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
