Shadow Catcher Page 16

  “Fine, fine,” muttered McBride, swiveling back around. But he still did not open any new files. “You know, once you learn something, you can no longer enjoy the exquisite agony of yearning to know.”

  “Will!” said both Nick and Drake simultaneously.

  The analyst threw both hands up in the air and then brought one finger dramatically down to the keyboard. With a single click, he opened a new photograph. Wulóng loitered next to a light post on a nondescript street corner, talking to a Caucasian man.

  “This picture is from late March of 2003, ten years ago, during the time frame that you asked me to search. You’ll never guess where it was taken.”

  “Kuwait,” said Nick quietly.

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  McBride nodded. “You’re absolutely right. Wulóng just happened to be in Kuwait right after Major Merigold dropped the B-2 into the drink. This picture was taken just before Colonel Walker’s team made the first salvage attempt.”

  Nick looked over at Drake. “Still think my theory about a mole is crazy?”

  Amanda Navistrova strode into the office. “Hey, I was thinking maybe this time I could go with you and—” She stopped short when she saw the computer screen. Nick detected something in her eyes. Recognition? Fear? She recovered too quickly. Her expression shifted into a surprised smile. “Will!” she exclaimed. “I thought I heard Colonel Walker mention your name.”

  McBride stood up and offered his hand, but Amanda brushed it aside and gave him a hug.

  “Hey, were you over at Spookville this morning?” asked Drake.

  Amanda released McBride and nodded. “Scott has me branching out from engine work into SATCOM nets for the Wraith. We’re using one of Langley’s frequency sets. I had to do some coordination. Why?”

  “Just curious. One of their analysts mentioned seeing you in the cafeteria,” answered Drake, choosing his words carefully.

  “One of their analysts, huh?” Amanda put her arms around Drake and pressed her body up against his. She looked up into his eyes, sniffed, and then pushed him away. “Terri Belfacci,” she said, spitting out the words.

  “Whoa, how did you know that?”

  “Her perfume. She marks men like a cat marks its territory.”

  “I needed Terri to help us with an investigation,” interjected Nick, coming to Drake’s rescue. He pointed to the picture on the computer screen and narrowed his eyes just a touch. “We’re looking into that individual. Do you happen to recognize him?”

  “He’s a Chinese assassin,” offered Drake.

  “Then he’s definitely not part of my crowd,” said Amanda. “I’m used to nerds and mechanics. The only violence they show is when they break their calculator or smack an engine with a wrench.” Her smile returned. “And speaking of nerds. Scott and I have something to show you. Come with me.”

  CHAPTER 31

  We need to get cracking on our mission plan,” said Nick as the group stepped onto the elevator. “We don’t have time for games.” He didn’t like surprises, and Amanda had refused to tell him why she’d interrupted his meeting with McBride or why she was taking them up to Romeo Seven’s hangar.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Amanda, ignoring his tone. “Scott thinks you’ll want to take a look at this before you plan the rescue, and Colonel Walker agrees.”

  The group fell silent for a moment. Then Nick turned to McBride. “I need you to keep digging into that picture from ten years ago. Find out who . . .”

  “This way, boys,” said Amanda, cutting him off as the elevator came to a stop. She ushered them out into the dimly lit hangar. The M-2 Wraith filled up half of the massive structure. With its contoured form and curved beak, the great black aircraft looked like a sleeping dragon, guarding its treasure in a darkened cave.

  “I hate to break it to you,” said Drake, “but we’ve already seen this one.”

  “No. I don’t think you have,” replied Walker, emerging from the shadow beneath the Wraith’s wing, followed closely by Quinn and Molly. The colonel pulled a remote control from his pocket and pointed toward the fenced hole in the floor, the shaft for the vehicle elevator from Scott’s lab.

  The dark pit lit up with yellow light. A loud buzzer sounded, and red lights flashed. Then the huge chains that lifted the elevator clattered to life, turning on their spindles. A smooth black shape emerged from below, like an otherworldly creature, breathing in cadence with the rotation of the red lights. Finally, the lift jerked to a stop, and the hangar fell silent again.

  “This is better than Christmas,” Drake exclaimed, breaking the reverent atmosphere.

  Scott stepped out from behind the new aircraft. “And here I am without my reindeer.”

  “You finished the infiltration craft,” said Nick in astonishment.

  The group walked over to the lift, and Nick began to circle the little jet. The composite aircraft sat low on tricycle landing gear, so low that the apex of its frame barely came to the top of Nick’s head. The whole thing was only slightly larger than a Humvee.

  Nick lightly ran his fingers along the smooth black surface. Much like the Wraith, this craft seemed to be one uniform piece. There were no discernible wings. Instead, the fuselage thinned progressively from the center outward, terminating in a razor’s edge. From above, it resembled a diamond, except that the forward point had been lengthened to form a nose, and the rear point had been cut off, replaced with a sawtoothed exhaust. Its profile sloped quickly up and then tapered gradually away like a teardrop. “I thought she wasn’t going to be ready for another month,” said Nick.

  Scott shrugged. “If engineers didn’t pad their estimates, how would we appear to work miracles?”

  “Would someone mind catching me up on what’s going on?” asked Quinn.

  Scott smiled at the young airman. “This is Shadow Catcher, Major Baron’s concept and my design. We took advantage of the Wraith’s large bomb bay and built a deployable craft that can accommodate three men. As you can see”—he pointed to the squat landing gear—“Shadow Catcher does not have to return to the bay like a drone. She can land inside enemy territory. And not just on standard runways; she can use unimproved surfaces like dirt roads or grass fields.”

  “Sweet, an off-road airplane,” said Drake.

  Scott paused to regard him with a disdainful look. “Hilarious. As I was saying, Shadow Catcher can land behind enemy lines to deploy a team. Once the mission is complete, she will return to the Wraith.” He turned his attention back to the group. “Her docking capability is greatly improved over past designs. A formidable array of embedded sensors and powerful autopilot processors allow Shadow Catcher to dock autonomously.”

  “I’d still prefer to do it by hand,” said Nick.

  “And I’d prefer that you didn’t,” replied Scott.

  Quinn whistled. “Very nice. So, what’ve you got under the hood?”

  “That’s my department,” said Amanda. “Based on our work with the M-2, we reverse-engineered an F-22 engine to be smaller and lighter. We lost some thrust in the process, but that’s okay, considering Shadow Catcher’s small size and light weight.” Amanda crouched next to the rear of the jet. “Lights, if you please, Scott.”

  The hangar lights above the elevator went out, replaced with black lights mounted low on the four corners of the lift. A faint purple glow settled on the group.

  “Your teeth are glowing,” Drake whispered to Scott.

  “Oh, grow up,” replied the engineer.

  Shadow Catcher’s surface was no longer a uniform black. Faceted shapes—wide diamonds and flat hexagons—glowed brightly in the new light, spread out across the aircraft’s exterior like puzzle pieces waiting to be matched.

  “Now you can see the various sensors and access panels set into the aircraft structure,” said Amanda. “We use an extra chemical i
n their paint that highlights them under a black light.”

  Scott pressed a few keys on a laptop sitting on a computer cart. A hiss could be heard from inside the small aircraft, and then two large panels popped open. Thick white vapor drifted out of each hole and rolled along the floor, glowing like spirits under the black lights.

  “These are the lower exhaust ports,” said Amanda. “The pilot can reroute most of the engine thrust here when needed.”

  “So she has vertical takeoff and landing capability,” said Nick.

  “Not quite,” corrected Amanda. “I said we could reroute most of the thrust, but some of it is lost in heat against the curvature of the ducts. We haven’t cracked that nut entirely. For the moment, Shadow Catcher has a very short takeoff capability. She only requires a small amount of lift in addition to the lower thrust, about fifty knots’ worth. In a stiff wind, she could probably hover.”

  “What about a gun?” asked Quinn.

  Scott threw up his hands. “I can’t win.”

  “Seriously, kid,” said Walker.

  “It’s a fair question,” argued Quinn.

  Scott returned the lights to normal. “No, she does not have a gun.”

  “And for good reason,” added Walker. “Shadow Catcher is designed for infiltration and rescue missions. That’s what makes her perfect for this job.” He motioned to Scott, who pressed another sequence of keys on his laptop.

  Shadow Catcher hissed again, and a long section dropped out of the structure beneath the right wing. It was covered in gray padding.

  “Our team can strap a wounded man to this pneumatic stretcher and then quickly lift him into the ship,” said Walker.

  “It’s all great, but we haven’t tested her,” said Nick. Memories of the Iraq mission fired in his mind. When the White House sent them in, Dream Catcher had only made one test flight. Shadow Catcher hadn’t made any at all.

  “Shadow Catcher’s unique capabilities make her the perfect choice for this mission,” argued Walker. “And you said it yourself, we don’t have any more time to waste. I know how you feel about this sort of thing, Baron, but with the Skyhook system out of commission, I don’t see any other choice.”

  “I like it,” said Drake. “No risky HALO jump, no lengthy border run, and no Skyhook. In and out—stealthy, quick, and clean.”

  “I still don’t get it. How does Shadow Catcher play into your CONOPS?” asked Quinn, referring to Walker’s concept of operations, his plan for recovering Novak.

  Nick kept his eyes on Walker as he replied to the young airman. “If I’m reading the colonel right,” he said cautiously, “he wants me to land our newest stealth plane in China.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Wulóng watched Baron’s woman walk out onto the back deck with a small bag of supplies slung over her shoulder, cradling her son in her arms. She appeared to be taking the child down to the dock or the shoreline. He watched with interest for a moment. Then he lowered the binoculars and raised his weapon.

  A scope was not necessary, as she would pass within a few meters of his position in the trees. He lined up the tritium sites on her forehead, just above the left eye. Though Western women were not normally to his taste, Wulóng found this one beautiful, and beautiful women made more interesting targets—the alteration that tragedy wrought upon their features was always more dramatic. As she passed his position, he shifted his aim to the child.

  Wulóng pressed his lips together. He hated to begin out here. Even with the trees to mute the cries. The home’s interior offered much better cover. The sun had just begun to set. He had time.

  As the woman sat down by the shore of the river, he lowered his weapon. He bent down and flipped on the cell phone jammer. Then he silently crept through the trees, heading for the front of the house.

  * * *

  Nick glanced down at his cell phone and frowned. For the third time, Katy’s line went straight to voice mail. Maybe she had turned her phone off to put the baby down. Maybe she was just still mad. He hung up and set the phone down in the Mustang’s cup holder.

  The rescue CONOPS was complete. Takeoff was set for the dark hours of the early morning. He hated to delay the rescue, but if the team launched any earlier, they would arrive over Fujian in daylight. In general, daylight infiltration into a sovereign nation was a bad idea. With nothing left but the waiting, Nick had headed home, hoping to reconcile with Katy before he had to leave again.

  As he stepped onto the porch, Nick noticed that his front door was cracked slightly open again. He sighed. “Are you trying to bait me into another attack?” he called, walking into the house and closing the door.

  Something whizzed past his head and thudded into the wall. Instinctively, Nick sprinted for the cover of the study. Fragments of plaster and tile pelted his arms and legs as a fusillade of bullets tracked down the wall and across the floor at his heels. He dove through the half-open French doors, rolling into the room and landing with a crash against his desk.

  Katy.

  Nick wanted to scream out her name, tell her to grab Luke and run. But he knew that calling to her could just as easily bring her into the line of fire. He tried to dial her on his cell phone. He had no signal. That was why he couldn’t reach her before. The attacker was using a jammer.

  Nick fought to suppress all the reactionary instincts of a husband and father. He had to slow down and think, become the same violent professional that his wife seemed to despise. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. A situation breakdown started rolling through his mind. How many bullets? Where had they come from? He knew the answer to the first question. His subconscious had recorded the unsteady rhythm of the impacts. Twelve distinct percussive sounds: eight shots and four ricochets, fired from a silenced pistol. Determining where they came from was another trick entirely.

  Where was Katy?

  Crouched in the corner of his office, Nick listened intently for movement, for Katy, the attacker, anything.

  Nothing.

  Four of the bullets had bounced off the tile and immediately thumped into the wall. Those ricochets meant the bullets had been fired at a low angle. The shooter was on the ground floor. Based on obstacles and walls, that left the sitting room or the kitchen. Nick used a toe to nudge open the closed side of the French doors. Instantly one of the glass panels shattered, and a bullet lodged itself into the far corner of his mahogany desk. That answered the second question. Wherever he’d started from, the shooter was now in the kitchen.

  Nick lifted the cuff of his pants, reaching for his knife, but it wasn’t there. He’d packed it with his mission gear in Romeo Seven’s locker room. He needed a weapon. Crawling behind the desk, he reached up and groped around in the center drawer. Stapler, coins, scissors. Using a dime, he separated the two pieces, transforming the mundane tool into a pair of ring-handled daggers. He hefted them in his hands. They were a little too light, but they would have to do.

  The longer he waited, the more advantage he gave to the shooter; Nick had to move. He stood, pressing himself against the bookshelf set into the study’s back wall. Then he took two long steps and leapt headfirst across the foyer, twisting in midair. He saw a muted flash. Burning pain shot through his side. He launched one of his makeshift daggers. Just before he landed in the dining room, he saw the projectile sink into the hostile’s left shoulder. He recognized the face. Wulóng.

  Nick forced himself to continue forward. Ignoring the pain in his midsection and the wet feel of blood trickling down to his waistband, he made for the dining-room entry to the kitchen, hoping to outflank the Chinese assailant. He ducked into the butler’s pantry, crouching in the same spot from which he’d sprung into the kitchen the night before. For a brief moment, he wondered if this were some bizarre waking nightmare, if he were about to unconsciously finish what he started when he attacked Katy the evening before.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind a
nd listened. Silence. Wulóng was cautious. Stalking him. The last few minutes had shown the assassin that Nick was no easy kill. Now he carefully advanced, but from which direction? Then Nick heard the faintest scrape of coarse fabric against granite. It could just as easily have been a trick of the mind as a real noise, but he committed. He rose and spun out of his hiding place, holding the scissor handle like an ice pick, thrusting the blade in a wide arc.

  Wulóng’s eyes widened with pain and rage as Nick forced the makeshift knife between the bones in his forearm. He did not scream, though. He did not even grunt, even though the blade burst out the other side of his arm.

  The strike knocked the gun from Wulóng’s hand, sending it clattering across the kitchen floor and under the stove. Nick pulled back his homemade dagger, slicing tendons as he removed it from Wulóng’s wrist. Only then did he notice that his first weapon was no longer embedded in the attacker’s shoulder. He raised his right arm in defense, just in time to deflect a slashing blow aimed at his face. He felt the sickening slice as Wulóng carved a deep gash into his forearm. Then the back door opened. Nick risked a glance.

  Dear God, no.

  “Nick?” Katy stood just inside the back door wearing a look of horror. Luke slept peacefully, nestled in her arms.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  Wulóng took advantage of his distraction. He landed a right cross that sent Nick reeling back. When he regained his balance, Nick saw Katy bolting through the back door with the assassin in close pursuit. He tore after them.

  “Stop, or she dies,” said the assassin.

  Nick halted just outside the door. Wulóng stood on the deck, just ten feet away. He had Katy by the hair, the point of the bloody scissors blade pressed against her throat.

  “If she screams, I will kill her. If you move, I will kill her,” said Wulóng, his voice like ice.

  Nick began to circle right, trying to put the assassin off balance.