Marion Island, South Africa
November 12, 9:00 A.M.
The Maule M-7-235C amphibious aircraft had the option of taking off on water or land, thanks to tiny wheels beneath its floats. Grace would be happy if, after this, all her takeoffs and landings could be on water.
The lieutenant borrowed a radio from Sisula and said she would contact him if they needed to talk to van Tonder.
“Just in case we’re delayed for some reason,” she said.
Rivette knew what she meant. At least, he hoped he did.
After that, Grace, Rivette, and Ryan Bruwer went to the sea ledge and made their way to the rocky beach of Crawford Bay to await the plane. Rivette was the only person of color among the three, and decided it would be best to keep his face fully exposed. The civilian pilot would be expecting an African, not an Asian or a white Boer. The rocks were largely clear of dung due to the ebbing tides though the large, round stones were slippery with seaweed and clinging foam.
“Out there is friggin’ Antarctica,” Rivette kept saying as he stood looking across the sea. The Southern California native was wriggling and moving every way he could think of to stay warm. “That’s awesome and cold.”
“She’s out there, yeah, but about two thousand miles,” Bruwer said.
“I used to stand on Santa Monica Beach and look out at the sunset and think, ‘Japan’s right out there.’” He shrugged. “Same thing. It’s a road, y’know? And a road means you can get there.”
The hum of the aircraft sent the birds scattering and the three passengers ducking. Marine mammals of various size plunked into the sea farther to the west and came slapping through the water to unbothered ground. Grace noticed that the elephant seals and varieties of fur seals mingled freely, the way the many varieties of bird had done. It took civilization to manufacture differences.
She noted that only the killer whales were shunned, with rapid right-angle twists and dives. With good reason. Seeing their sleek black-and-white skins aglow with sun and seawater, and their large, sensual dorsal fin, she was reminded of the black-and-white silk Wudang Daoist attire of her own deadly arts.
The plane cleared the bay of its indigenous life, landing with a splash as it fought the local winds. The pilot swung the aircraft around so the passengers could board.
“You’re a lifesaver, thanks,” Rivette said to the pilot as he opened the door of the passenger compartment.
The man was masked, and pointed that he could not hear through the headphones. That was just as well, Grace thought. Jaz did not sound remotely African. Sometimes he was just too exuberant.
The others boarded with their faces averted. They donned their masks and were airborne in less than a minute.
As they flew low over the mountains and rugged terrain of the island, Grace turned her eyes to smaller Prince Edward to the north. She knew the Chinese would not mistake them for South African. They had no markings or insignia to identify them as such. For all the squatters knew, they could be Russian or American.
In which case this will get messy, she thought.
The only hope to avoid a showdown lay with Commander van Tonder. She hoped he had a backbone to match that little speech he gave.
The flight took just under fifteen minutes. Grace and Rivette used the trip to try and pinpoint the Chinese positions. They saw the corvette anchored offshore but, from their position, they did not have a good view of the microbial ground zero.
The M-7 headed toward a flat plain about a half mile east of the helicopter. After making a pass, the pilot shook his head hard and pointed ahead.
He was going to have to land on the water.
He pointed toward a sloping ridge that went from the coast to the ledge where the helicopter was parked. Rivette looked at Grace, then nodded. The water landing would actually bring them closer to the target. Bruwer could make his own way up to the South African officers.
The plane passed over the eastern promontory. As it angled toward the water, Grace caught a quick glimpse of the patrol boat and Ship Rock. Moments later the plane ducked below the ridgeline and skidded to a loud, wet landing. He came as close to the coast as he was able, about twenty feet away. The compartment where the inflatable rafts would have been stored was empty; the emergency workers had already used them to reach the crashed jetliner. The three passengers were going to have to slosh to shore in the frigid, waist-high surf.
Rivette and Grace stood in the open doorway of the aircraft, pitching from side to side and back and forth as it rocked in the eddies. Grace heard him swearing behind his mask—loud enough so that she could make out the words.
She turned to him and leaned close. “I saw a Chinese patrol boat at ground zero! Have to get there!”
“How? Swim? In this cold, these currents?”
“No! I have a better idea! Remember van Tonder’s message?”
“What about it?”
Grace waved the question away. “When I move, shut the door and follow me!”
Rivette gave a thumbs-up.
Grace motioned Bruwer to stay where he was. Then she turned back into the cabin, leaned over the seat, close to the pilot, and slapped a firm, powerful hand on his mask.
“Idle the engine.”
The pilot stiffened.
“Listen to me,” Grace said. “You’re not going anywhere. Throttle down or I yank it off!”
“Don’t!” he cried, pushing in a black knob to the right of the steering column. The engine quieted.
“Do you have a raft in storage?” She cocked her head toward the area behind the back seat.
“No room—we brought medical supplies.”
“All right, then. Send an open SOS,” she ordered. “Say you’re being hijacked!”
“By who? Who are you?”
“The last person you’ll see if you don’t do as you’re told!” she said, firmly twisting his face around so he was looking up into her eyes. “Get on the radio and tell them the Chinese have taken your aircraft.”
Without looking away, the pilot fumbled for the dial on his instrument panel. The digital numbers shifted from the emergency frequency to a wider bandwidth.
“This is CAA Alpha-Seven-Five-Zero-Zed,” he said. “Chinese passengers have commandeered aircraft!”
“Tell them you’re sitting offshore of Voolkop, roughly a half mile southwest of Ship Rock, tending to their wounded!”
The pilot repeated the words and was instructed to sign off. He obliged. With one hand still on the mask, she indicated for him to shut the radio. Then she motioned for him to rise.
“Bend over the back of the seat, belly down, arms down.”
He did as he was told. He saw Rivette and was openly puzzled.
“I’m a traitor, dude!” the lance corporal said. “Sold out to the enemy.”
“All right,” Grace said, picking up on that. “I’m your translator.”
“At least something’s true,” Rivette said.
“Tie him here,” the woman went on, impressed by the improvisation. There was something to be said for street smarts.
Grace sliced off the shoulder harness from the passenger’s side and passed the straps to Rivette. He used one strap to bind the man’s wrists together then the other to tie them to the base frame of the seat. There was not enough room on top for the man to climb over.
“Don’t worry,” Grace said to the frightened man. “Unless you become aggressive, you will survive.”
“He can shout through the mask,” Rivette pointed out.
“They won’t hear him with the wind, surf, and propeller.”
The lieutenant moved around Rivette as he tested the man’s bonds. She went to the door and looked out. The end of the island was about a quarter mile to the northeast. There was no way the crew of the patrol boat could fail to investigate the call. Unable to contact anyone at the outpost, and probably hearing van Tonder’s broadcast, they would assume their men had been forced to vacate, perhaps with wounded, and hijacked a plane to get away.
Even if they suspect it’s a lie, they have to come, Grace thought.
The sway and bob of the boat was a chance for the woman to practice centering, balance as she waited. Rivette went over to Bruwer.
“I think the plan is to not let them see you or the pilot,” Rivette said. “You got a pocketknife?”
The man pulled a switchblade from his hip pocket.
“Not standard SAN issue, I’m guessing?” Rivette grinned.
“Volatile land, still,” he said. “Sometimes you have to surprise your own people.”
The American looked around, saw a life preserver. “So how about I tie you to a seat and you cut free when we’re gone?”
“Sounds good, though that doesn’t give me much to do.”
“You got comrades up the cliff,” Rivette said. “When this is over, however it goes, maybe you can help them.”
“I like that.” Bruwer offered his hand. “Thank you and totsiens, as my ancestors used to say.”
“Is that good-bye?”
“More accurately, farewell,” Bruwer told him.
“How would I say hello in something from here?”
“In isiZulu?”
“That works.”
“Sawubona,” Bruwer told him.
The helicopter pilot returned to his seat and let Rivette tie him with a cord from a life preserver which was still attached.
“Dude may get shot or frozen, but at least he won’t drown!” Rivette said when he reached Grace’s side.
The warm air of the cabin was a comfort and Grace let it soak in. Hopefully, they would not be enjoying it for very long.
She was right.
“Damn!” Rivette said as he saw what she saw. “My partner is a magician!”
Ahead, churning ahead on a sea of bright-white waters, was a dinghy with an armed complement of four seamen.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“That depends on them!” Grace replied. “Just follow my lead!”