The Curse of Medusa

Hawke passed a hand over his eyes and tried to get more focus. “Admiral Denton was paraded on TV by the Vietnamese as a war trophy. His presence was supposed to show the world that American POWs were being treated with respect, but Denton managed to tell the entire world otherwise. Right under the noses of the enemy, while being filmed for their disgusting little propaganda exercise, he told the entire world that he, and the other men being held as POWs, were all being tortured.”

“And how did he do that?” Anderson said

“Haven’t you worked it out yet?” Hawke said, sighing. “Bloody career politicians!”

“Don’t wast our time, Hawke!”

“He blinked the word torture in Morse code while he was on TV, right in front of his torturers. He was a true hero.”

Anderson looked at him like he was crazy. “And you think President Grant was doing the same?”

“I bloody know he was, because when you were shitting your pants about how I was wasting your precious time I translated the Morse and worked out what he was saying.”

For the first time, Anderson was speechless.

McAlister smiled and looked at the Englishman, expectant. “What did he say, Hawke?”

“Unfortunately I couldn’t get the entire message because Kiefel’s elbow moves in front of the President’s eyes at the start and blocks some of it. But the fragment remaining clearly says something about Perseus.”

Anderson scoffed. “What good is that?”

“Thanks to Logan back at the processing plant, we already know he was moved to New York City, so now we have this Perseus clue to go on as well. I don’t know about you but I’d rather have that information than nothing. Get Ryan and Alex on it right away.”

“Agreed,” Brooke said firmly. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this shit, then it’s my Alex.”

* * *

As the jet screeched down on the asphalt in New York, Hawke readied himself for a fight. He looked outside and saw a military helicopter already on stand-by on the apron, fuelled up, blades whirring and waiting for them. Doyle and Scarlet were already kitted up with their gear and waiting to go. It hadn’t taken Alex and Ryan more than a few minutes to discover that a super yacht named the Perseus was sailed into New York Harbor several weeks ago and was still there, moored to a pier on the west side of Midtown Manhattan.

A few short minutes after touch-down they were climbing above the airport in the same chopper Hawke had spied from the jet and banking in the direction of the Hudson River.

He watched almost dreamily as the world’s most famous skyline approached from the west. They rose higher into the air over the East River and Roosevelt Island, and moments later they were crossing the southern tip of Central Park. It was full-dark and lit by countless thousands of sparkling street lights, but Hawke recalled with a faint smile the last time he had seen it when he, Lea and Ryan were in pursuit of Kaspar Vetsch. They had torn half the park up in the chase and eventually wound up in the custody of the CIA. All of that seemed like another age to him now.

Tonight, the curfew had turned Manhattan into a ghost town, and everyone was locked in their apartments waiting for the danger to pass. Everyone except Hawke and his friends.

The chopper began to descend as they approached Hell’s Kitchen and after a few words were squawked through their earpieces, the pilot deftly lowered the collective and brought the helicopter down into the middle of DeWitt Clinton Park. Before the skids had touched down on the grass, Hawke, Scarlet and Doyle were prepping their weapons.

They sprinted across the park and over 12th Avenue until they reached the east bank of the Hudson and saw the Perseus moored up on Pier 84.

Hawke checked his gun one last time and briefed the others. “All right, we know we can’t storm the yacht fast enough to save the President and stop Kiefel from releasing the weapon. That’s why we’re going underwater.”

“Once a bloody frogman, always a bloody frogman,” Scarlet said.

“Don’t start all this SAS-SBS bullshit,” Hawke said smiling. “The only reason you joined the SAS is because you can’t smoke cigarettes underwater.” He turned and looked at her straight in the eyes, deadpan. “Be honest.”

“I could slap you sometimes, Joe.”

“Will these things still work?” Doyle asked, pointing at his gun. “We don’t do a whole lot of underwater espionage training in the Secret Service.”

“They’ll fire underwater, sure,” Hawke said, “but obviously the range will be reduced. We don’t have to worry about that because we’re not going to do any underwater firing. This mission is about a covert insertion on that bloody yacht and then when we’re on board we find the President. You will then swim with him back to the shore while Cairo and I take-out Kiefel and his cronies and secure the weapon.”

“Got it.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone here that when we’re on board hold the bolts on your weapons back and drain the water from the chambers before you fire.”