna die, every last man, unless we repent of this evil."

Yep, he's finally flipped,
no question. As if we don't
have enough problems. I could shoot him
down right now like a dog,
before he goes berserk.

Except where they were headed, he needed Ryder more than ever. A man who could kill without a qualm, and keep killing, was worth his weight in gold.

"It's just a storm, Ryder. Pack it in. You say another word about Eva, and I'll cut your heart out. Try praying for something useful."

Like a new starboard engine.

The man gave Nolan a cold nod.

* * *

The roller shutter door rumbled open, and they had their first glimpse of Miami. Fresh air, a blessed relief after the vile stench of human waste and blood inside the truck. Nasriri looked up to the sky as he gave thanks to Allah for reaching this stage of their long journey.

Thick clouds were forming in the distance, and a gust of wind met their skin. It brought a strong breeze that was warm and fresh smelling. There was a faint fragrance of oranges, overlaid by the distinctive scent of the sea. Salt, seaweed, baked sand. As he stood enjoying the clean sensation against his body, he felt a sudden gust almost lift him off his feet. He was a man of the desert, of the outdoors. He knew a storm was coming in.

Even so, it was good to be out of the close confines of the truck, and the suspicion and doubt that were slowly poisoning his men. He turned to look as Rahman Baba tripped, swore, and fell to the ground.

"Be careful, Rahman. We need you strong for the last stage of our journey."

Baba looked up at him but didn't reply. Nasriri knew he had to do something fast to restore their obedience. If things got any worse, he'd have deserters. It was a poison that spread like an outbreak of disease, a cancer to be cut out.