Passage Graves (18 page)

Chapter 45

THURSDAY 3:05 p.m.

Stenness Basecamp

Orkney, Scotland

“Come on, David,” Thatcher grumbled. She sat in the helm, staring up at a live visual fee
d of Maeshowe. “Where are you?”

Her cell phone continued to ring. She had lost contact with him the moment he had boarded a plane to Greece. Her mind raced with worry. The countdown clock over her head didn’t help. It was a constant reminder of their rapidly
declining timeline. They were only fourteen hours away from Operation Standing Wave. Acoustic weapons modeled after Sonja had been strategically positioned at each active gravesite. It was only a matter of time before they learned if their plan would work.

Marek sat
beside her and rubbed her shoulders.

Thatcher shrugged him off. She
clipped the phone to her belt. “I’m not in a good mood,” she warned, rubbing her temples.

H
e held his hands up in surrender.

She stood up to leave.

Marek grabbed her arm. “Come on.” He made a sad face until she sat back down.

“This doesn’t mean I forg
ive you,” she clarified.

“Of course not,” he agreed.
He began inputting numbers for the sequencing of Operation Standing Wave into his computer.

“You were insubordinate a
nd disrespectful.”

“I know.”

“In front of people who should trust my command.”

“Yup.”

She sighed and some of her frustration evaporated. It was hard to stay angry at Marek, and he knew it.

“Save a girl’s life and thi
s is the thanks I get.”

Her face straightened as they both remembered Bailey and Golke.

“That’s gratitude for ya…” he trailed off.

“I’m sure this is your version of an apology,” she said, staring at his computer scre
en.

“Yes it is.” He typed in more direc
tions. “So what happens when everything we’re doing doesn’t work?”

Thatcher shook her head. She c
ouldn’t go there. She couldn’t fathom the consequences of Operation Standing Wave failing.

Her cell phone vibrated and she sprang out of her chair. S
he answered the phone. “David?”

Hummer’s voice
rumbled over the speaker. “Why isn’t your radio on? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last hour and a half.”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t get through,” she lied, looking down at the CB radio communicator strapped to her forearm. The power light was switched off. She shrugged
at Marek.

The CBs felt more like
human tracking devices than communication tools. Another of Lee’s ideas. They destroyed all sense of privacy. Anyone could reach you at anytime, anywhere.

Thatcher hesitantly switched it back on.

“I don’t like waiting,” Hummer said. “I need you to be available.”

Marek clicked
his tongue at her disapprovingly.

“Meet me in my
office in five,” Hummer ordered and hung up.

“I’
ll be right there.” She stood and straightened her suit. “Duty calls.”

Marek gave her a mock salute.

She couldn’t help but smile as she headed down the corridor towards Hummer’s personal quarters. Marek was the closest thing she had to a friend.

Chapter 46

THURSDAY 3:19 p.m.

Aegean Sea, Greece

The fishing boat powered eastward across the A
egean Sea, cutting through rolling waves of choppy saltwater. Thunderheads loomed overhead. A small crew of Greek fishermen chatted nervously as they prepared the vessel for the threatening waters. Rain began to shower the deck, and as the downpour increased, David took shelter below one of the bulkheads. He pulled his jacket up over his head and blew warm air into his hands.

The boat lurched sideways and then backward. The unsynchronized movement tugged
and pulled at his empty stomach. Foam-capped waves collided with the portside, and everything tipped again, driving him to his knees. Obviously, this wasn’t the best time of year to cruise the Mediterranean.

He held his stomach as another
swell burst over the starboard side. His focus changed from seasickness to the sounds of the arguing fishermen. They spoke in a form of slang Greek he couldn’t recognize, yelling at each other over the wind. They were pointing at something in the water off the starboard railing.

David forced himself
to his feet.

Waves rolled beneath them. Electric lanterns swung wildly at their posts. A
s the day darkened, the headlight from the navigation cabin flashed on and searched the sea, failing to penetrate more than fifty feet.

David blinked away rain and stared into the sea. Water joined blustery sky in an unintelligible transition
—all he could see was a collage of stormy blue.

The
boat tipped into the valley of a swell, and a yacht appeared near the base of the wave. The seventy-foot fiberglass boat bobbed violently in the water. The decks were dark.

The fishing
boat’s horn wailed three times.

After a minute,
a terrible grinding noise roared below deck. The fishing boat’s motor adjusted into reverse, riding the waves as they passed along the bow of the yacht.

The shouting abruptly stopped.

David stepped away from the bulkhead. What were they looking at?

He moved to the railing. T
he yacht’s forward helm was nothing but rubble, and its charred fiberglass top deck a mere skeleton of splintered boards, melted glass, and twisted metal. The entire right side of the craft sunk inward. It looked as if it had been hit by an airborne missile. The frame had collapsed in on itself, and half of the deck dropped into the hull. How it stayed afloat, he had no idea.

The men threw a towrope over the yacht’s stern
. They secured the line to the fishing boat. Commandeering an abandoned yacht would prove far more valuable than taking David to Patmos.

“What about Patmos
?” David yelled over the storm.

A wave slammed the ships together, washing
onboard and toppling everyone.

One of the
fishermen helped David to his feet. He pointed beyond the yacht at a rocky coastline. “Patmos! Patmos!”

“I need to go there!” David poi
nted at the island. “Kai Patmos!”

All he knew
was the dead form of the Greek language. Who knew if he was making any sense?

The man
joined the others to secure another tow line.

Waves pulled the two vessels apart and t
he tow ropes tightened, turning the yacht’s stern into view. David leaned over the railing and shielded his eyes from the pounding rain. Large black letters were painted across the hull: ABADDON.

The
Polaroid from Brenton’s office.

He pulled the picture from
his pocket. Thatcher had pointed it out days ago. The words in the background of the photo were identical—but it didn’t say, ADDOI. It said Abaddon.

“That’s their boat…” His words were drowned out by the fishing boat engine.

The two vessels lurched sideways, tipping toward each other as the towropes tightened. There was a terrible crack. The Abaddon stayed in place. She was anchored.

One of the ropes began to unravel.

“
Stamata
!” The men yelled at the captain in the navigation room.

The fishing boat shuddered as the engine stalled
. They kept tipping toward the Abaddon. The current pulled the hulls apart, but the ropes held the top decks together.

David clung to the railin
g as the boat leaned sideways. The fishermen madly cut through the ropes. A few of the bindings released with a snap and fell overboard.

There was a loud cough as the motor sputtered again
. It started, pushing the fishing boat closer to the yacht.

The men argued over the storm.
They were going to try to pull up the anchor.

David
grabbed the man who had pointed to Patmos. “Pull up the anchor! I need to get on there!” He tried translating into Greek. “
Ten anchuran dunamai anelkein
!”

The fishermen nodded in agreemen
t. They would board the vessel.

More ropes were thrown over the yacht’s starboard.
Soon, the Abaddon was harnessed, this time at the bow and stern. The gap narrowed between the boats, and the youngest fisherman climbed over the railing. He waited for a swell to smash the hulls together. The boats connected, and he jumped onto the yacht, rolling on the wet floorboards, and steadying himself. He turned and motioned for David to follow. “
Ela! Ela!
”

David tucked the Polaroid into his pocket and climbed over
the rail. His hands were shaking. His soaked clothes clung to his body, constricting his ability to move. The hulls crashed together, and a spray exploded off the wave cap into his eyes. His hands slipped off the railing, and he nearly toppled into the crevasse.

The fisherme
n pulled him back upright.

“
Ela pidikste!
” The man who helped him to his feet signaled for David to jump when the hulls came together.

D
avid nodded, his chest heaving.

The swell lifted both vessels high into
the air. The railings collided.

“
Ela pidikste!
”

Da
vid leapt off the fishing boat.

The hulls split apart. His fingers slipped across the wet metal of the yacht’s railing.
He felt his body drop. A sickening sensation of adrenaline rushed to his stomach. He closed his eyes, waiting for the icy sea.

A hand caught his wrist.

David twisted midair and slammed against the side of the Abaddon. Brenton’s Polaroid toppled out of his pocket and disappeared in the waves.

The f
oaming seawater lifted the Abaddon and propelled the hulls together again.

David scrambled
over the railing, landing on the deck as the boats connected.

The youngest fisherman crouched over him, shieldi
ng him from the downpour. “Okay?”

David nodded. His breath came in short, desperate bursts. There was a sharp pain in his ribs. The P
olaroid—
his only lead
—was gone.

They looked
over at the mangled cabin door. It hung in pieces inside the warped and slanted frame. Its splintered surface was peppered with holes, but there were no bullets or shells on the deck. It looked as though someone had shot up the door from the inside with a high caliber rifle and then hacked through the remainder with the blunt edge of an ax.

There was an opening large enough for them to slip in sideways, and a narrow passage of stairs that led to the upp
er deck of the navigation helm. As they headed up the stairs, the fisherman switched on his flashlight. “
Panaya mou!
”

He fell
into David.

Wind whipped around the uppermost landing.
The ceiling was missing, blown completely off. Sleet swirled into the bridge. The once seamless windows were melted inward and liquefied into glass crystals across what remained of the floor. Most of the room had collapsed onto the bottom deck. The captain’s chair still stood at the center like a mountain precipice, but was reduced to a scorched metal frame.

The fisherman
ran the flashlight along the wall behind them.

Hundreds of shards of
glass jutted out, having punctured the wall like daggers hurled with enough speed to penetrate four inches of wood. Water dripped from the ceiling, drawing their attention to the perforated roof. The same thing: Swiss cheese fiberglass and wood dotted with projectile glass.

David flinched as the helm’s radio eq
uipment suddenly blared static.

Its po
wer light flickered off and on.

They headed into the passage that extended toward the stern. The
floor was wet, and their feet slipped as the yacht rocked side to side. The first door along the hallway had been ripped from its hinges. It lay in pieces on the cabin floor. The entire outer starboard wall was missing, blown away by the same powerful explosion that collapsed the helm. The standing walls were burned black.

David followed the flashlight into the adjacent cabin and found
another door blown inward. Nothing but splinters on the rain soaked floor. There wasn’t going to be much left to salvage.

The
passage ended at a closed door.

David tried to
turn the handle. It was locked.

“
Echei kati to meros afto
.” The fisherman’s face turned dead white. He stepped back toward the navigation bridge, but kept the flashlight raised over his head and pointed at the closed door. “
No. No. Mi to aniksis
.”

David twisted the doorknob again. It
broke off cleanly at the base. The metal melted to a thin sparkling crust that crumbled in his fingers.

“
Demones echi
!” The fisherman stumbled backwards.

David noticed the door was
reduced to the same miniscule particles of luminous ash. He kicked the wood. With a single thrust, his foot popped through as if it was cardboard. His shoe landed on the floor of the cabin.

“
Fevgo re, trelos ise
.” The fisherman’s light barely reached the cabin door.

David kicked open a hole large enough for his body. He crawled through, his hands sinking into a bed of soot that bla
nketed the floor. He yelled back through the door. “Give me the light!”

The fisherman didn’t move.

David tried ancient Greek, hoping something would translate. “
To fos... moi didou
!”

The flashlight
slid to him across the hallway floor.

Pulling it through the hole, David tur
ned to face the room. Six inches of ash covered the floor. Every surface including the ceiling was charred black. He touched the starboard wall. The hull surface crumbled beneath his fingertips. Pushing harder against the fiberglass, his hand broke through to the outside.

Beyond the yacht, waves crashed against the shore of Patmos. The island was only a hundred feet away. Swells exploded over
the volcanic rocks that guarded the coast. It would be a death sentence to try and swim ashore.

Something didn’t feel right
. Patmos had not been that close earlier. They were drifting. The anchor must have detached from the boat.

The yacht lurched sideways.

David fell to the floor. His hands
landed in the blanket of ash, sending tiny gray particles into the air. The cloud burned his eyes. He dropped the flashlight and grabbed his face.

The fishermen
were yelling outside.

He
forced open his eyes long enough to find the hole in the door. He climbed into the passageway, pulled himself to his feet, and stumbled to the open deck.

The men’s yells sounded
more distant as he staggered through the navigation room and down the stairwell. Wind swept through the narrow compartment. He fumbled for the broken cabin door, groping for the hole at its center. He slipped outside, rubbing his eyes. His corneas burned. The rain beat against his face.

He caught a
blurry glance of the fishermen and ran to the railing. His eyes were swelling shut. Soon he wouldn’t be able to see at all. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

They had cut the towlines. The fishing boat
was disappearing behind the monstrous tide. Its engine roared to life, propelling them further from David.

There was nothing he could do
. He rubbed madly at his eyes. The blurred vision of Patmos’s rocky crags was only a few feet from the Abaddon’s stern. Herculean waves were pushing the yacht ashore.

A shadow
moved behind him on the deck.