Second Strike

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They sat like surfers waiting for a wave, the four of them dressed in thin black wetsuits facing south-west into the Indian Ocean. Huge blue-black and purple cloud formations loomed above as if declaring an end to the dry season and signalling the start of the monsoons.

The swell lapped into Mac’s rebreather harness as his eyes scanned the horizon for signs of the target through the salty humidity. Behind him the sounds of bird life and monkeys occasionally drifted from the remote southern shores of Flores.

Alan McQueen looked at his G-Shock: just past 2.07 pm. Thirty-seven minutes past schedule for the start of Operation Handmaiden, and the crew were getting restless.

‘Anything, Maddo?’ asked Mac softly.

The man to his left shook his head, not taking his eyes off the horizon. ‘Want me to call it in?’ he mumbled, lips hardly moving.

‘No,’ said Mac. ‘Sosa knows what he’s doing. If the target’s there, then we’ll know about it.’ Mac didn’t mind incoming calls, but he wanted to avoid the potential locating beacon you put up every time you keyed the mic on a radio.

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