Robert Doherty - Project Aura

Using Raisor to do what had originally been slotted for Souris to accomplish was a bonus. He had not been very comfortable sending Souris on Aura II to help get the shipment ashore in Florida. If Raisor truly wished to be an ally, he would do as ordered, but if he was a spy, that would come out very shortly and then Cesar would have Souris do it as originally planned. He was having his doubts about the American scientist, though, and having someone waiting in the wings to replace her if she began to break down from her addiction was something he had long considered, but had only been able to be serious about with the appearance of Raisor.

He glanced at the digital clock. Each second that clicked by meant another stage in the plan was closer to fulfillment.

At Fort Carson, two Special Operations MH-60K Blackhawk helicopters, assigned to the elite Task Force 160, the Nightstalkers, and on temporary duty with 10th Special Forces Group, lifted off. The pilot in charge was Chief Warrant Officer Roby, a twenty-two-year veteran, with sixteen of those in the Nightstalkers. He was a veteran of numerous operations, including behind-the-lines flights during Desert Storm. It was on one of those flights that his craft had been shot down.

With his copilot injured, Roby elected to stay with the chopper even though they could see the lights from Iraqi vehicles closing on their location. The crew chief elected to try to escape and take his survival radio into the desert, where he would have more of a chance.

Roby had called in his position, then grabbed the MP-5 submachine gun they carried on board for personal defense. When the first Iraqi troops approached, he let them come within fifty meters, then fired a burst, killing three. The rest went to ground.

Then the air support came. Every Allied craft in the vicinity with ordnance to expend came by, surrounding his location with a wall of explosive and cannon fire. But as night fell, Roby could tell that the Iraqis were creeping closer and would soon be so near his position the air support wouldn’t help.

That’s when the rescue chopper came in. Another Nightstalker craft with four Special Forces men on board. The bird came in fast and blacked out. It touched down and the SF guys had his copilot on board in less than fifteen seconds, Roby jumping on board right behind.

Then he told them about the crew chief. The man in charge of the rescue team, Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton, ordered the crew to search for him. They found him five miles away, wandering in the desert. So Roby returned with all his crew. And thus he owed Dalton and now he was paying back in response to the phone call he had received from the sergeant major that afternoon.

The Task Force MH-60K Blackhawk was a vast improvement over the standard UH-60 model the rest of the army used. It had an air-to-air refueling probe that poked from underneath the front of the cockpit, two M134 7.62-millimeter miniguns, one mounted on each side, and an external hoist. Most important, though, were the advanced avionics to help Roby fly the ship. He had interactive multifunction displays, forward-looking infrared, a terrain-avoidance/terrain-following radar, and a digital map generator that followed the flight of the helicopter, constantly updating the pilot with the helicopter’s exact location.

Making sure his equipment was working properly, Roby turned the nose of the chopper toward the high peaks.

Finding Grand Cayman via the virtual plane hadn’t been too difficult for Raisor. Cesar had ordered the ship’s captain to turn on the Aura transmitter intermittently and Raisor had located it on the virtual plane. Then it was a series of short jumps to the island itself. The yacht was less than two hundred yards from shore, and his target was only two blocks away from the ocean. Now he waited.

A stretch limousine was waiting for Valika as she got off Cesar’s jet at Martinique. Two men, guards, stood on the side, one opening the door. As she started to get in, he reached for the laptop case. She gave it to him and got inside. There was no one else in the spacious interior. The men got in the front.

It was a short drive to the four-star hotel where the meeting was to be held, and Valika did not use the time to partake of the car’s bar. One of the guards opened the door, handing the searched case back to her.

“Room 114,” he informed her.

Valika slung the carrying case for the laptop over her shoulder and entered the hotel. Room 114 had a small plaque on the door informing her that it was the President’s Suite, which she found ironic given she was meeting a former high-ranking Communist.

The door swung open immediately at her first knock. Two more goons flanked the door on the inside. One pointed at an entrance to another room. Conversation had never been Kraskov’s strong point, Valika reflected as she walked through, and that must have seeped down to his security element.

The man who was sitting on the couch had once been described to Valika as a troll, but she thought that was a disservice to the mythical creature. He was short, fat, hairy, and ugly. And he had bad teeth, which Valika found unforgivable in a man with access to money. That at least could be corrected.

“My dear Valika, you are beautiful as ever.” His greeting was effusive, but he made no attempt to get his rotund form off the couch.

Valika went to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “And you, Kraskov, look the same as I remember.”

“Ah, such wit. I missed that. If I remember rightly, the last time we saw each other, you were shooting at me.”

“Unfortunately I missed.” Valika unzipped the bag and took out the laptop.

“But if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be able to conduct our business this evening,” Kraskov said.

“There would be someone else in your chair.”

“But it is me here, Valika.”

The tone caused her to look up from turning the computer on. Kraskov had a gun pointed at her-a nine-millimeter Browning High Power, she noted, before she shifted her gaze back to his eyes.

“We are here to do business,” she said. “You know who I work for.”

“I know who you whore for.” The gun didn’t waver. “I am supposed to be afraid of some pimp drug dealer from a third-rate country?”

“Eight hundred million will be yours, as you asked.”

The gun moved slightly, Kraskov’s thick eyebrows bunching. “You joke. I gave you that number simply to not have to bother with you. I was amazed when you asked to meet.”

“Then what is the ship really worth?”

“Eight hundred million, of course.”

Valika smiled wryly. “I assume you have an account where you want the money transferred to.”

“You’re serious?” Kraskov put the gun away. “Of course there is an account. Swiss, naturally.”

Dalton walked past the tubes holding Kirtley’s team. “Keep them in until I give you the all clear,” he told Hammond.

“Orientation training will take about four hours anyway,” she said and turned back to her control console.

Jackson and Barnes were waiting for him just inside the vault door. As he approached, Jackson punched in the code and the door rolled open. She then hit the command to open the hangar door. The opening in the side of the mountain appeared as the metal grate slid out.

Dalton checked his watch. Five minutes.

“Let’s get the computer up here.”

The cell phone rang. Cesar flipped it open. “Yes?”

“We’re ready,” Valika informed him.

He shut the phone. “ Souris.” Cesar waited but there was no response from the woman in the deep chair. “ Souris!” he yelled.

Reluctantly he got up and went over to her. He hit the ESC key on her keyboard.

Her eyes flashed open. “You bastard!”