in case you lose sight of us, we’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs.”
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER, the two SEAL fast-boats were heading into the thickest part of the fog bank.
They were equipped with a smaller version of the sea surface radar. With surprisingly little difficulty, they were soon approaching what everyone had been calling “the target.” At first, it looked exactly as it had been described to them: a rusty old ship.
One of the SEALs’ boats came up alongside the elderly vessel and several SEALs rappelled up to it. But as soon as they were on board they knew something was wrong.
This ship was way older and way smaller than what they were expecting. Plus, there didn’t seem to be anyone on board.
They searched the bridge, the cabins and the engine rooms, but found no one. And there was certainly no large shipment of old M-16 rifles or small black box that had a big “Z” stenciled onto it.
The SEAL team leader called back to the USS Messia with some very disturbing news.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, sir,” he said to the Messia’s captain. “But this ain’t the ship we want.”
* * *
BACK ON THE Messia, the captain had retreated to his cabin, hoping to figure out what had gone wrong.
He received a subsequent report from the SEALs saying they’d picked up a bunch of Vietnamese seamen in the water, but no one was exactly sure quite yet who they were.
The ship’s communications officer appeared at his door a moment later holding a dispatch he’d just written.
He passed it to the captain who read it aloud: “On this date, in the area of the Mentawai Islands, the USS Messia engaged a cargo vessel of Vietnamese origin which had been taken over by pirates twenty-four hours before. A brief battle using five-inch naval guns ensued. The hijacked ship was sunk during this action but its captive Vietnamese crew was rescued. All pirates either died in the exchange or are missing.”
The captain gave a grim laugh.
“Let’s make sure we delete all copies of this right now,” he told the communications officer. “And that’s an order.…”
8
Aboard The Immaculate Perception
Gulf of Aden
THE MORNING DAWNED hot and humid.
The sun was crimson bright, turning the Gulf of Aden blood red. There was no wind. No waves. No sound. It was an uneasy calm.
The Immaculate Perception was still off Yemen, its Omani escorts in tow, doing long meandering figure eights at barely five knots.
Nolan, Gunner and Twitch had spent the night taking shifts up on the yacht’s bow, keeping Batman quiet and away from the other guests. It hadn’t been that difficult. While the party had grown wilder and noisier throughout the night, it finally ended with a whimper a couple hours before sunrise. Those guests who’d lacked the stamina to make it to their cabins still littered the decks. Sleeping off their inebriation, they looked like dead soldiers in the aftermath of a battle.
The sound of a helicopter approaching stirred Nolan from a half sleep. He opened his good eye just in time to see the aircraft fly overhead. It was a UH-61 Blackhawk, painted dark silver, with no markings, but with lots of antennas sticking out of its roof, nose and tail.
Nolan groaned. Only one outfit flew helicopters like this: the CIA.
Splayed on the lounge chair next to him, Gunner was now half awake, too. He saw the copter and instantly knew its origin.
“Why are they out here?” he asked with a yawn.
“Taking pictures,” Nolan guessed sleepily. “Looking for someone topless.”
They both expected the copter to just fly on past, but it suddenly turned sharply and came in for a landing on the yacht’s stern-mounted helipad.
“They’re making a house call here?” Gunner asked. “Really?”
Nolan was fully awake now. “Maybe they want to talk to the ice princess about her ordeal,” he mumbled, stretching his legs. “Or get her autograph.”
The copter settled down and a lone passenger climbed out. Nolan and Gunner pegged him right away: the off-the-rack clothes, the bad haircut, the cheap sunglasses, an overall disheveled look; there was no doubt about it. He was from the Agency.
“Freaking spooks,” Gunner mused. “They really do all look alike, don’t they?”
The man signaled the copter pilots to kill their engines. They heard him yell: “This might take a while…”
Then he approached two of the yacht’s clean-up crew and had a brief conversation. At the end of it, the workers pointed not toward Emma Simms’s cabin below, but up to the