Iphigenia Savanarolova gazed at the satellite phone in her hand in absolute disgust.  She was aghast.  She could not believe what she was hearing.  Max Winthrop-Smythe, supposedly the top covert security specialist working in private industry in the world, had just told her that his cover had been blown by a middle aged American, a great fat Tongan and two runty children, who had subsequently eluded his best men, whilst they had come under sustained shellfire by an as yet unidentified group on Solitude.  Not only that but it was likely that she would incur a penalty payment because of the possible loss of two of those morons that Winthrop-Smythe had hired.  How could a quiet operation like this, years in the preparation, go so spectacularly wrong?  There was going to be hell to pay if those idiots let the pilots and children get away from the island!

If Savanarolova was sure of one thing, the client had been absolutely emphatic about the need to keep things quiet.  That had been made abundantly clear at the meeting she had had with their representatives in the Bahamas, beside a seawater swimming pool containing a pair of really quite voracious blue sharks.  It had not been a subtle message; it had a touch of the James Bond about it.  She shivered, remembering how those blank eyed killers looked as they had swum by a viewing window in an underground meeting room that she had been led to for her appointment.

She made a decision.  If she was going to regain the initiative she would have to be bold.  She would have to take personal command of the situation and make decisions from the ground, rather than from a distance.

“Max, I’m coming ashore!”  she barked down the handset.  “I expect you to defer to me in matters regarding these fugitives, as well as the primary mission.  Is that clear?”  Barely waiting for an acknowledgement, she added, “We’ll be ashore in an hour.  Meet us on the EastBeach!”

She placed the satellite phone down on the desk that she occupied.  Looking around the quietly luxurious interior of the cabin, her eyes settled on the view beyond the window that faced the foredeck of the cruiser.  Almost by accident, the central peak of Solitude rose and fell, with the movement of the ocean, in the centre of the window.  She cursed savagely.  How she hated getting her hands dirty in field operations!  It was much more satisfying to direct things from a distance, moving others around according to her instructions, like pawns in some giant chess game.  Once you became involved, it was almost like giving up part of yourself to outside influences.  You became a pawn too.  She hated that most of all.

“Mr Munro,” she said to the other person in the cabin, a scarred, shaven headed bull of a man with a broken nose and cauliflower ears.  “Mr Munro, things have become difficult on the island.  We are going ashore to take control.  Please pack the usual things and have the crew make the launch ready.”

Munro nodded without uttering a word and slid from the room.  Almost like a ghost, Savanarolova thought, so very useful.   Opening a desk drawer, she removed an old commando knife in a worn sheath.  With a sigh, she pushed up her left sleeve and strapped it to her forearm, flexing her hand to make sure that it was securely in place.  She stood up and was about to leave her desk when she paused. Smiling to herself, she picked up a dark chocolate from the small silver dish by her laptop and popped it in her mouth.  The velvety bitterness of the chocolate slowly gave way to the intensely painful burn of the habanero chilli contained within.  Delicious, she thought of the useful, not so gentle reminder to herself that it was always best to keep one’s power hidden.

Twenty minutes later Savanarolova boarded the cruiser’s launch and met Munro.  He dismissed the cruiser’s crew; they would wait off shore for further orders.  Only Munro and his employer were taking the launch in to Solitude – the fewer people who knew what was going on the better.

The trip in to Solitude did not take long.  Munro skilfully piloted the launch in over the reef that almost made the eastern beach inaccessible to large boats.  With barely half a metre of water beneath the keel as it crossed the reef, the sleek launch glided into the deeper, calm waters of the lagoon.

“Where is that fool, Winthrop-Smythe?”  Savanarolova mused. 

Munro, sat at the wheel, pointed towards the centre of the narrow strip of beach.  A small party emerged from the tree line and took up positions in a loose circle.  Obviously alerted to danger, the men gave every appearance of taking the threat on the island very seriously.  Cradling automatic weapons and wearing body armour, they scanned the forest, the shore, the headlands, even the sea.

Savanarolova raised one eyebrow at Munro.  At least he’s thorough, she thought. 

Munro piloted the launch close to the shore and beached it quickly, uncomfortably aware of the reports of accurate mortar fire.  He threw a line to one of Winthrop-Smythe’s men who trotted back to the forest and secured it to a tree.  Munro stepped into the surf and hoisted two backpacks out of the launch and slung them over his shoulder.  With his free hand he reached in behind the helmsman’s chair and removed an antique Thompson sub-machine gun.  He stalked up to Winthrop-Smythe, glared at him malevolently and, without missing a beat, walked straight past into the forest.

Savanarolova stepped out of the launch and followed Munro.  She smiled sweetly to Winthrop-Smythe as she walked past him. “Come on, Max!”  she said, as if to a dog. “Lead the way then!”

Winthrop-Smythe gritted his teeth and flashed a warning glance at his men, who were enjoying his discomfort at the hands of the diminutive woman.  With loathing, he watched her disappear into the forest after her quite frankly disturbing henchman.  A strange woman, with closely cropped white blond hair and a lean, athletic figure, she provoked strong reactions in all who met her.  At his first meeting with her in a Zurich hotel, where she had been interviewing representatives of different security consultants for this job, she had been charming and articulate, yet also able to ask pertinent, probing questions which uncovered untruths in the candidates’ statements.  Winthrop-Smythe had twigged to this fairly quickly had had proceeded to tell her the unvarnished version of his company’s activities.  He got the job. However, he was now beginning to wish he had lied more.   Since then he had discovered that she was a ruthless operator, who knew exactly where each penny was going, who was pulling their weight, and who wasn’t.  She could clearly identify a problem, proposing a solution to it that was both creative and efficient.  He had no doubt that her solution to the problem of the pilots and the children would be a final one.  He also knew not to keep her waiting under any circumstances.  Signalling to his men to bring up the rear, and for one to take point, he fell in and joined her beneath the palms with her pet monster.

“Mortars?”  she questioned when they were under cover.  “What are mortars doing here?  I thought you could guarantee the security of your team.  No leaks, you said.  Yet here we are on a remote island and the only people who knew the location of this mission are standing here now.”  At this last statement, Munro started forward towards Winthrop-Smythe and cracked his knuckles under the Englishman’s nose.  She continued, “Mr Munro here would be keen to find out how this happened.  I could ask him to crush your skull with his bare hands or you could answer my every question truthfully.  Which would you prefer?”

“L-l-look here!” Winthrop-Smythe stammered, “There’s no way that we could have leaked this.  Between you and me, the only other person that knew was the pilot – he had to plot a course.  He couldn’t be involved with whoever has the mortar because they were shelling his damn children!”

“Why should I believe you?”  she said icily, “After all, you are hardly the model of reliability.  Kicked out of the British Army for robbing the officer’s mess!  You’re a real criminal mastermind, Max!”

Winthrop-Smythe stepped past Munro and looked down at Savanarolova.  “Why should I lie?  I have been totally upfront about my past and my company’s activities from the start.  You made it quite clear what would happen if there was a security leak from my end!  Well get on with it, then!  Only remember that there has been no security leak by me or mine!”  he hissed down at her through clenched teeth, staring into her cold eyes, calling her bluff.

Winthrop-Smythe’s men looked between the two uncomfortably.  Would they back the paymaster or the soldier?  Being mercenaries, Winthrop-Smythe knew the answer and so did Savanarolova.  Money talks, he thought angrily.

She stared at him for what felt like minutes but was probably only mere seconds. Then she appeared to make her decision and shrugged, “We’ll talk more of this later.  The most important thing to do now is adjust the mission so that the primary objective can be achieved.  You need to detail enough of your best men to reconnoitre the island and identify our hostile friends, who they are working for and eliminate them if necessary.”

The Englishman nodded, relief flooding through him as Munro stepped back into a more relaxed posture.  “We need to get you set up in camp, Miss Savanarolova.  We have full comms and we are monitoring all the frequencies for any other radio chatter.  We have also started digging in and we should have some bunkers prepared by midday so that at the very least we’ll have some protection from further bombardment.”

As they patrolled through the forest with Winthrop Smythe’s men strung across their line of march in a crescent formation, they continued their discussion with Munro bringing up the rear, cradling the drum fed Tommy gun in his arms like a proud father carrying a newborn.

“How long do you think it will take to cut a path to our primary objective?” Savanarolova asked.

“With fewer men it’s hard to say.” Winthrop-Smythe admitted, “Quite frankly, all our plans are based on guess work.  We only have the photos from the file to give us an idea of the objective’s location and those were taken decades ago.  There’s no knowing the degree of deterioration on the site, or for that matter how thickly the jungle has grown back in previously cleared areas.”

“I know all that!” she snapped sharply.  “What I want are answers!”

He shrugged, “It’s just difficult to say.  We initially estimated two days trekking with a full crew clearing the ground.  Now, at least four to six days, depending on the degree of contact we have with our new friends, who we’ve designated the Red Team.  Remember, we’ve had two casualties already, so we’re hands down.”

Savanarolova acknowledged the latter statement with an impatient wave of her hands, “No matter.  We can simply encourage the remaining men to work harder with the promise of a ten percent bonus.  You know them, is ten percent enough?”

No matter?  Winthrop-Smythe seethed, no matter to anyone but their mates and their families.  I can’t even tell them what happened because I don’t really know!  “That should be fine.  I’ll tell them when we’ve got you safely into camp.”

She stopped.  Winthrop-Smythe turned back to face her, to reassure her that the camp was not much further, when he suddenly found himself turning over.  The forest spun before his eyes, trees cart-wheeling across his vision as sky became ground.  He crashed to the earth with a hard thump. 

“Oof!” he gasped as the air was driven from his lungs.  A heavy weight dropped on to his chest, driving what little air was left out, and he felt the unmistakable cool, hard edge of a blade nicking at his neck.

“Let’s get one thing clear, Max!”  Savanarolova said from on top of him, thrusting the commando knife deeply into his neck so that it pricked the skin but did not cut his throat.  “I do not need to be kept safe.  I will follow your advice but please do not think about patronising me.  I will replace you if I need to.”

There was the click of smoothly oiled metal and Munro stepped up to assist Savanarolova up, whilst grasping the now cocked Tommy gun in one meaty paw.  He pointed the muzzle at Winthrop-Smythe.

“We don’t have a problem do we?” she said, dusting down her combat trousers.

Winthrop-Smythe shook his head slowly, unable to keep his eyes off the cavernous muzzle of the sub-machine gun.  He had wondered why Munro preferred to use such an antique, but now he could see that up close, at the business end, it was a profoundly intimidating weapon.

“Well let’s get on shall we?  Now that we understand one another,” Savanarolova said and stalked off, waving the formation of mercenaries on.

At least the men still looked to Winthrop-Smythe for guidance.  That was one small consolation.  Muttering oaths under his breath he climbed to his feet and nodded for them to continue their patrol, daring them to meet his eye.

Shortly after Savanarolova had made her presence so forcefully felt, the group arrived at the camp.  Munro immediately commandeered a tent and ejected the occupants’ belongings.   He then glowered at the remaining mercenaries in the camp, an unspoken challenging to them all.  Wisely, the men said nothing, realising that Munro was more than just a little bit dangerous.  It was almost as if a chill wind emanated from the man, like a gust of air from an opened tomb. He had an air that threatened appalling violence at a moment’s notice.  Munro grinned and stretched out on a hammock.

Winthrop-Smythe decided it would be better to take his boss to the command tent where a map of the island had been set up on an easel.  Various locations had been marked with pins.

“We’ve marked the primary objective, the camp and safe paths to the East and South beaches.”  Winthrop-Smythe began.  “Here you can see the location of the sea plane and we have traced back the arcs, the flights, of the mortar shells and we can estimate the location of the mortar to be here.”  He pointed at a shaded section of the map, high up on the volcano, close to the pin marking the primary objective.

“It looks like the Red Team have already secured our objective,”  Savanarolova mused.  She looked closer at the map at one isolated pin on a spur of land that stretched out into the ocean on the North West of Solitude. “What’s that?”

“That?”  Winthrop-Smythe echoed. “That’s our forward observation post.  I have a couple of men - a sniper team - up there to keep watch on the blind side of the island.  We have a small, portable radar up there too. With our coverage there and on this side of the island, we can see if anyone is approaching, or trying to leave Solitude.”

“Good!”  Savanarolova said.  “Now that is quite reassuring.  I don’t think our friends with the heavy artillery have secured the objective yet.”

“Why?”
            “Because they are still here.  Why wait?  Why remain on the island if they have what they want? There’s only one thing here that has any value and once you have it, I can guarantee that you won’t want to be hanging around with it.  If no boat has approached the island, or a helicopter for that matter, I think we can safely assume that they are not at the objective.”

“So we continue with the mission?”
            “Of course, but we prepare for some kind of extraction from a hostile camp.  The mission may change at a moments notice.  Do not send too many of your men after the pilots and their children.  We need to reconnoitre our enemy’s position more thoroughly.”

“I’ll have to put a pair on both, that only really leaves me with twelve personnel to reconnoitre our hostiles.   The only bright spark on the horizon is that if we can secure the children quickly then the pilots will fall into line.  That will free up four men.”  Winthrop-Smythe reasoned.  Secure the children, an interesting phrase, he thought, more like threaten the little blighters and force those fat fools to do what they’re told.

“A pair on each is sufficient for now,” Savanarolova agreed, “But there must be no loose ends.  Is that understood?  If they can’t be secured then they must be eliminated and the seaplane destroyed.  Is that clear?”  She slapped at an insect on her neck, picked off the tiny corpse and ate it.  She looked at him piercingly with her pale cold eyes, sizing him up.  Could she trust his answer?  Would he be able to carry out, or order, the murder of these innocents?

Winthrop-Smythe nodded.  “You checked my references, of course?”  He asked, receiving a curt nod from Savanarolova in return.  “Well, then you will be familiar with the contract we were commissioned for in Somalia.  We carried out all necessary steps to ensure the success of the mission.  That included ensuring that there were no witnesses who could identify us, or our nationalities.  You need not worry about whether we can do what needs to be done.  We’ve done it all before.”

“Well then, Max.  You have reassured me.  I do believe that my employer’s interests are in good hands.”  She flashed him a dazzling smile of even, stunningly white teeth.  “I think you’d better get this operation properly underway.  I’ll leave the details to you.  However, Mr Munro and I will begin to cut a path to the primary objective.  We cannot afford any delay that can be avoided.”  With that, she stalked from the command tent and left Winthrop-Smythe breathing a sigh of relief.  Every minute in her presence felt like an hour.  He could not help feeling that his continued survival after any conversation with her depended on the flick of a coin.

The mercenaries were quickly organised into relevant teams.  The Frenchman, Jean Boucher, was sent off with a young, thuggish German to hunt down the pilots.  It was decided that since Pincher Martin and Dusty Miller knew the children best, that they might be able to bring them in somewhat more easily.  Jones would take eight men on a sweep of the southern slopes of the volcano and try to pin point the hostiles with the mortar.  Remaining in camp with one guard as security, and one to watch the seaplane, Winthrop-Smythe would direct operations. Satisfied with his arrangements, he dismissed his men to their assigned missions.  The hunt was afoot.

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