by Ralph Kern
“You know how compromised we are,” Grayson said. “They could know who you are, what you are.”
“Maybe, but this is an absolute gift.” Bradley lay her fork aside. “He’s letting people in with only the most basic of checks.”
“I don’t like this,” Dillon said. “You’ll be cut off, in the middle of whatever’s going on. There’ll be no coms, and no backup. You get made, there’s every chance you’ll be in for a real hard time.”
Grayson nodded in agreement. They’d all been around the block enough to know what “hard time” meant. Hell, he’d even had cause to administer some extreme questioning himself on occasion. It was never pleasant, and could be terminal.
“I can take care of myself. But I thank you for your concern. Look, I’ll go to this audition, see if I can get any info, then make my excuses and pull out. At least we can get some inkling of what he’s looking for.”
“Okay, fine.” Grayson held his hands up in surrender. “You’re a big girl. You cover this, Max and I will stealth the Osiris. Just, be careful, alright?”
***
“Ready?”
Bradley looked gorgeous in her little black dress, showing off her athletic figure. To say it was damn distracting was an understatement. Dillon had been keeping his eyes forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white while Grayson tried to look everywhere but at her.
“Darling,” she had emphasized her accent, turning it from a soft London twang, to full-on BBC newsreader Pronunciation. “I was born ready.”
The silver Mercedes Benz GLC coupe they’d hired specifically for this one taxi run rolled up to the entrance of the hotel. Grayson stepped out, moved around to the back, and opened the door.
“Thank you,” she said as he led her out by the hand.
“Just be careful, Celia.” He let go of her as she breezed past him. “No risks.”
Grayson shook his head as the woman disappeared into the hotel and slipped back into the car.
***
The doors slid open, revealing the marbled interior of the hotel. She quashed the butterflies which tickled her tummy. Confidence, that was what she needed to project.
“Madam,” the concierge looked her up and down appreciatively. “Do you have an invitation?”
“I’m afraid not. One of my friends, Clarice, couldn’t make it. She suggested I come in her place, you know, check it out.”
“And what is your name, madam?”
“Lia,” Bradley lied smoothly. It was close enough to her name that if she gave a slip of the tongue, she could bluff it was an abbreviation of her actual name. “Lia Jones.”
The concierge’s eyes flicked to a musclebound man who stood along the counter. He looked at her, this time less appreciatively, more critically, before giving a nod. Bradley quickly sized him up. Fit, military bearing. A distinct bulge under his jacket. Yes, this man screamed private military contractor, just like Grayson had encountered at the Carlton Club.
“If you’d like to follow Emmanuelle? She’ll guide you to the room,” the concierge said, gesturing at a woman dressed in what looked to be a geisha’s kimono.
This is taking tacky to whole new levels.
She followed the silent woman into an elevator, and before long reached the top floor. The doors slid open, revealing a small atrium before the penthouse suite. Two more guards stood by the door, cut from the same cloth as the one downstairs, and similarly packing heat.
One of them opened the door as Emmanuelle retreated.
“Right through,” one of the guards said, his accent containing an unmistakable Russian lilt. Wakefield’s been recruiting far and wide.
The palatial lounge of the penthouse was filled with girls, some looking nervous, some giving the same breezy sense of confidence that Bradley knew she must be portraying. It was clear what the majority of these attractive ladies were, and acting was a big part of it.
“Champagne?” A tuxedoed waiter proffered a small tray to her.
“Thank you.” She took a flute and sipped on it while glancing around. Spotting a stool nearby, she lowered herself on it and crossed her legs. Some of the girls gazed each other, some with open hostility, others more sangfroid.
A few more drifted in until the room filled to capacity. The guards maintained their watchfulness, not letting themselves get distracted. These boys and girls were definitely professionals, through and through.
The door opened again. Wakefield himself entered, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “Evening, evening, evening, ladies. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
He swiped a flute form the waiter and took a sip as he began circling the room. “Sadly, I don’t have a lot of time, so let me tell you exactly what you’ve signed up for here. We need a few of you to accompany us on a little voyage on my newly refitted baby. The good ship Osiris.”
He stepped close to a girl and looked her up and down, his lips twitching in a smile. “Just to get you thinking, recompense will be good, and let’s be honest, an all-expenses trip on a nice big yacht ain’t the kind of offer that comes up every day.”
He turned to another girl, briefly holding her gaze before she looked down demurely. “Clearly standards are going to be high, so not everyone’s gonna make the grade, I’m afraid.”
He turned to one of the guards. “Line ’em up, let them come two by two.” He gave a chuckle, as if he’d said something witty. “We need to get this wrapped up quick.”
***
Bradley watched the girls go into the room Wakefield had disappeared into. She didn’t consider herself a feminist, her own views were somewhat more meritocratic. But any person being treated like cattle was offensive to her sensibilities. Some of the girls came out of the room off the lounge looking happy. Others angry or disappointed.
“You two, next.”
She stood, placing her glass on the side and, along with a gorgeous young girl who looked as if she could model for a high-fashion line, walked through the door.
“Ladies.” Wakefield sat reclining in a chair, swirling a glass of something amber. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m getting a little immunized to hot women right now. You’re really gonna have to dazzle me.”
He stood and walked to Bradley and her new companion, circling them. She stayed looking resolutely forward. Without warning, she felt his hand gripping her bottom. It wasn’t sensual, more appraising. She couldn’t help herself, she turned and swatted his hand away.
Wakefield raised an eyebrow at her, his hand still down at arse level.
Shit. Her instinctive reaction may have blown this. She had to turn this around quickly. “Did I give you permission to touch me?”
Wakefield lips twitched in a smile. “Nope, but let’s just say, I’m used to getting what I want. And you, I’m afraid, are a little older than what I’d want.”
Bradley stepped forward and prowled in a circle around him in turn. His eyes tracked her until she disappeared behind him.
“And what about what I want, Conrad?” She stepped close to him and whispered in his ear as she grasped one of his buttocks and gave it a squeeze in the same appraising manner he had. “And what I want is a private tour of your ship.”
She released her grip and stepped forward, coming back into his line of sight.
“And when you give me one...” Bradley let her eyes settle on the other woman. “I’d like this young lady with us.”
Wakefield met her eyes for a long second, his own cold. A smile stretched across his face. “I change my mind! I think I do like you. Milo, sign these two up. Looks like this one can keep the others in check.”
A man sitting cross-legged in a chair to one side of the room made a note on his tablet.
Bradley let her head tilt imperiously at Wakefield.
“Remember though, darling.” Wakefield reached up and stroked her face. “I like feisty, but not too feisty.”
Bradley turned to the other girl. “As d
o I.”
Wakefield gave a low chuckle and clapped his hands.
The man on the chair, Milo, stood and walked to the door, opening it. “Thank you, ladies. If you would kindly wait next door.”
***
“Thank you for your time.” Wakefield smiled as he walked into the room. “For those who were unsuccessful? Better luck next time.”
“Thank you. Those not selected, please leave now.” Milo filtered in behind Wakefield and gestured at the door. One of the guards opened it. The girls filed out, some looking angry, some upset.
When they had left, Wakefield sat on the edge of a desk, looking over the room. “Ladies, I have to say, our timescale has been moved up. We’re going to be leaving in two days, possibly sooner. As such, this is it. You’ll be staying in this hotel from here on out.”
“But I need to pack shit!” one of the girls called out.
“Well, you didn’t show off that potty mouth in the interview, did you?” Wakefield smirked at her. “But in answer to your concerns, fear not, here’s a bit of a sweetener. A personal shopper will be coming here, taking your orders and sizes, and getting you everything you’ll need. So I suggest you start writing a list.”
The girl who had spoken up seemed mollified, if only slightly.
“There is one other delicate subject.” Wakefield gestured with his hand. “No communication other than one last approved message to family, guards, pimps, or whatever. Milo here will be taking your phones off you and you’ll get them back at the end of your holiday. Discretion and all that jazz.”
Shit. It was only to be expected. But still, Bradley had hoped to at least get to go back to the others first.
Chapter Sixteen – The Present
“I’ll only be gone a few hours, not a few weeks.” Laurie laughed as she slipped her arms into her jacket. “And yes, I am going to go to the loo before we take off.”
“This is the furthest anyone’s been out.” Jack followed her out of their bedroom into the lounge area of their suite, feeling like a puppy whose owner was going away for the day. Reynolds sat at the table, reading a report on his laptop with a bemused smile on his face. “So, I’m sorry I feel a little worried.”
“Isn’t it my job to be all protective when it comes to my daughter?” Reynolds butted in.
“Listen, you two. I’m a big girl.” Laurie turned to Jack and kissed him on the lips. “Besides, Mack and Perry will be there to keep me out of trouble.”
“Or get you into trouble,” Jack grumbled as he took hold of her arms.
“Well, Mack might, but Perry is far too sensible.”
“You have a point there.” Jack smiled. “Look, just make sure you take care out there.”
Laurie gave an approximation of a salute before grabbing her sports water bottle from the table.
***
“So, you’re cheating on us?”
The aircrew briefing room was a tiny space near the hanger which also doubled as the crew rest space. It contained little more than a 55-inch LED TV for briefings and a few threadbare seats facing toward it. Adorning the bulkheads was the paraphernalia of flight crews the world over. Photos taken while on flights, broken helicopter components each with a story to tell, and flags from every country they’d visited operationally. Shelves ran against the bulkheads, containing a mix of blu-rays and well-thumbed books. It made the place seem less a sterile gray chamber, and more like a clubhouse.
“Boys, I have a free pass. And sometimes a lady just needs to let her hair down.” Mack patted the springy black curls of her hair.
“But...” Hank leaned back on his chair and gave a look of distaste at Donovan, who stood in front of the TV. “Really?”
“Gentlemen,” Donovan said in an uncommonly firm voice. “I don’t normally like to be that officer but...”
Hank rolled his eyes, and not subtly.
“You heard the commander.” Mack shouted, causing Hank and Mike Phillips to rock back in their chairs. Mack gave a fleeting wink, out of view of Donavan from where she stood. “Let’s have a little decorum in front of a senior officer before I strap you to my tail rotor and let you spin, you sorry excuses for sailors.”
“Please, that’s really not necessary, Lieutenant.” Donovan held up his hand.
“Why, I have half a mind to ritually beat your asses with a piece of two by four until you learn some respect. In fact, Hank, bring me my goddamn hitting stick and drop your pants, you—”
“I think they’re on notice,” Donovan interrupted. “We can forgo the punishment.”
“If you insist, sir.” Mack nodded, trying to keep the smirk from her face, something Hank Doolidge was patently struggling to manage at Mack’s exaggerated performance. “In which case, consider yourself forgiven. Now, you two. I need you to get back to the mainland and strip out the rudder array. I want Seahawk 1-2 flying again. ASAP.”
“As for you, sir,” Mack continued, gesturing toward the locker room. “I’m sure we’ve got a zoom bag somewhere which will fit you.”
“A zoom bag?” Donovan asked.
“A flight suit.”
“Ah, okay.”
The hatch clanged open as Donovan entered the tiny cupboard-sized space which doubled as their changing area. Mack looked at the other two and raised her eyebrow.
“Really, ma’am?” Hank repeated, the scowl of distaste back on his face.
“Yeah, really.” Mack sighed.
***
“You sit there, and you there.” Mack pointed at two uncomfortable plastic seats in the main cabin as Laurie and Doctor Tsang climbed into the cabin. “Buckle up with that, yeah you got it.”
Mack hopped out of the cabin to re-join Donovan, who was stood looking lost in an ill-fitting flight suit. She looked him up and down. “You say you have a helicopter private pilot’s license?”
“Yeah, I have a couple hundred hours on an R22 thanks to Uncle Sam. I got half-priced lessons when based in Barking Sands working on the Aegis program.”
“Right. Most of us cut our teeth on R22s.” Mack nodded. In college, her parents had bankrolled her to get her own PPL and the venerable Robinson R22s were just about the cheapest option. That experience had given her such a passion for flying, the day after graduation she’d signed the dotted line to try out for Navy selection, which she passed with flying colors. “Now obviously, this is gonna be a little different from the R22s or even the TA-57A Sea Rangers we train on in the Navy.”
Donovan eyed the menacing machine squatting on the flight deck. “Obviously.”
Mack couldn’t help but smile at his nervousness. Donovan was a good egg and not the typical hinge-head. The old saying that when someone got promoted to lieutenant commander they received a lobotomy had seemed to bypass him. From the chats they’d had in Ignatius’s officers’ mess, he was definitely from the new generation of “thinking” Navy and apparently a damn fine engineer. His devout Christian faith gave him a balanced calm, which she liked—when not faced with the prospect of having to help fly an eighteen-thousand-pound war machine, that was.
But to her mind, he had really proven himself in combat at Nest Island and the Locus, and that’s what mattered in her world. Of course, she still had to give him shit on account of the fact he wasn’t officially aircrew, but c’est la vie. The fact of the matter was that with the other lead pilot having decided to take the easy way out among the four suicides following the Ignatius’s arrival, and Mack’s original copilot grounded after his eyesight had deteriorated, since they had no way of making glasses, they were desperately short on air crew. And they didn’t have the fuel or simulators to train replacements.
“Well, Perry.” Mack slapped Donovan on the back. “Can I call you Perry? After all, this is my world now.”
“Lieutenant,” Donovan frowned.
“I’m shitting you, Commander.” Mack walked round to the front of the Seahawk. “Come on, sir. We have the pre-flight to carry on with and you may as well watch.”
“Sounds
good, lieutenant. And less of the swearing, please. It’s unnecessary.”
Mack gave a distracted, “Aye aye” as she continued around the aircraft, giving it a final check over.
“Well look at you.” Mack looked up to see Tricia Farelly, Atlantica’s head of IT, standing on the flight deck watching them. “You look good in the new uniform.”
“Thanks.” Donovan walked over and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Mack saw his hand linger on her upper arm and give it a gentle squeeze. The two had been an item since working on the project together to refit one of Ignatius’s RIM-161s to map the vicinity around Nest Island. He stole a glance at Mack. “Hopefully I’ll get to wear it every now and again when we get both helos up and running.”
“You just be careful, and don’t push any buttons you shouldn’t.” Farelly smiled warmly.
“Come on, sir. We’re not going on a week-long camping expedition,” Mack teased.
After a few minutes finishing up the checks, she pulled open the left-hand door and slid into her seat as Donovan did the same on the right.
“Mind if I...?” Donovan started.
“Sure.” Mack pulled the Velcro strap securing the checklist to her thigh and thrust the thick tome into his hands. “Section 7-12 is the bit you want.”
“Okay.” Donovan thumbed through the thick book to the relevant section. Finding it, he tracked his finger down the page. “Seats, belts, pedals, and mirrors.” He glanced around. “Adjusted?”
“Adjusted,” Mack helped him out.
Donovan focused on the page. “Cockpit window emergency release handles?”
Mack glanced to her left and right. “Aft and shear wired.”
“Left collective?”
“Extended and locked.”
“Circuit breakers and switches?”
“Checked and...” Mack ran her gloved index finger over the line of nodules on the cockpit panel before her, ensuring they were all recessed. “Off.”
Donovan stared at the checklist for a few seconds, one hand giving a helpless flourish over the page.
“Sir, do you want me to...?”
“Oh lord, please yes!”
