Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

It took about an hour and a half for them to hike through the forest and up to the storm battered bluff where the converted resort sat perched above the sea. Driver signaled for a halt at the edge of the woods, and then he keyed his radio. “This is Driver. Report.”


“Vincent, here.” Vincent was Van Gogh. It was a sort of nickname within a nickname. Papa assumed that the moniker derived from his ‘artistic’ talents—only instead of paint, his medium was lead. Van Gogh and Loco had gone ahead and were now somewhere in a tree looking over the concrete fence that surrounded the compound. “We’re in position. Waiting for go.”

Another voice sounded in Papa’s ears. “This is Rodent. Charges set. Waiting for go, over.”

Rodent and Mutant were concealed near the main gate. At the ‘go’ signal, they would detonate small, shaped charges to breach the gate, then sweep in and take out the guards stationed just beyond.

“Stand by.” Driver turned to Papa. “Any last words of wisdom?”

Papa hefted his Skorpion and signaled his readiness with a nod. He followed Driver and Billy Boy to within sight of the gate. Mutant and Rodent were starkly visible in the green monochrome display, but Papa knew that to the unaided eye, they would be indistinguishable.

“Prepare to execute,” Driver said, “Counting down… three… two… one… go!”





23



November 17, 1999

12:26 a.m. (local time)



Rodent held up an M57 trigger device and started pumping it in his fist. On the second squeeze there was a muted thump at the gate—the sound was no louder than a door slamming—and then both men were moving. More noises followed, none as loud as the shaped charge that had blown out the gate’s lock. Then there were voices, Van Gogh first, then Mutant, reporting that the targets were down.

“Roger,” Driver answered. “We’re coming in. Vincent, maintain overwatch while we set the charges.”

Papa followed the others into the compound, but remained at the gate, scanning the grounds for any sign of activity, while the four-man element went about their deadly business. The compound was dark, the power out, but whether that was because of the storm, or because of rationing, Papa could not say. If anyone had heard the sound of the breaching charges, they had chosen not to investigate.

It took the team five minutes to set demolition charges around the outside of the old hotel building, but the job was only half done. To bring the structure down, they would need to go inside and place explosives on load-bearing walls. It would take only a few charges, but placing them would be the most dangerous part of the mission. Driver lined up his men at the front door and they all filed inside.

Papa held his breath. For a long time there was no sound but the howl of the wind and the steady beat of the rain. Then he heard a squawk of static and Mutant’s voice over the radio. “Contact. Tango down.”

Driver’s voice answered, “Sitrep, over.”

Papa inferred that the men had split up, moving to different points through the building to accomplish the objective faster.

“Ah, Driver, I think I need you to take a look at this.” There was a strange, high pitched noise in the background.

An alarm? That wasn’t likely. It cut out as soon as the transmission ended, so it clearly wasn’t loud enough to rouse the entire complex.

Papa’s brow furrowed behind the night vision goggles. He keyed his mic. “Mutant, this is Papa. What’s the situation? Did you locate one of the key targets?”

“Not exactly, Papa. Actually, maybe you should get in here and tell us what to do.”

“On my way.” As he hastened across the courtyard and entered the building, Papa could not help but speculate on the nature of the discovery that had so bewildered the shooters. He could only assume that it was something to do with the mysterious research being conducted at the facility. What that was, he had no idea. Special operators were trained to deal with a broad range of nuclear, biological and chemical agents. It would take something extraordinary to confound these hardened shooters.

Once inside, he could hear the wailing noise again. It seemed unbelievably loud, and he wondered how it was possible that the residents of the building had not been roused by the clamor. Hefting the Skorpion to meet any attack, he fixed the source of the sound—it came from the east wing, the research section—and he closed in on it.

“Papa here,” he whispered into his mic. “Coming your way. Don’t shoot me.”