He had worked with guys in the CIA, mostly senior case officers, who could imagine such loss of life with the indifference of an actuary reading columns of numbers, but he had never developed skin thick enough for that. In truth he wouldn’t let himself lose that much of his own humanity even if it meant paying for it with nightmares and guilt.
“Chairman, I have a contact.” Linda Ross spoke without straightening from the radar repeater.
“What have you got?”
She glanced over at him, her elfin face looking even younger in the glow of the battle lights. “Storm’s playing havoc with the returns, but I think it’s the sister drydock to the Maus. I’m getting two hits forty miles out in close proximity. One’s a lot bigger than the other, so I think it’s the Souri and a tug.”
“Course and speed?”
“She’s headed due south from where Eddie’s transponder has been pinging, and she’s not making more than six knots. She’ll pass at least ten miles to starboard if we don’t change course to intercept.”
Juan called over to Hali Kasim at the comm station. “Any change on Eddie’s signal?”
“Last sweep was eight hours ago. He hasn’t moved.”
Again Juan ran the numbers. It was possible given the Souri’s speed and the amount of ocean she’d covered that Eddie was aboard her, but his gut was telling him his crewmate and friend was still on the beach.
“Ignore the Souri.”
“Chairman?”
“You heard me. Ignore her.” Juan knew he could leave it at that, and his orders would be followed implicitly, but he felt he had to give them more. Since his conversation with Tory before heading into the storm he hadn’t uttered a sentence with more than five words. His concern, even fear, at what they’d find on Kamchatka had sent his thoughts inward. Now that they were getting close, he needed his crew to understand his logic.
“Once she hits the storm,” he said, “the tug is going to have to haul that pig against thirty-knot winds with the drydock’s hull acting like an enormous sail the entire time. Even if they ballast her down to reduce her profile, they won’t make any headway in this slop. There’s a good chance they even might be driven northward again. All this will give us enough time to reach Eddie, do whatever the hell we can, and then cut back south and take the Souri on the high seas.”
Juan saw that everyone on the bridge agreed with his logic, although he could see in their faces they wanted to take the easy prey first. He expected no less from them.
“Now,” he continued, “we were burned the last time we shadowed one of Shere Singh’s drydocks. They have radar capabilities that probably rival our own, so I want full jamming on her, a complete radar blackout.”
Linda Ross raised her hand slightly. “If they have the kind of sophisticated gear we think they do, they’ll have to know they’re being jammed.”
“Not if we hit them now,” Juan answered.
“He’s right,” Hali added. “Their radar is looking into the storm and is picking up so much backscatter from the waves and lightning that they can’t see us yet, and if we hit the jammers, they never will.”
“Hit them with everything we’ve got,” Cabrillo ordered. “Full spectrum across the board, radar, radio, satellite uplinks, the works. Mr. Stone, I still want to give them a wide berth. Change course so they don’t come within twenty miles of us just to be safe.”
“Aye, aye,” the helmsman replied, punching in the course correction on his computer.
Thirty minutes later the radar began picking up strong returns from the beach. There were six distinct metallic contacts. Five of them were actually grounded on the coast while another, presumably a tugboat, held station in deeper water a hundred yards from shore.
Juan wanted to send up their last aerial drone to photograph the area, but George Adams told him the light radio-controlled plane wouldn’t last ten seconds in the wind. Juan considered his offer to risk a quick scout flight in the Robinson. Having the tactical data about what they were getting into was important; however, the element of surprise was just as crucial. Also, the atmosphere was still heavy with ash that would likely overwhelm the helo’s air filtration system and bring the chopper down.
“Thanks, but I want to keep you in reserve,” Cabrillo spoke into a pin mike headset. Adams was in the Oregon’s hangar. “Maintain ten-minute alert but be ready to push it to five once we engage.” Five-minute alert meant the hatches over the hold were opened and the Robinson had been lifted up to the deck with her engines running and up to temperature.
“Roger that, Chairman.”
“Senior staff, give me a status report.” One by one his people called in. Murph at the weapons station had lowered the plates covering the Gatling gun and the 40 mm autocannon. The deck-mounted gimble .50s were locked and loaded, and a pair of torpedoes were in the twin tubes with the outer hull doors closed. He also reported all cameras were up and functioning. Hali was going to run double duty on the communications and radar systems so Linda Ross could accompany the assault team. Max Hanley was grumbling his way up from the engine room where he would take overall command as well as direct the damage control teams. Linc and his gun dogs were kitting up in the boat garage and reported Linda had just arrived. Doc Huxley was ready in the medical bay, having co-opted the entire kitchen staff for nursing duty.
Juan switched to the ship-wide channel. “Attention all hands, this is the Chairman. Here’s the score. One of our own is on that beach. Each and every one of us has owed our life to Eddie Seng at some point since we started serving together, so his rescue is our top priority. Secondary to that is saving as many of the Chinese immigrants as we can. We don’t yet know their number or condition, so our response to them has to remain flexible. Number three is the volcano above the site that’s about as stable as the psych ward at Bellevue. That, along with the storm that’s barreling down on us like the hammers of hell, means speed is of the essence. We’re in and out as quickly as possible. I will not risk the ship or crew if it looks like we’re running out of time.
“I’m not going to give you Henry V at Agincourt or Nelson at the gate. Each of you knows your duty and knows that every other crew member is relying on you. We’re facing an unusual situation for us. This contract has gone far beyond what we were hired to do. This is no longer about pirates preying on ships in the Sea of Japan. It is about traffickers smuggling the most precious commodity on earth, human life. We’re here not to line our pockets but because it is our duty as members of a civilized society to stand up and be counted among those who believe in what is right.
“All of you have had time to think about this, knowing that this moment was coming. Well, the moment is now, ladies and gentlemen. In less than an hour we engage an unknown force with the fate of untold lives depending on us. I know you will not let them down.”
He clicked off the radio and immediately got back on the net. There was humor in his voice this time. “Sorry, that did come off a bit like Nelson. Now let’s go out there and kick some ass.”
24
CABRILLO stopped at his cabin on the way to meet the assault team. He changed out of his clothes, donning black fatigues, a Kevlar vest, and a combat harness. While most of the Corporation’s small arms were kept in a weapons locker, Juan kept his in an antique safe in the corner of his office, a relic from a long-defunct railroad’s Santa Fe depot. He fitted a pair of his FN Five-seveN pistols into kidney holsters, sacrificing a small amount of weight for the seconds he’d save not having to reload. Because he was leading a large force of seven operatives, they’d already decided to standardize their assault rifles. He grabbed up an M-4A1 and slid six spare magazines into the appropriate pouches. He didn’t bother carrying a second knife, just the four-inch Gerber hanging inverted from his shoulder strap.
He strapped on a pair of knee pads, flexing a couple of times to settle them properly, and slid his hands into fingerless gloves with thick leather patches to protect his palms. He caught his reflection in the bath
room mirror. The determination and drive that had sustained him through the CIA and led to the creation of the Corporation was in his eyes, hewn flint-hard and focused. Game face, they’d called it, that single-minded convergence of training, experience, and will.
Once again Juan was going to step beyond himself, sacrifice for others by maybe sacrificing himself. He looked hard into his eyes, saw an unforgiving gleam, and abruptly laughed aloud.
Game face or no, Juan also knew he thrived on the danger. Why else would he be in this business? Adrenaline and endorphins were starting their siren song, humming at the base of his skull, giving him that high that only those who’d been there understand. Facing an enemy meant facing yourself. Conquering that enemy gave affirmation of what you always believed about who you are.
The boat garage was cold and clammy, crowded with men and women making final preparations. Rather than use a Zodiac, most of the garage was taken up with a SEAL assault boat, a rubber-rimmed polycarbonatehulled craft with a modestly protected central wheelhouse and twin outboard engines. The boat could handle any sea thrown at it and could reach speeds approaching fifty knots.
The lights in the garage had been dialed down to match the outside overcast, so everyone’s face looked drawn and pale. Their eyes, however, were bright and their motions swift and sure as they checked over each other’s equipment. The sound of magazines being slapped home and actions being cocked was a reassuring symphony to Cabrillo’s ears.
He caught Tory Ballinger’s eye across the room. She had agreed, reluctantly, to stay with the assault boat when the team hit the beach. The Corporation mercenaries had trained together more times than any of them could count and been under fire more than any wanted to remember. In combat they moved and thought as one by seeming to read each other’s minds. He made her realize that her presence among them would jeopardize that hard-won unit cohesion.
He couldn’t dissuade her from coming on the raid, and he hadn’t really tried that hard. He saw that she needed to be part of this because of her survivor’s guilt over the attack on the Avalon. Until she’d exacted some measure of revenge, that incident would haunt her for the rest of her life. And he planned to help by making sure she’d see a little action as everything unfolded.
Tory gave him a thumbs-up and a silent nod. He shot her a cocky grin that made her smile.
Cabrillo’s headset crackled. “Juan, it’s Max.”
“Go ahead.”
“Murph says the video is about to come online. I’m piping it down to you.”
“Roger.”
Juan vaulted the assault boat’s gunwale and flipped on the cockpit flat-panel display. Autostabilizers built into the camera mounts compensated for the constant pitching and rolling, and Murph was doing a good job zooming in on what was unfolding as the Oregon steamed into the bay.
The feeds flipped at a steady pace, first showing Juan an intense firefight near a large metal building built on a barge, then men who were clones of the pirates they’d taken out weeks ago attacking a tugboat that was in place to tow the barge; next he saw hundreds of Chinese workers running across the sloping moonscape of mud and boulders to get away from the expanding gun battles. He saw that the ships they’d picked up on radar were old cruise liners. All but one had settled deep into the beach, driven almost to their load lines by waves and tidal action. The lone exception might be a new arrival. Although the breakers that slammed her hull couldn’t make the vessel rock, she had yet to settle into the rocky beach. Finally Murph showed him a quick shot of the volcano in the distance. Its peak was wreathed in steam and smoke.
Cabrillo quickly sized up the tactical and strategic situation and began relaying instructions. His orders sent every member of the crew scrambling. Their shouts and calls echoed down the ship’s long passageways as they made their preparations. The Chairman had called for a desperation Hail Mary–type play, and for it to work he needed everyone at their sharpest.
A few minutes later the ship was close enough to the fighting to attract attention. The troops dressed in identical black uniforms, all of whom were Caucasians, ignored the Oregon, while the ragged-looking Indonesians fired hasty pot shots at the ship.
As soon as a pair of deckhands manhandled a large beam with lengths of chain on each end onto the assault boat, Juan ordered Eric Stone to turn the freighter away from the shoreline. While this presented a larger target to the gunmen, it allowed Cabrillo and the shore team to open the boat garage without being seen.
As the door rose smoothly upward, the shore team leapt into the assault boat, locking their arms through purpose-made restraining loops. Each team member called out as soon as they were secured. The driver, Mike Trono, fired the engine, and Juan nodded to the garage boat master. Like a giant slingshot, a series of hydraulic pulleys launched the boat down the ramp and out of the garage. The acceleration was brutal and got worse as Trono lowered the props into the water. The massive outboards bit deep, throwing a rooster tail of water back into the Oregon as the nimble craft came up to plane.
Cold air ripped at any exposed skin like sandpaper, and the sting of drops of water that hit them were cold enough to burn. The assault boat rocketed around the rust-streaked freighter, carving a fat wedge into the black sea. By the time anyone on the beach noticed the boat, they were moving at fifty knots, much too fast to accurately engage.
Trono constantly juked the boat across the sea as he made for the spot where Juan had indicated he wanted to land. It was in the shadow of one of the beached cruise ships, one that was so heavily grounded that workers had built a stone ramp up to the main deck. The area around the ship was strewn with trash too heavy for the surf to take away.
The boat arrowed through the breaking surf and had such a shallow draft that the team had only a couple of yards to wade to find cover on the boulder-strewn beach. Juan and Link dropped behind a house-sized chunk of stone that had been blown from the volcano during some prehistoric eruption. The assault boat had already worked its way back off the beach. Juan looked to make sure Tory had followed his orders to stay aboard, and his estimation of her rose another few notches as he saw her standing in the open pilothouse between Mike Trono and an ex-marine named Pulaski.
“What do you think, boss?” Linc asked.
“Looks to me we dropped in the middle of a little war here. I bet Singh is paying the Indonesians while Anton Savich’s guys are the ones in black.”
“So the enemy of my enemy ain’t necessarily my friend, eh?”
“That’s the attitude I’m taking.”
The team worked their way up the hillside, keeping the cruise ship between them and the main area of combat. Dozens of wide-eyed Chinese workers lay on the ground, cowering. They didn’t know what to make of the armed patrol. Juan tried to urge them to find cover, but they were all paralyzed with fear, and he gave up.
If he hoped to rescue any of the Chinese, he knew they’d have to put an end to the fighting.
“Chairman, we’re ready,” Max called over the tactical net.
The Oregon had shifted position. The doors covering her Gatling gun were still closed, although the ship had maneuvered to give it a clear line on the two fishing trawlers lashed to the tug.
“We’re about set, too. Any luck finding Eddie?”
“Negative. Hali’s taken over the cameras from Murph so he can concentrate on weapons control. He’s getting good shots, but there are so damned many people on the beach that it takes a few seconds for the computer’s facial recognition software to sort through them all.”
“Check the area closest to the fighting. If Eddie’s in any kind of shape, that’s where he’ll be.”
“Good thinking. Hali?”
“I heard,” the Corporation’s comm officer said. “Shifting focus now.”
Cabrillo and his people reached a level strip of land several hundred yards above the beach. Further toward the center of the site was an area that had been heavily dug up. Water cannons for blasting the tough soil lay abandoned,
their nozzles pointed skyward. The ground was littered with shovels and buckets. All the workers had fled, and their guards had gone down to join the fight.
They approached the workings cautiously, weapons held at the ready, eyes never settling on one spot for more than a second.
An explosion echoed up from below, a grenade blast behind the barge that momentarily drew their attention. The black-clad body of one of Savich’s men pinwheeled in a lazy arc before falling to the beach in a broken-limbed heap. At the same second came the chatter of an AK-47 firing at point-blank range.
Cabrillo dropped flat as clods of mud were thrown up all around him. He stitched the area around one of the water cannons in a reflex shot that emptied half a magazine. It was poor fire discipline but it forced the attacker to dodge for cover, and his gun fell silent.
Linc had a better bead. He fired a three-round burst that sent the Indonesian pitching backward into a coffee-colored retention pond. His body vanished under the surface while his blood stained the water. The team found cover behind an earthen berm as more Indonesians appeared out of nowhere. The sheer volume of gunfire made the air ripple.
“We don’t have time for this,” Linda Ross shouted over the din, changing out her magazine.
Juan looked down the hill. The assault boat was getting into position, and they would need the cover fire from the Oregon’s Gatling gun, but he couldn’t afford to remain pinned down. The oldest adage of warfare, that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, had never felt more true.
He called the boat over his throat microphone. “Mike, can you hear me?” When there was no reply, he called again. The boat was still moving at fifty knots, enveloped in a cocoon of engine noise that made communications impossible.
He cursed and called up Mark Murphy. “Murph, we need you. There’s about fifty bandits above us. We’re pinned.”