Desert Fire

Desert Fire

 

H.M. PRÉVOST

 

 

 

 

The entire novel is available as an ebook on Amazon.com and will be available in paperback in April 2013.

Prologue

Intruder on Board

 

 

Wednesday, September 5, 9:27 p.m.

 

“The cargo door’s opening!” Captain Bellamy shouted. Red lights flashed on the plane’s instrument panel. Impossible. He hadn’t authorized a high altitude drop and—

Thump.

A heavy weight shifted in the hold and the small plane shuddered. The Captain turned toward his co-pilot, whose eyes were barely visible above his oxygen mask.

“The payload’s unstable. Didn’t the loadmaster secure the crates?” Bellamy demanded.

“Yessir!” Lieutenant Johnston glanced wildly at the switches and blinking lights. “Double-checked them myself.”

The plane streaked ahead in the darkness. Ten thousand feet below, small clusters of lights gleamed on the shores of the Arabian Gulf. Bellamy verified the instrument panel. They were scheduled to land in thirty minutes. What was going on in the cargo hold?

Another whump in the belly of the military plane.

“Johnston, I’m going back there. Our payload’s worth millions, and it can’t be compromised.” Whatever it is. No one had told him what they were carrying. The information was classified.

Bellamy unbuckled himself from the pilot’s seat and switched his oxygen breathing regulator to a portable unit. He instinctively touched the butt of his handgun, a semi-automatic Beretta M9, before placing his fingers against the door handle. He paused. If the cargo door really was open, he risked being sucked out of the plane.

As soon as he turned the handle, the wind yanked the door and slammed it against the wall. Blasts of freezing air swept through the depressurized cargo bay, chilling the exposed parts of his face. Bracing himself against a railing bolted to the wall, he bent over to tether his harness to the floor.

The crates had been secured on four small pallets, ready for off-loading when they landed on the aircraft carrier that waited off the Iranian coastline. Bellamy made a quick count. Three pallets strained against their tie-down straps. Where’s number four?

Something was wrapped around the top of the remaining crates. Parachutes.

His hand returned to his Beretta. Somebody’s stealing the payload.

A figure emerged from the shadow of the third crate, holding a gleaming steel blade. He wore an air force helmet, an oxygen mask, and a parachute was strapped to his back. Crouching, the man knifed the tie-down straps on the pallet nearest the door. Gravity took over. The crate plummeted out the rear.

“Johnston!” Bellamy called. “Intruder on board! He’s dumping the crates.”

The intruder stood less than fifteen feet away. Bellamy didn’t move. Even with a gun, his chances of firing a fatal shot at this distance were slim. An attacker armed with a knife could close seven yards in as little as a second and a half.