39
AS they always did, the sounds of a submerged submarine lulled Fisher into a deep sleep. The combination of the hum of the engines, the faint hiss of the water skimming along the outer hull, and the white noise of the air circulators acted as a tranquilizer.
He needed the sleep. He'd been going hard since the Trego, and as accustomed as he was to the lifestyle, he knew the stress and lack of sleep would eventually catch up to him, slowing his reactions and his thinking. Given where he was headed, he couldn't allow that.
Four hours after Collins left the cabin, he returned and gently shook Fisher awake, waved a mug of coffee under his nose, and said, "Had enough beauty sleep?"
Fisher groaned and sat up, planting his feet on the deck. "You tell me." He took the mug and sipped. It was scalding hot and salty.
Collins said, "Briefing in the wardroom in ten minutes."
FISHER was there in five. Like the rest of the sub, the officers' wardroom was a cramped affair: three sets of vinyl bench seats, tables bolted to the deck, and a small kitchenette in a side alcove. Pictures of the Houston, from her keel-laying to the current crew photo, lined the walls.
Waiting with Collins was his executive officer, Marty Smith. Fisher had never met Smith, but knew of his reputation. Halfway through his career, Smith had had a change of heart, leaving behind Naval Intelligence for a fleet posting, where he'd worked his way up the ladder of submariner billets--Supply and Admin, Weapons, Sonar, Engineering, to finally XO. In another five years he'd have his own boat to drive.
Fisher sat down and Collins made the introductions. "I asked Marty to sit in because of his intel background. He'll have some insights on the material we've got for you."
Collins opened the briefing folder and spread a series of ten eight-by-ten photos across the table. Each showed Shek's island, Cezi Maji, from different altitudes, angles, resolutions, and formats, including infrared, EM, and night vision--all taken either by satellite or P-3 Orion flights while Sam had been en route to Kadena.
"A little background first," Smith began. "Cezi Mali is part of the Zhoushan Archipelago at the mouth of Shanghai's Hangzhou Bay. It consists of fourteen hundred islands spread across seventy miles of ocean. Of those, only about a hundred are inhabited. Cezi Mali is roughly seven thousand acres, or nine square miles."
"Terrain?" Fisher asked.
"A good-sized cove and natural harbor on the north side of the island; on the south, east, and west sides, the place is a fortress: fifty-foot cliffs and narrow beaches. The interior is triple-canopy rain forest punctuated by exposed rock escarpments, peaks, and ridges."
"Peachy," Fisher said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Now, the fun part," Smith said, pushing a photo across the table at Fisher. It was from a P-3, Fisher could see, but it was color-enhanced. Using a pen, Smith traced a faint white line that seemed to follow the contours of the cliffs. "That's a road. A dirt path, really, but wide enough for these." Smith pointed again, this time to a rectangular object on the path.
"Jeep," Fisher said.
"Yep. Six of them patrol the cliffs day and night, rain or shine. Two armed guards per vehicle."
"Pattern?"
"That's the good news. They're on a schedule. Your people loaded the details onto your thingamajig. She said you'd know what that meant."
Fisher nodded. OPSAT. Good ol' Grim.
"Once past the cliff road, you'll have a three-mile slog through the rain forest. More good news. No patrols and no EM emissions anywhere, which means no cameras or sensors. The wildlife probably makes them useless. More bad news. No matter which route you choose, you'll have two escarpments and three gorges to deal with."
This fact, more than any other, had ruled out a parafoil insertion. Jumping into triple-canopy jungle was dicey enough, but given its thickness, there was no way to tell what lay under it. Dropping through the canopy to find yourself plunging into a gorge tended to put a damper on your day.
"Once through the jungle," Smith continued, "you'll come to what I've named the inner ring. Whoever owns this place is diligent about his security. For a one-mile radius around the estate--which I'll get to in a minute--they've cut the rain forest back to single-canopy. Mother Nature's on your side, though. Jungle is hard to control, so there should be some cover on the forest floor--providing you don't mind crawling."
"I love crawling," Fisher muttered. "The cutback means cameras and sensors, I assume?"
Smith nodded. "Lots of them, but they're plotted and loaded on your . . ."
"Thingamajig."
"Right. Now, guards. The inner ring is divided into zones--twelve of them, like a clock. One guard per zone, moving randomly. No patterns or consistent timing that we could see."
This was a mixed blessing for Fisher. Sentries on random patrol could turn up anywhere at any time, and usually, per Murphy's Law, at the most inconvenient of moments. On the upside, sentries were only human, and the human mind subconsciously gravitates toward order and pattern. With enough patience, Fisher might be able to find a gap in the coverage and slip through.
"Radio signals?"
"All guards have portable radios, but it looks like there's no scheduled check-in procedure."
"Probaby by camera," Fisher replied.
Each guard was likely required to regularly appear before a camera in his zone and give an "all clear" signal. A missed check-in would either trigger a visit from a security supervisor or raise an alarm.
"Once through the cutback area, you'll find yourself facing fifty yards of open, well-groomed lawn."
"You're kidding."
"Nope One of these pics even shows a groundskeeper on a riding mower. Across the lawn is twelve-foot-high hurricane fence topped with razor wire."
"Of course there is," Fisher said.
"It's not electrified, though. The island is on the outer edge of the archipelago, so it gets a fair number of storms, which means a lot of blowing debris. Hard to keep an electric fence running smoothly when it gets bombarded frequently. There are sensors, though, attached to the fence. There's no way to tell whether they're motion, touch, or beam.
"Now, the estate itself," Smith said, pushing another photo across the table. "There's a central building--this one here with the red tile roof. It's a six-story Chinese pagoda. It's surrounded by smaller buildings, probably staff quarters, storage, workshops, utility spaces, all of them inside the fence. Lots of guards here, about eight per shift. As for the pagoda itself, we've got nothing. No details of the interior. Guess you'll have to play it by ear."
At this Max Collins smiled. "As I recall, Sam, playing it by ear is what you do best."
Fisher went silent for ten seconds, absorbing the details. "How long to the insertion point, Max?"
"We've only got about sixty miles to go, but there are a couple Ninety-threes in the area."
Collins was referring to Chinese Type 093 nuclear hunter-killer subs. Almost as quiet as the LA class, 093s boasted a sophisticated sonar package, including bow, flank, and towed passive arrays. Worse still, rumors had been floating around that Moscow had provided Beijing with enough core technology to copy the Russian Skval torpedo, which was said to travel at 200 to 230 miles per hour.
"It may take a little time to pick our way around them," Collins said.
The growler phone on the bulkhead chirped and Collins picked it up. He listened for a moment, then hung up. "We've got ELF traffic."
ELF stood for Extremely Low Frequency, a band used to signal submerged submarines. Fisher followed Collins and Smith to the Control Center, where the OOD, or officer of the deck, handed Collins a sheaf of paper. "Surface for signal, sir."
Collins scanned the message, then handed it to Fisher. "Somebody wants to talk to you."
Not good news, Fisher thought.
"Officer of the Deck, let's poke the wire."
"Poke the wire, aye, sir."
The Control Center went into action as the crew brought the Houston up to antenna depth. It took
six minutes. "Antenna depth, Captain."
"Very well." To Fisher: "This way."
Fisher followed Collins to the radio room, where a senior chief radioman was waiting. "Link established, encrytion running. Call sign Xerxes."
"Thanks, Chief. Give us the room."
The senior chief ushered the other radiomen outside and closed the door behind him. Fisher donned the headset and keyed the microphone. "Go ahead, Xerxes."
"Sam, we've got a problem. Two hours ago there was an incident with a BARCAP," Lambert said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol. Whenever a U.S. Navy carrier was on patrol, it was guarded by a ring of fleet-defense fighters, either F-14 Tomcats or F/A-18 Hornets.
"The Iranians claim we were in their airspace. They sent up a flight of F-16s. There was furball, some missile lock-ons, and then a midair bump--one of their Falcons and one of our Hornets. Both pilots had to bail out."
"Good Christ," Fisher said. Back when the U.S. was on speaking terms with Iran, the Pentagon had sold the IAF hundreds of F-16 Falcons and Tomcats. "Escalation?"
"Nothing yet. Both pilots were recovered, which helps, but this is just the start. Next time it won't be a bump. Next time it'll be missiles."
And once that happens, we're effectively at war, Fisher thought.
"If there's anything on Shek's island that can point us in another direction, we need it."
40
WITH a gentle kick of his fins, Fisher eased forward until he felt his belly scrape the soft sand of the beach. He felt a wave wash over his back and his vision was momentarily obscured by froth. As the wave receded, he lifted his head until his face mask broke the surface. Ahead, he could see the line of white beach that followed the base of the cliff, itself a vertical wall of mottled gray rock.
He'd timed his approach to coincide with high tide for two reasons: One, the breakers would be easier to manage, allowing him to crawl into the shoals while remaining partially awash. And two, the higher the tide, the less beach he would have to cross to reach the base of the cliff, decreasing his chance of being spotted.
True to to his reputation, Collins had expertly guided the Houston northward into the heart of the East China Sea, past the Chinese 093s, and finally to the mouth of Hangzhou Bay and the Zhoushan Archipelago. For a standard special ops insertion, the Houston's forward deck would have been fitted with a clamshell dry dock shelter and an SDV, or Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, but the accelerated nature of Fisher's mission had made this impossible, so he'd simply exited the sub's forward escape trunk and swum the half mile to the island.
So far the weather was partially cooperating with his plan. The sky was clear, with an occasional scud of clouds passing before the moon. According to Collins's weather officer, a tropical storm was working its way up from the South China Sea, pushing a line of rain squalls before it.
Fisher reached back and plucked his binoculars off his harness. He scanned the top of the cliff, looking for movement or headlights. He saw nothing. He replaced the binoculars and moved his left arm forward until his could see the OPSAT's screen. He punched a button and a map of Cezi Maji appeared in the green glow.
Grimsdottir had done her usual thorough job, having divided the map into three views: standard topographical with geographical features, EM, and infrared, each of which was labeled according to Smith's brief: cliff road; outer rain forest; inner cutback zone; and the estate proper. A variety of multicolored symbols marked known locations of cameras, sensors, sentry zones, and fences.
Looking at the fortress that was Bai Kang Shek's island, Fisher felt a momentary tingle of apprehension, but he shook it off. Break it down, Sam, he commanded himself. One step at a time. One camera, one sensor, one sentry.
He lowered his face mask back into the water and started inching forward.
TEN minutes later, he was across the beach and hidden amid the rocks at the base of the cliff. Behind him, waves hissed over the sand and retreated, leaving a cream of froth. He picked his way along the cliff until he had a clear view of the top, then waited.
His wait was short. Eight minutes later, he saw a pair of headlights moving through the foliage. They stopped and went dark. A few seconds later, a flashlight blinked on. In the moonlight Fisher could see a figure standing at the edge of the cliff. The guard played the flashlight over the rock face, then down and over the sand.
The flashlight blinked out. The headlights glowed to life and started moving away.
Fisher tapped the button of the OPSAT's screen labeled LOCK and the red diamond symbol on the cliff road started flashing. LOCK ENABLED. With the jeep patrols on a predictable schedule, all Fisher had to do was lock in the appearance of one them to track the rest. One by one, the remaining five jeep patrols popped onto the screen at various points along the cliff road.
A set of scrolling numbers next to each diamond showed the time remaining until it reached Fisher's position. He had six minutes until the next. He punched up the OPSAT's comm screen and tapped out a message--FEET DRY--and hit send. Given the inordinately high level of the island's security, he and Lambert had agreed to forgo normal check-in procedures and keep transmissions to a minimum.
He trotted back to the spot he'd chosen earlier and started climbing.
THE cliff was at once a climber's dream and nightmare, a mix of granite, with plenty of lateral cleaves that made for good handholds, and volcanic basalt that was in some places worn smooth by millennia of weather, but in others, jagged, frangible, and as abrasive as steel wool.
By switching between NV and standard view, he was able to slowly pick his way upward, zigzagging from one granite run to the other until he was halfway to the top. His OPSAT vibrated once on his wrist, then again. He locked his right hand into a crevice and lifted the OPSAT to his face.
On the screen one of the red diamonds was moving down the cliff road, nearing his postion. The time display wound down past sixty seconds . . . fifty-five. . . .
Hand over hand, he moved left, toward a nose-shaped hump in the cliff. When his shoulder bumped against it, he lowered himself until he could duck under the tip of the nose. He shoved his hand into a crack until his knuckles were jammed against the stone, then released his left hand and let it dangle.
Above him, he heard the growl of an engine. Brakes squealed. A car door slammed. Then footfalls on gravel and the rustle of foliage. A flashlight beam skimmed horizontally along the cliff face toward him, then up and over the nose and out of sight. Fisher glanced down in time to see the beam track along the beach for a few seconds, then blink out.
He waited until the jeep's engines had faded, then glanced at the OPSAT. The next jeep was on the east side of the island, a red diamond slowly marching toward him. Seven minutes.
He kept climbing.
WITH two minutes to spare, he reached the foliage overhanging the edge. He groped around until his hand found a root and he pulled himself up. He snaked through the underbrush until he reached the edge of the road. A quick EM/NV check up and down the road revealed nothing. He checked the OPSAT: one minute.
The previous day's rain had left the road muddy--a perfect mold for footprints, so Fisher sidestepped along the grass verge until he found a spot where a pair of flat stones were half-buried in the dirt. He was leaping to first stone when he heard the grumbling of the jeep's engine. He hopped to the next stone, then to the edge, where he ducked down, slipped into the undergrowth, and dropped flat.
The jeep's headlights washed over the road. Half a foot away, a mud-encrusted tire rolled past Fisher's face. The jeep ground to a halt and a car door opened. A voice called something in Mandarin. The reply came from slightly farther away--the first voice from the passenger; the second from the guard who'd gotten out to scan the cliff face.
Half a minute later, the jeep was moving again.
Fisher maneuvered his arm up until he could see the OPSAT. He punched up the map. The outer ring of rain forest lay before him. Three miles of unbroken jungle, two escarpments, three gorges.
<
br /> He had six hours before dawn.
41
FISHER came to a small stream gurgling its way through the undergrowth, and paused for a break.
On paper, three miles in six hours sounded like an easy stroll. He'd lived and fought and killed in jungles, sometimes for months at a time, and he knew there was nothing easy about it, especially at night. His every step, his every breath, his every hand placement was fraught with hazard.
His NV was virtually useless. With only the occasional game trail to follow, he had to force his way steadily through foliage so thick, all he saw in his trident goggles was a wall of leaves and branches that parted with his passing only to immediately close behind him. Every step involved either ducking or twisting or crab-walking around an obstacle. The canopy above blotted out all but fleeting glimpses of sky and moonlight. As it was, the ambient light was barely enough to feed the NV.
The heat, which hovered at ninety degrees, was coupled with ninety-percent humidty. In his peripheral vision, he could see bits of movement as the jungle's night creatures scurried away. Serrated vines and spiked leaves crisscrossed his path, scraping his exposed skin raw. Flying insects, some so small they were invisible, others as big around as a quarter, swirled around his ears and eyes and nose.
And while every facet of breaking a jungle trail was exhausting, Fisher knew the physical stresses were only the tip of the iceberg. No other environment on earth worked on the human psyche the way a jungle could. Facing a curtain of foliage left you with no points of reference. Everything you saw was homogenized. Where you were ten feet ago looked eerily similar to where you were now. Without a tight rein on your mind, hopelessness starts to creep in, followed by panic and mental paralysis.
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