by Tom Clancy
“Roger,” Lambert replied.
“Going to the bridge.”
Fisher checked his watch: forty minutes until the FBI arrived.
HE headed down the port-side deck. Over the railing he could hear the hiss of water skimming along the Duroc’s hull. He paused, pressed himself against the bulkhead, and lowered into a crouch. He needed a moment to think.
The puzzle of who was behind the Trego and Slipstone attacks was rapidly becoming complicated: The Trego, true registry and owner unknown, had been manned by a single Middle Eastern man who’d set the ship on a collision course with the Virginia coastline. The conclusion was easy to jump to and, in this case, seemingly correct. But now this, the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. So far, the Duroc’s crew appeared uniformly Asian—Chinese American, judging by their accents. If the satellite images were correct and the Duroc had in fact taken the remainder of the Trego’s crew to Freeport City, where did this Chinese crew fit in? And why the Bahamas? And why were they monitoring the fire bands—
Then it struck him: loose ends. He should have seen this immediately. He keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, put Grim to work: Unless I miss my guess, the Trego’s crew is dead. Executed and buried in a burned-out or burning building somewhere on the island.”
“How do you figure?”
“Just adding two and two together. I’ll explain later. Just have her monitoring the fire radio bands.”
“Will do.”
Fisher stood up and crept forward until he could see through the bridge hatch porthole.
Inside, the bridge was dimly lit by bulkhead sconces and a single white light filtering up from what Fisher assumed was the rear interior ladder. A lone man sat in an elevated chair at the helm console. Fisher craned his neck until he could see all of the rear bulkhead, which he scanned until he spotted what he was looking for: an electrical panel.
He drew the SC-20 from his back holster and thumbed the selector to STICKY SHOCKER: LOW. The charge would be enough to paralyze the helmsman for thirty seconds to a minute. He needed the man alive and able to talk.
He reached up and tested the doorknob—slowly turning it until certain it wasn’t locked. The helmsman would be instantly alerted when the door opened, and Fisher had to assume he was well trained and ready to sound the alarm. He took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.
Surprisingly, the man didn’t turn, but instead laughed. “Man . . . It took you long enough.”
What . . . ?
“Where’d you go for the coffee? Peru?”
Now the man turned.
Fisher didn’t give him a chance to react. He fired.
The sticky shocker struck the man in the neck, just below the right ear. Fisher heard a faint sizzle. The man stiffened, then slumped over, his torso hanging toward the deck. The man’s limbs, still stimulated by the shocker, continued to twitch. His hand thumped rhythmically against the chair leg.
Fisher shut the door, crouched down. He holstered the SC-20 and drew his pistol. Expecting coffee . . . As if on cue, he heard the clang of footsteps on the rear ladder. A head rose from the ladder well, followed by a torso. “Hey, Tommy, here’s your . . . What the hell are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
The man turned his head. Fisher fired. The man’s head snapped to the left and he toppled over. The coffee mug clattered to the deck and rolled away.
Wrong place, wrong time, friend.
Fisher holstered the pistol, hurried forward, grabbed the dead man’s collar, dragged him under the nearby chart table, then turned his attention to the helmsman.
He pulled Tommy the helsman from the chair and bound his hands using a flexi-cuff. Tommy groaned, slowly regaining consciousness. Fisher dragged him to the rear bulkhead and propped him up. Tommy’s eyes fluttered open. “What’s going—”
“If you want to live, stay quiet,” Fisher whispered. “Nod if you understand.”
“What? What’s going—”
Sam slapped him across the face. “Quiet. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded groggily.
“Do I have your attention?”
Another nod.
“Let’s make sure.”
From his calf sheath, Fisher drew his only sentimental weapon, a genuine Sykes Fairbairn commando dagger.
Given to him by an old family friend, one of the original combat instructors at STS 103—also known as the legendary WWII Camp X commando training school—the Sykes was more than an artifact. Finely balanced and razor sharp, it was arguably the finest special ops knife ever made. And at seven inches, the dagger’s double-edge blade and needle-sharp point was the ultimate attention-getter.
Fisher inserted the tip of the Sykes inside Tommy’s left nostril and stretched it outward. Tommy’s eyes went wide.
“I’ve got a few questions for you, and one job,” Fisher said. “Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded.
“There’s a man in charge on this boat. What’s his name and where is he? Lie to me and I’ll give you a pig snout.”
Fisher considered pressing him for more information, but it was unlikely someone at Tommy’s level would have the details he needed. Besides, in about thirty minutes, the FBI would be here to squeeze every last bit information from the crew.
“His . . . his name is Lei. He’s in the captain’s cabin. Down one deck, then forward through the main salon and down the ladder. Last cabin at the end of the passage.”
“How many men on board?”
“Six.”
Make that three now, Fisher thought. “Can the power to the boat be restored anywhere else but here?”
“Yes, in engine room, but I’m the engineer. It would take a while for anyone else to do it.”
“Good. In about a minute I’m going to cut the power. When I do, someone will call up here to ask about it, yes?” The man nodded. “You’re going to tell them a circuit blew and that you’ll have it back on in a few minutes. Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded.
“If you say anything else, it’ll go badly for you.” To reinforce his point, Fisher lifted the tip of the Sykes, stretching the man’s nostril even more. “Are we clear? You can answer.”
“Yes, I understand.”
He sheathed the Sykes, then rolled the man onto his belly, grabbed him by the flexi-cuffs, and stood him up. Fisher opened the electrical panel and threw the main breaker. The bridge went dark. He flipped his trident goggles into place and switched to NV.
On the intercom, a faint voice called, “Hey, Tommy, what’s going on? We lost power.”
Fisher pulled Tommy close and whispered, “Show-time. No mistakes.”
The voice said, “Tommy, you up there? Answer, damnit!”
Fisher guided Tommy to the console and keyed the intercom’s TALK button.
Tommy said, “Give me a minute! A circuit blew. I’ll have it back in five minutes.”
“Well, hurry it up. I’m sitting on the can in the dark.”
Fisher flipped off the intercom. “Was that Lei?”
Tommy nodded. “What now?”
“Now, you get lucky,” Fisher replied.
He reversed the Sykes and struck Tommy behind the ear with the haft. Fisher dragged his limp body to the chart table and shoved him under with the other man.
He keyed his subdermal. “Going belowdecks.”
13
FISHER started down the ladder, then stopped and returned to the helm console. It took five seconds to find what he was looking for. He keyed his subdermal. “Grim, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m looking at a computerized helm console with both a USB and an IR port on the front.”
“Excellent,” she replied. He could hear the excitment in her voice. Like a kid at Christmas. Grim lived for this. “Sync up the OPSAT and I’ll scan the system,” she said. “Let’s see where the Duroc’s been.”
Fisher punched a few buttons on the OPSAT. The screen replied,
INFRARED PORT
INITIATED. READY FOR SYNCHRONIZATION.
Fisher aimed the OPSAT at the console’s IR port.
LINK ESTABLISHED . . . DATA FILES LOCATED . . . DOWNLOAD? (Y/N)
Grimsdottir said, “I’m in. Downloading . . . Ah, that’s beautiful . . . look at that. Jackpot.”
“Pictures of Brad Pitt?” Fisher asked.
Grim snorted. “God, no. I prefer my men a little more . . . roughened. And mature.”
Oh, really? Fisher thought.
“Okay, I’ve got it. You can disconnect. There’s a lot of data here, Sam. I’ll get started on it.”
“Time check?”
Lambert replied. “We’re tracking the FBI’s boat. Twenty more minutes and you’re out of there.”
“Understood.”
Fisher took the ladder down one deck. At the bottom was a single door, which he assumed led into the salon. To his right was a steel hatch. He pressed his ear to it and heard the hum of engine noise.
He crouched down and snaked the flexi-cam beneath the door. The salon was lit only by a few nightlights—probably run by emergency backup power—but even in the washed-out glow of NV, Fisher could see the salon was well appointed: cream-colored Berber carpet, a leather couch and matching club chairs, and teak wall paneling.
Someone had spent a lot of money on the Duroc. Who, though?>
He played the flexi-cam around until he spotted a man sitting in the far right chair near the lamp. Feet up, head back, mouth open, newspaper splayed in his lap. Fisher smiled. He loved lazy guards. Made his job so easy. Perhaps this was the right time for a little experiment.
He retracted the flexi-cam, then drew the SC-20 and thumbed the selector to Cottonball. He turned the doorknob and eased it open. He stepped inside, shut the door. The man didn’t stir. Fisher picked up a magazine off the coffee table and tossed it onto the man’s chest. The man gave a grunt and sat up. Fisher fired.
He heard a soft thump, followed by a faint pffft.
The man shook his head as though he’d been slapped, said, “What the—” then slumped sideways in his chair.
I’ll be damned, Fisher thought. He hadn’t doubted Redding’s word, but there was no substitute for real-world testing.
He dragged the man behind the couch, then smashed the two nearby nightlights and keyed his subdermal. “Napper; clean.”
Only two left, Fisher thought. The boss—Lei—who was awake and presumably no longer occupied in the main cabin’s bathroom, and the last crewman, location unknown. Fisher checked his watch: No time to go looking for him. Keep moving.
THERE were four cabins in the salon passage, two to port, one to starboard, and one at the end—the captain’s cabin. Facing the door, he found himself grateful he’d frisked Chon the guard. The door’s lock was card-key access. There was a downside, though. Like most card-key doors, this one would do two things when the card slid through the reader: flash a green light and give a solid thunk as the bolt was thrown back.
Fisher did a check with the flexi-cam. Unlike the salon, the cabin showed no emergency nightlights. In the glow of the NV he could see a figure lying on the queen-sized bed. This was Lei, he guessed. The man’s eyes were closed, hands folded across his chest. The cabin was small, perhaps ten feet by twelve feet. If Fisher moved quickly enough, he could reach the bed in less than a second.
Fisher drew his pistol, then took a few seconds to mentally rehearse his entry. He slid the key through the reader and pushed in.
Lei was immediately awake, sitting up in bed, hand reaching toward the nightstand.
Fisher fired once. Lei yelped and jerked his hand back, his hand shattered by the 7.62 slug.
“Next one goes in your eye,” Fisher said, shutting the door behind him. “Lay back down. Hands back on your chest.”
His face twisted in pain, Lei complied. “Who are you, what do you want?”
“The boogeyman, here to kill you if you move again.”
Fisher was impressed. Lei was the boss for good reason. Most men, shot in the hand, facing a ghostlike apparition, would have been cowed. Not this one.
“You’ve made a mistake, friend,” Lei said. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Funny you should say that. Tell me who I’m dealing with.”
“No.”
Fisher fired again. The bullet slammed into the pillow beside Lei’s head.
Lei jerked to one side, but the scowl on his face never wavered.
Very tough. Plan B, then. Fisher had brought an extra flotation vest for this very contingency. They already had one prisoner; two was better. The interrogators could work on Lei’s attitude.
“Sit up,” he said. “You and I are going on a little trip. Move very slow—”
Fisher heard the thunk of the door latch being thrown. In that instant, as his eyes instinctively flicked toward the door, Lei had moved. His good hand was coming up and around. Fisher saw a blade flashing toward his face. He jerked his head backward, felt the blade slice the space where his neck had just been. The door opened. In his peripheral vision Fisher saw a figure standing at the threshold.
“Run!” Lei shouted. “Blow it! Blow it now!”
Fisher fired. Lei’s head snapped back. As he fell backward, Fisher saw a black quarter-sized cavity where Lei’s right eye once was.
“Warned you,” Fisher muttered, then turned and rushed out the door.
14
BACK in the corridor, he turned and headed toward the ladder just in time to see the crewman’s foot disappear from the top step. Fisher raised the pistol and fired, hoping for a lucky leg shot, but it was a half second too late. He started running.
Blow it, Fisher thought. Lei’s command could mean only two things: One, destroy something aboard the Duroc; or two, destroy the Duroc itself. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had him betting on the latter.
But why? And who commanded such respect and/or fear in these men that they would essentially commit suicide? Was it Lei, or someone bigger? Fisher shoved the questions aside.
As he reached the top of the ladder, he heard the forward door bang against the bulkhead. He stopped, pressed himself to the wall. Pistol extended, he slid forward until he could see the doorway. Clear. He sprinted forward, peeked into the corridor. To his left, the engine room hatch was open, revealing a ladder. A flashlight beam was playing across bulkhead below.
Fisher stepped to the hatch and peeked through. A figure was standing on the deck. The man raised his arm. Fisher jerked his head back. Two gunshots rang out. A pair of holes appeared in the corridor bulkhead.
“Give it up,” Fisher called. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
No response.
“We can work this out. Just drop your gun—”
Footsteps pounded, then faded away.
Fisher peeked around the corner again, saw nothing. He started down the ladder. At the bottom, to his right, around a stanchion, he saw the glow of the flashlight on the other side of the engine. He stepped to the stanchion, pressed himself to it.
Something clanged. Like sheet metal clattering to the deck. Access cover, Fisher thought. Move, move now!
Gun raised, he stepped out.
The last crewman was crouched beside the engine, hands fumbling inside an access hatch.
“Stop!” Fisher commanded.
The man turned his head, stared at him for a few seconds, then turned back and kept working.
Fisher fired twice. The man grunted and rolled onto his side. Fisher rushed forward. He kicked the man’s gun away. It skittered across the deck. The man, barely conscious, let out a wet, bloody cough and grinned at him. “Too late,” he croaked.
Inside the engine’s access hatch, a blue LED readout blinked from 10 to 9, then to 8.
Fisher turned and ran.
WITH a countdown running in his head he was up the ladder in two seconds. He turned, charged up the bridge ladder, turned again, and headed for the door.
Five . . . four . . . three .
. .
He threw open the hatch, rushed through, sprinted toward the railing, vaulted over it. Behind him, somewhere deep within the Duroc, there came a muffled crump. Fisher absently thought, First charge; fuel tanks will follow. . . .
It took him a split second to orient himself in the air. He looked down. The ocean surface rushed toward him. He curled into a ball, hoping to protect himself from the heat and shrapnel that was coming. Then he was underwater. All went silent.
Resisting the urge to kick to the surface, he flipped over and kicked hard, arms spread in a wide breaststroke. He heard a whoomp and felt himself shoved from behind as the shock wave hit him. The air was compressed from his lungs. He started rolling.
When he stopped, he righted himself in the water. Above his head, the surface glowed orange for a few seconds, then faded. Lungs burning, his every instinct screaming for air, he forced himself to stay submerged. The danger now was pools of burning oil and fuel. If he surfaced into one of them, his lungs would be seared.
His heartbeat pounded behind his eyes and he felt a fuzziness creep into his brain as his body consumed the last molecules of oxygen left in his system.
Wait, he commanded himself. Wait . . .
He counted to five, then ten, and then seeing nothing above him, he kicked to the surface. He gulped air until his vision cleared, then looked to where the Duroc had been.
There was nothing. Chunks of fiberglass and tiny pockets of burning fuel dotted the surface, but the yacht was gone, sinking toward the seafloor.
To his left he saw a twinkle of light. In the distance, still a few miles away, a searchlight played over the water’s surface. The Bahamian Navy and the FBI to the rescue, Fisher thought. It was time to leave.
He punched up the IKS’s control menu on the OPSAT and pressed buttons until the screen read, IKS: MODE: HOME TO SIGNAL. He keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, get Bird to the extraction point.”