“Carlos, have you seen Gabriella?” said Sandy. The two commanders walked together on their daily inspection tour of Task Force Saber’s defensive perimeter around Cielavista. They chatted with the fighters, some digging their foxholes into the earth and some building up their fighting position with rocks. Secondary positions formed the next line of defense a quarter mile behind the perimeter in the event the fighters had to fall back. The third fallback position, a ten-foot-high stone rampart protected by a spiked ditch constituted the inner ring. Carlos had designed this fortress to provide the rear guard of Task Force Saber excellent protection for their last stand against the Directorate’s attack. The soldiers had dug two escape tunnels from the interior of the stone fortress to the side of the cliff overlooking the ocean.
“No,” said Carlos. “She must be out on her rock.”
“I just looked out there and she’s not there,” said Sandy. “I don’t recall seeing her all day yesterday. I’m concerned, Carlos.”
“We’ll cease work on the defenses and conduct a thorough search of the premises,” said Carlos. “Which of the horses can communicate with angelic beings?”
“Sadie,” said Sandy. “And your niece, Althea, can communicate with Sadie. I want them with you during the search, okay?”
“Right.”
“Sandy, we need you out on the rock,” said Carlos, and he placed his rough palms on her cheeks. He looked her in the eye, “My courageous sister, ‘no weapon formed against us will stand.’”
“I’ll go out,” Sandy said. “Find my grandmother.”
Andrew was a hurricane of frustration watching Commander Randal Sanford try to lead his battalion of robotic warriors—all brainwashed and hypnotized. When the squad leaders ordered their oversized thugs to line up and board the rental trucks that would transport them to the wharf, the big lummoxes stumbled around in confused clusters. Not having detailed instructions about how and where to line up, which direction to go, which truck to board, where to sit in the back of these large enclosed box trucks, and what equipment to carry, they became more and more confused. Their confusion turned into fear and their fear turned into anger and their anger turned into violence against each other.
A simple movement of personnel from barracks to vehicles, which should have taken less than thirty minutes, took over four hours. Andrew noticed that all the Directorate board members with the exception of Randal were sleeping off their feast. He could do nothing but sit in the ops center and observe the chaos from his window overlooking the ruined vineyard.
In a rare moment of neglect, Andrew failed to monitor his security screens where a faint signal representing human movement on the hills above the vineyard was blinking. He paced back and forth in front of the window overlooking the struggling soldiers, where several violent fistfights had broken out. In one incident, a soldier fatally stabbed his squad mate. There was no punishment, just a reprimand and an order from the leader of that squad to get into line.
Andrew decided he needed to rouse his bosses from their sleep. He went to each of the guesthouses on the far side of the property and banged on their doors with the butt of his pistol grip. It took ten minutes for Frances, Olivia, Donald, and Romano to join him in the gazebo at the edge of the vineyard. A light drizzle seeped into the hazy directors’ clothing.
“We are at war,” Andrew said, unveiling his rage. “You are the war council. You have failed to witness the incompetence of your leaders, especially Commander Randal Sanford. The soldiers in our so-called army are totally inept. Come with me. You need to observe their failure to assemble for their attack on the Nubble Light.”
Andrew and the four drowsy executives walked toward the operations center in the main building. The convoy of trucks was exiting the vineyard. As they watched the line of taillights stream down the driveway, Hank’s demolitions exploded into the night. The multiple blasts throughout the camp threw the board members down onto the muddy ground.
The leaders of the Directorate lay in the mud, deaf and paralyzed.
Hank’s team of nine saboteurs had reached its attack position under cover of darkness. Silently they separated into three sections and moved to their preplanned observation posts. They watched the troop activity in the Directorate’s camp below them. It appeared to them that the entire enemy force was leaving the encampment. Hank was amazed at the chaos.
Eventually the large box trucks loaded with armed brutes lined up on the main road to Sandown. Hank’s men moved quickly and stealthily to their targets—the modular barracks buildings and the main hall. Within a few minutes they lay all the demo and set the timers. Hank’s commandos jogged back to their rally point on the ridge and gathered to watch the results of their work. The six modular buildings exploded simultaneously. Fireballs flared upward from the massive explosions followed by huge plumes of black smoke. Before the echo of those explosions subsided, ten horrendous charges went off in the main hall, sending the twenty thousand square foot structure splintering into the sky in a blazing ball of flames and thunder. The saboteurs headed back to their vehicles at their rendezvous point two miles back through the woods.
The computer in Andrew’s mobile operations center in his van was untouched by the demolitions. It faithfully recorded Hank’s route back to Cielavista, pinpointing Task Force Saber’s true location.
By late afternoon Henry was finally satisfied that Water Walker was ready for the voyage from Cape Neddick to Gloucester Bay. He had Beto follow his exhaustive checklist inspecting every inch of the craft inside and out. Henry triple-checked the navigation instruments. He called the Coast Guard and several harbor masters along their route. He drove to the local marine supply shop and procured two extra marine batteries and had them charged up. He bought bedding and extra clothing, including two sets of wet weather gear.
“Man, we’re not crossing the Atlantic,” Beto said, “we’re skimming the coastline.”
“Okay, we’re all set, Beto. Let’s cast off,” Henry said.
“You sure you didn’t forget anything? How about a few extra tubes of toothpaste?”
“Actually I have four. They were buy-one-get-one-free at the supermarket,” said Henry.
“So what, you bought two and got two free?” said Beto as he untied the bowline.
“Well, yeah, but I had to leave the store after I got the first two and go back in to get the second deal,” said Henry. He pushed the starter button on the console.
Beto shook his head.
A steady rain drizzled down from a cold, dreary sky. Heavy, ashen clouds stretched down to the ocean. Henry cautiously guided Water Walker out of Neddick Harbor to the open sea. The dim October twilight faded behind the grey curtain.
On his surface radar, Henry picked up several boats a mile out to his starboard front. “Three large boats,” Henry said to Beto. Both men smoked pipes now. They concentrated on the instruments and the ocean out the window. The wipers slapped the mist off the windshield. Henry slowed Water Walker down to six knots. The radar showed the three vessels creeping toward the Nubble Light, and then halting in a semicircle around the little island.
“Tobias,” said Beto, “you see this?
“Your angel does not like the looks of those boats. There’s a band of dark angels accompanying them—bad sign.”
“I don’t know whether to get out of here or stay and see if we’re supposed to do something,” said Henry.
“Call the Coast Guard,” said Beto. “Just tell them what you see and let them decide if they should respond.”
“Good idea.”
Into the microphone, “Coast Guard Station Portsmouth, this is Water Walker. Can you hear me?”
“Water Walker, this is Portsmouth”
“I’m reporting some unusual activity off the Nubble Light. Three large motor craft loitering and moving slowly toward the island. Visibility is low, but I have them on radar.”
“Okay, we have Coast Guard auxiliary there in Neddick. We’ll send out a boat to check them out. Suggest you keep your distance. Thanks, Captain.”
“Water Walker, okay. Out,” said Henry.
In a few minutes a fourth boat showed on the radar screen in front of Henry and Beto.
“That was quick,” said Beto, breathing out a cloud of aromatic smoke into the enclosed cockpit.
The shockwave from a blast rocked the Water Walker—followed by four-foot waves from the explosion. Henry and Beto could see a faint orange-yellow glow through the thick low-hanging clouds. On the radar, the image of the destroyed Coast Guard boat radiated bright red and disappeared.
“Coast Guard Portsmouth, your auxiliary boat is in trouble. I suggest a rapid response from your location. Notify law enforcement. It looks like one of the unidentified vessels fired on your boat.”
“Roger, Water Walker. Quick reaction force is on the way. Keep your distance.”
“We gotta move, Henry. Look,” Beto said, pointing at the radar screen. One of the three vessels was headed toward them at a high speed.
“Tobias,” Henry said, “How ‘bout making yourself useful and churn up the water around that approaching boat? Sink it if you can.”
Henry pushed forward on the throttle and the Water Walker retreated to the high sea. They reached top speed but the pursuing yacht was gaining on them. Henry looked back and watched an unnatural mountain of water swell up in the distance between them and the luxury cruiser. The approaching yacht rose up onto the twenty-foot swell and went momentarily airborne. Then it fell back into the ocean stern-first, became half submerged, and bobbed upright full of seawater. The high speed cruiser stalled helplessly behind them.
Henry looked at Beto and said, “I guess our water boy angel is all right after all.”
Randal directed the captain of his yacht into Portsmouth Harbor and up the Piscatagua River to the private cove where their disastrous voyage had begun thirty-six hours before. He stomped into the boathouse on the wharf.
The other two luxury boats—one towing the swamped craft—pulled up to their slips and tied in.
“Everyone get in here,” he yelled.
The soldiers entered the boathouse. One of the squad leaders ordered them all to sit down on the floor. They looked more like a class of preschoolers after a field trip than an infantry platoon. Mouths open, eyes staring straight ahead they sat, barely aware that they had neither slept nor eaten for two days.
Randal huddled with his six squad leaders in the equipment room of the boathouse.
“You idiots are pathetic,” he said. “You couldn’t get your soldiers assembled. You did a miserable job getting them on the trucks, and when the time came to mount our attack on the target, you failed to respond to my commands. The only thing keeping you from execution is that I don’t have time to train another team of seers and operators, and we have another target to attack in the next three days.”
“Sir?” said one of the leaders.
“What, Carlene? What is it?” Randal said.
“The lighthouse and the island were abandoned. Our recon team scoured the place and there was not a soul in sight.”
“I don’t want to hear any of your weak excuses. You all failed to attack. You let one volunteer Coast Guard Auxiliary crew interrupt our advance. And you, Firdos, you failed to catch that other launch. You let them get away. You’re useless.” He pulled Firdos to him by the shirt front and punched him in the face. Firdos crumpled to the floor in a heap.
“We will return to the vineyard. We will regroup, retrain, and reequip. And you will be prepared to attack target number two in three days. Now get your worthless animals on the trucks and follow me back to camp.”
The men boarded the trucks and the leaders approached their cars when the blue police lights flashed into the marina’s parking lot.
“Carlene,” Randal said, “Call Andrew, quick. We need these cops hypnotized. Now.”
Carlene called Andrew. “Code blue my location, situation urgent.”
Randal looked at Carlene and walked over to the police officers. She nodded to him.