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“We’re about set, too. Any luck finding Eddie?”
“Negative. Hali’s taken over the cameras from Murph so he can concentrate on weapons control. He’s getting good shots, but there are so damned many people on the beach that it takes a few seconds for the computer’s facial recognition software to sort through them all.”
“Check the area closest to the fighting. If Eddie’s in any kind of shape, that’s where he’ll be.”
“Good thinking. Hali?”
“I heard,” the Corporation’s comm officer said. “Shifting focus now.”
Cabrillo and his people reached a level strip of land several hundred yards above the beach. Further toward the center of the site was an area that had been heavily dug up. Water cannons for blasting the tough soil lay abandoned, their nozzles pointed skyward. The ground was littered with shovels and buckets. All the workers had fled, and their guards had gone down to join the fight.
They approached the workings cautiously, weapons held at the ready, eyes never settling on one spot for more than a second.
An explosion echoed up from below, a grenade blast behind the barge that momentarily drew their attention. The black-clad body of one of Savich’s men pinwheeled in a lazy arc before falling to the beach in a broken-limbed heap. At the same second came the chatter of an AK-47 firing at point-blank range.
Cabrillo dropped flat as clods of mud were thrown up all around him. He stitched the area around one of the water cannons in a reflex shot that emptied half a magazine. It was poor fire discipline but it forced the attacker to dodge for cover, and his gun fell silent.
Linc had a better bead. He fired a three-round burst that sent the Indonesian pitching backward into a coffee-colored retention pond. His body vanished under the surface while his blood stained the water. The team found cover behind an earthen berm as more Indonesians appeared out of nowhere. The sheer volume of gunfire made the air ripple.
“We don’t have time for this,” Linda Ross shouted over the din, changing out her magazine.
Juan looked down the hill. The assault boat was getting into position, and they would need the cover fire from the Oregon’s Gatling gun, but he couldn’t afford to remain pinned down. The oldest adage of warfare, that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, had never felt more true.
He called the boat over his throat microphone. “Mike, can you hear me?” When there was no reply, he called again. The boat was still moving at fifty knots, enveloped in a cocoon of engine noise that made communications impossible.
He cursed and called up Mark Murphy. “Murph, we need you. There’s about fifty bandits above us. We’re pinned.”
“Mike’s about to hit the tug,” Murphy pointed out.
“And the longer you question me, the closer he’s getting.”
“Roger that,” he replied, then muttered under his breath, “Sorry, Mike.”
As soon as the last of the assault team jumped over the gunwales, Mike Trono reversed engines and drew the boat off the beach, maneuvering backward until he had the sea room to spin around.
He pulled down his headset to talk to Tory as the boat built speed. “Can I ask you something, ma’am?”
“Only if you promise to never call me ma’am again.”
“Sorry.” Trono grinned. “Force of habit.”
“What’s your question?”
“Do you know how to operate a boat?”
“I work for Lloyd’s of London. My entire life revolves around boats. I’m a licensed captain on anything up to twenty thousand tons, which includes your Oregon before you turned it into something out of Star Wars.”
“So this assault craft?” He stamped the deck.
“Seems to handle as well as the Riva speedboat I rented on my last holiday in Spain. Why the inquiry?”
“Because we have a little job to do, and I need you to man the helm while Pulaski and I take care of it.”
“I assume it has to do with that piece of steel that was loaded before we left your ship?”
“Captain’s orders. He thinks we can salvage a bit more than a bunch of immigrants from this nightmare.”
A smile lit Tory’s eyes, and her cheeks blushed more than what the wind caused. “Why am I not surprised?”
