Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  Who was she?

  She had more questions to face in two minutes than a Mastermind contestant. And it would be nowhere near as enjoyable as the past. He felt that those days, whilst sweet, were very short-lived indeed.

  In twenty or so hours he might be able to ask her those questions himself. If indeed she was where she said she would be:

  Catseye Lodge – Whitsunday Islands on the 17th January 2015.

  He still had the note tucked into his wallet.

  He had no idea where Catseye Lodge was until a rapid search of the internet had literally guided him up a quiet road on a pristine island off the coast of Queensland. The search had allowed him to drive up the road, scanning and zooming from the safety of his laptop until he found the white gates on a road called One Tree Hill. He could go no further than the gates as privacy rules prohibited such an intrusion, but what he saw were rooftops and palm trees and a location that quickly used up superlatives.

  And blue sky, and blindingly white beaches.

  The home he had observed on his screen was there, it existed. He felt uneasy about visiting alone and knew from research that the island had no regular police. It was very much a case of risk versus consequence. What was the worst that could happen? She could kill him with kindness.

  Now that would make a fitting epitaph.

  Here lies Jack Cade, eternally recovering from a night of lust.

  He shook his head to clear the data from his short-term memory.

  His itinerary was routine Cade: sensible and well-planned. He had no intention of wondering up One Tree Hill in a golf buggy – for that was the de rigour transport choice for the island, pressing a button and announcing his presence. That may have been the norm for a normal person, but to Cade it smacked of recklessness.

  She had not contacted him to say she was alive. That, and that alone was the least she could have done. As pretty as she was, as captivated as he was, questions needed to be answered.

  Day One on Australian soil was a stand down in Sydney. Darling Harbour, to be precise, a simple room in a nice hotel, with a very comfortable bed and a pool. He knew the perils of long-haul travel, and when he arrived in the islands, he knew he had to be on top of his game.

  Day Two would be in Queensland, a meeting with an old colleague. Local knowledge didn’t come any better.

  Day Three would hopefully be an unannounced arrival into Hamilton Island and a chance to observe and counter-surveill before he pressed the button on that white gate with its stone pillars.

  He closed his eyes once more, waking when the wheels of the A380 announced the arrival of flight 7 into Dubai. A few hours later he would be back on board the same aircraft and probably sat in the same seat. It gave him nearly seventeen hours to contemplate his future.

  Chapter Four

  New Zealand, twelve months earlier

  “So gentlemen, you all know the drill? Any questions?”

  There never were any. That was what training and the Seven Ps ensured – among other things, a lack of piss poor performance.

  It was a pretty if not surprisingly cool morning at the defence force base twenty miles south of Auckland. Two Airbus NH90 helicopters, flown by the Royal New Zealand Air Force, were warmed up, checked, re-checked, loaded and ready to depart.

  Their passengers, as was often the case for a small country which dutifully shared its defence responsibilities, weren’t from the Air Force but from the New Zealand Army, specifically 1 NZSAS.

  Two teams of five men, dressed in their choice of battle clothing and carrying what they needed as individuals, and as a group, carried out last-minute checks, waited for their NCOs to join them and then one by one boarded the helicopters, took their places and watched as the ground left them behind.

  Another day, another exercise.

  Lifting quickly away from the base and out across country, flying low, their initial task would be to carry out live fire drills at a location only minutes away and then re-board, back to Papakura, their spiritual and regimental home, where there was an expectation that they would cause organised chaos at the Killing House and finally home in time for tea. No medals.

  They carried out the initial phase three times before the helo headed south across the Coromandel Peninsula towards the Pacific Ocean. The briefing was clear; having been dropped off in the Pinnacles, a stunning range of mountains in the North Island, the team would carry out a speed march across terrain that for them was considered easy and later meet up with the RNZAF at a predetermined rendezvous.

  In its day this area was renowned for logging and gold mining, the ground still full of the precious ore – but shrewdly left for future generations by its current guardians.

  An average male could carry out the walk in two to three hours. The team were expected to march and reach their RV in half that. Hydration would be the key to setting a fast pace. They could eat like kings later.

  ‘Feint heart never won fair lady gents’ – the words of the operation commander. Like its closely held ally, the British SAS, the local regiment guarded its operations, equipment and men with a vigour displayed by organisations that could be counted on the fingers of one hand. But what it prized more than anything was its reputation.

  ‘It’s all about doing it well and safely these days, gents. Let’s not forget the latter in this wonderfully PC world in which we now find ourselves. As much as I fucking adore you bunch of losers I do not wish to mislay any of you, nor do I expect to find the slightest hint of what looks like paperwork on my desk this evening. Safe journey, see you at the debrief. End of friendly and loving chat.’

  The teams knew each other intimately – in that they had got naked, fought alongside each other, got so pissed they couldn’t stand and knew that when it counted they could reach out in a smoke-filled room and find their teammate waiting. It was a loyalty rarely experienced by the average man – or woman.

  Scott McCall was one of those men. Now nearly thirty-seven he had been an almost stereotypical failure at school, however, when it came to self-preservation and tactical thinking he was as bright as the buttons on his regimental tunic that shone on the day he had passed out as an Infantryman.

  Over the next four years he did what he was told, when he was told. He jumped when asked. Not for him the life of a basic soldier. He applied for and qualified as a member of D Squadron (Commando) as soon as they had been heralded as New Zealand’s domestic counter terrorist force. Its new badge attracted him, in part due to his Scottish and Maori origins – black, with silver ferns; at its centre a taiaha, a famed Maori close quarter weapon positioned in what was known as popotahi or ‘ready to strike’. That appealed to him enormously. And he appealed to the army as a future leader.

  He worked hard, striving for the front but never aspired to the headier heights of a commission. He wanted to remain a warrior, not someone bound to an office by virtue of their success.

  He served the unit well and when he applied for the next logical step – the Special Air Service – no one was surprised. That he qualified joint third was even less of a shock.

  As one of their youngest ever members, he relished the role and acquitted himself well as a quiet man, physically fit, known for staying out of trouble, making his ancestors and his father proud. He had achieved the rank of corporal and that suited him and his career path.

  Like any man, he had a weakness. It wasn’t women, although it needed to be said that with his ever-tanned skin, taut body, thick head of coal-black hair and bitter chocolate eyes, in this branch of humanity he never struggled. The mystique of whether he served in such an elite unit was justification enough for a night of physical and breath-taking sex. There was always a girl hanging around a bar somewhere nearby. It seemed he just needed to ask.

  He didn’t need drugs – despised them. His job provided adrenaline in super tanker loads and he had seen the damage caused among his community and his family by the myriad commodities available to the buyer with the correct amount of money. Ga
mbling was a fool’s game. He had no mortgage, for he had no home, he had a car but it was basic. Why attract attention? He had good clothes and a nice watch, but the unit provided the latter, and if it got broken, they would just supply another.

  What he had, what he valued more than anything else, were three sisters who he adored and protected. There was nothing they couldn’t or should not ask for. When their father had passed away, he had become the de facto head of the family and that suited him greatly.

  He was rarely more than half an hour away from them; the exception being when he was deployed overseas.

  Heading away to fight for the people of another land in 2002, he had made a promise to return. Aroha, Mary and the youngest and prettiest, Kora prayed each night that he would come home, alive.

  It was in Paktia Province, Afghanistan, that Scott McCall first came to the attention of the elite.

  Special Forces teams from around the world had combined their might and training as part of Operation Anaconda. McCall was the first to volunteer to support the operation in any way he could. He saw it as a chance for a nation to recover its identity, and for a man who came from a mixed marriage, he understood that better than most.

  What he saw scarred him. It scared him too but he never once stopped to think of himself, carrying colleagues in conditions that the man in the street would simply refuse to tolerate. Like many he was affected for the rest of his life, but he sheltered his memories from everyone, including the doctors.

  Life in the McCall family home had become financially untenable when Peter McCall had passed away. He worried not for his son – he was a survivor, but his daughters struggled, without their mother who had died young; living together in one basic home, on basic wages in a rapidly growing city where property prices were ever increasing and not far from the place that would become their big brothers’ military base.

  McCall had the answer, and it was simple. Cashing in his stability as a means to an end. Selling his financial soul to the devil was how he saw it. His credit rating was high, and he took out the first credit card to pay for a memorable Christmas. By the second he had five, all to their limit, so he took out a loan and between the family members only one person knew how desperate things were.

  Legitimate loans became a thing of the past. Interest rates rose as leaches drank the last dollar from the McCall home. At thirty-seven he was broke and almost suicidal with worry.

  All he had to do was discuss things with his welfare officer and a plan could be created to help – the regiment protected its own. But he had his pride, and besides, the current situation was just another bridge to cross, and that’s what a member of the finest regiment in the country did each and every day.

  ‘Just another bridge, Scottie.’

  He had decided to sever links with the army as soon as he could. His thinking was becoming irrational. He needed to earn more to clear the debt and dishonour. As heart breaking as it was, there was a way. His skills and courage could help. He could offer a service to the local criminal gangs, or travel overseas and earn three times what he owed, just by looking after some faceless billionaire or his wife or her kids. But a hundred thousand was a lot of money in any currency. There had to be a faster way.

  He hated his thoughts that intruded upon his every waking moment. Work was the rare exception where he could escape.

  On board the NH90, he stared down at his beloved Aotearoa – the land of the long white cloud. She was without a doubt the most beautiful place on earth. He’d fought for her and her people. He felt he was owed his pride at the very least. There had to be a better way than living day to day watching the interest outstrip the original loan.

  As the helicopter landed he had reverted to professional mode and was already out on the ground, sweeping the terrain, guiding his men towards their first target. It was easier than reality.

  He was accurate with all of his weapons, seeing them as an extension of his own body. He could fire and reload whilst most of his peers, equally experienced soldiers, were still clearing their magazines.

  An hour and twenty minutes later he had driven them as hard as he dare, setting a record back to the rendezvous. Moments later the first of the NH90s appeared and McCall ushered the team on board.

  Text book.

  He checked his weapons and his favoured possession, a knife. Double-edged it was ever-honed, and he had a reputation with it that earned him his nickname – Mack – for no one was known by their real name in the regiment. That much the general public was allowed to know.

  They gained height before the pilot dropped down the valley heading south east for State Highway 25A. The plan was to take a fast horseshoe detour across the terrain, back towards the Firth of Thames and home. It was a great experience for the aircrew to hug the land and trees, to almost feel them brushing against the fuselage.

  As they began to bank and follow the highway McCall’s attention was drawn to the presence of a red and yellow MBB-Kawasaki twin-engine helicopter approaching their airspace quickly and reducing altitude.

  “You see him, Tommy?” McCall was scanning the ground with a pair of Fujinon gyro binoculars.

  The younger air force pilot had seen the other aircraft long before McCall but he appreciated the extra sets of eyes. He tilted their larger aircraft for a better view and went into a circular search pattern.

  “Copy. It’s Westpac Rescue. Thanks, Mack. Looks like he’s heading down there…”

  The two crews spoke to each other via their open comms. It transpired that the rescue team was heading for a critically injured occupant of a car that had rolled on the main road below them.

  “Westpac One, Westpac One, this is call sign Zulu One-Four.”

  “Zulu One-Four, this is Westpac One. Go ahead, sir. We have you in visual.”

  “Received. You have priority, however, can we be of assistance? We have three experienced but woefully under-employed defence medics on board.”

  “Received, thank you. Driver is believed to be status one. We are looking for a decent landing spot. Terrain looks a little hostile for us. Closest ground medics are fifty minutes south and nearest LZ for us is half a K away, and the road is not an option – looks like my passengers are going to be walking. However, if you can support any quicker than us, then yes, we would be grateful. Over.”

  “Received, Westpac One. We will see if we can assist and locate a place for you to land, worse case we’ll leave it with you.”

  The pilot turned to his colleague, then took another look at the terrain.

  “Not happening. We’ll leave it to them.”

  McCall shuffled forwards in the Air Force machine.

  “Tommy, worse case that could be one of ours down there. It’s a good experience for all of us. Get it down onto the road, just to the right there.” His leather-gloved finger was pointing. “Come on, brother, are you man or mouse? I thought you guys were the elite?”

  “Mack. Need I remind you that this is an eighty million dollar aircraft? When it comes to report-writing, I’m more cute little rodent than man. And I’m not biting onto your elite hook.”

  McCall was persistent. “There’s a patrol vehicle arriving. He’ll soon get the message if I start waving at him. Come on, Tommy, live a little. Go home knowing you have made a difference. Actually earn a bloody medal for once, eh?”

  McCall knew it would grate. They’d served in a few places together and the comment, although light-hearted, hit home.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mack, you’ll be the death of me.”

  “And she could be dead before any of us get to her.”

  “She?”

  “Yes she, I can see her through these quite clearly. Could be your kid-sister. One of the most attractive blood-soaked arms I’ve ever seen.”

  Flight Lieutenant Tom Maynard was regretting the moment he lifted off from his temporary base. The team he was working with always caused him issues – but they were so damned infectious in their enthusiasm – for everything.r />
  “My kid sister doesn’t drive a Porsche. But you get your wish. If this gets out, I will never speak to any of you again. Clear?”

  “Crystal. If it gets out, you’ll always get a job in the army – we are always on the lookout for cooks and storemen…” McCall winked at the co-pilot who couldn’t help smile.

  This was wrong on so many levels, and they all knew it.

  The NH90s second-in-command came from a long line of military personnel, one of whom had saved lives in the United Kingdom at a commercial airliner crash on a major motorway. He told the story only once. By the time conventional medics had arrived, those that would survive were evident, as opposed to those that weren’t. Simply marking their foreheads was enough to prolong the lives of men, women and children.

  Pilot Officer Michelle Best looked across at her boss.

  If all they could do was land next to that road, administer some morphine and ‘Foxtrot Oscar’ then their day would have improved.

  She switched the radio channel so that only she and her boss could communicate and spoke in a clipped tone.

  “Come on, boss. What’s eighty million between friends?”

  The NH90 landed in a hail of dust, but well clear of the road. It was a landing the rescue team on board the civilian aircraft were unprepared to risk, but one the military made on a regular basis after risk assessing the ground, adopting a hover and allowing staff to leave by jumping or roping down. They even had a winch if things got really complicated. Risks were risks. Both crews respected each other’s abilities in this area.

  The first two military staff were running to the vehicle, the third towards the Highway Patrol officer who was doing his best to triage on his own. He had already closed his lane down and an approaching logging truck driver had seen the issue and used his vehicle to close the northbound lane.