Code Name: Blondie Read online

  Miki squirmed uneasily. Old equipment and a cheap-skate boss. How could her fantasy job get any worse?

  She peered at a dark wedge of clouds to the south. “Shouldn’t we be halfway to Bora Bora already? We can outrun the storm.”

  “A Category Five storm can pack crosswinds above 160 miles per hour. If we’d left when I wanted to, instead of waiting for you two to do the dirty in the dunes, this storm wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Miki said angrily.

  “You wanted it,” Vance snapped. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

  The engine sputtered, cutting off Miki’s angry response. Dutch pumped a control beside his knee, his mouth a flat line.

  “What’s wrong?” Vance swung around. “What was that noise?’

  The grizzled pilot didn’t answer, fiddling with a row of controls.

  “Damn it, I asked you a question, Dutch.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to hear the answer.” The pilot leveled a cold look at his employer. Miki realized that Dutch wasn’t looking bored and lazy any longer. “Get your seatbelt hooked, the way I told you.”

  “Why should I—”

  “Because I told you, damn it, and I’m in command here.”

  Vance looked startled, then angry, but he did as he was told. He wiped sweat off his forehead as he stared out at the gunmetal sea below them, alive with boiling waves. “What are we going to do now?” His voice was petulant.

  “Praying wouldn’t hurt.” Dutch fingered the radio and waited, but all that came back was static.

  The engine coughed again.

  They were in real trouble, Miki realized. Trouble as in mayday and life jackets and forced sea landings. Her fingers dug into the sides of the seat as she fought back terrified questions.

  Dutch looked back at her. “You strapped in, Blondie?”

  She nodded mutely, cheered by his thumbs-up gesture. They were in a seaplane, she told herself. Dutch was an experienced pilot. He could bring the plane down, land at sea and radio for help. Someone was bound to find them. There had to be major shipping lanes nearby.

  But she wasn’t thinking about pontoons or shipping lanes when the engine sputtered and died completely. The plane nosed forward and shuddered. Cold with fear, she squeezed her hands against her lap as they plummeted toward the angry water.

  Dutch gripped the radio microphone. “This is Cessna ID number three—niner—four—zero—niner broadcasting on Mayday frequency. I repeat, this is a Mayday call…”

  MAX PRESTON HAD NOTHING good to say about airplanes. The ground was better than the air, but water was where he felt most at home, thanks to both instinct and long training.

  Right now he was thirty thousand feet above the Pacific, the sun brushing scattered clouds as he secured his jumpsuit. In approximately six minutes he’d hit the plane’s jump door and drop into a two-minute free fall.

  He still couldn’t get over the Labrador retriever nearby, strapped into a vest and parachute of his own. “Is Truman prepped?” he asked.

  His commanding officer nodded briefly. “The dog is A-okay, Preston. He’ll be on oxygen via mask, just like you. Are you clear on those codes we went over? 92 for visual on Cruz or any hostile forces in the area. 705 for sighting of the missing weapon.”

  Max shifted his parachute slightly, straightening the line of his oxygen mask. “Good to go on the codes, sir. Two short burst signals, 606, for probability on the weapon device and 797 in the event emergency extraction is called for. But I won’t need extraction.” The Navy SEAL’s face was calm as he slipped on the thin but highly tensile gloves that had become a staple during his long covert training. From now on his skin contact would be limited. His senses were too special to risk sensory overload.

  Wolfe Houston, team leader of the government’s secret Foxfire program, crouched down and patted the big Lab beside Max. “Hustle my man right in and right out, Truman. You okay with that?”

  The dog barked once, tail wagging. He jumped up, licking Wolfe’s face without the slightest tension.

  “Good dog. You can give us the top ten list when you get back.”

  Though the Lab had plenty of jump experience, Max still felt odd jumping with an animal—even a veteran like Truman. But that was the new Navy for you. Always innovating. And in Truman’s case, there were more surprises. The program’s medical team told Max to expect unusual strength and intelligence, along with other abilities that hadn’t been confirmed yet.

  Max checked the watertight container holding his GPS system and secure satellite phone. After that came a final survey of his oxygen hose and mask. When Houston gave the thumbs-up, Max slid on his helmet, which would provide oxygen and protection in the frigid temperatures at heights above 30,000 feet, where vulnerable skin and eyes risked freezing.

  A tall man bearing a marked resemblance to Denzel Washington sprinted down the plane’s main deck. “Gentlemen, I just got a weather update.” He held up a high-tech laptop and pointed to swirling images on the screen. “We’ve got a new depression west of Bora Bora that may drive in Category Five winds inside seventy-two hours. In the meantime, I’m tracking convective and boundary layers with real-time analysis from the Naval Research Lab Tropical Storm Center.”

  “Give it to us in English, Teague.” Wolfe Houston crossed his arms. “Is this going to impede Preston’s jump capabilities?”

  “That’s a command decision, sir. All I can tell you is that there’s a storm out there and it’s one big sucker. Currently we’re looking at a forty-eight-hour safety window. If you want to wait—”

  “We can’t afford to wait,” Wolfe snapped.

  Izzy Teague tapped impatiently on the keyboard. “In that case, I’d say get the hell in and get the hell out.”

  That was the kind of English Max understood. He gave a nod to Houston. “I’m ready to jump, sir.”

  Houston stared out at the faint shimmer of the sea below the commercial cargo plane. “All of you know the score. Cruz could be down there already, setting up the deal for his buyers. We can’t afford to lose that new weapon guidance system, and we definitely can’t afford to let Cruz escape again.” When he looked at Max, his face was set. “It’s a go. Like Izzy says, get in and get the hell out. Try not to get yourself fried in the process.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Max got the message. Enrique Cruz had once been the leader of the government’s select Foxfire team of genetically and biologically enhanced soldiers. Then something had gone wrong. Cruz’s skills had shot off the charts and he had acquired the ability to project false images to his targets with complete accuracy, allowing him to disappear at will. But with the new skills had come mental lapses and growing paranoia. He had managed to escape from government control weeks earlier, setting off an extensive but unsuccessful manhunt. As the Foxfire program continued to work out the kinks, it quickly expanded to include service dogs on the team, although details of their use were being kept secret.

  Izzy saw Max put a soothing hand on Truman’s head. “Don’t worry about this big guy. He’s already made over ninety successful jumps. Last month he got an honorary medal from the guys at the Army’s Yuma Jump School. He’ll be fine.”

  Max gave a crooked grin. “Hell, I thought he was Navy.”

  “He’s whatever you need him to be.”

  A uniformed crewmember in headphones hurried toward them. “Drop Zone in five minutes, sir. We’re keeping radio silence as ordered.”

  Max tightened his gloves and stared out at the sunny sky. No one spoke.

  “Do not engage with Cruz unless prior clearance is received. Remember that, Preston.” Wolfe Houston’s eyes were hard. “This man is unstable, unpredictable and he’s getting more powerful every day. We can’t be sure what new skills he’s taken on since his desertion. Hell, his adaptability was always part of his success. He used to be one of us, but now he’s an out-of-control killer. Remember that.” The officer took an angry breath. “I should have taken
him out last time when we were in that mine shaft with the dogs.”

  Houston shot a glance at Izzy. Both had been badly hurt during a nasty encounter with Cruz three months earlier. “Cruz could be capable of much stronger retaliation than we know.”

  Max felt the silent undercurrents that came with bad memories. “Understood, sir.”

  “Assume that Cruz is faster, stronger and meaner than you expect and then double that,” Izzy said. His fingers idly traced his elbow as he spoke, and Max remembered that both of his arms had been broken in the violent confrontation with Cruz.

  “We’ll take him out this time.” Max moved awkwardly to the rear exit doors, where the crew helped secure his fifty-pound parachute pack in place. As the jumpmaster counted down the final seconds, Max briefly touched the silver scar at his collarbone, one of many he’d received months before during a bungled mission in Malaysia. Though he’d nearly died, those wounds had led to his selection for the ultra-select Foxfire team, so he held no regrets. This team made up of specially trained and genetically enhanced Navy SEALS was the finest group of warriors on the continent—probably on the whole planet—but they were never photographed, never congratulated and never mentioned in any press article or standard government briefing.

  Max looked down at the Lab waiting alertly near the exit door. He checked that the dog’s parachute line was clear, properly positioned beside an altimeter that would trigger an automatic chute opening at 300 feet. The oxygen line was already attached to the dog’s headgear.

  “One minute to drop zone, sir.”

  Max felt the drum of the plane’s engines and the howl of the wind beyond the jump doors. The world seemed to slow down, every atom of his body focused on the here and now as he prepared to jump. He felt his pulse spike. His breath tightened to compensate for the adrenaline surge.

  Show time.

  When the jump light went on, he moved to meet the air’s fury, his body hammered as he followed the Lab out into the void.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MIKI OPENED HER EYES and gasped as water spilled into her mouth. She was choking.

  When her terror cleared, she realized the water was coming from a broken plastic sports bottle shoved above her seat. She was dry everywhere except for her face.

  Outside the plane was a different story. Angry waves slapped against the Cessna’s body, spilling froth over the window.

  Vance was slumped forward against the pilot’s seat. Blood trailed down both cheeks.

  “Vance, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  When he didn’t answer, Miki tapped his shoulder to get his attention. Her hand came away slick with blood.

  His body slumped sideways, stiff and lifeless, and she caught a breath in horror, gagging.

  “Dutch, what should I do?”

  The big man coughed and Miki saw him wipe away blood with his left hand. His right arm was out of sight on the seat as he fiddled with the Cessna’s controls.

  “I’ve been broadcasting a Mayday on our last contact frequency. They’ll have our ID and present position. The radio transponder is set for continuous transmission in case of—” His voice shook as waves buffeted the plane. “How’s Vance?”

  “He’s gone.” Miki’s voice shook. “Something hit his head, I think.” She fought to think clearly. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stay calm, that’s what. We stay smart and we’ll stay alive until we get picked up. I never should have agreed to use this old plane.” He closed his eyes for a minute and seemed to struggle to breathe. “Get out of your seat harness. Do it now.” His voice was grim. “Head to the cargo door.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m staying. I’ll keep the radio alert squawking as long as I can.”

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “Listen, I got us down in one piece, but Vance is gone and my arm’s pretty well crushed by this broken seat. If you stick around, you’ve got no odds, which is just plain stupid. So I’m ordering you to unharness and ditch. You’ve got your flotation vest. Pull the cord once you’re outside. Someone will come eventually. You can tell them to come back for me.” His voice tightened. “Now get going.”

  “But I—”

  Water hammered high and the windshield gave way. The plane pitched hard, driving Miki back. Suddenly she was fighting to breathe as seawater covered her face, and raw instinct took hold. She clawed free of her safety restraint, kicked past Vance’s lifeless body and managed to find the rear cargo doors. An eternity passed as she searched blindly for the door latch. Water slashed her face, blinding her as she forced open the hatch. She turned back to search for Dutch and felt the plane shake. Engulfed, she lost all sense of direction, unable to see Vance or Dutch. Desperate for air, she kicked in the direction of a dim patch of light, fighting through cold, churning water.

  Her face broke the surface. Her first gasping breath was torn away by the howling wind. Then Miki began to sink and realized that she’d forgotten to open her flotation vest.

  After her third try, the vest inflated and she bobbed to the surface. Dragging in air, her thoughts flashed to Vance, lifeless and cold somewhere in the water while Dutch bled in the cockpit, maybe dead already.

  Another wave crashed into her face. Everything slid away but survival.

  Stay smart and you’ll stay alive.

  Miki clung to the words as she was yanked up over the lip of a towering wave and dropped mercilessly into a trough.

  Someone would come, she told herself. They would. All she had to do was stay alive.

  THERE WAS A STIFFER current than Max had expected from the prejump briefing. Even Truman was tired from their long swim. Unfortunately, the drop had left them slightly off course and they hadn’t been able to make up the distance in their glide before chute opening. As a result, their swim to the island had taken twice the estimated time. But they’d made the beach with no more than a few bumps and bruises. The big yellow Lab had come through like a pro in the air and in the water.

  Max’s target was a neighboring island separated by half a mile of open sea. This was the spot where recent intel had indicated Cruz was building a covert base. So far Max had found no movement or signs of life, but that meant nothing. Any plan by Cruz would involve elaborate security precautions.

  Max put down his binoculars and scratched his canine backup behind the ears. Otherwise, neither moved. The wind was already picking up and gray-green clouds dotted the horizon. The Lab raised his head, ears alert. It was still too early to say if Izzy’s storm predictions would be on target.

  Max was about to scan the far side of the nearby island when he heard the muffled cough of a motor. Instantly he swung his binoculars up, but saw nothing in the fading twilight. When he swept the ocean, he saw a dark shape hurtle down, hitting the water too fast. A smaller outline separated, bobbing on the gunmetal waves. Focusing his powerful binoculars, Max made out a figure near what looked like the body of a wrecked seaplane.

  An accident here, within earshot of Cruz’s island? Unlucky tourists? Max didn’t buy it. That kind of coincidence only happened in movies.

  But if innocent civilians had been forced to ditch at sea, they could be fighting for their lives. He couldn’t let them die without a chance.

  Max felt his senses narrow, focused and alert as he grabbed his scuba gear. He wouldn’t go in too close, in case this was a trap, but he had to check out the scene carefully. Cruz himself might be out there.

  On the other hand, he might run into twenty drunken tourists. The SEAL bit back a curse at the thought of the possible complications. Civilians would whine and make noise, asking questions and demanding to be taken back to Tahiti or Bora Bora.

  FUBAR.

  After a silent touch command to his dog, Max waded into the restless water, flipped on his mask and headed west into the night toward the coordinates where he had last seen the downed plane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SURROUNDED BY SLASHING WAVES, Miki tried to stay calm just the
way Dutch had ordered. She kicked her feet for a few minutes and then floated, stretching out her reserves as she was yanked up and down in the choppy water. At each crest she searched in vain for lights or landmarks, and every time panic threatened, she looked up at the sky, where specks of silver glinted between rushing clouds. Taking steady, deep breaths, she forced her mind away from Vance and the wounded pilot she’d left behind.

  In and out. Don’t panic.

  Stay calm and stay alive.

  As the sky darkened, her hands turned cold. Her body tightened, shuddering violently. Was this shock or some kind of delayed reaction to the cold? She had no inkling of how long she had been floating and kicking, watching the sky and trying to stay calm.

  She cast about wildly for a distraction to hold back her panic. Music fragments slid through her mind like broken time capsules.

  ABBA. Dancing Queen. Summer of ’92. Her first big romance. Her first devastating split one week later.

  Eric Clapton. Change the World. Christmas 1997. Mesquite smoke drifting in the clear Santa Fe air like incense. Adobe walls along Canyon Road glinting with luminarias and laughter spilling through the cold.

  Would she see Canyon Road again? Would she ever get back home to Santa Fe’s beauty?

  Cold water sprayed her face. She plunged back into fear and exhaustion. How far had she drifted from Dutch and the plane—and how would rescuers find her out here in the ocean, even if they managed to track the distress call?

  Something bumped Miki’s foot and she screamed in mind-jolting terror. Please God, no sharks, she repeated over and over.

  Reining in her nerves, she forced her mind to a place of safety. Battling panic, she began to sing hoarsely—ABBA, Radiohead, Eric Clapton. Sheryl Crow and Frou Frou. Over and over until her throat was raw and there was no more energy, no more strength left.

  Again something touched her leg. Water slapped and a weight settled over her shoulder, dragging her under. Miki screamed, fighting the dark thing in the water until the world blurred.