by Tom Clancy
“We have you by satellite, Sam,” Lambert says in my ear. “Just watch the patrolling guards. Otherwise you’re good to go.”
Temporary wire fences surround the base. Two gates allow entrance, one on the north side and the larger main access on the south. It appears that only two guards stand duty at the main gate at all times, but only one mans the north one. I elect not to use either. Instead I crawl through what foliage there is on the north side of the encampment, about sixty feet east of the gate, and use my wire cutters. There’s no moon tonight and it’s cloudy so the darkness provides me with a fair amount of cover. I’ll still have to be careful, though. There are no trees or other thick vegetation to hide behind if I need to. The base itself is illuminated by a number of floodlights set up at strategic locations.
One of the barracks is right in front of me. I quietly move behind it and can hear snoring through the walls. Everyone’s asleep, or at least they should be. From observing the site before I crawled in, I determined that four single-man patrols cover quadrants, moving back and forth within each man’s specific section. I imagine they’ll be spelled after three or four hours.
I make my way around the barracks, darting from shadow to shadow. I’d like to shoot out the damned floodlights but that certainly would be an attention grabber. When I crouch behind what appears to be the mess hall I see a lengthy stretch of brightly lit turf to the submarine pens. Unfortunately that’s where I need to go to learn what I can about Operation Barracuda. How the hell am I going to get from here to there?
“Guard approaching from the east,” Lambert says.
There’s my answer—walking toward me in the form of one of the soldiers patrolling his quadrant. He’s lost in his thoughts, not paying much attention to his surroundings, and probably figures there’s no way in hell he’s going to encounter any trouble in the middle of an army base. I wait until he’s nearly upon me and then I spring forward, clasp my hand around his mouth, and butt him on the back of the head with my Five-seveN. The soldier falls limp in my arms. I drag him into the shadow behind the mess, remove his jacket and helmet, and try them on for size. A little tight but they’ll do. I take his assault rifle—a QBZ-95—then I stand, get into character, and slowly walk into the light. I’m now a patrolling Chinese soldier.
As inconspicuously as possible, I slowly and surely make my way to the command post and submarine pens. It’s out of my guy’s quadrant but I don’t think anyone’s going to notice. I just don’t want to run into the guy who is supposed to be patrolling this quadrant or there might be some fireworks.
The entrance to the first pen is open. I stand to the side and carefully peer in. Sure enough, there’s a submarine sitting in the water. Work lights illuminate the pen and I see a couple of soldiers on the platform at the side of the sub, sitting at a table and playing cards. They, too, probably figure no one’s going to bother them this late at night.
As I study the submarine I realize it’s not a class I recognize. I remember reading a Pentagon report that was distributed to Third Echelon operatives regarding a new class of sub the U.S. military believed China was building. Known at the Pentagon as a Yuan-class sub, it is speculated to be a new type of attack boat that’s diesel-powered and built from indigenous Chinese hardware and Russian weapons. I quickly snap some shots of it with my OPSAT and move on to the next pen. There’s a little more activity inside this one so I’m unable to get a good look. I do, however, note that a sub is indeed in the pen and might be a nuclear-powered Xia-class.
The third pen is empty. No submarine at all. Yet there are several soldiers moving things around on the platforms on the sides of the slip, cleaning up after a launch operation or preparing for the arrival of a boat.
Then I recognize a guy in civilian clothes standing over a control board some forty feet away. It’s Oskar Herzog, now without the white in his hair and beard that made him look older. He’s talking with a man in a sharp-looking uniform whose back is to me. From this angle it’s difficult to discern his rank.
I carefully slide inside the pen and crouch behind three oil drums so I can get a better look. Finally, the man turns away from the control board and I’m able to snap a shot. It’s General Tun himself.
He and Herzog walk away from the control board and head in my direction. I hug the floor as they move past the drums and step outside. I quickly make sure no one is following them or watching, and then I slip out the door and tail them. They head straight for the command post, a small temporary building not far away from the pen.
After they go inside, I move around to the back of the small structure, where there’s a window at shoulder height. I reach into my backpack and find what I call my “corner periscope,” a device that’s really a lot like a dentist’s tool—it’s a thin piece of metal with a small round mirror at the end. The metal is bendable so I can adapt it to just about any kind of space. It’s best for looking around corners when you don’t want to be noticed but in this case I use it to look inside the window.
Well, well. A bunch of late-nighters. I’ve got all of them in one tidy package. General Tun, Oskar Herzog, and Andrei Zdrok stand over a worktable studying maps. Eddie Wu sits on a stool in the corner looking as if he’s about to nod off. And lying on a couch, barely awake, is Yvan Putnik.
I’m extremely tempted to lock and load and end it here and now. I press my implant and ask for Lambert.
“I’m here, Sam. What is it?”
I type in a text message: I HAVE ZDROK, HERZOG, PUTNIK, TUN, AND E WU TOGETHER IN CONVENIENT TARGET LOCATION. SHOULD I?
After a moment, Lambert says, “Do you know what they’re planning to do with the nuke and the MRUUV?”
I respond: NOT YET.
Lambert says, “Then you’d better wait. Please proceed with the primary directive. Then get the hell out. We’ll leave that other thing for the U.S. military. It’s not your job, Sam.”
Oh, man. Putnik is the one I really want. It’s my deepest desire to make the guy suffer for what he did to Katia. As I curse Lambert’s orders, I put the corner periscope in my trouser pocket and activate the T.A.K. on my Five-seveN. I aim it at the window and listen in on the conversation. Since the general can’t speak Russian and the Shop guys can’t speak Mandarin, they’ve opted for very bad English.
TUN: . . . they tell me submarine Mao do reach American west coast seven day.
HERZOG: Are you sure about that, General? Only seven days?
TUN: Mao is fast submarine we have. Xia-class.
ZDROK: I was impressed with how it looked today when it left the pen.
TUN: It beautiful boat. New diesel-powered sub very nice, too. United Nations not know about.
They do now, I think.
ZDROK: So, General, I believe this finishes our business together. You have the warhead my comrade General Prokofiev supplied to you, you have all the pieces of Operation Barracuda and they appear to be working, and now Mr. Herzog and I would like to leave you with your plans. That final payment . . . ?
TUN: It is done. Here receipt for wire transfer into Swiss bank account.
ZDROK: Oskar, take a look, is this in order?
HERZOG: Appears to be. The figures are correct.
TUN: You not see Barracuda work, Mr. Zdrok?
ZDROK: Uh, no, General, I got here after your sub left.
TUN: Please. Allow me show. Come see before you go.
ZDROK: (big sigh) All right. Yvan, wake up. The general wants to demonstrate his new toy. Eddie, you coming?
WU: (grumbles, unintelligible)
I hear them shuffling about and finally all five men leave the structure and walk toward sub pen number two. I wait until they’re inside and then move around the back of the building. By doing so I discover metal rungs attached to the side of the structure, obviously there so soldiers can climb to the roof if they need to. I ascend to the top and come face-to-face with an infantryman who is very surprised to see me.
“Hello,” I say as I swing the butt of the
QBZ-95 around and into his face. The guy plummets to the metal roof, making a bit more noise than I’d like. I quickly roll him against a ventilation pipe to conceal him a little and dump the Chinese rifle in the shadows. I don’t need it as long as I have my SC-20K.
There’s an open trap in the roof near the ventilation pipe. I look inside and see rafters along the underside of the ceiling. Perfect. I slip inside like a snake, grab hold and straddle a rafter beam, and scoot away from the opening. I’m now in the darkness and can see everything happening below me. General Tun has led his spectators to the front of the Xia-class sub and is directing soldiers to bring out equipment. A long coffinlike trunk is placed on the platform that runs alongside the boat. Inside is one MRUUV and it looks just like the one Professor Gregory Jeinsen drew up in the Pentagon. It’s long and cylindrical, about six feet long and maybe three feet in diameter—kind of like a cigar holder with flat ends instead of rounded ones. I aim the Five-seveN, adjust the T.A.K. frequency, and listen in.
ZDROK: So that’s it, huh. This is what all the fuss was about?
HERZOG: It’s a marvelous invention, Andrei. It’s beautiful.
ZDROK: How many of these things can your subs carry?
TUN: Launch from torpedo tubes. Mao has three Barracuda. Like this one.
ZDROK: Okay, so one of the MRUUVs has the warhead. What do the other two have?
TUN: Nothing! They decoy.
HERZOG: When do you plan to make your announcement to the United States, General?
TUN: When Mao reach target area. Seven day.
HERZOG: And you really plan to use it if they don’t let you take Taiwan?
TUN: (nods enthusiastically) No more Disneyland! Boom!
ZDROK: What will you do if the United States comes down on you before then?
TUN: “Comes down . . .”?
ZDROK: Attacks you. What if they attack you first?
TUN: (laughs) You funny man, Mr. Zdrok. Joke, right?
Whoa. I get it now. The general isn’t planning to use his nuke on Taiwan at all. He’s using the MRUUVs to deliver the weapon as close as possible to a major American city on the west coast. Los Angeles, from the sound of it. And that’s his insurance policy for attacking Taiwan. He’ll let us know that the weapon is in place and will be detonated if we try to stop him from invading the little island. Since they’re using a submarine to launch the MRUUV, it’s going to be difficult as hell to track it. From what I understand of the MRUUV technology, it can be shot from the sub’s torpedo tube and then be guided remotely to its final destination. The sub doesn’t even have to be in American coastal waters; it can sit right on the edge of the international boundary and do its thing. Ingenious.
It’s time to get out. I begin to scoot backward along the rafter beam toward the opening when I hear a rumble down below. An entire platoon of armed men barges into the place. The sergeant runs to another uniformed officer, who in turn whispers something to the general. Then everyone looks up at the ceiling as the general is escorted out of sight.
Shit.
Did they find the guard I knocked out earlier? Or the guy on the roof? They’re sure acting like they know someone’s up here.
A soldier brings out a searchlight, sets it on the platform beside the sample MRUUV, switches it on, and shines it at the ceiling. He slowly moves it along each beam as every man in the place studies what it reveals. I stay perfectly still and pray that not too much of my body extends beyond the outline of the beam I’m on.
Another couple soldiers bring in a device that looks familiar. In fact, it’s the boom box sonic transmitter I saw in Hong Kong. They plug it in to an outlet, point the little dish at the ceiling, and turn it on. I can hear the familiar hum as before, but this time my implants are not affected. Thanks to Grimsdottir’s work and the operation Coen had me undergo in L.A., their sonic torture device is no longer effective.
The men look at each other questioningly. One man checks the machine to see if it’s working properly. He shrugs his shoulders. One guy shouts some orders. Men hustle back and forth. They’re not sure if I’m really up here or not. Meanwhile, Zdrok, Herzog, Putnik, and Wu huddle near the door, watching and waiting to see if their intelligence proves to be correct.
So far they haven’t seen me. Hell, I’ll stay here all day if I have to. As long as I don’t move I just might be safe. My biggest worry is how did they learn I’m here?
A man wearing civilian clothes walks into the pen from the front door. Before I have a chance to get a good look at him, he turns to Zdrok and his crew, has a word with them, and then moves onto the ramp by the sub. When he looks up at the ceiling, I feel my heart skip a beat. I now have the answers to a lot of questions. I now know how the enemy has been able to track my movements in Hong Kong, in L.A., and here. I now know how the Shop knew where I’d be and when.
Mason Hendricks, alive and well, shouts, “Fisher, you had better come down like a good boy. Otherwise they’re going to shoot you down.”
34
A soldier brings in another searchlight and aims it on the trap in the ceiling, so I won’t be going out that way. To put it bluntly, I’m trapped. Sooner or later one of those light beams is going to catch a part of my leg or shoulder and it’ll be all over. The only thing I can do is to make it more difficult for them to see me.
But I have to risk moving to reach into my trouser pocket and retrieve three smoke grenades. The eye is most attracted by motion, so I inch my hand along my side as slowly as possible. I finally reach the pocket and unsnap the flap but I forgot that I placed my corner periscope in there, loose. The damned thing slides out and gravity does the rest. I watch in horror as the device falls to the platform, hitting it with a ding.
“There!” Hendricks shouts, pointing at me.
The soldiers aim their assault rifles as I reach into the pocket and grasp a grenade. I pull the pin and let it drop. The boom is louder than it is damaging, but the dark cloud of smoke it produces is what I really want. I quickly grab another one, pull the pin, and let it fall. Then the gunfire begins. The bullets spray the ceiling around me but I’m now able to scoot along the rafter beam out of harm’s way. I don’t move toward the trap door because they’ll be expecting that. Instead I go the opposite way with no clue as to how I’m going to get out of there. The gunfire continues to spread in all directions—they’re leaving no room for doubt.
There’s one other option. I reach into my backpack and grab my only wall mine. It takes me five seconds to activate it and another five to attach it to the ceiling. I set it to explode in ten seconds, which better be enough time for me to scoot along the beam far enough out of the way!
The men below are still blinded by the smoke and are wildly shooting their guns. The wall mine is a gamble I have to take. I’m counting on it to blow a hole big enough for me to get through and at the same time provide even more smoke to cover my escape.
I move to the far end of the beam I’m on and cover my head as bullets rattle the ceiling around me.
KA-BOOM!
The building shakes with unexpected roughness, causing the beam I’m sitting on to jerk precariously and come loose! I hug the girder, feeling it sway with my body weight. I can’t see a damned thing—smoke has filled the place and I have no idea if I’m falling or hanging by a couple of steel bolts. After a moment my equilibrium calms down and I perceive the beam isn’t dropping, it’s just dangerously close to doing so. I flip down my goggles and turn on the night vision, which sometimes helps to see through smoke screens. It outlines some objects and I can now plainly see the big hole in the ceiling that’s at least six feet in diameter. The smoke will ventilate quickly so I’d better get moving.
The girder I’m hugging is still attached to the ceiling behind me by a few bolts. The end in front of me is hanging out into space above the slip. I have to inch my butt in reverse, move up the beam to the ceiling, and then grab hold of another girder to do a hand-over-hand in order to reach the hole. If I move too quickly, the g
irder I’m on will surely come loose. And of course the soldiers below are still firing their weapons into the air, creating a random hazard no matter what direction I go.
Ain’t this the life?
When I’m about five feet from the ceiling, I hear the bolts begin to give way. There’s a horrible wrenching sound behind me as I feel the beam jerk and drop a few inches. I can’t risk sitting on it any longer, so I focus on the stationary beam above my head and try to propel myself those five feet from a sitting position. This is where that Krav Maga training comes in handy. By using the muscles in my thighs and performing a painful stretch between my waist and arms, I’m able to elongate—that’s the best way I can put it—and give a little push-off at the same time. As soon as I do, the girder breaks loose and falls. For a split second I’m weightless in the air and then I feel my hands around the ceiling beam. I clutch it tightly, catch my breath, and then begin the hand-over-hand trip, twenty feet to the hole.
I don’t look down but I can hear the men shouting to each other. The girder must have fallen on a few of them. It seems like an eternity before I reach the hole and the smoke clears quickly while I’m in transit. Sure enough, just as I reach the hole I hear Hendricks shout, “There he is! Shoot him!” The bullets fly but I’m already climbing through the opening and crawling onto the roof. I roll my body toward the edge of the building as the rounds perforate the steel, inches behind my trail.
As soon as I figure it’s safe to do so, I stand and run to the rung ladder on the side of the building. Three guys are in the process of ascending it. I draw the Five-seveN and shoot the first man. He falls, knocking off the two behind him. The ground is crawling with soldiers and they’re surrounding the building. For the second time in the last ten minutes I’m trapped, so I reach into the backpack to check my stock of smoke grenades. Damn, only two left. I do have a couple of chemical flares, though. And something else that might be useful.