SIXTEEN
Eddie Seng nudged the bow of the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat, or RHIB, onto the narrow beach a half mile up the peninsula from Vlorë Castle. It scuffed the sand with a sound barely louder than the nearly silent electric motor that he was using instead of the powerful twin outboard diesels that could push the RHIB over fifty knots. The boat was specifically designed for use by Special Forces around the world and allowed Eddie, Franklin Lincoln, and Mike Trono to remain unseen and unheard from the castle.
With heavy cloud cover blotting out the crescent moon, the midnight landing was so dark that the three of them wore night vision goggles. Eddie shut off the motor while Linc and Trono anchored the RHIB to a rock. Dressed all in black, they were difficult to see even with the goggles. Without a word, they grabbed their packs and weapons and crept up a switchback path, worn into the side of the hill, leading up to the road.
At the top, Eddie peered over the edge. Pocked asphalt stretched to the castle a half mile in one direction and to a small town five miles the other way, where the peninsula jutted from the mainland. Potent spotlights around the castle gate and easy sight lines from the battlements made a land approach suicide. But visibility from those lights ended a quarter mile away from them, so Eddie was confident they’d go undetected.
No cars were in sight.
“Clear,” Eddie said quietly into his throat mic pressing against his neck.
Eddie and Linc took up prone positions, Eddie aiming his M4 assault rifle toward the castle and Linc facing the town. Eddie nodded at Trono, who raced across the road and started climbing the telephone pole. Using crampons attached to his boots and a belt slung around the wooden pole, he scurried up as easily as a squirrel.
“Look at him go,” Linc said. “Those flyboys love heading for the sky.”
Mike Trono, slender of build and with fine brown hair peeking out from under his wool hat, had served in the Air Force as a pararescue jumper, and then raced powerboats to get his adrenaline fix, before joining the Corporation. Being one of the few non–Navy veterans on board the Oregon made him the frequent target of ribbing.
“‘Aim high’ is our motto,” Trono said into his mic as he hoisted himself up. “Linc, what’s the Navy motto? Oh, right, it doesn’t have an official one.”
“Don’t need it,” Linc said. “That’s how much more awesome we are than the Air Force.”
That got a small chuckle from Trono, who was now at the top of the pole.
“I see power, telephone, and fiber-optic lines,” he said.
“The fiber-optic line gives them a fast Internet connection for their hacking activities.”
“Not for much longer,” Trono said. “Planting the C-4.”
After a few minutes, Trono announced that the charges were in place and climbed back down. He took up watch while Linc jogged a hundred yards in the direction of town to lay low-reflection spike strips across the road.
Eddie took out his binoculars and trained them on the Albanian Coast Guard base at the end of the harbor next to town. There were two patrol craft tied to the dock, but no large cutter. Eddie couldn’t see any movement.
When Linc was done, he jogged back, and the three of them crouched down along the side of the road.
Eddie keyed his encrypted shore-to-ship radio.
“Welcome Wagon here,” he said to Hali, who was manning communications on the other end in the Oregon’s op center. “The reception committee is all set. Let the Chairman know he can start the party.”
—
The Nomad 1000 submarine hovered in its spot next to the castle, submerged at periscope depth. Already in his drysuit, Juan stood behind Max, who was piloting the sub. The view from the periscope’s remote camera showed no one on the wall, looking down at them.
“Hali tells me that Eddie and his team are in place and set,” Max said.
Juan checked his watch. “Right on schedule.”
“Eddie is a stickler for punctuality.” Max turned to look at Juan with a serious expression. “After you’re away, I’d like to hang around. Just in case. Linda doesn’t need me.” Linda was back on the Oregon in command of the ship.
“I need you to get back to the Oregon and stow Nomad. Once we nab Whyvern, we’ll have to get out of here pronto, and Nomad’s built for comfort, not speed.”
The sixty-five-foot-long Nomad could dive to a depth of one thousand feet and had an onboard air lock, perfect for clandestine insertions like the one they were about to attempt. She looked like a miniaturized version of a nuclear sub, with a polycarbonate nose, where Max sat, and robotic claws jutting from the chin. Including a pilot and copilot, she had room for up to ten people.
Juan slapped Max on the shoulder and went into the passenger compartment. Gretchen, Murph, and MacD Lawless were making their final preparations.
Gretchen and Murph were on the mission for their expertise in finance and computers, while MacD was along for his skills as a former U.S. Army Ranger. MacD was short for his middle name, MacDougal, which he liked marginally better than his first name, Marion. Muscular and blessed with a face of a heartthrob—though his features were now covered with black greasepaint like the others—he gave Gomez Adams a close race in the good-looks department.
As he pulled on his dry