Sea Harpy

By Frank Hughes

On a fishing trip to Alaska, ex-federal agent Nick Craig saves former Vice-President Miles Rainey from brutal kidnappers. Success is short-lived. Rainey dies of a heart attack, uttering the final words, "Stop the Sea Harpy." Before Nick can even wonder what that means, he is detained by a team of Navy SEALs, who transport him to an audience with the President of the United States. Rainey, it seems, was about to reveal to the President a secret plot that could plunge the world into war. The plot may involve current members of the government and military, so Nick is recruited to investigate the mysterious Brookstreet Group, a billionaire activist think tank, where Rainey was a member. As Nick travels the globe, gathering clues, he is beset by teams of assassins, and distracted by beautiful women who may have deadly agendas of their own. Who or what is the Sea Harpy? The answer may be the key to preventing World War III.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Hughes
• Release date: Mar 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311133786

Frank Hughes

Frank Hughes is a New York native. He attended Fordham University in the Bronx and served in the United States Navy. He has traveled extensively in North America, Europe, and the Far East. Along the way he also found time to become a five time undefeated champion on the American quiz show Jeopardy! with Alex Trebek.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

It was a good thing I no longer carried a gun because, on day two of my first vacation in fifteen years, I was ready to shoot myself. Waist deep in a frigid Alaskan river, I found I lacked both the patience and coordination the sport of fly fishing requires.

You’re not Indiana Jones, you know, said Bob Higgins.

I lowered the rod. What the hell does that mean?

Bob, my instructor, stood behind me. His eyes were bright with amusement behind thick prescription lenses.

We’re fishing, Nick, not fighting Nazis. Stop using it like a bullwhip. He mimicked what I was doing. In tight areas like this you can’t do hero casts.

I suck.

Get the form right and the accuracy will come. Try again.

I began reeling in and the hook snagged on some sub surface obstacle. Oh, for Christ’s sake, I said, jerking the rod back and forth.

Stop, stop, stop, said Bob. I can’t afford to lose any more flies. He extended his hand. Give me that.

I thought this was a relaxing sport. I said, handing him the rod and taking his.

It is, but you have to know how to relax first.

The clean air, open spaces, and slow pace of Alaska had yet to work their magic on me. Partly it was the critters: flies, mosquitos, marauding bears. Then there was the silence. And the lack of good pizza.

Maybe I’m just a miserable prick.

You think? He sighed. Nick Craig, poster boy for the New York attitude. Things are a lot mellower out here.

You know, I never tire of hearing you Western weenies go on about your superior everything. Skiing, fishing, scenery, lifestyle.

You can’t argue with the truth, he said, working the rod from side to side and up and down.

The upside is when one of you shows up in Times Square in a ten gallon hat, wondering where his wallet went.

You seem to forget I’m originally from Ronkonkoma. Let go your anger, my son.

Yes, Sensei.

Bob was briefly my training officer at Customs, just before he retired and started traveling with his wife. Following her death, he pursued an old dream of running a fishing lodge in Alaska. I had not seen or spoken to him since my own wife’s funeral many years earlier. He contacted me out of the blue, while I was between cases back in New York. His offer of a free Alaskan fishing trip sounded like a good idea at the time.

There, he said, as the fly came free. He reeled the line in and we swapped rods again.

Alright, I’ll try again, I said.

No, no, he said, squinting up at the sun. These fish are fully warned. We’ll move to a spot where even you can catch some.

Positive reinforcement. I like it.

He grinned. See, I can be a miserable prick, too.

We waded back to where our daypacks sat on the bank.

Just where is this miracle fishing hole? I said.

Not far. He pointed upriver. Around that bend. We’ll cut through the trees, about a quarter mile.

Oh, goody, a stroll through bear infested forest.

Again with the bears. Just keep your spray handy. He patted the can hanging from his belt. You won’t need it, though. Your whining is enough to keep them away.

All the same, I’d feel better if one of us had a forty-four magnum.

You carry a forty-four out here, be sure to file the front sight off.

Why’s that?

It’ll be a lot less painful when the bear takes it away from you and shoves it up your ass.

Funny.

Because it’s true. Let’s go.

He led the way along a narrow path that veered away from the river and into the forest. As if on cue, insects descended like a blanket.

Again, you call this relaxing? Jesus, what’s next? Locusts?

It’s called June. Come autumn, this will be a paradise. No bugs, and the bears are well-fed and less aggressive.

Thanks for asking me up now.

In the fall, I’ll have paying clients.

I’m happy for you. I squished a particularly annoying fly against my cheek. Christ, you need a forty-four for the bugs alone. I don’t understand why we had to drive three and a half hours. This doesn’t look much different from that river near your place.

Stop complaining and trust me. This is prime time and a prime area for rainbows. They’re feeding on the smolt, the baby salmon, and every other damn thing that gets disturbed off the bottom.

One hundred yards in, a tall, athletic looking man stepped from the trees. His waders, vest, shirt, and khaki hat, artfully studded with flies, were all brand new. He was not carrying a fishing rod. Instead he held a black Cordura briefcase in his left hand. Bob hadn’t lost his instincts, and neither had I. We both stopped and took a step away from each other.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, said the man, his tone polite and businesslike.

Bob and I looked at each other, then back at him. Ditto, I said.

I apologize for any inconvenience, but this area is restricted this afternoon.

Restricted? said Bob. Since when?

Just for the remainder of the day.

This is public land, said Bob, and I’m trying to run a business.

I understand, sir. And I do apologize again for the inconvenience, but this area is restricted. I am sure you’ll find good fishing back that way.

What if we don’t want to go back that way? I said.

Nick, said Bob, his voice low, you’re on vacation.

Then let me enjoy myself. To the man I said, again, What if we don’t want to go back?

We’ll detain you, said a woman’s voice. How’s that sound?

I turned to find her about ten feet away. She was tall, maybe five nine, blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Although dressed the same as her partner, the waders and flannel shirt looked a lot better on her. She wore a black fanny pack around her waist. I had not heard her approach, which implied she was good.

Will you be doing the detaining?

Yes, and it won’t resemble whatever fantasy is running through your mind.

Pity. I turned to Bob. Shall we?

We shall indeed, he said.

We started back the way we came. The woman stepped off the path to let us by, moving well out of striking distance. I looked back once. They stood there watching us. The man held his left wrist in front of his face.

Whaddya think? I said, as we made our way back downriver. Sub-gun in the briefcase, Sig in her fanny pack?

Yeah, Secret Service, said Bob. They had those little coils of wire behind their ears? Most likely here with Rainey.

Miles Rainey?

Yeah. He’s in the area. It’s supposed to be a secret, but it’s hard to hide something like that around here.

I thought he’d be on permanent bed rest by now.

Fishing is one of the few sports his doctors still allow.

Miles Rainey, the former Vice-President of the United States, had a notorious heart condition. He was now so full of medical devices he might qualify as the world’s first cyborg.

Rumor is he’s actually here for a meeting of some super secret organization, said Bob.

Well I’m glad we came all this way to find out this part of Alaska’s closed.

"God, I’d forgotten what krechtser you are."

We walked in silence for a bit.

What organization? I said.

What?

What organization is meeting up here?

It’s one of those think tanks rich people form. They’re meeting at a big lodge the one percenters use.

Well, I figure someone as unpopular as Rainey rates a protective contingent. But I’m not sure I approve of spending my tax dollars to outfit them like Bass Pro Shop mannequins.

Yeah, he said, laughing. They blend.

Bob found me a promising spot near our previous location. He picked a couple of rocks out of the river and examined their undersides. After this bit of fishing guide voodoo, he selected a couple of flies from a small plastic case and handed them to me.

Try this nymph first, he said. If that doesn’t work, switch to that one.

Okay, I said, sticking the second choice in the fabric of my ball cap.

We waded out into the water and he examined the pool.

Try to place your fly just below that rock and just the other side of that strong current there. It’s a short distance, so focus on accuracy. Do you remember how to mend the line?

Yeah. What’s the thing with the finger?

Keep the line pressed against the rod there until the fish hits. Once you set, let go, or you’ll lose the fish.

So much to remember.

You’ll be fine. He pointed downstream. I’ll be over there. Call me if you get scared.

Fuck you.

I moved into the recommended position and started casting. After a few attempts, I got the distance right and concentrated on doing proper mends, and water hauls. In less than five minutes the indicator dipped under the surface. I set the hook, praying it wasn’t another log.

It wasn’t. I released my finger. The line ran out, whipping back and forth. My job now was to keep the line taut by moving the rod and doing a little judicious reeling whenever the fish paused. Suddenly a gleaming rainbow leapt into the air, twisting and turning, desperate to throw the hook. Water drops glittered in the sunlight. Time seemed to slow. Then it fell back into the water and dove deep. The fight resumed.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have a fish on the line. The primitive thrill set my heart pounding. We tussled for a good three minutes, me fighting to keep the line taut, the fish fighting to get away. It had heart, but trout tire easily. When the fish seemed sufficiently weakened, I reeled in, lifting the rod tip high to bring it in close. With my free hand I used the net on my belt to scoop it out of the river.

I held the trout’s mouth into the current while I worked the hook out. When it was free, I let go and lowered the net. With a flick of its tail, the trout was gone.

I finally felt relaxed. The colors of the sky and mountains seemed more vivid. The fish had broken the spell, and I was at peace for the first time in months.

A khaki colored shape came bobbing towards me in the river, riding the current into my pool. When it got closer, I realized it was a hat. Big deal, someone lost a hat in the river. Yet something looked wrong.

I waded forward, chest deep, close to flooding my waders, but the hat was past me. I jabbed at it with the fly rod. The tip snagged the hat. I lifted it out of the river and dropped it into my free hand. It was the male Secret Service agent’s, only now it was not pristine. There was a jagged hole in the front. Pieces of bloody scalp and brain matter clung to the inside.

Bob was on a sandbar downriver. He yelled something, the words drowned by the roar of the water, his hands raised in the universal gesture of inquiry. I held up the hat and jabbed my finger several times towards the trees. Without waiting for his reaction, I splashed back to shore. At the daypacks, I kicked out of my waders and grabbed my shoes.

Bob was wading back to shore. I pointed to where I’d left the hat. He nodded and waved. I turned and headed upriver, now wishing I had carried a gun.

Chapter 2.

I felt naked and vulnerable approaching the trees, but no one shot me. Once in the forest, I crept along the trail where we’d encountered the Secret Service agents. There was a disturbance in the brush to one side. Someone had left the path and angled towards the river. I followed trampled brush, crouching low. Ahead the buzzing of insects grew louder.

Just short of the riverbank, the female Secret Service agent lay sprawled on her back. A writhing mass of insects covered the right side of her head. They were feeding on streaks of blood streaming from a scalp wound. The untouched skin on the left side of her face was deathly pale. She did not appear to be breathing.

A small pouch of lead shot lay in the rocks a couple of feet away. I put it in my pocket and continued towards the river.

Her partner was half on the shore, half in the water. The black brief case lay in the rocks. I opened it and found a loaded P90 Personal Defense Weapon, standard Secret Service issue. A spare fifty round magazine was secured with spring clips. I checked the chamber and took the gun off safe. The spare magazine went into the cargo pocket of my pants.

A buzzing sound approached from behind me. At first I thought it was more insects, but it grew in volume. Some sort of aircraft passed overhead. A dust devil of twirling leaves and debris spun past me. The black shape, obscured by the trees, came to a stop and hovered just ahead of me. I headed in that direction.

The trees thinned. Ahead was a circular clearing about one hundred yards in diameter. A dirt road led out opposite my position. In front of a green tent, three black Range Rovers formed a shallow semi-circle. Near them lay three men in fishing gear, two young and one middle aged. Their clothes were soaked with blood.

The black shape hovering above the clearing was a helicopter unlike any I’d ever seen. Twin main rotors were stacked one above the other. Stubby wings, each with a forward facing propeller, protruded from the angular fuselage. The engine was well muffled, making little more than that buzzing sound as it settled towards the ground.

Three men stood waiting, turned away from the dust cloud. They wore camouflage BDUs and body armor. Black balaclavas and goggles obscured their faces. The lead man held a bullpup assault rifle at the ready. The other men, weapons slung, held something suspended between them. When the helicopter touched down, they turned. Their burden was the slumped figure of a man with a sparse thatch of white hair. I didn’t need a genius IQ to guess who that was.

I raised the P90 and fired a short burst at the first man. The armor-piercing rounds sliced through his Kevlar vest. He fell backwards. His companions dropped Rainey and reached for their weapons. I fired a three round burst at each man. One fell to his hands and knees; the other darted for the cover of the Range Rovers.

I put another bullet into the man on his knees, and then ran to the vehicles. When I reached them I continued running. The third man was still watching the patch of forest I’d fired from. A stream of bullets from the P90 jerked him like a rag doll. He fell onto his back.

I emptied the magazine at the cockpit window of the helicopter. It rose a few feet, then dipped and spun. One landing strut hit the ground hard. Then it stabilized and rose one hundred feet in the air.

The first man was back on his feet, staggering towards Rainey. I reached for the spare magazine, but my pocket was empty. I ran over and clubbed him in the throat with the empty gun. He fell to the ground. He was dead before I finished unhooking his weapon.

I went to Rainey, seized the back of his vest, and dragged him behind the SUVs. The helicopter descended again. A man in the open cargo door began firing. Bullets starred the glass and thudded into the metal of the SUV. The pilot walked the chopper closer until it was almost overhead. I shoved Rainey under the SUV and lay on my back, aiming the rifle skyward. When the helicopter came into view, I fired. The gunman fell back inside.

The helicopter zoomed straight up, spun around, and accelerated. It was a speck in the distance when I pulled Rainey into the open. His breathing was shallow and ragged. Beneath the fishing vest and flannel shirt was another vest, festooned with wires and battery packs. I fiddled with the zipper. Rainey's shaking hands reached up for me, the fingertips touching my chest. His lips moved, mouthing words.

Don’t try to speak, Mr. Vice-President, I said, I’m going to call for help.

His hands grasped my shirt with surprising strength, and his face contorted into his familiar and much parodied expression of impatience. He pulled me down until our faces were just inches apart.

Sea harpy, he said, through gritted teeth. You must stop the sea harpy!

That seemed to sap the last of his strength. His whole body shuddered. The clawed hands released my shirt, and he sank back to the ground. Breath sighed from his body, ending in a rattle. The eyes glazed over, and he was still.

I sat back. The only sound was from the nearby river. Stop the sea harpy? An odd dying utterance, unlikely to make Bartlett’s. Yet he seemed so desperate.

The sound of footfalls interrupted my contemplation. The female Secret Service agent was walking towards me, face ashen, mouth slack. The fanny pack hung open. Her Sig Sauer was pointed at my face. I knew I was a dead man.

Her arm jerked aside, as if pulled by an invisible hand. The gun discharged harmlessly. She looked at it in stunned amazement, allowing me to run over and punch her in the jaw. She went down, out cold.

I stood there wondering how she’d missed. Then I saw an insect perched on the cuff of her shirtsleeve. Beneath it, embedded in the fabric, was a little golden hook. Attached to that was a thin monofilament line. I looked up to see Bob walking towards me, reeling in as he came.

And that, he said, is how you do a proper cast.

Chapter 3.

Bob secured the unconscious agent with her own cuffs. A search of the vehicles produced a defibrillator. I sliced open Rainey’s vest with a fillet knife and used the device, but he was gone.

There must have been something we needed to do with the vest, I said.

Yeah, but the only guy who knew what’s what is over there Bob pointed at the middle aged corpse. That’s gotta be Rainey’s doctor.

Let’s take care of the living. I said.

We took the first aid kit and went to the Secret Service Agent. I rinsed the wound with a bottle of spring water and Bob scrubbed the gash with Betadine. Although still unconscious, she moaned in pain. Bob didn’t stop. You can’t be gentle with these things, especially in the wild.

Graze, he said. Enough to knock her out, but I don’t think it cracked the skull.

What are those black specks?

Powder burns is my guess. He felt around her skull. She’s also got quite a lump over here.

I leaned in to look.

Stop hovering, said Bob. I’ll see to her. You check on the others.

I made sure the bad guys were dead. The Secret Service agents and Rainey’s doctor were beyond help. I went back to the attackers, ripped off their hoods and searched their clothes. Other than field trauma kits, not one of them carried anything in his pockets. They were all Caucasian, late twenties to mid-thirties, with Slavic features. I pulled off their gloves. No rings. Each wore a Swiss made chronograph.

I began looking for dog tags, jewelry, or tattoos, and there I struck a little gold. The first man I shot wore a small medallion on a thin chain. The bottom half was mangled by a bullet. What remained resembled the handle of a knife protruding from a diamond.

His weapon lay nearby. Embossed on the receiver was the manufacturer's name, Israeli Weapons Industries. Bob came over, wiping his hands with a towel.

What is that? One of those British Army things?

No, it’s Israeli. A Tavor.

Huh. Anyway, looks like our side didn’t go down without a fight.

What does that mean?

There’s another one over there.

Another what?

Another bad guy.

He led me over near the tent. Sprawled half in the forest was a man dressed like the other attackers.

Looks like a lucky shot to the head, said Bob.

I waved the massed insects away from the bloody balaclava and pulled it off. This guy was not Slavic looking at all. His skin was dark.

Who the hell are these guys? I said.

Shut up. You hear that?

As soon as he asked I heard the rhythmic thumping of an approaching helicopter.

Chopper, I said.

That black one?

Sounds different, but let’s not take chances.

We stepped into the cover of the forest just as a U.S. Navy CH53E Super Stallion roared in over the treetops. It circled once and flew off.

There’s something you don’t see every day, said Bob.

I’m guessing we’ll have visitors soon. I pointed at the female Secret Service agent. How’s she doing?

Well, you haven’t lost your right cross, she’s still out. You had a little help, though. Her head’s been through the wringer today.

Yeah, but she’s alive. Odd, don’t you think?

Why do you say that?

Everyone else is dead.

So, she’s lucky.

Yeah. Lucky.

The sound of the helicopter faded away.

Maybe they were just flying by, said Bob.

Navy helicopter just randomly flying through the Alaskan wilderness? I doubt it. I’d say we’ll be having a visit from some Marines. I tossed the rifle into the clearing. I’m going to make a pile of the guns.

You’re taking a chance.

No choice. We don’t want some trigger happy grunt taking us down because we’re armed.

I gathered up the guns and made an obvious pile in the center of the clearing. Bob just stood there.

Now what?

Now we wait. I looked in a nearby cooler and found some iced bottles of Heineken. Want one?

Sure, I guess so.

I used the latch of the car door to pop the caps off two beers before taking a seat in one of the camp chairs.

What about her? said Bob.

If you feel bad, prop her up in one of the chairs, like ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’. Otherwise, take a load off and pray we look harmless.

Bob sat down, unconvinced.

I wish now I’d brought my Kindle, I said.

Ten minutes later I had the feeling we were being watched.

Don’t make any sudden moves. I said.

Why? What?

We’re good guys, I said, raising my voice. All the tangos are dead.

Who are you talking to? said Bob.

Just stay still.

I stared at the woods behind the tent. Most people misunderstand how camouflage works. Modern designs rarely even bother to imitate foliage. The idea is not to look like a bush, but to disguise the outline