Expedition Page 4

  “Warlord sounds very dramatic.”

  “What do you prefer? Pirate lord? Buccaneer? Rogue?”

  “What do you want, Karl?” Bautista asked wearily.

  “You know what I want,” Grayson said plainly. “I want on Atlantica.”

  “You know that isn’t going to happen.” Bautista frowned. They’d been having versions of this conversation for weeks. And the answer was always the same. “You take one step on that ship and it’ll be a toss-up between Kendricks or Slater about who will hang you from the yardarm first. By all rights, I should have you sent over to the container ship mine. Get you out of the way before they decide once and for all to just grab you.”

  “I get that, Urbano, but I have unfinished business,” Grayson pressed. Bautista had been ruminating for weeks on simply packing him off back to the container mine, a thousand miles away. Back to where they’d come from to join the salvage crews still picking over the derelict. He sure as hell needed to steer him away from that idea. “I need on Atlantica.”

  “And what is that unfinished business?” Bautista looked at Grayson, the question evident in his eyes. “You’ve been very reluctant to say exactly what.”

  “Stuff, Urbano,” Grayson said, purposely letting the plea enter his tone. “I’ve moved hell and Earth for this fleet. All I’m asking is you start the process. Ask the question.”

  “Not good enough,” Bautista said sharply. “Remember that diplomatic word I said? Well the last thing we need is to start shooting at each other again. You may have not noticed, but the Ignatius is looking like she is a good way toward being repaired after your last dealings with her. If we have to face her again...”

  “Fine.” Grayson raised his arms, signaling his surrender. For the moment. “Just, please start paving the way, okay?”

  “When you start telling me what unfinished business you have.” Bautista looked at Grayson intently. “You want on her, you give me a better story than the bullshit you’ve come out with.”

  Grayson took another sip of the water. How much should he tell Bautista? Would he help? Would the ex-drug cartel enforcer even understand? To underestimate his intelligence was the last mistake Grayson had seen a hell of a lot of people do. But this was different.

  “The truth is, Urbano. When I was on Atlantica I met someone. A girl—”

  “That’s still bullshit,” Bautista cut him dead. “For two reasons. One—you love Kristen and you would never do that to her.”

  Grayson blinked. “And two?”

  “And two, Kristen is like a sister to me, and if you had found someone on Atlantica? I would kill you myself,” Bautista spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. “So, is that the truth or are you going to go away, think about what you said, and come back when you’re willing to be honest?”

  Bautista waited for a moment before shaking his head and walking away.

  Grayson sighed his frustration.

  I’m getting real out of practice with this shit.

  Chapter Five – The Past

  The white and blue liveried Boeing 757’s landing gear gave a screech as it touched the shimmering tarmac of the Lynden Pindling International Airport’s runway. The aircraft’s engines roared as its thrust reversers kicked in, smoothly slowing the plane to a coast before it turned and followed the taxiway toward its allocated gate.

  The seatbelt light chimed and went dark. Grayson stood, his tall frame lodged awkwardly beneath the plastic overhead compartments as he patiently waited for a gap in the stampede of people racing to escape the aircraft.

  As they walked down the access tunnel, Dillon and Bradley matched pace with him. Through the clear windows, the vista of palm trees and clear skies could be seen. It made quite a contrast to heading into the crater-riddled Damascus International.

  “You know,” Dillon said quietly. “I’ll take the Bahamas over going back to the Vortex any day.”

  “Yeah,” Grayson said. Truth be told, he didn’t feel the same way. He’d been on many extended tours over the years. Twice with the Rangers, twice after he’d passed selection for the Green Berets. And then a few more with the SOG. Hell, once he’d tallied it up, during his adult life he’d spent more nights sleeping on military camp beds than his own.

  Every time he’d come home, he felt more and more disconnected from society. It had become as if nothing back home really mattered. It was only out there, in the dust and fire he felt truly alive—truly able to make a difference in the world.

  Reaching the border control, he slotted his passport into the receptacle. It responded with a bleep. The bored border officer looked at him, then down at his screen. Grayson lightly drummed his fingertips on the counter.

  The guard gave the smallest twitching incline of his head, indicating he was clear to pass through.

  Grayson smiled and pulled his passport out from under the chip scanner and entered the bustle of the baggage claim. He gave a resigned exhalation as screaming kids pierced his ears and vacationers bickered over the whirling, luggage-laden carousels.

  Yeah, give me the Vortex any day.

  “Come on, let’s get our shit then head over to get our keys.”

  ***

  “Jeeze, Celia. You could have at least squared away a couple of those fancy-ass Aston Martins I hear you MI6 folk roll around in.” The expression on Dillon’s face was glum as he looked at the ancient and smelly pickup assigned to them by the irritable young man from the State Department’s small motor pool.

  “Budget cuts,” Bradley quipped back as she hoisted her luggage onto the back.

  “You want to drive?” Grayson dangled the keys in front of Dillon.

  “Nah, man.” He turned his nose up. “I’m good.”

  They slung the rest of their cases into the back and climbed into the cabin, Bradley squeezing in between the two men.

  The truck spluttered to life as Bradley programmed in the directions of the safe house into her phone and they began juddering their way down the patchwork tarmac of the highway

  ***

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Bradley said as she tapped on her tablet. The projector it was bluetoothed to transferred an image of John Reynolds to the clear white wall. “This is our starting point.”

  “I still don’t get.” Grayson looked up from where he knelt on the terracotta-tiled floor, a foam-lined black case open before him with a collection of equipment stowed within. It was part of the cache the safe house, or more accurately safe villa contained. “What sparked off an investigation into one of your most decorated flag officers?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Bradley said. “SIS had a snail mail delivered to it with just enough suggestion that Reynolds is dirty and had managed to get hold of some weapons technology. There was no way to trace it back, and the paper itself had no forensics to work with.”

  “Could be just a disgruntled asshole Reynolds pissed off in, what? A forty-and-some-year career?”

  “Maybe, but the information it provided bore out. It described that he’d obtained a complement of RGM-84 Harpoons from Boeing Defense, Space and Security. When they physically checked the mothball yard where they were supposed to be—”

  “Let me guess, they were gone?” Grayson asked.

  “They were gone,” Bradley confirmed.

  “And what about the WMDs you mentioned?”

  “We have nothing on that beyond a line in the letter which mentioned that the project Reynolds was working on could cost thousands, if not millions of lives.”

  Grayson raised an eyebrow. He wouldn’t have liked to have made the call Millard and Bradley’s bosses had. Deciding whether they should pick up Reynolds straight off and get the information out of him—and risking his partners going to ground—or letting things play out and hopefully get hold of everyone involved.

  But that was why they were paid the big bucks.

  “So, no suggestion of what we’re looking at. Nuclear, biological, chemical?”

  “Nothing at all. And obviousl
y, access to that kind of technology is tightly controlled. We’ve conducted quiet physical checks on all the storage areas. Nothing seems to be unaccounted for.”

  “Fair enough.” Grayson nodded. He looked up at the picture of Reynolds. He sat, in uniform, posing for the camera in the way that flag officers did. His back ramrod straight, his hands clasped in his lap. But his eyes, they were sad. Like a man who’d seen too much. “So, tell us about this guy, in your own words.”

  Bradley pressed her index finger to her lips for a moment, gathering her thoughts before starting. “Admiral Reynolds, is, or certainly was, a model officer. His midshipman cruise in ’82 was aboard the HMS Sheffield. She got hit hard in the Falkland’s war. He was decorated for getting his direct reports off the ship and saved a number of lives.”

  “So not an armchair admiral?” Dillon paced around the room, as was his style when absorbing information.

  “Certainly not. He held a combat command in Operation Granby, the Brit contribution to Desert Storm. Lynx helicopters off his ship were responsible for taking out a double-digit percentage of the Iraqi Navy in the Battle of Bubiyan. He went on to clear out a good chunk of the mines, allowing your battleships to offer fire support for the invasion proper. Again, he got a lot of tin added to his chest after that and a note in his file slating him for Big Things.”

  “Okay.” Grayson stood, satisfied the recon equipment in the case was present and correct. He turned to the next case and unclasped it. Opening it, he saw a collection of weapons neatly stowed. He nodded in satisfaction and ignored Bradley’s disapproving frown. He’d check them later, when he could concentrate. He stood, dusted off his knees and looked at the image. “So, an all-around decent officer and gentleman. We get it. What next.”

  “The next major event was his wife, Helena Reynolds, dying. Killed in a car crash. Absolutely nothing spectacular about it. She was there one moment and,” Bradley clicked her fingers sharply, “gone the next.”

  “Life’s hard,” Dillon said as he walked to the fridge. Opening it, he pulled out three moisture-covered bottles of beer and handed them out. “You say nothing spectacular?”

  “No, by that point he was a full captain and as such a comprehensive MI5 and police SO15 investigation was commenced. The conclusion was it was just one of those things. Some drunken prick decided to plough into her on his way home from the pub.”

  “Fine.” Grayson flicked the cap off his bottle and took a swig of the crisp Caribbean lager. “Nice. Okay, bubble it as a significant life event.”

  Bradley nodded and tapped on the tablet. On the wall, the text “death of wife” appeared in a circle.

  “So our war hero has just lost his wife. Where does he go from there?” Grayson asked.

  “He had a year off from there, supporting his daughter, Laurie Reynolds, through school before coming back into the Military. He got put on a London posting at the Ministry Of Defence on procurement—”

  “Bubble defense procurement under capability.” Grayson gestured at the board with his bottle. “You say he’s been obtaining weapons tech? That’s going to be where he obtained his contacts and know how.”

  “Our thoughts too.” Bradley tapped on her tablet again. The wall filling with information.

  “Who are the primary contractors he’s worked with?” Dillon asked.

  “Who hasn’t he dealt with?” Bradley shrugged. “You name any big maritime or aerospace company and he’s done lunch with them.”

  “Okay. We’ll set the back office on that.” Grayson took another gulp of lager. “What I’m wondering is why Nassau? Why is he here? It doesn’t exactly feature on anyone’s radar when it comes to defense.”

  “That’s the second million-dollar question. The Cayman Islands or Bermuda, fine. I can see why he’d be there. The man may be a war hero, but he isn’t made of wood. If he can move his money into tax havens, he’ll do it. Let’s face it, it’s not exactly unusual. Nassau, though? It isn’t exactly that kind of place. Or more accurately, there’s a damn sight better places.”

  “So he’s in Nassau for a reason beyond simple bookkeeping.”

  “Karl, we ain’t financial investigators. We sneak into shit and shoot people,” Dillon said wearily. “I’m beginning to think this is a PAG/CAG job.”

  Grayson couldn’t help but nod in agreement. It looked more and more like SOG was picking up the slack of its sister organizations, the political or newly formed corporate action groups. They were the experts at that kind of job. This was looking pretty damn far from their remit or, frankly, skill set.

  “Hold on, boys.” Bradley held a hand up. “I’m not asking you to wade through spreadsheets.”

  “My esteemed colleague has a point, though,” Grayson said. “Just what are you asking us to do?”

  “Well, the intel net is pretty dry on Reynolds being dirty,” Bradley replied.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need you to generate some.”

  “Okay?” Grayson prompted.

  “So, I’m probably going to need you to sneak into some shit.”

  Dillon pursed his lips and nodded. “That we can do.”

  “But preferably not shoot anyone,” Bradley said pointedly.

  “Well, we can try not to,” Dillon replied with a bright smile.

  Bradley frowned as Grayson fought to keep a smirk from his face. “Okay. What’s our first port of call. Do we know where Reynolds is?”

  “Yes, we do. He checked into the Hotel Bahamia two days ago.” Bradley brought up a Google Maps screen on the wall. It showed a hotel complex with glistening blue pools surrounding it. “And we need to get surveillance on him.”

  Chapter Six – The Present

  “All’s well that ends well, I guess.” Liam Kendricks leaned against the railing next to Heather Slater. She stood gazing over the bay in the direction overlooking her ship. The destroyer was nuzzled into the flank of Atlantica, power lines physically linking the ships.

  Beyond, the scene was peaceful, picturesque, the bustle of a busy bay not quite dispelling its natural beauty. And further inland, a distant lone peak dominated the skyline.

  The last few weeks may have been back-breakingly hard as they created a community on this Earth, on which humans had been ten million years absent. But it had been peaceful after that tumultuous first month. And for that, Kendricks was very grateful. His shoulder still ached from the bullet wound he’d sustained in the battle against the pirates. Something Doctor Emodi, the ship’s physician, informed him was likely for life.

  “It’s not quite over yet,” Slater responded. “I still want my helicopter back.”

  “They seem to be cooperating.” Kendricks looked at her. The set of her jaw was firm as she looked out. “So far. I’m sure they are as eager to keep the peace as we are.”

  “Quite.” Slater pushed herself off the railing with a sigh. Sensing she wanted to pace, Kendricks fell in next to her as they slowly walked along next to the railing of Atlantica’s upper deck.

  Since they’d arrived, a change had certainly impacted Kendricks’s ship, turning her from a simple cruise ship to the nucleus of a colony. Four of her five swimming pools had been filled in with soil, turning them into plant nurseries where people were hard at work cultivating what they could of the ship’s remaining fruit and vegetables. They had managed to extract some viable seed stock from their food stores. It was delicate work, trying to coax species which were long dead in this world back to life.

  Some were a no-go, the seeds stubbornly refusing to grow. But the tomatoes, spinach, and potatoes, along with a few others, were doing well in what had turned out to be the extraordinarily fertile soil of the land. Soon, they would be ready for planting on the mainland, increasing their food yields immeasurably. This would complement some of the other foodstuffs which... well, Kendricks admitted to himself, demonstrated a certain... resourcefulness.

  Speaking of which.

  “Are you still joining us for the party tonight?” he eventua
lly broke the silence.

  “Yes. I’m afraid Mack is going to be debriefing with the engineers and crew chiefs though, trying to figure out what happened.”

  “A pity.” If he knew Mack, it was that she would be good at a party. “Any clues yet?”

  “The components we repaired Seahawk 1-2 with aren’t exactly machined by Sikorsky,” Slater said with a shrug. Kendricks doubted it was disinterest, more that she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions without the evidence in front of her. “We have to expect these kinds of failures. We’ll see what comes out of the examination.”

  “And they’re only going to get worse as more components wear out.” They reached the stern and continued following the railing around, overlooking the rear of the ship. It was going to be a real problem, and one they had to get upstream of now. But equipment wasn’t the only thing which was wearing out. “And how are you, Heather?”

  She remained quiet for a long moment.

  “Heather.” Kendricks gripped her arm lightly, stopping her motion. “We’re in a special place, there’s only a few of us. We’re captains, well me an acting captain, anyway. We don’t have many people we can talk to, to say what’s bugging us. At least not without undermining our own authority. We’re supposed to have all the answers and not let stuff get under our skin.

  Kendricks took a deep breath. Maybe his little speech was as much about him as it was her, but still. The only benefit to his own situation was that unlike Captain Slater, it wasn’t as if he had a family he’d left behind when they’d come here. His mistress had always been the sea. “I get that you might not want to talk about it yet. But if you ever do. I’ll be there.”

  Slater nodded tightly, her icy visage showing the briefest sign of thawing before she resumed control. “Thank you, Liam. It is appreciated. But I’m not the only person who was taken away from my family.”

  That was painfully true. In the last few weeks, they’d had to deal with a dozen suicides among the passengers and crew, and Doctor Emodi had reported many more exhibiting signs of depression and anxiety. “But at least most feel they can talk to someone, if they need to.”