The Fury and the Terror - Softcover

John Farris lives in Atlanta, Georgia. He is the author of the classic thrillers Dragonfly, Soon She Will Be Gone, The Fury, and The Fury and the Terror.

MAUI, HAWAII · MAY 28
 
The four MH-60K helicopters from MORG's Elite Force left Hickam Field at one A.M. and proceeded southeast at two thousand feet, past the beachfront dazzle of postcard Waikiki. A few kliks beyond the famous headland they were at maximum cruising speed of 167 mph, making good use of a fifteen-knot tailwind. The moon was two days from the full in a clear night sky. From a higher perspective, observed against the crinkly sheen of the ocean below them, the fleet of warships resembled black wasps with razor-sharp halos.
The woman code-named Zephyr, in the lead chopper, passed the time before acquisition of their target by socializing with Portia Darkfeather, the team leader, and Zephyr's occasional lover.
"It's the lemons, babe," Zephyr said. "The peel, and the zest, that make potted veal something out of the ordinary. We didn't have much else when I was a kid, but we had Meyer lemons growing in our backyard. Have you tasted a Meyer lemon?"
Darkfeather put her six-month-old cat, a Persian named Warhol, on her left shoulder. In the low light of the flight deck Warhol fixed Zephyr in the crosshairs of his gaze. Eyes like those of an idol with a jinxed history.
"Don't think I have," Darkfeather said.
"Meyers are more like a blend of an ordinary lemon with a mandarin orange. They came to California by way of China. Four times the sugar of a regular lemon, and the aroma is divine. My mom never used any other variety with her potted veal. Pops would bring home some prime veal from the butcher shop when he was sober enough to hold a job. Another of Mom's secrets was rice wine with the veal stock."
Darkfeather said, "I never tasted veal. While my mama was alive we had chicken couple times a week. Simmered in Mexican beer, you know, to tenderize it. And Mama would baste the chicken with chipotle peppers pureed in adobo sauce. Talk about good eating."
Molokai was on the horizon. The helicopters continued southeast, along the Kalohi Channel, the sparse lights of the small island of Lanai appearing on their right.
"Did you ever surf the Pipeline or Jaws?" Zephyr asked Darkfeather. She was a child of the surfin' sixties herself, a runaway beach bum at age fourteen. All of which had never been a part of her official biography, although the tabloids had feasted on such tidbits of her past for many years.
"Not me. My brother did Jaws once. Sixty-footers. But you got to know when your nerve is writing checks your talent can't cash."
"Oh, baby," Zephyr agreed. And put an end to the small talk. Darkfeather fed Warhol a snack from a Ziploc bag.
"Eight minutes to target," the Flight Leader said.
The wind had shifted, coming out of the northwest now, and the ride was getting bumpier. Zephyr looked ahead to the airport beacon at Kapalui and the cluster of resorts around Kaanapali on Maui's west coast. Beyond Kaanapali the west Maui mountains were clearly visible. A seldom visited, by tourists, part of the island. Up to four hundred inches of rain a year made the craters, forested gorges, and marshes difficult to penetrate. Only a few bad roads dwindled into the interior from the shoreside towns. The mountains were an ideal place to hide out, if you wanted to get really lost.
The lights of Lahaina were coming into view, which raised Zephyr's pulse count in anticipation. She'd been disappointed before, after numerous sightings, stalkings, and forfeitures. But this time she was damned sure they had her, had the Avatar.
Zephyr was outfitted, like the others seated behind her, in special ops gear. She like being with the military types. The resourceful, the mission-ready. Their terse jargon, the acronyms as sharp and jagged as combat knives. Unlike Portia's Praetorians, she wasn't carrying a weapon. The Mamba Team helos were well armed, the usual impressive stuff like chain guns and rocket pods, but they weren't there for a turkey shoot. Zephyr had allowed that flash-bangs might be necessary. As were the dogs, three big German shepherds in another helicopter.
Portia Darkfeather was on the Mamba Team frequency.
"Designated Hitter, this is Mamba Leader. We are in the gut. ETA four minutes and thirty seconds. How do you read? Over."
"You are loud and clear, Mamba Leader. All is calm, and all is bright."
"We have Zephyr aboard tonight," Darkfeather said. "Let us all be worthy of her admiration."
"Roger that, Mamba Leader."
The helicopters had begun to descend from two thousand feet, a six-degree slope that Zephyr felt in the pit of her stomach.
"Heading zero-niner-zero," the flight leader said. "Systems check, gentlemen."
The other pilots acknowledged him.
"We're go here."
"Go."
"Full green. Go."
Thereafter the radio was silent as the sea loomed closer and they flew across the foaming wake of a lash ship steaming low and westbound in the Auau Channel.
Portia Darkfeather turned in the right-hand seat, passing binoculars back to Zephyr. The flight leader switched on the outboard searchlight. They were now skimming the sea at an altitude of a hundred feet, the two rotors of each helicopter in the formation blowing the crests off the heavy waves forming over the reef. Zephyr looked to starboard, focusing the glasses as the stealth choppers made landfall.
They crossed the shore road of Lahaina, rising abruptly to follow the contours of the land. They were in computer-assisted flight mode, and Zephyr's seat harness tightened uncomfortably. It was becoming more of a thrill ride than she had anticipated. Fortunately she'd nibbled only a little food at the luau in her honor at the Governor's mansion.
Zephyr blinked to clear her vision as they dove into a valley shaped like a seahorse, with its narrow head at the base of Puu Kukui. The seahorse was divided by the silver seam of a shallow river, descending in stair-step falls from the mountains ahead of them.
At the end of a Jeep road two-thirds of the way up the valley, Zephyr recognized the hexagon of Colonial-era white buildings with their pagodalike roofs that she had seen in reconnaissance photos.
Darkfeather keyed her mike. "Designated Hitter, do you have visual on our position?"
"Affirm, Mamba Leader. We see you."
"Say your situation."
"Still calm. No movement inside the--okay, couple of lights just came on. I see a face in a window, second floor. They've made you, Mamba Team."
"Dreamtime is over," Darkfeather said scornfully. "Light up the LZ and go for the Avatar. Say again, you are go for the Avatar."
Then it was happening so fast Zephyr had difficulty keeping track of all the action. Two of the helos circled behind the cloister, searchlights blazing as doors flew open below. Men and women, most of them apparently roused from their beds and wearing little clothing, ran in panic toward the rain forest fifty yards away. They were met by a unit of the infil team that had been lying in wait at the forest perimeter. Members of Mamba Team fast-roped down from the hovering helicopters to assist in the roundup. There was little resistance. A couple of the younger, swifter runners had to be overhauled and thrown to the ground. Other members of the strike force were storming the cloister. All helicopters remained aloft.
Portia Darkfeather had tucked her cat into a pouch on her vest. She scanned the faces of the captives, who had been made to lie on their backs in a circle, feet touching, hands behind their heads. Their eyes were squinched shut against the searchlight dazzle.
Zephyr recognized several of the older telepaths from surveillance photos. Ivy Papillion. Ping Lee. Noorul Meskerem.
"I don't see Cheng," Darkfeather said.
"She wouldn't run with the others," Zephyr told her. "She's too smart for that. She'd have another way out planned. Tunnel, maybe."
"Scanning now," Darkfeather said, looking at the infrared screen. Thermal imaging would reveal any sign of human life in subterranean passages. She keyed her mike. "Mamba Leader to Designated Hitter, give me a status, over."
The voice of DH leader, coming from inside the cloister, was muffled and rushed. "Roger, Mamba Leader. We're clearing the second floors of Alpha and Bravo buildings. We have not made contact with the Avatar. Blue Leader, report."
"Roger that. TI scan negative, cellar is clear. Nothing down here but vintage wine."
"Negative on tunnels and caves," Darkfeather advised.
Zephyr slipped into an old habit, grinding her back teeth. No way to treat all those expensive crowns. She made herself relax.
"Could she have skipped early?"
"DH has had a lock on the place for the last six hours."
"Unless she peeped them," Zephyr objected. "And Kelane's like a wraith."
"The best T-blockers we've ever trained are on the DH team. No leaks there, I'd bet my sweet pussy on that. And I don't mean Warhol."
"Then she's down there. Okay, assume I'm Kelane Cheng. I have a little warning, then all hell is busting loose outside. I know I have--what, less than a minute? How do I handle it? I've always been good, but I need to get lucky."
"Maybe I know where you're going with that," Darkfeather said after a few seconds. She keyed her mike.
"Designated Hitter, recall all units now. I want a head count."
"Say again, Mamba Leader?"
"Account for all personnel immediately."
Members of the faculty of the cloister and several initiates were being herded from the buildings into the glare of helicopter searchlights. The German shepherds were patrolling. One feisty old gent wearing a toga had to be gigged to calm him down.
Two more members of Designated Hitter appeared from a side door, away from the throng on the lit-up lawn. They were carrying between them a sheet-wrapped body, small, probably female. Unconscious, or dead.
Zephyr put the glasses on them.
"Portia? Upper left quadrant of the lawn, by that stand of overgrown lobelias."
"Roger." The faces of the DH team, a bulky man and a woman half his size, were unseeable behind deflector shields as they put the wrapped body on the lawn. Then they turned and walked away from the lighted perimeter, ignoring the recall ord...