Mark Greaney: On target

It had been a long day. After making his way to the dive resort, he'd found it empty except for the husband and wife owners of the establishment. The few Western guests had all been rounded up and trucked to Port Sudan for lengthy interviews, a fishing expedition by the NSS for the kidnappers of the president. Court did the greatest favor he could imagine for the Dutch couple. He leveled his Glock at their heads and tied them up in the dining room of the establishment. He knew the Sudanese would find the president's body close by, and he knew these two senior citizens would be questioned. If Court had, in any way, made them accessories after the fact, then they might have tripped over their stories or provided some sort of evidence that would incriminate them. It was also very likely that the NSS had installed listening devices throughout the Western resort as a matter of course.

So Gentry played the role of the bloodstained maniac to the hilt, shouted and ordered the frightened Europeans. He took from them food and water and medical supplies and a pickup truck and a small RIB with an outboard motor and dive gear without so much as a nod of thanks. He drove the truck ten miles to the south, waited in a mangrove swamp until dark, and then set off for the Hannah, following the coordinates on the GPS tracker.

He knew the two surviving members of Whiskey Sierra other than Zack had already been evacuated from the area, along with the rest of the crew. It was Gentry's hope that Hightower was still on the mainland searching for him, but he knew it was possible that Zack had come back to the Hannah. He had the mini submarine, after all, so he could easily come and go as he pleased. Court wanted to get to the Hannah to use it to flee the Sudan. His earlier idea about crossing the border was fantasy now. When the body of the president was found, that part of the nation would be 100 percent impassable.

So Gentry hunted the black ocean for the yacht with the idea of stealing it and steaming away to safety, though he knew next to nothing about yachting.

Court's boat moved with the gently rolling surface of the sea. The GPS tracker indicated the boat was not far ahead, so Gentry waited to catch a surge that brought him higher than the other waves so he could see the yacht in the distance.

There, a quarter-mile off, a blacker silhouette on a sea of dark, dark gray. Not a single light visible aboard.

Nobody home?

Court strapped a mesh bag to his waist. Inside were his Glock 19, down to the last seven rounds of ammunition, a folding knife, and his satellite phone in a plastic, waterproof bag.

Next he slipped a buoyancy control device over his shoulders, upon which a scuba tank had already been attached. Then he put on his mask, snorkel, and fins. He took a few test breaths into his regulator, and slipped silently into the warm water.

As he swam, he focused on his mission to keep his mind off the excruciating pain in his left shoulder, a pain that was always there, but a pain that snapped to the forefront of his consciousness every time he reached forward in his breaststroke.

Soon his mind slipped off-mission, and onto one of many of the hundreds of tidbits he'd gleaned about this theater of operations, whether by reading Sid's material or Zack's material. This particular tidbit didn't seem that important at the time, but at present it was allencompassingly crucial.

Nurse, white-tip, gray reef, hammerhead: the four species of shark common to the Red Sea.

Court kept swimming, pissed that he could not get the thought of being eaten by a hungry fish out of his mind.

He remained just below the surface and checked the compass on his wristwatch from time to time to make certain he was headed in the right direction. After ten minutes he surfaced silently, waited for a moment to catch a lift to get a better vantage point. It came soon enough, and the yacht was right there, some seventy yards ahead.

As he began dropping with the wave once again, the bow of the yacht caught his eye. The name of the boat was written on the black hull at the bow, written in either white or yellow lettering.

Arabic lettering.

What the hell?

He had never seen the Hannah, but he was pretty sure it wasn't disguised as an Arab boat. No, he was more than sure. Zack had told him they'd passed themselves off to the Sudanese as Aussies. This would have been difficult to do with a yacht with an Arabic name.

Gentry dog-paddled closer, squinting in the dark to try to read the bow. At forty yards he could make out the characters, but his written Arabic was even poorer than his spoken Arabic.

He said the letters aloud. "F-a-ti-ma." The Fatima.

Not the Hannah.

But the homing beacon was emanating from the yacht, which meant, clearly, that someone had taken the transmitter from the Hannah and placed it on this vessel.

Someone? No, not someone.

Zack Hightower.

It also indicated one other thing to Court.

Goddammit, he said to himself.

This was a motherfucking setup.

Court looked back in the dark. There was zero chance he'd be able to find the skiff he'd left behind him ten minutes earlier on the open water.

He'd have to press on.

He lowered his mask back over his eyes and began to submerge again but stopped himself. He thought he'd heard a noise. He shook water from his ears and cocked his head.

A man shouting.

Boom! A gunshot, immediate and unmistakable across the quiet night sea, Court dove under the water's surface in fear he'd been spotted.

But no. Underwater it continued. More gunfire. One gun responding to another, and then another. There was a shotgun in the mix, Court's practiced ear could discern, but a handgun was firing as well. Quick and controlled.

Another scream. Court surfaced again to try to make sense of what he was hearing.

He felt his body lift in the warm water, he surged upwards towards the stars, and Gentry saw the flashes of light in the sky above the yacht before the vessel even came into his line of sight.

And then there it was. Court saw the yacht, but no one was visible on deck.

There was another volley of gunfire and the flashes in the portholes. The fight appeared to Gentry to be down in the lower decks of the eighty-foot-long vessel.

All was quiet for a moment, but this still was broken by the sound of a small outboard motor coming to life. Seconds later a wooden skiff appeared from behind the stern of the Fatima, one man on board controlling the motor, and he pushed the little engine's throttle to the limit as he streaked off into the darkness.

What the hell was all that? Court wondered if Zack was on board the boat and had been surprised by a group of soldiers.

He swam above water the rest of the way, keeping a wary eye on the deck and upper levels of the yacht. He strained to hear any noise at all other than the gentle lapping of waves from the departed skiff against the side of the big fiberglass hull, but there was nothing.

Until he arrived at the boarding ladder at the stern of the yacht. Just then, a single small-caliber pistol shot cracked from belowdecks. It was answered almost immediately by a larger handgun.

Silence again, save for the lapping waves.

Court pulled off his fins, unfastened his scuba gear, and let it drift away. He grabbed hold of the ladder and climbed up as slowly and as carefully and as quietly as he could. He rolled over the guardrail and onto the teak deck in his bare feet, winced along with the fresh burst of pain in his shoulder, and held his waterlogged but dependable Glock out in front of him. Carefully he moved to the companionway to descend to the lower decks of the darkened yacht.

The first two bodies were at the top of the stairs. Two black men in combat uniforms, bullet wounds in the chest. The men didn't look like they were Sudanese Navy, but that was no surprise. The Sudanese Navy was so small, and the mission of the day, checking and rechecking every floating object off its coast, so large, that it was very possible the GOS Army just co-opted boats and boaters to ferry soldiers out to all the yachts and freighters and fishing boats to board and search.