Storm Surge by J.D. Rhoades Page B

the intercom.
“Ah…swimmer,” he said, trying to emulate the protocol they crew used to
identify themselves over the circuit. He stopped. He realized he had no
official designation. He saw the Chief grin. “Lawman, swimmer,” he chuckled. He
saw the kid over by the hoist purse his lips in disapproval. Bohler felt a flash of irritation.
    “What’s the
plan? When we get there.”
    “We do a
circuit of the island,” the Chief said. “See what we can see. Hopefully,
they’ll see us. We’ll head for the open space down near the clubhouse. We’ll
land if we can. If there’s too much water, or if the ground’s too soft, we’ll hover
and I’ll take the basket down.”
    “How do I get
down there?” McMurphy spoke up.
    “Sorry, sir,”
Alvarez said. “Can’t do it.”
    “I need to get
down there and take that subject into custody. I’m going to have to insist.”
    The pilot
spoke up. “Swimmer, pilot. Problem,
chief?”
    “Pilot,
swimmer. No ma’am. Just explaining to Mr. McMurphy here that he ain’t in our chain of command.”
    “If he gives
you any trouble, Chief...” she trailed off.
    “Yes ma’am,”
Alvarez answered. “I’ll throw him out.”
    “Very funny,” McMurphy said.
    “She ain’t joking, sir,” the young Guardsman on the hoist piped
up. He grinned. “Hell, people fall out of these things alla time. We’d just write it off as an accident.” Bohler stared at him, appalled. The kid winked.
    “You can
arrest him or whatever when we get him on board,” Alvarez said. “Only one who
goes down is me, though.”
    “What if he’s
armed?”
    “He doesn’t
get in the basket. Once I explain that to him, I’m thinking he’ll see reason.”
    “People get
real reasonable once they find out you’re about to leave ‘ em behind,” the hoist operator said.
    “I hope you’re
right,” McMurphy said. “This guy is dangerous.”
    The helicopter
hit an updraft, shooting straight up into the sky as if shot from a catapult.
    “That guy,”
the Chief said grimly, “is the least of my worries right now, sir.”
     

CHAPTER THIRTY
     
    Phillips was
so intent on his task that the sounds of the wind and rain outside had faded to
the edges of his consciousness. He assembled the weapon quickly with the ease
of intensive practice. When he was done, the rifle was a good six feet from
stock to flash suppressor, even longer than the American Barrett. It was of
Hungarian manufacture, its makers having given it the somewhat melodramatic
name of “Destroyer.” It more than lived up to its name.
    Phillips
stepped back. He studied the rifle with a critical eye, then nodded with satisfaction. He picked up his binoculars, went to the window, and
began scanning the sky and the sea around the island.
    ***
    “Okay,” Blake
said to himself, staring down at Barstow’s corpse. “Now we might have a
problem.”
    Blake had seen
his share of blade wounds, especially in Africa. This one, however, was
particularly gruesome; Barstow’s head was literally split in two down to the
center. Blood and brains littered the floor around him.
    “Four.” he
said into his mike. “One.”
    “One, Four ,” the acknowledgment came back.
    “Two’s left
the party.”
    There was
pause. “Permanently?”
    “Guess he
didn’t care for the menu. Something he ate must have disagreed with him. And
our other party guests have left.”
    Another
pause. “We have
another uninvited guest.”
    “Affirmative.”
    “One,
three.” Worth’s
voice came over. “What’s going on?”
    “Three, this
is One. You see any sign of anyone on the road?”
    “Negative.”
    “Fall back to
the staging area.”
    “So,” Phillips
said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, “We now have a problem?”
    “Yeah,” Blake
said. “We have a problem.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
     
    The door to
the dockmaster’s office was locked. Mercer didn’t
hesitate. He pulled a knee up to his chest, turned sideways, pivoted on his
down foot, and smashed the