False Flag

by Jack Slater

  Jung smiled, as though he had her in check. His upper lip curled, and he spat the words, “He died three hours ago, you lying bitch. Do you expect me to believe that was merely a coincidence?”

  Ikeda looked away, guilt written on her face. She’d known it would come to this, of course. And she also knew the next few seconds would demand the performance of a lifetime—and more than a shred of the truth.

  “I—,” she stammered.

  “You what?”

  Tears flowed down Ikeda’s cheeks, carving a path through the blood and landing dark red on her tanned, naked body. “I didn’t know,” she whimpered, her voice a low, pained moan. “He said…”

  Jung leaned forward. “He said what?”

  “He lied!” Ikeda howled, in faux anguish laced with real emotion. Alstyne was her first kill. He deserved it, but the CIA operative was no psychopath. She should have been flown directly to an Agency shrink after completing the operation, for a debrief to check he mental state.

  That, of course, would not now happen.

  Ikeda stumbled over the rest of her confession, the speech pained and halting. “He said it would just put him to sleep. So I could search the room, and get out without him noticing. He said the American would wake up with a hangover, and I’d be long gone.”

  Jung turned to his comrade, a sneer stretched across his face. He muttered two words in Korean. Ikeda had to strain to hear them. “Useful idiot.”

  “Please,” Ikeda whimpered, hoping she’d sold her story. “Just let me go. I’ll tell you everything I know. And no-one will find out about you. I promise.”

  “Oh,” Jung said, turning back to face her with contempt in his voice. “I know. You’re coming with us, bitch. I’ll find out if you’re telling the truth. One way or another…”

  23

  The matte-black miniature submersible cut through the inky waters of the South China Sea, invisible both to the naked eye and, this close to shore, to even the most advanced sonar systems operated by the People’s Liberation Army’s Navy.

  Lieutenant Mitchell ‘Nero’ Quinn sat in the flooded compartment of the SEAL Delivery Vehicle, as the minisub was officially–and unimaginatively–named. In his platoon, they called it the Pig.

  The Pig was, like her namesake, fat, slow and ugly. But it afforded Quinn and his men a greatly increased time on station, supplying them with oxygen and minimizing the loss of vital bodily fluids to the ocean: an inevitable, inescapable natural law that ordinarily constrained naval special warfare. The SDV however, built to carry six men and their equipment into battle, was the US Navy thumbing Mother Nature in the eye.

  Naval special operators were generally considered to be a breed apart–but even among the Navy SEALs, members of the SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team One, or SDVT-1, were known to be hard nuts to crack.

  You would have to be, since climbing into one of the cramped, windowless minisubs was like entering the black hole of Calcutta. With a range of fifteen nautical miles, the Pig could carry SEALs on missions that lasted as long as eight hours.

  Nero hoped that would not be the case tonight. It was supposed to be an easy job–a pickup of a nameless CIA asset. In Lieutenant Quinn’s opinion, however, there was no such thing as an easy mission, especially when the job entailed operating inside the maritime borders of the world’s only other superpower: China.

  He wouldn’t rest easy until he was back on the USS Cheyenne and traveling at twenty knots back toward open water.

  The silence didn’t help the lieutenant’s nerves. The Pig was battery operated, and even inside the submersible itself, only a faint vibration was detectable–and that only if Nero was concentrating extra hard. Add to that the fact that the re-breathing devices the SEALs wore rendered their breathing almost silent, and Nero often thought the SDV resembled nothing better than a sunk coffin.

  A low red light filled the flooded rear compartment of the Pig, just enough for Nero to make out the remaining two members of his fighting team, who sat opposite him, displaying no visible emotion behind their facemasks.

  Like Nero himself, they were equipped with fins, a dark wetsuit, a diving knife strapped to their left thigh, and a modified version of the venerable M4 A1 carbine, known as the Close Quarter Battle Receiver, or CQBR. The weapon was compact, designed to combine the stopping power of an assault rifle with the condensed form factor of a submachine gun. It was the perfect weapon for the confined environment of the SDV, and in the hands of his highly trained Navy SEALs, it was lethal.

  Nero brought his wrist to his face, fighting against the familiar tug of the water resistance to check the time. The watch face cast off a luminous green glow, so it was protected by a plastic covering, which he flicked off. There were just twenty minutes to go until the designated rendezvous time.

  A pilot and navigator sat at the bow of the Pig, facing forward, unlike the three members of Nero’s fighting team. They were hunched over the controls, studying dimly lit screens to make sure they remained on course.

  Nero was aware that the Cheyenne had lost contact with the navy’s network of satellites some hours before, but GPS was useless underwater anyway. Every SEAL was an expert navigator–but none more so than the man navigating the Pig: Chief Petty Officer Dan Dunn, known in the platoon as ‘double-D,’ a nod to the unfortunate choice of names his parents had chosen, and not the impressive circumference of his muscular chest.

  The lieutenant twisted and tapped double-D on his shoulder. The special operator turned to face his CO, and Nero flashed the man a hand signal to indicate that it was time to begin surfacing the Pig. Double-D nodded in confirmation, relayed the information to the pilot, and then shot Nero a thumbs-up.

  Even were it not for the fact that each of the SEALs was breathing from a tube that rendered it impossible to talk, it was equally impossible for radio waves to traverse the water. As a result, communication in the submersible was limited to the complex sequence of hand signals that Nero and his men had long ago mastered. It was good practice for warfare on the surface, too. As such, Nero’s team was a finely tuned machine, and one that had gone into battle together dozens of times before.

  The sub began to rise slowly through the waters of the South China Sea, and Nero followed its progress on an illuminated diving meter on the ceiling of the SDV. Ten minutes before the designated rendezvous time, the Pig breached the surface of the ocean with little fanfare. The pilot sent up a thin periscope, spinning it three hundred and sixty degrees, then shot Nero and the two members of the fighting team the A-OK sign.

  Both the pilot and navigator were fully qualified members of Nero’s team in their own right, but on this mission they were slated to stay in the sub, in case the fighting team needed to make a quick getaway. Nero checked that his two shooters were ready to go, then released the retractable ceiling on the rear compartment. His two men slid out, and he followed them.

  Once on the surface, Nero undid his rebreather and allowed it to hang loosely around his neck. He would need it on the return journey, so out of habit, he double-checked it was secure.

  It was.

  His two men had already assumed firing positions, crouching on top of the Pig, carbines scanning the horizon for targets. But the ocean was empty, bar the blinking navigation lights of faraway container ships busily crossing the waterways in search of China’s rapacious ports. The heat of the thick, polluted air off the Chinese coast pressed down on him immediately, palpable even through the sleek wetsuit that covered every inch of his body.

  “How we looking?” he hissed.

  “Clean as a whistle, Nero,” came the drawled reply from Petty Officer Tim ‘Homer’ DiMaggio, whose eye was glued to a thermal night vision scope, slowly scanning the sea in a full rotation. “I don’t see nothing.”

  “You don’t see anything,” corrected the third member of his team, a squat, powerful Latino named Santiago ‘Santa’ Reyes. Like the lieutenant himself–but unlike many enlisted SEALs–Santa was book smart as well as street sma
rt, and the petty officer loved playing up to his reputation.

  “Cut it out, guys,” Nero added, hiding a smile at his men’s irreverent humor–a feature of special forces teams the world over. “Save it until we’re back on the Cheyenne.”

  “You got it, boss. So where’s our boy?” Homer asked.

  Lieutenant Quinn shrugged and glanced down at his still-open watch face. Nine minutes remained until the designated rendezvous time. His instructions were to remain on the surface for ten minutes past the allotted hour, and then to retreat to the safety of the ocean’s depths, ready to try it all over again in a few hours’ time.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Nero hoped the package he was expecting would be delivered tonight. If it wasn’t, then he and his men would be right back in the Pig tomorrow night. He didn’t know who–or what–was so damn important that it had his men out here, risking discovery, capture, or even death. But ultimately, he didn’t care.

  This was what he lived for. Leading these SEALs was the best job he’d ever had.

  “Hold up lieutenant, scratch that,” Homer said, his voice immediately assuming a cool, businesslike tone that immediately grabbed Nero’s full attention. “I’ve got a vessel, no–two of them, heading south fast. Looks like a chase.”

  “Shit,” Nero muttered. “You think that’s our guy?”

  “If it is,” Homer added, typically economical with his vocabulary, “then he’s fucked.”

  Nero moved low over the bobbing SDV, riding the movement of the waves like a born sailor. His carbine was slung around his neck, but he kept one arm pressed against it, to avoid creating any unwanted sound. Reaching Homer, he stretched out his hand. “Let me see.”

  He took the scope off his subordinate and brought it to his eye. The world lit up in varying shades of white and gray. Through the scope, the chase was as clear as day. It was impossible to make out the class of either boat through the blurry grayscale painting, but Nero knew immediately that the pursuing vessel was military.

  “Shit,” he growled for the second time. “This isn’t good.”

  “Hell no it ain’t,” Homer murmured.

  Nero catalogued his options. His orders were to remain at the rendezvous point, not go on a wild goose chase–though beyond that, the rules of engagement were practically nonexistent.

  His job was to successfully expedite the retrieval of an Agency asset, no matter what the consequences–even if that meant creating an international incident. The SOCOM colonel who’d issued his instructions had been crystal clear on that point.

  The problem was, the Pig was built to go low and slow. It had neither the range nor the speed to join the chase quickly disappearing in the distance. Nero chewed his lip. It wasn’t in his makeup to simply give up, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  Reyes’ slightly accented Hispanic voice called out, low over the slapping of the waves. “You hear that, boss?”

  “Hear what?”

  Reyes held a finger to his lips. Nero followed the man’s instructions, stilling his breath and listening. At first, he heard only the waves lapping against the black hull of the miniature submersible, the dull roar of waves crashing against the cliffs many miles in the distance, and the occasional screech of a seabird overhead.

  But then he heard it. A high-pitched whine, like that of the mosquito, combined with another sound, like a hand slapping against their flesh.

  Or…

  “Dude, is that a JetSki?” Homer mumbled.

  Nero brought his carbine to his shoulder, scanning the surface of the waves for any sign of a target, his ears slightly cocked as he attempted to home in on the source of the noise. The lieutenant’s forehead wrinkled. The idea of a JetSki this far out to sea, this late at night made no sense at all. Not unless some vacationer was very, very lost.

  If that was the case, and the unlucky soul came across a squad of Navy SEALs, bristling with high-powered weapons, they were about to be in for the surprise of their lives.

  But somehow, Nero didn’t think that was the case.

  “Stay sharp,” he ordered. “Homer, get on the scope and tell me what you see.”

  “Way ahead of you, boss.”

  The three men fell silent, swaying up and down as the Pig was buffeted by a set of increasingly large waves. Neither Nero nor Reyes’ barrel so much as shifted an inch, however. Both men were exquisitely attuned to operating in the aquatic environment they now found themselves in.

  “Got it,” Homer drawled with satisfaction. “One contact, coming south, southeast.”

  “JetSki?” Nero asked urgently, pivoting toward the direction Homer had indicated. Without the scope, it was harder to make out the contact, but Nero’s left eye was perfectly accustomed to the darkness, after spending several hours in the gloom of the Pig before breaching the surface of the ocean, and he saw the glint of a light, low over the surface of the water.

  “Naw,” Homer replied. “Bigger. And heading straight for us.”

  The sound of another engine was audible now–a growl, not a whine. In the darkness, it carried easily over the waves, displacing the high-pitched whine that Nero had heard earlier.

  “I don’t like this,” Nero said, stating the obvious. “Can you see what we’re up against?”

  “Nope.”

  Nero ground his teeth. “Great.”

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Was the oncoming contact the asset he’d been ordered to retrieve? Or was the operative’s cover already blown–and if so, was the onrushing vessel on its way to roll up him and his men?

  Nero had no great desire to spend the next ten years languishing in a Chinese military prison. He had no doubt that his team would be tried as spies, leading to a fate that he didn’t even want to contemplate.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Reyes said.

  Nero grimaced in the darkness, glad his men couldn’t see how torn he was. He desperately wanted to give the order to retreat into the Pig, and thereafter to sink into the safety of the inky waves, but he knew he could not give that command. He was here to do a job, and he was damn well going to do it.

  He shook his head, punching his thigh with frustration. “Hold tight,” he ordered. “If something looks at you funny, take the shot–but you better be damn sure it’s not a friendly before you do.”

  “Got it,” Reyes replied.

  Nero knew that the compact Latino was the best shot–and the steadiest personality–under his command. It was the reason he’d picked the man for tonight’s mission. Reyes would not let him down.

  The lieutenant just hoped that he could say the same about himself. Night after night, he agonized about failing these men in battle. It was why he pushed himself so hard to be the best–so that he could lead the best. Because that’s what Reyes and Homer were–along with the rest of the SEALs under Nero’s command.

  Not just the best operators he’d met–but the best damn people he’d ever known.

  “They’re about a click out, and closing fast,” Homer added.

  Nero could see the boat more clearly now, or at least, the searchlight on the front of it. As the vessel cut through the waves, bouncing against the surface of the ocean, it jerked up and down, occasionally seeming to shine directly in the lieutenant’s eyes. He squinted, training the optical sight on the top of his carbine onto the oncoming vessel. He was missing something, he was sure of it.

  Jackpot.

  The light was probing the darkness, jerking left and right, as though searching for something. Which meant…

  His eyes widened. “Gentlemen, stay frosty. I think our boy’s on a JetSki like we thought. And he’s got company.”

  Reyes and Homer signaled their understanding. Nero focused his hearing, searching for the whine he’d heard before. It was more difficult to make out now, over the deeper growl of the chasing boat. And then he caught it.

  It was close. Damn close.

  And then it died.

  A voice called out the darkne
ss, low and urgent. “Don’t shoot! I’m American.”

  Nero spun, searching for the source of the voice. And then he saw it–a naked man, sitting atop a pitch black JetSki that was now silently cutting through the waves under its own momentum alone.

  By the time it had closed to within twenty yards of the Pig, Nero realized that the man wasn’t, in fact, naked–though it was close enough. He trained his weapon on the powerfully built man, who responded by pointedly keeping his hands on the controls.

  “Half a click,” Homer muttered, referencing the chasing boat. “We don’t got long.”

  “We don’t have –” started Reyes before cutting himself off, thinking better of doling out a grammar lesson in the middle of what might soon descend into a firefight.

  “Authenticate,” Nero growled, keeping his weapon aimed directly at the unknown guest’s head. Chances were ninety-nine in a hundred that he was the man they were here to pick up, but neither Nero nor his men had made it this far by taking chances.

  The man reeled off a short alphanumeric sequence, one that Nero immediately recognized. He beckoned the man over.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” the man said as he clambered aboard the Pig, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder at his pursuers.

  Nero couldn’t help but grin at the man’s strange appearance. He understood the thought process that had led the man to shedding his garments–a sensible desire to avoid sodden clothes pulling him into the depths of the ocean–but even so, it made for an amusing sight.

  “You can tell me about it later,” he said. “Looks like you brought company.”

  “I’m Jason, by the way,” the visitor said, pulling a pistol from the elastic waistband of his underpants with an apologetic smile.

  “I’ll shake your hand later,” Nero replied in a clipped tone of voice that betrayed his anxiety over the pursuing boat. “Homer, get Jason squared away.”

  “On it, boss,” the Southerner drawled, scampering over toward the CIA operative.

  Nero put all thoughts of their guest out of his mind. The first part of his objective was secured: he had the package. But the navy didn’t give out prizes for coming second, and nor did they approve of only completing half of the mission. He didn’t intend to let that happen.