129

 

STANFORD UNIVERSITY, 1:00 P.M.

Dan arrived at Stanford, parked up the Ducati in the lee of the building, out of the worst gusts of wind. He rang Riley. Her assistant, Art, butch in tight t-shirt and jeans, met him and led him into the underground facility.

He checked his cell. Three missed calls. All from the same number. He rang it. He saw Riley barreling toward him as the call went through. He leaned forward, kissed her cheek, held up a hand, mouthed “wait up!”

His call was answered.

“Dan?”

“Admiral.”

“Old friend. What’s up?”

Dan felt the flood of memories wash over him. SOCOM. That voice, surprisingly soft; it conjured sand, flies, snow-capped mountains, blood and camaraderie.

Moving out of earshot, talking softly, Dan reported what he knew, omitting to mention the dead bodies. All evidence would be washed away by the storm; always a silver lining, he thought ruefully.

SOCOM, Jack Meade, listened, blew out a breath as Dan finished.

“You’re a lightning conductor, Dan. Always were. A magnet for trouble.”

“Yeah, and not for babes sadly.”

“And a bullshit artist! You’ll have a plan. What is it?”

“Plan A, capture the bastards. My guess is that they’ll be on this super-yacht my source mentioned. Don’t know its name. Owned by Sheikh Ali Al Baharna. Get on board, get the computer, shut down the operation. Plan B, get the Air Force in and shoot down the drones. Shoot the yacht to hell.”

“Nice. I’ll make some calls.”

“Oh, and I might have a favor to ask. I’m here at ARk Storm Central in Stanford. Might have to convince one of the coheads that I’m not a certified lunatic. Think you can do that for me?”

“You’re mad as a coon, Dan,” laughed the man, adding, “put me onto the bastard right now.”