Page 84 of Sweet Betrayal

The officer did so.

“Turn around.”

The man shut his eyes and turned around. He was praying.

Tom marched up behind him and hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell like a sack of bricks. He’d be out for a while.

Five hours to the deadline.

Deployment would have already taken place at NATO Air Force bases in the Mediterranean. Tornado jet fighters would be fueled and prepared for takeoff. US and European frigates would be hovering in international waters, waiting to send teams of special forces ashore via boat.

If he failed in his attempt to rescue Hannah, the strikes would go ahead. The regime would retaliate, and thousands of innocent people would lose their lives.

Tom approached the warehouse, checking it out. The first thing he noticed were the cameras. Several of them, positioned around the exterior of the property. Next were the armed guards. Dressed in the feared black uniforms of the secret police, they were alert, well-trained and extremely dangerous. Those AK-47s meant business. He counted four patrolling the perimeter, two by the giant garage doors, and one at a side door, and he was guessing there’d be more inside.

Shit.

He got as close as he dared, taking stock of everything he could see. He didn’t think Abdul Anwar was here yet. The SUV was the smartest vehicle, and there was no helicopter hiding behind the building. He had some time.

What he needed was help. There was no way he’d be able to break in, take out the guards and rescue Hannah by himself. No single soldier would be able to go against that mini army.

He walked back to the van, wracking his brains.

Communications were still down. That meant no phone or internet. No way of contacting his CO. He could get a boat to the mainland, hand over the location of the safe houses, mobilize aunit, then come back and get her. But he might be too late. She could be dead by then and that didn’t bear thinking of.

Then he had a brainwave. What if he didn’t have to go all the way to the mainland to relay the intel?

Sure, all the telephone frequencies were down, and the firewall was blocking all internet communication, but that didn’t mean the marine frequencies were out. They used a different band than the normal telephone frequencies. Presumably the harbormaster still had contact with ocean-going vessels.

He stared at the container ships waiting out in the bay. How else could they know when to come in and dock?

He felt a surge of adrenaline. It was worth a shot.

He glanced at the unconscious man lying at the side of the road. He couldn’t leave him here. If he regained consciousness, he’d go back to the warehouse to warn the others.

With a grunt, he lifted him up and put him in the back of the van. Using some duct tape he found in the glove compartment, he bound the man’s wrists and ankles.

There. That would hold him for some time.

Tom checked his handgun. He had one round left. It was enough. Still wearing the army uniform, he looked like a Symanian officer on official business. Hopefully it would be enough to fool the harbormaster into letting him into the control center.

The harbormaster’s building didn’t take long to find. It was located at the entrance to the docks. A sign over the front door confirmed he was in the right place. Tom waited around the corner until a harbor worker came out. Then he grabbed the door and ducked inside.

The young man sitting at the reception desk looked up in surprise as a bulky Symanian army officer in an ill-fitting uniform stalked in.

Tom gave the man a hard look that said, “don’t mess with me” and pointed up the stairs. The receptionist nodded mutely, deciding not to ask questions.

He took them two at a time, figuring that was most likely to be where the control tower was located. He was right. The entire top floor was one big control center. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the seaward side of the room, while computer screens and overhead monitors flashed with images of the bay and the docks below.

There were three men in the room. They all turned as Tom walked in. He motioned to the two that were operating the computers to get out. They eyed the gun in his hand and scrambled for the door.

The harbormaster, a rugged man in a crisp uniform, studied him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I need to use the ship-to-shore radio.” Tom came closer. By the signals emanated from the various channels, the radio was transmitting just fine.

“Under whose authority?” The harbormaster wasn’t a fool. He could tell by Tom’s accent that he wasn’t Symanian.

“Mine.” Tom punched the man in the face. He collapsed where he was standing. Tom finished him off with a bump to the head, then turned his attention to the radio transmitter.

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