David had almost reached the three helicopters when he saw Kamau emerge on top of the building.
David stopped in his tracks, turned to the building, and waited.
Kamau shouldered a sniper rifle, pointed it at David and the helicopters, and swept left to right several times.
He relaxed his grip on the rifle and signaled to David: all clear.
David hadn’t expected that. He assumed there would be at least one soldier guarding the helicopters. Sloane wouldn’t have left the helicopters unguarded. He wasn’t there—David was sure of that now.
The base commander had put all his resources into taking the boat. Or…
David reached the first helicopter, quickly looked inside, then darted between the others. All empty. Kamau was right: there was no one here.
Why? Had they booby-trapped the helicopters? David needed to find out which one had the most fuel. He approached the door of the closest helicopter and looked in. There was no trip wire. He gripped the handle and began to turn it.
Kamau raced through the building, searching for spare fuel tanks. He found them in a first-floor storage room. He grabbed two of them and exited the building. David was there waiting for him.
“Any sign of Sloane?”
Kamau shook his head.
“This must be an advance team—a test to see if the rail guns would shoot them down. Sloane would never risk his life. We should hurry; he can’t be far behind.” David considered something. “Did you see any explosives inside?”
“Yes.”
“Bring them. Let’s leave a surprise for Sloane.”
Five minutes later, David sat in the helicopter, calmly watching the ground of Isla de Alborán float away. The view changed to open sea, and Kamau adjusted the helicopter’s path. The life raft that held Kate and the three men had drifted a bit, but it was still easy to find.
They followed the protocol David had laid out on the yacht: Kate and the bag with the guns and computer equipment came up first, followed by Chang, Janus, and Shaw—in that order.
When everyone was aboard, Kamau spoke over the radio in David’s helmet. “Where to?”
In truth, David had no idea. But… they couldn’t go north toward Spain, or south toward Morocco, or west to the Atlantic. “East. Stay low.”
CHAPTER 75
Isla de Alborán
Dorian saw the two thick columns of smoke long before the tiny island of Isla de Alborán came into view.
The pilot stopped Dorian’s lead helicopter to hover a half kilometer from the island, allowing everyone in the three-helicopter convoy to survey the outpost.
A massive yacht burned at the dock. A stone and concrete two-story building with an attached lighthouse also burned violently. Dorian hadn’t missed them by much. Maybe an hour.
“Sir,” the pilot said, “it looks like we missed the party.”
The man was clearly suffering from “compulsive state-the-obvious syndrome”—a situation Dorian felt had grown to epidemic proportions among the men surrounding him.
“Very perceptive. You should have been an analyst,” Dorian mumbled, pondering what to do.
“Bravo-leader, this is Bravo-three. Our fuel is down to forty percent. Request permission to put down and acquire fuel—”
“Negative, Bravo-three,” Dorian barked into the helmet.
“Sir?” The pilot in his own helicopter turned to face him. “We’re at less than fifty percent as well—”
“Bravo formation: maintain your distance from the outpost. Bravo-three, light up the closest helicopter.”
The adjacent helicopter launched a missile that decimated one of the two remaining helicopters on the island’s helipad. A split second after the impact, a second, more violent eruption spewed from the island.
“They booby-trapped the helicopters?” the pilot said.
“Yes. Hit the other one too,” Dorian said. “What’s our closest fuel source?”
“Marbella or Grenada. The invasion force reports both areas are secured—”
“They’re going east.”
“How do you—”
“Because they know we’re behind them, and they have nowhere else to go.” Dorian focused on Kosta, his assistant, who sat across from him. “Do we have a plague barge in the area—to the east?”
Kosta typed feverishly on his laptop. “Yes, but it’s almost to port in Cartagena.”
“Turn it around. Tell them to head south on an intercept course with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any word from him?” Dorian asked. The last message had said Isla de Alborán. Hurry. Was he in danger?
“No, sir.” Kosta glanced out the window, down at the burning island. “He could be KIA—”
“Don’t ever say that to me, Kosta.”
Dr. Paul Brenner was sleeping on the couch in his office when the door burst open, slamming into the wall, practically scaring him to death.
Paul pushed up from the couch and fumbled for his glasses on the coffee table. He was groggy, disoriented. The hours of sleep were the best he had had in… quite some time.
“What—”