Operation Barracuda (2005)

by Tom Clancy

  I remove the optic cable from my backpack, switch it on, and slowly feed it along the floor and underneath the swinging doors. The headpiece just fits so I slide it through about an inch. I then open up the lens to a fish-eye and adjust the focus on my OPSAT. I now have a fairly clear picture of what’s going on in there. A flick of a switch turns on the audio, which is transmitted to my implants.

  The two men are busy creating explosives. One of them has a block of nitro from which he squeezes a little at a time, like toothpaste. The stuff goes into a metal cylinder that the other guy places in hockey-puck-shaped containers wired with detonators and timers. They’re very similar to my own wall mines.

  The conversation, being in Chinese, goes by fast but I’m able to pick up words here and there. I’ll be able to have the team in Washington translate the whole thing later.

  FIRST GUY: . . . Eddie . . . in big trouble . . .

  SECOND GUY: I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.

  FIRST GUY: And he has the . . .

  SECOND GUY: Ming will find him.

  FIRST GUY: . . . can’t hide forever.

  SECOND GUY: I still don’t understand why . . . to destroy . . . the place.

  FIRST GUY: Orders from Hong Kong.

  SECOND GUY: . . . get rid of the trail?

  FIRST GUY: Exactly.

  SECOND GUY: Where did everyone . . . ?

  FIRST GUY: They’ve been moved out. Some will go back to Hong Kong. The scientists that defected will be placed in new positions somewhere else.

  SECOND GUY: . . . some dumb town in Arkansas . . . (laughs)

  FIRST GUY: (laughs)

  SECOND GUY: Are you almost done?

  FIRST GUY: Yeah. Here. You need to set the timers.

  SECOND GUY: What do you think? Ten minutes?

  FIRST GUY: Five. No, make it eight. Just in case our cars don’t start. (laughs)

  SECOND GUY: (laughs)

  FIRST GUY: So do you know where Eddie . . . hiding?

  SECOND GUY: No. At least I think I know where he’ll be . . . LAX tomorrow.

  FIRST GUY: How do you know that?

  SECOND GUY: I helped arrange it before Ming told me to shut down the firm.

  FIRST GUY: You talked to . . . ?

  SECOND GUY: No, Eddie did. I arranged the flight. It’s not easy dealing with Russians.

  FIRST GUY: He’s coming from Russia?

  SECOND GUY: No, he’s coming from Hong Kong. Eddie will . . . meet . . . at LAX . . . American Airlines . . . or send someone . . .

  FIRST GUY: . . . reward, you know? Ming said so.

  SECOND GUY: I know, I know. Let’s finish this job first. Then maybe we can meet the plane tomorrow, too. We follow the Russian, we’ll find Eddie.

  The two men begin to gather their materials. They’ve made, I think, eight explosives. I retrieve the optic cable, coil it, and place it in my backpack. One of the men leaves the room and takes a nearby staircase to the second floor while the other one places two or three of the devices within the lab.

  Damn, they’re about to blow up the place. Jon Ming must have heard of Eddie and Mike Wu’s betrayal and ordered GyroTechnics to be closed down. The hard way.

  Maybe I better get the hell out now. While the two arsonists are busy planting their devices of destruction around the building, I leave the way I came in. It takes me three minutes to jump the fence, run through the trees, and find the Murano.

  In exactly six minutes and twenty seconds, I see the Corvette and the Porsche emerge from the gravel road, turn onto Norman Place, and drive past me down the hill. I start the engine, make a U, and follow them.

  Right on time, I hear a tremendous sonic boom behind me. The ground shakes as if an earthquake has struck. In the rearview mirror I see that the night sky is orange and yellow. The blast sets off dozens of car alarms in the area and now the hills are alive with the sound of honking.

  When I get to the bottom of the hill, the two arsonists are gone. I’m not concerned about them. They’re just soldiers. What interests me is what they said about meeting a plane at LAX tomorrow. I’ll have to get the complete translation but from what I could gather, Eddie Wu is meeting someone from the Shop at the airport tomorrow. The Russian is flying in to close the guidance system deal. Could he possibly be Oskar Herzog or Andrei Zdrok? Zdrok surely wouldn’t dare set foot in the United States. I’ll let Lambert deal with the logistics of what we can do to meet that plane.

  Sirens fill the air now. As I turn onto Sunset Boulevard, two police cars zip around me, lights flashing. A fire truck, its horn blasting, is not far behind.

  I press my implant. “Frances? Are you there?”

  “I’m here, Sam.”

  “Is Lambert around?”

  “No, he’s asleep.”

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  “Never. Field Runners load up on coffee twenty-four hours a day.”

  I pull out the photo I took off the bulletin board and look at it as I drive. “Listen, do we have any information about Eddie Wu owning a boat? A yacht, maybe?”

  “Hold on.”

  While she’s looking, I get on the 405 and head south toward Marina Del Rey. If my hunch is right, I think I might know where Eddie is hiding.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s nothing in the files. But FBI agent Kehoe’s last report stated that he was investigating a lead at Marina Del Rey Harbor. He’s been on Eddie Wu’s trail.”

  “The FBI is sharing that with us?”

  “Yeah, apparently we really are cooperating on this one.”

  “Where’s Kehoe now? Can we get in touch with him?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I think I have a lead in Marina Del Rey, too. I’m going there now.”

  “Hold on, I’ll check with my counterpart at the Bureau.”

  I exit onto 90 and am heading for the coastline when she comes back on the line. “Sam, Kehoe’s last report was transmitted two hours ago. He was observing a boat at Pier 44 at Marina Del Rey Harbor. He’s supposed to check in soon.”

  “Doesn’t he have a partner with him?”

  “No.”

  That isn’t right. Don’t FBI agents always take backup with them when going into a situation like this?

  “Mr. Nudelman tells me Kehoe went off on his own because the L.A. Bureau couldn’t spare another man tonight,” Coen adds, answering my unasked question.

  “Kehoe sounds like some kind of cowboy. He could get himself killed,” I say.

  “Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” she asks.

  “It’s just a hunch I have. Let me check out something and I’ll get back to you.”

  It’s four-thirty in the morning. I can find the Lucky Lotus , see if anyone is there, and still might make it back to the hotel before Katia wakes up.

  26

  PIER 44 is on a section of the marina called Mindanao Way. The harbor itself is part of Santa Monica Bay and is supposedly the largest artificial small-craft harbor in the world. (My OPSAT automatically comes up with these facts when I’m mapping out a location.) It also tells me that the harbor consists of over eight hundred acres. The breakwater is 2,340 feet long and there are two miles of main channel. It’s an ultimate example of joint planning and implementation of a major metropolitan recreation site. It’s too damn bad I’m not a yachtsman!

  I get off of Highway 90 at Lincoln Boulevard and then turn right onto Mindanao Way. I park the Murano on the street and walk toward the pier. Nightlights illuminate the marina but there are plenty of dark spots to use for cover. Moving from shadow to shadow exposes me for a second or two but I’m not going to worry about it. Eventually I arrive at Pier 44, a private outfit that rents slips to those with the dough to pay for these kinds of things.

  Eddie’s Lady Lotus is a ninety-four-foot Eagle/Westport Cockpit motor yacht. The lights are on in the salon and galley so I know there are people aboard. I see no sign of Agent Kehoe.

  “Frances, you still ther
e?”

  “I’m here, Sam.”

  “Send me the blueprints for an Eagle/Westport motor yacht. Ninety-four-footer.”

  After a moment she asks, “You know what year?”

  “I’m guessing latter half of the nineties.”

  “I have three to send you.”

  I go through the plans one by one and settle on the 1996 twin diesel engine model. It’s a match for the Lady Lotus.

  If anyone needed proof that being a member of a Triad is lucrative, then this is it. I have no clue what a yacht like this might cost but I’m sure it’s in the millions. It’s a beauty, all right. And very private, too. There’s a walk-around deck but most of the floor space is inside. From the blueprints, I see there are three staterooms, three heads, a very large main salon, a sizable galley, and a comfortable pilothouse.

  Now if I can climb onto the boat without rocking it and alerting everyone inside that they’ve got company . . . The only way on is by traversing the ramp from the dock to the deck. I’m about to do that as gently as I can when someone comes out from below. It’s a goon, someone whose job it is to keep an eye on the harbor. The guy’s most likely armed. I duck into the shadows as he scans the pier until he’s satisfied they’re alone. Then he lights a cigarette and strolls along the walk-around deck at a snail’s pace. I wait until he’s on the opposite side of the boat, masked by the pilothouse, and then I swiftly move up the ramp and onto the deck. With the lookout walking around the outside of the boat, I figure that any extra noise I make will be mistaken for him.

  I move aft and crouch, ready to spring at the guard as he comes around the yacht’s stern. I hear him approaching, closer . . . closer . . . and then I rise and deliver a solid punch to his nose. Before he can utter a sound I lunge forward, slap my hand over his mouth, move around him, and then lock his neck inside my free arm. The choke hold takes roughly thirty seconds to render him unconscious. When he’s limp in my arms, I silently lay him on the deck.

  Since the lights are on in the salon, they can’t see out the windows. The glass is tinted so I don’t have a very good view of what they’re doing in there. To compensate for this disadvantage, I pull out the optic cable again and thread it into the gangway leading below. It doesn’t have to go very far before I’m able to see the entire salon.

  It’s roomy, with a sofa, dining table, stabilized chairs, a television, stereo system, and even a dartboard on the wall. But a plastic sheet covers the floor and in the middle of the sheet is a man with his hands tied behind his back. He’s lying on his side with his knees to his chest. His face is covered in blood.

  I’m guessing it’s Agent Kehoe and he’s not moving at all.

  Eddie Wu sits in a chair, looking at his victim. Wu wears leather gloves and an apron that is splashed with Kehoe’s blood. Two more Chinese hoods stand on either side of the helpless man.

  “Now we know what happened to Kehoe.” It’s Lambert in my ear, obviously awake now. Coen must have got him up. They can, of course, see everything I see through my headset.

  “Try to take ’em out, Sam,” he says, “but we need Eddie Wu alive.”

  I quickly retract the optic cable and stuff it in the backpack, and then remove a CS gas grenade from my trouser pocket. The CS gas is good for knocking out the enemy if it’s used in a confined space such as the yacht. In larger areas the CS is more of a deterrent, like tear gas. Third Echelon also supplies a CS grade that is lethal but I rarely carry it unless I know I’m going to need it.

  Grasping the grenade in my right hand, I pull the pin just as a bullet sears past my head. I feel the heat of the thing on the bridge of my nose—too goddamned close! The round smashes through the tinted glass, alerting the men inside of my presence. I hit the deck as another round streaks above me. Someone is on the marina taking potshots at me!

  “Damn, where the hell did he come from?” Lambert says. “He was well hidden from our satellite. Sam, the SAT images reveal the sniper to be one man,” Lambert says. “Repeat, it’s one guy.”

  Before I can adequately plan a defense strategy, the two Chinese gunmen appear on deck. They’re armed with semiautomatics, which they’re all too eager to point at the guy in the strange uniform that they see lying at their feet. The only thing I can do is to toss the live CS grenade into the air, right in front of their faces. I roll myself into a ball, covering my head as the damned thing explodes. The two men scream in pain and surprise. One of them falls off the boat, hitting his head on the edge of the dock as he plummets into the water. The other guy tumbles back through the gangway into the salon. The gas is affecting me and I find it difficult to crawl along the deck to the other side of the boat. At least the sniper can’t get at me there. I take a moment to breathe the fresh air, clear my head, and attempt to ignore the ringing in my ears. Finally I stand, lower my goggles, and switch on the thermal vision. Using extreme caution, I peer around the foredeck and focus on the marina. Sure enough, I see the heat-outlined shoulders of a man crouching behind a collection of barrels on the pier. He’s got a rifle, probably a tactical sniper model, and he’s ready to fire again. I draw the Five-seveN and aim but he shoots at me, forcing me back behind cover.

  At that point I hear steps on the gangplank as someone runs out of the yacht and onto the dock. In a few seconds I see him running toward Mindanao Way. It’s Eddie Wu, abandoning ship. I’m just able to aim the Five-seveN from my prone position and get off a shot in his direction. The round chips the wood beneath his feet but doesn’t do any damage to him. Wu disappears around a corner and there’s no way that I can pursue him. Why didn’t the sniper shoot him? Unless the killer is on Wu’s side . . .

  Moving around to the dockside of the yacht is impossible with the sniper over there. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving. I have no choice but to reach into my backpack and grab a frag grenade. It’s my last one—I should have stocked up when I was with Lambert and Coen yesterday. That’s one of the problems with taking detours when you’re on the way home from an assignment. You don’t always follow the normal routine of debriefing and restocking.

  Okay, this one has to count. I pull the pin, stand, and throw the grenade over the top of the yacht toward the barrels. The sniper fires again while I’m visible and he catches the top of my backpack. Luckily I’m in the act of dropping to a crouch position—if I’d lingered at full height for a split second longer I’d be a dead man.

  The grenade explodes, momentarily brightening the pier with a blinding flash of lightning. I wait a good ten seconds before I carefully peer around the foredeck again. Nothing happens. With the night vision on, I see that the barrels are smashed to bits and there’s a hole in the boardwalk. No sniper.

  “Do you see the shooter on the SAT image?” I ask, pressing my throat implant.

  “Negative,” Coen answers. “Either you got him or he slipped away under cover.”

  “What about Wu? Don’t tell me you lost him.”

  “I’m afraid he’s merged into traffic patterns.”

  “Great.”

  I stand and cautiously move around the deck to the gangway and go inside the boat. The Chinese guard that caught the CS grenade in the face is lying dead on the plastic sheet next to Kehoe. I kneel and examine the FBI agent and see that they really worked him over. He apparently suffered some serious damage to the inside of his mouth. What did they do? Then I notice the pair of bloody pliers on the floor next to the chair in which Wu was sitting. I can’t help but grimace when I see at least three of Kehoe’s teeth lying next to the pliers, the roots torn and mangled. And . . . oh, no, it’s the agent’s tongue lying on the plastic sheet beside his head. The poor guy bled to death.

  There’s an open bottle of bourbon sitting on the dining table. I can’t help grabbing it and taking a swig. I’ve seen some terrible things in my time and this has to be in the top ten.

  Pressing on my implant, I say, “Frances?”

  “Sam?”

  “Shit, Frances, tell the FBI that Kehoe has
been tortured and killed.”

  “What’s the pier number?”

  “Pier Forty-four, Marina Del Rey. I’m on the yacht Lady Lotus. It’s pretty bad.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m a little shaken from the sniper attack and seeing Kehoe in such a condition but I don’t mention that.

  “I’ll get on to Kehoe’s people right away.”

  She says the FBI will pick up their boy and clean up the mess. I need to disappear, and fast. As I return to the deck I carefully scan the pier with my thermal vision turned on and see no trace of the sniper. The cops will probably be here any minute, thanks to the noise of the grenades.

  I scuttle down the ramp and run to the smashed barrels. As I search the boardwalk for any clues indicating the identity of the sniper, I find three spent shells. I take one of them and recognize it as a 7.62mm NATO—a common round used in sniper rifles. This rings a bell somewhere in the back of my head but at the moment I don’t know what it is. I pocket the shell and head for the marina exit before the cavalry arrives, all the while slightly paranoid that a damned competent assassin most likely has his eye on me.

  27

  ANDREI Zdrok had experienced many setbacks and successes in his long career as an international criminal. While he maintained his status as an extremely wealthy man, the ups and downs of his business constantly drove him into states of unbearable anxiety and worry. He was often surprised that he had never developed ulcers.

  To his comrades, Zdrok was very good at exhibiting a self-confident persona regardless of what turmoil the Shop might be suffering. This character trait was essential for leadership. His fellow board members—Prokofiev, Antipov, and Herzog—were aware of the hardships the Shop had faced over the past year and in many instances displayed despair and fatalism in the face of an uncertain future. Not Zdrok. He continued to push his team into new frontiers and new partnerships in order to put the Shop on the map again. Zdrok knew his fellow workers perceived him as a crotchety and humorless slave driver, but that pressure was what kept the Shop alive.