Safia struggled with the wheel, turning hard and the truck tipped for a few feet, then slammed down. The tireless wheel screamed with sparks, riding on the rims.
“That was fun.”
Armored vehicles swarmed in behind the last, knocking the downed rover and barreling hard toward them. Christ. They’d get blown out of their seats any second.
“Come on, baby,” she coaxed the smoking truck. “Just a little further.”
“To where?”
“There,” she said, nodding to the hills.
On a high slope, he saw flickering movement, the endless black sky growing lighter as a helicopter lifted over the mountains. It swept near and illuminated a line of trucks and tanks cresting the hill ahead of it. NATO forces. Ooh-rah.
Behind them, the renegade patrol raced, the convoy grown in size, and he heard the scrape of a tank turret. They were trapped between.
“Time to bail!” She hit the breaks, and he jumped out, helping Sam.
She grabbed the radio and shouted into it. He didn’t understand a syllable. A moment later, the gun ships launched duel rockets. The noise deafened as they whizzed past and impacted in the tank’s turret. Orange-red fire erupted, the explosion peeled open the metal, sending chunks fifty feet into the sky. It was close enough that he felt the heat of the flames.
Shouldering Sam, Riley hurried to the small clearing, the chopper rotors beating the air and smashing trees and grass as the pilot set it down swiftly. Two helmeted men ran toward them. Then above and behind the chopper, two more gunships rose over the hillside and swept forward. The cavalry’s here . The aircrafts laid down cover fire, and the Marines took Sam, helping him in the chopper.
He turned to her. “Come with us!”
She shook her head, the wind tearing her scarves free. “Still have to fight the good fight.” She didn’t smile, then grabbed him close. In his ear, she said clearly, “Ask yourself, why no rescue launch when he went down so close to the border.”
His muscles tightened and he scowled at her, their faces close.
“Your radio was enough to track you.” Then she brushed her mouth across his as she forced paper into his palm. “Watch your back, Irish.” She turned away.
“Safia!” But she was running into the fight.
A Marine grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we got to go!” Riley threw himself in as rocket-propelled grenades launched, fifty calibers ripped across the Serb fighters, cutting anything in half. The chopper lifted off. Below, the ground was alive with battle. Flames and smoke stirred.
He searched for Safia and prayed she was fast on her feet, yet even after someone handed him headphones, he still couldn’t turn away. The chopper climbed higher, and he pulled his legs inside. A medic hovered over Sam on a stretcher as the aircraft banked.
Riley fell back against the bulkhead and opened his hand.
It was a dollar bill, American. He spread it.
In black ink, one word defaced it. Fundraiser.
Two
6°21´ N, 134°28´E,
Sonsoral Islands, Philippine Sea
The barrier islands scattered like strings of torn white lace mixed with plots of lush green. This one looked like a Chia Pet growing in the middle of the ocean, Riley thought. Storms had eroded the shore till there was little more than a small stretch of beach maybe seventy-five yards wide, but it dropped off into deep water. The rubber motorboat floated on the outer rim of the reef, and with his hand on the rudder, he idled as he watched the men emerge on shore. At high tide, they could swim over the jagged reef and while Jim Clatt wanted to go alone, Riley was on board the research ship to make sure the boatload of geeks didn’t do anything stupid.
It was a surprisingly easy job.
Walking alongside Jim was his twenty-year-old research assistant, Derek. The kid was having a blast sailing on the high seas before his senior year and facing the real world. When the pair turned to wave, Riley tapped his dive watch as a reminder. One hour and the tides would rapidly change. The rip current wasn’t too bad, but getting across the barrier reef would be nearly impossible until high tide. He didn’t think the bone diggers wanted to be stuck there all night. He heeled the rubber boat around on a swell of white water and headed back to the research ship.
Two hundred miles east of the Philippines and about a hundred south of Palau, the islands were small, mostly uninhabited, a couple acres at best, and during the rainy season, they were a few feet underwater. Riley didn’t know what the pair thought they’d find, but he doubted much of anything could have survived the last round of typhoons.
Cabin fever, he figured. They needed to be on land. Riley knew if he set foot on solid ground, it would take him another day to regain his sea legs again. He’d rather skip shoving his face in the commode any day. At Derek’s age, it was the reason he’d joined the Marines and not the Navy. Years ago and too old to look back, he thought as he steered the boat alongside the 180-foot white research vessel.
From the deck of The Traveler , a technician waved acknowledgment, then swung the rail gate aside. After he secured the rubber boat, Riley slung a small duffle across his body, then climbed the steel ladder forged into the hull of the ship. He stepped through the opened gate in time to see his older sister give orders, her Irish accent a wee heavier. It seemed to charm the lads. He wasn’t fooled. Of his four sisters, she was the tyrant of the lot.
Yet he smiled just the same. Bridget was in her glory. A marine biologist with her doctorate in marine archaeology, she was the head of an expedition to gather data on the effects of the 2006 tsunami on the Pacific marine life. Her fully funded gig came with equipment, technicians, a botanist, an archaeologist, a climatologist, and a ship’s staff. Partnered with her was his brother-in-law, Travis McFadden, an oceanographer. The man smiled an awful lot for someone who stared at weather patterns most of the time, but Trav and his sister had raised three boys, all in college, and from the looks of them lately, they were reviving their twenty-three-year-old marriage like honeymooners. Best not go there, he thought and looked back toward the shore.
Because of the depth, the ship was anchored a quarter mile from the reef. Standing at the prow out of the way of activity, he unzipped his waterproof duffle and drew out binoculars, sighting in on the two men. The pair was still inspecting the shore of sea-battered coral less than ten yards deep. A storm had raged across this area only two days ago, what did they think was left?
He followed them as they strolled toward a towering rock formation half shrouded in palms and betel nut trees and he didn’t lower the glasses until they walked into the forest. Their steps were awkwardly high over the untouched vegetation as Jim swung a machete.
Then they were gone, swallowed into the darkness.
Jim Clatt liked that he was probably the first person to be here in centuries. He felt like the only person in the world. Derek was fortunately a quiet young man, his music tastes not withstanding. Jim brushed at the rocks, sweeping powdery white sand and dirt, smiling when the fossil emerged.
Then just as quickly, Jim felt a ripple of unease move down his spine that wasn’t there a moment ago. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the fossilized snail. The air was suddenly very still. He glanced back toward the ship, yet through the dense foliage, he could see only splashes of white shore and blues skies.
“Derek?”
When he didn’t respond, Jim looked to his right. A few yards away, the young man was frozen, staring into the forest.
He didn’t look at Jim as he said, “There’s something in there.”
“Impossible. Monsoons would drown anything out.”
But