The Phantom by Rob MacGregor

closer to the window, trying to see the occupants of the raft. She could only make out vague forms, but it was enough to leave her with a distinct sense of foreboding.
    Other passengers had also seen the raft, but in the confusion some of the passengers thought the fighter ship was there to rescue them from the sinking craft. A man in the row in front of her hailed a passing stewardess. “How are we all going to fit onto that raft? Aren’t there any ships in the area that can help?”
    The stewardess leaned toward him, her face pale, her expression betraying her fear despite her attempts to keep it masked from the passengers. “We’re doing all we can to deal with this situation, sir. Please put on your life vest. As soon as a ship arrives, we’ll all be taken aboard. There’s really nothing to worry about.”
    Sure, Diana thought. Things were bad and were going to get a lot worse.
    Suddenly the chatter of machine guns shredded the air. Passengers screamed and dived for cover. Diana quickly slipped the envelope containing the Sengh Brotherhood symbol from her pocket and pushed it down inside her boot.
    She smelled sea air seeping into the cabin. The door to the Clipper swung open, three men scrambled inside. One carried the machine gun that had just ripped apart the lock on the door. The other two brandished side arms. Their caps and goggles hid their faces.
    One of the men pointed at a cowering old man. “He’ll do.”
    A second flyer grabbed the man and aimed the machine gun at his chest. People screamed, blood drained from the old man’s face.
    “We want Diana Palmer,” said the first flyer, who apparently was the leader. “And we’re prepared to kill all of you, one by one, until she steps forward.”
    Panic spread through the cabin. The plane was rocking violently in the waves. “Who is she?” someone shouted.
    “We don’t know her.”
    “Maybe she’s not here.”
    “We didn’t do anything.”
    Diana stood up, her knees soft, a hole a mile wide tearing open in her stomach. “I’m Diana Palmer.”
    “So quickly? How disappointing,” the first flyer scoffed.
    “What do you want?” Diana asked.
    “The pleasure of your company.”
    “Who are you?”
    “That’s none of your . . .”
    Something about the voice and the look of the intruder roused her suspicion. Boldly, she reached out and yanked off the flyer’s cap and goggles. It was a young woman, an aviatrix who could pass for Amelia Earhart’s younger sister.
    “Happy now, Diana Palmer? Get a good look? I suppose you want my name, too?”
    “Sala,” one of the men yelled, inadvertently providing the name. “The plane’s going to sink. Let’s get out of here!”
    “One more thing,” Sala said.
    With that, she turned and struck Diana across the side of her head with the barrel of the pistol. She slumped to the floor. “Too bad. Now we’ve got to carry you out of here.”

THIRTEEN
    C aptain Philip Horton was ready to retire for the evening after a long day at the Jungle Patrol outpost. He looked into the radio control room where Corporal Weeks was stationed.
    “I’m going to turn in, Weeks. Wake me if there’s any news.”
    “Yes, sir. But it’s probably not going to be good news.”
    Horton agreed, but to Weeks he said, “Maybe our luck will turn.”
    “Maybe, Captain.”
    He didn’t sound any more convinced than Horton was. They didn’t need just luck; they needed a miracle.
    Horton left the building and plodded back to his office. It doubled as his sleeping quarters and was hardly the picture of comfort. But hell, it was home.
    He climbed the steps to the porch, stretched his arms and yawned. He and Weeks had been monitoring dramatic events at sea for the last several hours. The radio transmissions about the forced landing and its mysterious perpetrators were definitely the most startling transmission they’d received in months.
    There was nothing more he could do. The passengers had all been rescued, except one woman,