The second explosion blew the house apart as if it were made of matchsticks. Walls, roof were broken into slivers, falling on grass, trees, setting everything on fire. All those near the house were blown in every direction. Clothing burned. Skin burned. If they weren’t already dead, it was going to be a painful death, or very painful recovery.
Chiu was knocked unconscious. As he started coming around, he heard sounds of crackling fire, moans, cries of pain. He pushed himself to his knees, shaking his head. His ears were ringing. Parts of his uniform were shredded. Blood seeped through the remaining material. A gash on his forehead was oozing.
He got up unsteadily, then looked at the destruction, at blackened bodies. Some were missing body parts. Some had shards of wood stuck in them. It was hard to distinguish who they were, except for Faan. Chiu was able to recognize the one side of the face that wasn’t burned. Kneeling next to him, he placed a hand on Faan’s chest. He was dead.
The officer that he was, Chiu had already begun to analyze the situation. Even if there had been a timed device, it was impossible for anyone to know when he would have arrived. He looked across the property, thinking perhaps the person was still close by, holding a remote of some type. That answer didn’t make sense. He turned very slowly, trying to maintain his balance, as he continued perusing the area. No matter how it was carried out, whoever did it was already gone.
His suspicions were confirmed. A CIA operative was in Shanghai--and had just committed murder.
*
He’d been ready to leave the house, on his way to find Alpha Tango when he heard the ChiComs in the distance. The truck and house had been wired. A trail of black powder was hardly noticeable in the grass.
Now, more than a safe distance away, he lay flat on the ground. He looked at the remote in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket.
Still not certain if anyone had started looking for him, or even if anyone was left alive, he crabbed his way backwards, until he felt it was safe. Then, he got up into a crouch position. Taking a final look toward the destroyed house, he turned and started running.
The first street outside the boundary of the ghetto was less than fifty yards away. He sprinted as fast as he could, finally seeing the car, an old beat-up Shanghai taxi from the 1960s. All markings had been removed, except for a picture of Mao that still hung from a cracked rearview mirror.
As he drove out of the ghetto, he tried to bring his pulse back down to normal. The feeling he was now experiencing was completely exhilarating. Concentrating again on his driving, he slowed the car. He didn’t need to draw attention to himself, or have an accident. The craziness of early morning traffic in downtown Shanghai had begun, even with the fog. He kept his distance from other vehicles, seeing the constant blinking of blurry, red taillights. He turned off the main road, taking the shortest route to the house behind the Consulate.
He remembered the discussion. Stevens said they were going to follow the two suspicious men. But where? They couldn’t have gone too far from the Consulate.
Nearing the neighborhood, he slowed. Finally, he approached the alley near the building they had used for surveillance.
Shifting into reverse, he backed the car into a side alley then killed the engine. He started to close the door, when he remembered. He reached behind the seat, feeling along the floorboard, then under the seat, trying to find the radio. A picture flashed through his mind. He left it in the truck! He was sweating now. He couldn’t waste any more time. He closed the door, then headed for the surveillance building. Stevens had left two men inside to keep an eye on the Consulate, watching for any more suspicious characters.
He went inside, stopping on the first floor, listening for anything to tell him the men were still here. It was too quiet. He carefully climbed the steps. Once on the second floor landing, it didn’t take long to see that the building was empty. He turned quickly and went downstairs, then ran into the alley. Looking both ways, he had to decide where to start first, which way to go. There were more buildings, more alleys he’d have to investigate.
He was wasting time. He had to find Grant Stevens and his men. He took off.
Chapter 15
0500 Hours
With the two SEALs safe, with Slade and Stalley ready on the inside, Grant motioned the men closer. They had to get it done fast, and with surprise. They couldn’t give the UFs any chance of setting off the devices, or injuring the SEALs.
Making sure Stalley and Slade knew what to expect, he pressed the PTT, but spoke barely above a whisper. “Zero-Niner. Deuce approaching front.” He pointed to Diaz and Novak. “Three at back.” He, Adler and James would enter from the rear door. “Go.”
Diaz and Novak would take up positions to the side of the front door, in case anyone tried to make a run for it. They walked quickly but silently behind the target house, then circled around until they were at the corner. It was a long way around, but they wanted to avoid crossing in front of the window.
Diaz held up a fist, then leaned his head, confirmed it was clear, then motioned to Novak. They just started forward, when in the distance a loud noise erupted. Then, within seconds, another one brought them to a standstill. Explosions, maybe a couple of miles away, at their three o’clock. They jumped back, then stayed against the side of the house, getting farther away from the front.
Grant, Adler and James rushed around the side of the house. It didn’t matter what the noises were, or what may have caused them. It could work in their favor. A distraction. Someone was bound to come out to investigate. This could be their chance. It could be the break they needed. They didn’t have to wait long. The back door opened.
Grant didn’t hesitate. Pushing the PTT, he whispered, “Go!”
He immediately swung around the door, catching the exiting man totally by surprise. With a swift and powerful backhand motion, Grant’s fist and the barrel of his .45 smashed directly into the man’s face, knocking him backward. He collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Blood spurted from a broken nose and gash on his cheek.
Adler rushed from behind Grant. Another UF barely had time to raise his rifle when Adler fired two rapid rounds, striking the man high in the chest. He was dead before he hit the deck.
James sprinted over the downed men. He and Adler took up positions to Grant’s left. Within seconds it was over. Three weapons were now aimed at three UFs.
Two men were standing behind a makeshift table with their arms over their heads. One defiantly stood with his back to the three Americans.
Grant pressed the PTT, notifying the rest of the Team. “Clear!”
Novak and Diaz ran around the building, coming in through the back door. Stalley and Slade came rushing down the stairs with their weapons ready.
Novak rushed toward the front of the room, positioning himself between the door and window. Diaz stood near the man who was still unconscious.
Grant looked over his shoulder, shouting to Stalley and Slade, “Get our men outta here!” The two men hurried up to the second floor, then lead the SEALs out to the vehicle.
At least one of the three UFs by the table wasn’t going down without a fight. Suddenly, he spun around, attempting to use a hand chop to Grant’s head. In a split second, Grant blocked it with his right forearm. Before the man could blink, Grant’s left hand went rigid, his fingers curled slightly, thumb curled and locked in place. With his palm up, he struck the man right at the Adam’s apple with a ridge-hand chop (the back part of the hand), crushing the bone.
The man staggered back against the table, grasping his throat. His knees buckled from under him. He collapsed, choking, fighting for every breath. His face coloring turned a gray-purple. Then, he went limp, with his hand still holding his throat.
Grant stood over him with pure rage showing on his face. His left hand remained rigid, until he heard Adler’s voice. “Skipper.”
All the years they’d known one another, Adler had never seen Grant use his “special” skills. It explained a lot about the streng
th in those hands, and the scars.
Then something caught Grant’s eye, and he knelt next to the man, rolling him over on his stomach. Nunchakus. He roughly pulled them from the waistband before he stood, and handed them to Diaz. He looked at Adler briefly, then said to James, “Search those two.”
James patted down the first man. “What have we here?” he said drawing out an instrument tucked into a sheath under the man’s jacket. It was similar to a scythe.
He held it up for Grant to see. Grant knew exactly what it was. A kama. The weapon had a long wooden handle, with a foot-long, inward curving blade. Originally, it was used for chopping crops.
Grant said, “We have our murder weapon. That’s what killed Ang.”
James handed it to Novak, then he searched the man’s jacket pockets, finding a card. Without even looking at it, he gave it to Grant. He started searching the second man. “Here you go, Boss,” he said, holding out a card similar to the other. He continued searching the man, pulling a Norinco from its holster. He shoved that in his waistband. “That’s it.”
Grant held both cards in his left hand, as he scrutinized the names. “Chi-ming Lai and An-Jie Lin.” He specifically looked at the man called An-Jie Lin, the one who carried the kama. “You’re not ChiComs.”
An almost indiscernible hint of acknowledgement flashed across the man’s face. Grant caught it. “And you, you bastard, you understand English, don’t you?” Silence. “Who the hell are you?!” Again, silence.
Adler finally asked, “If they’re not ChiComs, then who?”
“They’re from Taiwan, Joe. And I’m beginning to see the whole fuckin’ picture.”
Adler was shaking his head, when something caught his eye. They’d been too preoccupied to notice, but now he spotted two small, wooden barrels in the corner. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.
Grant snapped his head around. “What?!” Then he saw what Adler was looking at. “Oh, Christ!” He immediately shouted, “Head’s up! Keep an eye on these guys!”
He and Adler hurried over to the other side of the room, staring at two IEDs--two “dirty” bombs. Inside each barrel, blocks of C-4 were wrapped around a canister. Dynamite was wrapped around the C-4. Red and black wires were placed helter-skelter around the explosives. However much was underneath, there was no way to tell.
What they could see were more than enough explosives to do plenty of damage, and more than enough to blow the canisters to smithereens, releasing the plutonium inside. No matter which way the wind was blowing, innocent people would be affected. And that, apparently, was the sole intent.
Adler leaned around the side of a barrel, sliding his hand toward the back.
“What are you looking for?”
“There’s gotta be some kinda timing device somewhere. Oh, shit!”
“What? Where is it?”
“I have a feeling it’s under the explosives.” He swung around, then made a beeline across the room. Reaching up, he grabbed Lin’s arm, then twisted it behind his back, forcing the man’s fingers open. In his palm was a small device.
“Holy Christ!” Adler spit out.
Grant rushed over, looking at the black box. He clutched the front of Lin’s jacket, practically lifting the man off the floor. “How much time?!” Silence again. Shoving the man back, Grant said, “Everybody outta here! And take these two!”
With what seemed like organized chaos, the Team reacted swiftly, pulling the two men outside. The man who’d been unconscious started moaning. He was coming around. His eyes started opening. Diaz grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the van.
Adler rushed outside, then came back with his rucksack. He laid his Uzi against the wall. Grant took a step closer, slowly shaking his head. He reached for Adler’s arm and locked eyes on him. “I know what you’re thinking. No. You can’t, Joe!”
“Is that an order?”
“For Christ’s sake, Joe!”
“Look, Skipper. We all know what’ll happen if I don’t even try.”
Diaz dropped his rucksack on the floor. “Count me in.”
“There,” Adler said, indicating with a thumb over his shoulder. “Two EOD-types. We should be able to pull it off.”
Grant turned away, vigorously rubbing the back of his neck. The way he felt at this moment had to be what Adler had experienced a year ago. That day Grant ordered Adler into a chopper, leaving him behind with East Germans and Russians.
As much faith as he had in Adler’s ability, Grant almost couldn’t face the prospect of possibly losing his good friend. . .his best friend. He also knew there’d be no changing Adler’s mind. They were here to get the SEALs home. And now this had become another responsibility--save innocent lives.
Grant sucked in a lungful of air. He lifted the strap of his Uzi over his head, letting it hang from his shoulder. “DJ!”
James ducked his head in the doorway. “Yeah, Boss?”
“You still got two radios?”
“Yeah.”
“Leave one.”
James nodded, then removed a radio from his rucksack, handing it to Diaz.
Grant stepped in front of Diaz, extending his hand. “Frank.”
“Don’t count us out, Boss.”
Grant gave a quick nod, before turning to Adler, who already had a hand extended. Grant latched onto it. “Joe. . .”
“Meet you at the boat, Skipper. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Sure, Joe.” With that he turned and left.
He hurried to the van, seeing his rucksack had already been put in the back. He forced a smile, as he looked at one SEAL then the other. It was the first time he was able to see how beat up they were, how tired and drawn they looked. “Ready to go home?”
Kidd and Becket each gave a quick two finger salute, with Becket answering, “You bet, sir!”
“Okay.” He nodded toward Slade and Novak, then he slammed the doors shut. The men were packed in there like sardines, but it hardly mattered. It was their only way out of Shanghai.
Stalley and James were waiting by the cab. Grant shouted, “Doc! You drive. DJ, give him the directions. Get us outta here!” With the little distance they had to travel before reaching the river, perhaps the fog would help cover their escape.
Tires squealed as Stalley hit the accelerator. Grant looked in the passenger side mirror as they pulled away, running a hand over the top of his head, with an all too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter 16
The Huangpu River. The largest river in Shanghai. It stretched for nearly seventy miles and was the last major tributary of the Yangtze. Even though the river was used as a major dumping place for sewage, most of Shanghai used it for drinking, and fishermen still fished along its banks.
Commercial boats were moored side by side, extending out into the river. Private fishing boats were docked at no particular locations. Any place along the riverfront that had access from shore, boats were moored--any size, any shape, and mostly old. This day it was nearly impossible to see any boats or the river, with a thicker fog rolling in.
“Damn,” Stalley said squinting, as he slowed the van even more.
“Okay, turn to starboard here,” James directed. “It should be about fifty yards ahead.”
At forty-five yards Stalley brought the van to a near crawl, when Grant said, “Hold it, Doc. Let me out.” Stalley hit the clutch then brake.
Grant opened the door, and got out, feeling a heavy mist on his face. Standing by the van, he looked and listened. He turned three hundred sixty degrees, straining his eyes. If anybody was close, he sure as hell couldn’t see him. And all he heard was water lapping against hulls, hulls bumping against hulls. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn blared. According to Kwan, the boat was supposed to be moored in a small tributary, a couple hundred feet from the Huangpu. The Yangtze was just under a mile away.
He turned in the direction of the water, stepping closer to the edge of the dock, trying to distinguish numbers on the boat. Black paint-worn
sets of registration numbers on the stern and bow matched what Kwan gave him. One set was in Chinese, immediately followed by a set in English. The vessel was made entirely of wood, thirty-five feet in length, about fourteen feet in width at midships, then narrowed to a point at a high bow.
Grant got on board at midships, taking a quick look at what they had to work with. The aft deck had no more than seven feet of total space. Old tires, hanging over the sides, were used as bumpers. A cabin, eight by ten, was constructed of horizontal wooden planks, covered with a sheet of warped plywood, covered with canvas. Small individual windows were on all four sides. One wide door was at the back, barely held in place with rectangular pieces of leather, acting as hinges. There was one sliding door port and one starboard of the wheel. Across its roof were long bamboo poles with black and red flags attached at the top. A pile of fishing net lay close to the bow, with smaller ones on the stern.
From the boat’s physical condition, Grant only hoped the engine was in better shape. He jumped on the dock and immediately returned to the van. “This is it. Let’s go,” he said to Stalley and James.
The three rushed to the back and opened both doors. “Grab your gear,” Grant said. “Find a place inside and make use of the limited space.” Slade and Novak got out then helped the SEALs.
“Doc, help them get inside,” Grant said as he gave each SEAL a pat on the shoulder as they passed by. “Maybe you can patch them up a little more.” He unhooked his canteen from his belt and handed it to Stalley. “Not much in there, but it might help. Once we’re underway, give them MREs. We should have extras.”
Slade and Novak dragged the three other men from the van, forcing them on the ground. Duct tape was wrapped around their wrists, with a piece slapped across their mouths.
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