Marion Island, South Africa
November 12, 8:15 A.M.
The Chinese seamen were lying facedown on the floor of the outpost, bound hand and leg with heavy manila rope used to tie down the helicopter, the composting canopy, and other outdoor items during strong winds. They had covered them with a quilt to keep them from freezing as cold air blew through the broken window.
The men had defied Grace’s efforts to question them, and she did not have time to “pain” it out of them, as she called it. For that she would employ a series of manual wrist and elbow locks that worked joint against joint to cause unbearable agony. The locks left no scars, caused no permanent damage, and Grace never understood why interrogators did not employ them as a matter of course.
Ensign Sisula and the helicopter pilot, Ryan Bruwer, had pulled on their cold-weather outer garments. Sisula was seated at the radio, Bruwer and Grace behind him.
“We gotta think this through,” Rivette cautioned as he stood over their four prisoners. “We do this, the enemy will know.”
“If we don’t do this, the enemy wins,” Grace said.
“They’ve got big guns,” Rivette pointed out. “We would have none.”
“They won’t use them,” Grace said. “It would trigger retaliation, bring in other warships in the region.”
The lance corporal shook his head. “People got guns, they usually fire them.”
“There is no one else around,” the small, wiry Bruwer remarked. “Nothing else was allowed to fly to the island, of course.”
“Can you call in the military?” Grace asked.
“I can request aid but that will take time. Our mission was very low-profile.”
“Yeah, we know something about that tune,” Rivette said.
“I believe we should call my commander,” Sisula suggested. “This is, after all, his outpost.”
Grace shook her head. “Both of those options, SAN and the commander, give the Chinese a heads-up and window to finish what they’re doing. We’re wasting time now. Ensign, your commander may be ill, like your pilot. Put in a call to the civilians, please.”
“The Civil Aviation—”
“Yes,” she said. “Quickly.”
Sisula had not considered that. He pulled on his headset and adjusted the radio to the civil band. He put the audio on “speaker.” The Chinese would most likely be monitoring those communications. He had to keep this humanitarian. And not give away the fact that the Chinese had been taken prisoner.
“This is Ensign Michael Sisula at Marion Outpost calling Civil Aviation Authority aircraft,” he said. “Come in, over.”
The wind was the only thing that moved in the room. It brought wisps of gray smoke and white ash, as well as the faint, noxious smell of melted plastic—all that remained of the exploded helicopter. It reminded Rivette of junkyard fires. He chuckled inside, thinking how much training and distance had gone into putting him right back where he started.
Sisula repeated the message.
“Chinese corvette is probably going a little crazy right now, not hearing their squad,” Rivette remarked. He smiled openly. “Gotta admit, I like that.”
The answer came through muffled, pushed through a mask, Sisula presumed.
“We heard an explosion!” said a woman’s voice.
“That was a medical helicopter, destroyed by an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Inexperienced pilot,” he said with an apologetic look at Bruwer. “Our commander and his pilot from Prince Edward. They are stranded, ailing after a long night. They may have been exposed to a toxic agent. We need to evacuate them.”
“We?”
“Members of the SAN,” he fudged. “Can you carry us over? We can come back with the helicopter.”
“We are civilians,” the woman replied.
“You’re the only help around,” Sisula said. “We only need a ride from our outpost a mile east of you to the west coast of the island. You don’t even have to wait. We have a helicopter there.”
“We saw it coming in,” the woman said. “This is highly unorthodox, sir.”
“Please.”
“Wait a moment.”
The radio operator heard muted conversation on the other end. The woman had not sounded unsympathetic. Of course, Sisula also had not mentioned that Mabuza was ill with the toxin and that he did not even know if they were alive. Or that the soldiers intended, somehow, to repel the Chinese invaders.
“The pilot says he can land you near your man’s position on Prince Edward,” the woman said. “You will hear us coming. It is not a quiet aircraft we have.”
“Thank you,” Sisula said, and terminated the call. He switched back to the military wavelength. Free of the Chinese, he wanted to ascertain the commander’s status.
Behind him, Rivette gravely fist-pumped. Grace remained thoughtful.
“They’re gonna suspect you’re not SAN,” Rivette mentioned to Grace.
“Masks go back on, so maybe they’ll hesitate,” she said.
Rivette nodded then looked down at the prisoners. “We just leave these guys?”
“For now,” Grace said. “The target has to be the Chinese who were at ground zero.”
“That may be easier than you think,” a voice said over the radio.
Sisula’s expression brightened. “Caller, we are receiving.”
“Ensign, this is van Tonder,” a voice said. “I shot the hell out of their screws. The patrol boat is still there and it isn’t going anywhere. Corvette personnel arrived on dinghies, working for two hours. And if you’re listening, you goddamned Beijing pirates—get the hell off my island!”