Strike Force Delta (5 page)

The new image on the screen showed a man who was obviously high up in the Saudi Royal Family, in full turban and robes, leaning against an Aston Martin sports car. Unlike most of the Saudi Royal Family, he was somewhat handsome, more Western looking than a typical Muslim mook. On the driver's side door of the car
was an image emblazoned into the silver paint. It was a diamond.

“He is Al-Jabazz Saud Ben-Wabi,” Murphy said of the forty-ish man. “Also known as the Diamond Prince. He is a cousin to the guy we sent into the Pan Arabic Oil building the day of Hormuz—but really, they're
all
related somehow somewhere over there. Like most of them, he gets a huge allowance from the Royal Family—billions, in fact. It is clear, though, that like his departed cousin, he spent a lot of money before 9/11 and gave a lot of support to Mohammed Atta and the hijackers who attacked our country that day.”

“Beside this wealth, he also has interests in diamond mines throughout Africa. There are many diamond mines on the continent, and many wars have been fought over them, over who owns them and who gets control of what comes out of the ground.”

Murphy went on: “It is the Diamond Prince's people who managed to kidnap the Delta guys. It is his people who plan to kill them on live TV.

“But here's a complication: The people who live in that port town are ordinary Africans. They are innocent villagers who, in a way, are being held hostage by the mooks, too. By plopping themselves down in the midst of this population, the African Al Qaedas have added another layer to their defense: They know it would be very hard for someone like a U.S. special ops package to go in there and fuck them up without fucking up all the innocent people surrounding the place, too.

“So these mooks aren't just prison guards; they're occupiers here, too, with a local militia backing them up. This is something that we have to keep in mind.”

Another image. It showed the Diamond Prince, this
time dressed completely in Western-style clothes. No robes, no headdress.

“Meanwhile, the ‘DP' himself is on vacation in Belgium,” Murphy went on. “Buying racehorses to run in the Kentucky Derby, and again, no one is doing anything to stop him, because he is so connected to the Saudi Royal Family and they're connected to the people who really don't like us very well in Washington. So, welcome to the twenty-first century, gentlemen and lady. Where this country's enemies are so close to us they have a hard time getting their knives into our backs.”

He returned to the still image of the prison; this time it was photographed in infrared.

“Those Portuguese really knew how to build these things,” he said. “A small A-bomb might not be enough to put a crack in some of those walls. But it gets worse.”

He pointed to areas of the prison that were now showing up in dark red.

“In addition to everything else,” he went on, “these guys in the prison are sitting on top of a mountain of explosives. There are tons of TNT stored inside the place, we are told. Why? Because they know this will make their little clubhouse even less of a target. One bomb, one bullet, one match that lights up the wrong part of that place, it will go up and that whole shantytown around it will go up, too—and kill everyone, mooks and innocents alike. Who wants a PR problem like that? Killing innocent Africans, even though Africans have no problem killing each other at wholesale prices. If the U.S. did it, we'd be screwed in the court of public opinion. So, as you can see, with the thick stone walls, only two means of access, the weapons everywhere, innocent
people surrounding him, and a shitload of high explosives, this asshole Diamond Prince thinks he's got every base covered when it comes to making this place impregnable. And you know what? He probably does.”

“So how are we going to go in and get Delta Thunder then?” someone else asked.

Murphy drained his drink. “How are we going to do it, you ask?” he said, revealing a rare smile. “Just like this. . . .”

Ryder headed below as soon as the meeting in the Captain's Room wrapped up. There were things down here he had to attend to.

He took the stairs, all six levels, a steep descent to the ship's so-called service deck. It was a dank, cavernous place, illuminated mostly by blue halogen lights to cut down on any heat spikes that might leak to the decks above. Such things could tip a spy satellite or maritime recon plane that all was not kosher in the containership's cargo hold.

It seemed like years, and not just a couple months, since Ryder had been down here in the belly of the beast. He was always surprised how cramped it was. The
Ocean Voyager
was a huge vessel, but its cargo bay was permanently crammed with the necessities of its strange mission. Potable water, dry food, fuel, bombs, a million other things that couldn't be kept safely in containers up on top would end up down here. The White Rooms also took up space, as did the engine suite, which had to be big enough to fit the four jet-engine turbines and all the gear needed to turn the ship's quartet of propulsion screws. Add to this all the clutter that just came along with the interior of a containership: overhead
beams, webs of wires, bulkheads, ladders, and pipes everywhere. It was as crowded down here as it was up on deck.

Ryder made his way through this maze now, heading to the hangar section. It was located about two-thirds of the way down the hold, next to the pair of powerful aircraft elevators. This was probably the most crowded place on the ship. As it was, the team's two original Superhawk helicopters barely fit inside this allotted area. Now they had
four
of the exotic choppers, and the new pumped-up version had an extra-long tail, a bulbous nose, and, again, was as wide as a truck. Finally reaching the hangar area, Ryder was amazed at how skillfully the Marine air mechanics had jammed the four copters into their postage stamp–size space.

But shoehorned in between the new helicopters was another unusual aircraft. Droopy wings, strange nose, high tail, very weird exhaust tubes. It was an AV-8 Harrier, Ryder's jump jet, the American version of the famous British VTOL fighter.

Trouble was, his Harrier was a mess. It hadn't flown since the hellish battle above Hormuz. In fact, Ryder had crash-landed it aboard the containership at the conclusion of the deadly melee. At one time, this Harrier had been a very cool aircraft. Its engine was extremely powerful, and its wings were longer and stronger, meaning they could carry more and heavier bombs. The gun pod attached to the fuselage was not the typical 30mm weapon but a monstrous 50mm cannon. But now, due to the extensive battle damage he had incurred at Hormuz, the jump jet looked like nothing more than a pair of wings hanging off a bucket of bolts.

It was close to midnight. They were traveling so fast,
they would be close to the coast of Africa in just two days, an incredibly swift voyage. The team would be going into action soon after that, and Ryder hadn't even
sat
in the battered jet since his crash landing, never mind taking it airborne. It was important that he check it out now and get to be one with his airplane again.

He rubbed his hand along its fuselage like an owner stroking his ill thoroughbred. The small army of Marine mechanics was working feverishly on the copters nearby, getting them ready for the rescue mission. The Marine sergeant spotted Ryder and walked over. The Marine explained that as soon as they were allowed back on the ship his guys had done their best to put the Harrier back together. It had been close to a total wreck, so there was only so much they could do. The airframe and engine were sound and the electronic guts had been stitched back together, so the plane
was
flyable. But how long it would stay that way the gunny couldn't say.

Ryder thanked him and climbed into the cockpit. The view up here was only worse. There were so many weld patches on the upper wings and frame, they almost formed a weird kind of camouflage design. There were also hundreds of dents everywhere, big and small, plus the canopy was cracked in several places. He wondered if the plane would look any better up top in the sunlight, instead of in the gloomy blue light down here below. But then, quite possibly, it might look worse.

Ryder spent the next 10 minutes doing diagnostic checks on his cockpit gear. The jarheads were right. All indications were that the primary systems needed for flight—engine, control surfaces, landing gear, flight computers, life support, and so on—could still perform.
But to what capacity he would only know once he was airborne. He hoped everything would last at least long enough for him to fly the upcoming mission.

Suddenly it got very quiet in the hangar area. All noise stopped; the rivet guns, the oil pumps, the external power generators, everything fell silent. Ryder could not see through the forest of copters, but it was obvious the Marine air mechanics had been distracted and all work had come to a halt. Ryder had a hunch why.

Li Cho walked into the hangar area a moment later.

She was dressed entirely in green camo, baseball cap included. Everything was tied back, everything was buttoned down, but she still looked stunning. Ryder had never seen camos worn quite like this. He couldn't imagine her ever going into combat. Yet. . .

He and she hadn't really talked much since he'd been sprung from his litter-picking duties in Nevada the day before. The flight east in the Osprey had been whirlwind, as was their transfer over to the spy ship. In those few times they did speak, it had been cordial, all business.

But they had a history. Two months before, when it was learned that the Al Qaeda missile team had stolen into the United States, a handful of Ghosts had made a spectacular escape from their prison in Gitmo and were soon on the trail of the terrorists. This group included Ryder, plus Li's colleagues from the Defense Security Agency, the guys named Ozzi and Fox. The escapees needed a place of operations in the D.C. area and they needed a place to hide. As Li was the third member of the tiny DSA unit, they wound up hiding in her house just over the border in Virginia.

During this time, she and Ryder had had an occasion
to be alone, and in a sweet and unexpected moment she almost got him to talk about his deceased wife, something even his closest friends would never attempt to do. Awkward though it was, it had been a turning point of sorts for him. It was the first time since his wife's death that he'd let his guard down and opened up, if just a little. He felt like a bit of sunlight had finally broken through to warm his ice-cold heart, at least for a little while. And it was all thanks to Li.

That's when she started creeping into his everyday thoughts, popping up at the most unusual times. This, too, was a big change for him. Not only had he pined for his wife every day since her death; he'd
dreamed
about her almost every night as well, sometimes for hours, sometimes just a few minutes. But now, in his always-troubled dreams, when in the past his wife would make an ethereal appearance, tapping him on the shoulder or calling out to him from a distance, Ryder would turn to find it was Li instead.

Along with her colleagues Fox and Ozzi, she'd jumped over to Murphy's team from the Defense Security Agency, essentially going AWOL for the greater good. And besides being drop-dead gorgeous, she was a brilliant military analyst, educated at Georgetown in counterterrorism. She was also very friendly with the rest of the Ghosts. She made for an unlikely one of the boys, yet she never had any problems conversing with any of them—all except for Ryder. With him she was always a bit cautious and shy, while still aware of the connection they'd made at her house that night. He took her reticence as a good thing. It meant she was
thinking
about him and that's why she was so on guard. He knew this because he
was the same way with her—awkward and nervous, simply because he was
always
thinking about her.

But, of course, Li was
so
beautiful, he was sure everyone else on the boat was thinking about her, too.

She didn't just walk by the hangar area. Instead she turned and started walking toward his plane.
Jesuzz. . .
, he thought.
Here she comes. . .
.

Ryder was out of the cockpit quicker than if he'd hit the ejection seat. He landed on the deck, feetfirst, right in front of her.

“Colonel? Am I disturbing you?” she asked with a nervous smile.

He tried to stay cool. “Not at all. . . .”

She was carrying a large plastic bag. “You didn't get your new uniform yet, did you?”

Ryder was still in his prison garb. “Not unless orange is the new color this year.”

She handed the bag to him. “Mr. Murphy asked if I could bring this down to you. He thought it was a good way for me to start finding my way around the ship.”

All right, Bobby
, Ryder thought. He dug into the bag and came out with a new flight suit. It was all black, with many utility pockets, places for ammo, radios, thing like that. It had the team's patch on its right shoulder. It showed the Twin Towers, with an American flag billowing behind them and the letters
NYPD
and
FDNY
floating in the background. Below was the team's motto:
We Will Never Forget
. Ryder always felt a lump in his throat when he looked at the patch.

“Nice threads,” he said. “But where's yours?”

She shrugged. “He never mentioned one for me. And I'm not even sure I should wear one. Being so new here.”

“Well, I don't know if there is a hard and fast rule. . .,” he said, sputtering, running out of gas.

Suddenly she was out of things to say—and so was he. But he didn't want her to leave.

“What do you think of my ride?” he asked in some desperation.

She turned to the Harrier. “Is this the McDonnell Douglas version?” she asked. “Or is it the Brit-built?”

Ryder felt a zing go through him. A girl who knew the difference between a GR-8 and an AV-8? Now,
that
was sexy. . . .