Operation Sea Ghost (37 page)

Batman and Twitch eyed each other—they were thinking the same thing.

“I know it’s difficult to accept,” Twitch tried to explain to Murphy. “But this isn’t a time for sentimentality. We could have an enormous catastrophe in a major U.S. city if that boat isn’t dealt with.”

Murphy knew what he was proposing—and was immediately incensed.

“No way,”
he said sternly. “Not in a
million
years.”

“But you’re talking about one life as compared to millions of permanently injured people in the United States,” Twitch said. “These things aren’t easy, but look at the big picture. Someone has to take the hit.”

Murphy just waved him off. “Well, it’s not going to be her. The least of the reasons being the guy flying the jump jet happens to be her significant other. So, you can just forget about that option, because it’s not an option at all.”

A tense silence came over the three of them. Meanwhile the racket of the race cars outside provided the perfect sound track for what was happening inside the shack.

Finally, Batman broke the silence.

“OK, then,” he said to Murphy. “Will you at least admit now that it’s over? That this thing is too big for us?
None
of us is going to get what we want, so what’s the fucking point? We’ve got to call in the military …
someone’s
military. We’ve got to come clean about this whole thing to someone who can do something about it.”

“And say bye-bye to one hundred million,” Twitch mumbled. “But I guess that’s better than blinding everyone in Washington, Boston or New York.”

But Murphy was still shaking his head.

“If we call in the military now, especially the
U.S.
military, what do you think they’re going to do?” he asked harshly. “If they’re made aware of the magnitude of this threat, they’ll hit that yacht with a couple Harpoon missiles and then tell everyone it was lost at sea. End of story. But I’m not going to allow that, not with Li on board.”

“What else can we possibly do then?” Twitch pleaded. “We can’t swim after that fucking boat. We can’t just snap our fingers like ghosts and suddenly be there to stop these assholes.”

That’s when Batman held up his hand—asking for silence.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

Twitch and Murphy had no idea what he was talking about.

“
Hear
it?” he asked them again.

“How can you hear anything over all those race cars?” Murphy replied.

Batman looked out the shack’s only window, and then ran out to the dock.

That’s when he saw it.

High in the sky, but getting closer.

The answer to their prayers—maybe.

It was the
Shin-1
flying boat.

27

THE ITALIAN-BUILT
NUMERO
Two
racing yacht was like the
Smoke-Lar
in almost every way.

It, too, was shaped like a sharp-point bullet; it had special paint, aerodynamic glass, a semi-enclosed cockpit and a gas turbine for propulsion. And it, too, could reach speeds in excess of eighty mph on water.

They were virtually the same vessel, except
Numero Two
was painted red and the
Smoke-Lar
was painted white.

Michele Savoldi was
Numero Two
’s pilot; his cousin Giuseppe was his engineer. They’d left Monte Carlo at the same time as the
Smoke-Lar,
but had fallen behind the Dutch-designed boat almost immediately, losing sight of their opponent not ten minutes into the race.

This was not so unusual; it was just a difference in racing philosophy. Going at a moderate speed early, as Savoldi had, saved fuel for later on. If you start out at full throttle, as the
Smoke-Lar
had, you might get a big lead, but that could diminish as the race went along, especially if you ran into mechanical issues that sucked up more fuel than expected. Per the competition’s rules, Savoldi had never met or talked to the
Smoke-Lar
’s pilot, and every driver had his own methods. But in Savoldi’s opinion, his opponent did seem to be pouring it on a bit prematurely.

In fact, Savoldi had been out of sight of the
Smoke-Lar
during most of the Mediterranean leg of the race. It was only after both vessels passed through Gibraltar in late afternoon and were out on the open ocean that he increased his speed and finally resighted his rival.

Savoldi did not have any binoculars with him; only absolute essentials could be brought on the race because any extra weight meant loss of speed. This was why when he finally saw the
Smoke-Lar
again it was simply a dot on the horizon leaving a faint spray of water and smoke in its wake.

He’d been keeping a close eye on the Dutch boat ever since, though. His plan was to gradually increase his speed during the night and creep up on his opponent. Even though they were trying to outrun the sun, if Savoldi could get within five miles of the
Smoke-Lar
by dawn the next morning, he would be happy.

*   *   *

GIUSEPPE HAD JUST changed out a fuel tank when Savoldi realized something was about to fly over them. He’d seen all kinds of aircraft during the Mediterranean leg—everything from airliners, to private planes, to TV helicopters taking pictures as he roared along below. But since moving out into the Atlantic, only the contrails of the airliners remained and even they became few and far between.

But there was an aircraft above him now and it wasn’t an airliner or a private plane. It was a huge flying boat—and it was flying extremely low.

It had come up from his aft starboard side, making no noise until it flew right over him not fifty feet above the mast.

And now, as he and Giuseppe watched, the big plane turned violently to the left, and started coming back at them from the opposite direction.

Savoldi had no idea what was happening. Giuseppe was equally baffled. This huge hulking airplane seemed so interested in them—but why?

The flying boat went over a second time, again very low and extremely loud. Its four propellers even drowned out the roar of the
Numero Two
’s turbine engine. Savoldi didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to deviate from his precise, predetermined course—that might cost him time and speed at the finish line. But he didn’t want to collide with the huge plane either. Yet it was flying so low that seemed like a possibility.

The plane turned a third time, and came at them now from the starboard bow. It went by no more than twenty-five feet off the water, its wing almost touching the boat’s nose. Then it turned once more, sped up—and landed with a great splash about a half-mile directly in front of the
Numero Two
. Incredibly, it began taxiing toward a collision course with the racing yacht.

Savoldi had no choice. The plane had succeeded in outmaneuvering him. With great reluctance, he disengaged the autopilot and pulled back on the throttles. The boat slowed down to almost nothing.

That’s when he saw a person frantically waving something from the flying boat’s open cockpit window.

It was an Italian flag.

This person was also yelling for Savoldi to come to a stop.

*   *   *

INSIDE TWO MINUTES the flying boat had come up alongside the idling
Numero Two.

By now Savoldi and Giuseppe were convinced that something had gone wrong and the race had been canceled. But then they saw a raft deploy from the rear of the flying boat with several heavily armed people on board. They began paddling madly toward the racing yacht, reaching it in seconds.

The first man to climb aboard was an Italian; he identified himself as one of the pilots of the flying boat. He told Savoldi and Giuseppe that he was ex–
Stormo Incursori
and that the people with him were an American special operations unit that had to take over the
Numero Two.

By this time, the rest of the strange group had climbed aboard. Four of them were wearing futuristic battle suits and huge helmets and carrying large combat weapons. But Savoldi was mystified to see this small army was made up primarily of a man missing an eye, a man missing a leg and a man missing a hand. A fourth man was not in a battle suit; he was dressed like an average American citizen, someone’s grandfather out for a leisurely stroll. And the fifth person was not only the most beautiful girl Savoldi had ever seen, she looked like his favorite movie actress.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“
These
people are taking over my vessel?” he asked the
Stormo
pilot in Italian. “In the middle of this race?”

The
Stormo
nodded yes.

“Come pirati?”
Savoldi asked. “Like pirates?”

The
Stormo
pilot thought for a moment and then nodded.

“Preciso…”
he replied.
“Sono proprio come i pirati…”

They are just like pirates.

*   *   *

THE
SHIN-1
’S MONTE Carlo stopover lasted only thirty minutes.

The flying boat had taxied up to the amphibian dock on the edge of the busy harbor to be met by Batman and Twitch. They knew right away this was the airplane that Alpha Squad had taken to Gottabang because of the detailing around the cockpit and tail section.

Nolan had jumped out of the open hatch even before the flying boat had stopped moving. He greeted Batman and Twitch warmly—as if he hadn’t seen them in years, when actually it had only been a few days.

Nolan looked especially strange to Batman. He was battered and bruised all over, like he’d been shipwrecked, beaten-up, through a major battle and more. Yet he seemed … happy. Batman had never known his friend to be anything but in a dark mood and angry at the world, especially after the team’s misadventure at Tora Bora. But now, he appeared to be a changed man.

Nolan told them he knew Monte Carlo was the only logical place to look for them. They were full of gratitude he’d followed his gut. Then a reunion that should have taken hours or even days, was accomplished in a matter of minutes, right on the dock.

Batman and Twitch talked first. They quickly told Nolan what had happened to them in the past forty-eight hours. Their arrival in Monte Carlo, their brief stay in the world-class luxurious penthouse, their fall to pauper status. They explained their comeback via Batman’s vast gambling winnings, the events surrounding the gagnant, and its tragic aftermath—and finally, their unusual alliance with a guy named Bobby Murphy, and his revelation to them just how dangerous the Z-box was, and how the key needed to activate it was now in the hands of terrorists.

In the retelling, each chapter sounded more fantastic than the one before it. The money, the intrigue, chasing jump jets, mysterious women. But as incredible as it all was, nothing could have prepared Batman and Twitch for the surprise Nolan had in store for them.

Only the need to get properly dressed in an extra
Stormo
flight suit had delayed Emma Simms’s arrival onto the dock. But as soon as she stepped out of the airplane, Nolan saw the look on Batman’s face and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

To which Batman replied, “Better watch what you say…”

They’d had no idea she’d smuggled herself aboard the
Shin-1
for the trip to Gottabang. No idea that she’d been with Nolan all along.

But then it got
really
weird.

On first seeing them, Emma greeted Batman and Twitch like they were long lost brothers.

“We were
so
worried about you two,” she told them breathlessly, embracing them and kissing their cheeks. “We were off doing our own thing, but we were always wondering how you guys were. We had to rescue a bunch of really unfortunate people from Gottabang and then these really bad pirates called the Bum Cats kept attacking us, but we fought them off because of these poor people—we just
had
to save their lives even though they’re wracked with disease and malnutrition, and…”

She went on and on … and on, telling it all, at times hugging Nolan, at times laughing and then almost crying, and then laughing again.

It was so unexpected, that at the end of it, in perfect deadpan, Twitch had asked her, “And who are you again?”

*   *   *

THEIR CONVERSATION CONTINUED while the
Shin-1
was being gassed up and the Alpha Squad was introduced to Bobby Murphy.

It was clear that a lot of strange things had gone on with both teams, especially when Batman pulled Nolan aside and told him the unusual spiritualized way he’d so quickly won the immense fortune playing cards.

But they really didn’t have enough time to ponder any of it. They had to concentrate on the two most important items of information: that Beta now knew what the Z-box was, and that Alpha had a good idea where it was—at an address with the zip code of 10007.

When a quick Internet search told them that 10007 was located in lower Manhattan, frighteningly close to where the Twin Towers once stood, everyone agreed that, considering what had transpired and what was at stake, it was up to Whiskey to stop the Jihad Brothers
before
they got where they were going.

Which is why they were now on the
Numero Two.

*   *   *

THEY HAD A plan.

They’d worked it out during the flight from Monte Carlo to this point almost 800 miles off the French coast.

The plan was typical Whiskey: highly improvised and held together by Band-Aids and duct tape. That’s what had worked best for them in the past. They had no time to change their technique now.

Most of the team’s special combat equipment had remained aboard the
Shin-1
after Gottabang, so now they had access to it again, including their sniper rifle, a Barrett M107 LRSR capable of firing a .50-caliber round almost four miles, an astonishing distance. If the person firing it knew what he was doing, the M107 could be an extremely effective weapon.