by Weston Ochse
That left three more guards somewhere aboard the ship.
Holmes ordered Walker to find a high point, then took the other SEALs and quickly made their way along the dock to the gangway.
Walker already knew where he was going to go. He’d spied a place atop one of the cargo containers that was hidden from view on both sides. Hoover had been ordered to stay with him, so the dog could watch his six.
It was a quick climb to the top and Walker lay prone as he aimed through his sight. If anyone showed up, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
16
MACAU WHARF.
Fratty loved his Super 90 more than he’d loved any other weapon. He slept with it. He’d filed down the trigger to make it as sweet, quick, and easy as gunfighter’s pistol. He’d never even fired a shotgun until he’d joined the SEALs. He’d concentrated on firing different automatic rifles and pistols, mesmerized by the ability to fire more and more and more rounds one right after the other. But once he’d felt the sheer power of the Super 90, it was love at first shot.
Holmes had him moving first in the formation. He swept left and right as he ran at a crouch. He knew the others were behind him. He didn’t need to look back. He trusted his fellow SEALs implicitly.
They arrived at the gangway unnoticed—Fratty, Laws, Holmes, and Ruiz. Both MP5s were deployed inside the line of SEALs, bookended by the Super 90s. The only sounds in the night were the waves lapping at the dock and the grand tinkle of laughter from the cruise ship just off the coast. On the ground lay both guards with gazes staring off to the sky.
Laws reached down and grabbed one of the walkie-talkies and shoved it into his cargo pocket.
Then they moved onto the ship. It wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination, but it was big enough to be seaworthy and to have a central hold. The access hatch was open and a dull light emanated from within. Lights were also on in the wheelhouse, but as far as Fratty could tell, there was no one in there. He reminded himself that he could still be on camera, so they had to move quickly and quietly.
Holmes and Ruiz remained back, while Laws and Fratty moved to the ship’s stern. Fratty took lead, with Laws moving left, right, and also rear, using the barrel of his MP5 to sweep through the possible dangers that might come into his field of fire. That way he wouldn’t have to re-aim—he’d already have barrel on target. They soon cleared the main deck, checking behind containers and over the edges of the rails in the event someone was hammocked on the other side.
The wheelhouse was two stories tall, common in pre-eighties ships. Many of those that were still seaworthy kept to the coastlines, but ships this size had crossed both major oceans since before the founding of America, bringing wheat, gold, weapons, and slaves to and from brave new worlds. This ship didn’t have any of those things in the hold. If they were to believe the Triad enforcer, it was something much worse. Fratty couldn’t wait to find out what.
Laws flex-cuffed the doors to the crew compartment and the engine room, both located at the base of the wheelhouse. The Teflon cuffs wouldn’t stop anyone from getting out but would sure slow them down. He stepped quickly up the stairs and shoved the barrel of the Super 90 against the window, only to find an empty control room. He opened the door and stepped inside, wary of tripwires and booby traps. They found the lights and equipment turned on. A cold cup of tea sat on a counter beside a crumpled package of Chinese cigarettes and a glass ashtray holding a mound of butts and ash.
Fratty paused to check the computer equipment on the bridge. He also checked to see what operating systems they were using. Overly simple. If he decided they needed to use the ship for something—like a battering ram or a diversion—he’d be ready. He reported this to Holmes through the MBITR. Holmes told him to stand fast for a moment while he reconned the hold.
Fratty stared out the window and tried to make out the FNG across the way. He was green and he still thought with his pecker, but he’d make it. That is, if he kept his head down and away from Holmes. There was some history there, even if the boy didn’t know it.
Try as he might, he couldn’t locate Walker. The boy had made himself invisible. That was a good thing. Fratty glanced around the control room. It was like pretty much every other modern ship. There was no steering wheel like the ones ships had in the old movies, but a host of digital readouts and analog switches instead. By the model numbers, Fratty could tell that the ship’s electronics had been updated sometime in the late 1990s.
His gaze fell on a calendar. Not a Chinese calendar, but a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders calendar. The Cowboys might be America’s team, but those cheerleaders were the world’s darlings. Fratty had seen their posters and pictures in more Third World shitholes and Arab palaces than he cared to count.
“Clear. To me,” Holmes said.
Fratty and Laws grinned. Now to see what was in the hold.
17
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.
The entrance to the hold reminded Ruiz of the West Virginia mines his family called home. Black to go in and black to come out, his father would say to his son when asked about the black coal dust that coated his every pore and crevice. He never really did come clean. The closest he’d ever come was one Christmas when the mine had shut down for two weeks. His father’s skin had taken on a burnished tan those fourteen days, the only reminder of his work in the mines the deep creases in his knuckles, which wouldn’t let go of their deep veins of black.
With a flick of a switch, the hold went from nightmare to green. Ruiz descended carefully down the steel-cored stairs. First into the hold, he stared eagerly through the green-tinged darkness, examining each shadow for movement or an untrue color, like a deeper green or a deeper black.
The hold ran the better part of the length of the ship—probably sixty meters. All of that space was filled with row upon row of wooden boxes. Each about six by six by six, they were packed so closely together that there was little room between the topmost crates and the deck above. Nor was there any room between the crates. That also meant there was no air circulation. Only here and there was there more than an inch or two, usually because of an odd-shaped crate. The Ruiz clan knew volumes about this subject, having been on one side or another of a cave-in where miners drank air like it was made from Dom Pérignon.
“Report, Ruiz.”
He described what he was seeing, standing on the second-from-the-bottom stair, waiting, watching, ever-careful, his Super 90 moving along his line of sight, an extension of himself.
A large area, probably a dozen feet across, was open at the bottom of the stairs. A single crate rested against a floor-to-ceiling wall made of more crates.
“Frat, get the rear. Laws, move next.”
Laws descended and swung the barrel of his MP5 around in a tight arc. Holmes came next, followed by Fratty.
18
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S DECK.
Walker watched as all four of his teammates descended into the hold. Now they had no cover. Walker lifted his eye from the optic and looked around. He lowered his NVGs over his eyes and ran them through the spectrum, checking infrared and starlight. There was no one and nothing at his twelve, three, six, or nine o’clock, which meant that he wasn’t doing anyone any good.
Fuck it.
He folded the bipod and hooked it to his leg. He began to back down from his perch.
Hoover growled.
Walker spun around, searching, then realized that the dog was growling at him. He switched off his MBITR. “What is it, girl?” He moved to lower himself.
Hoover growled again.
“You think I should stay? Is that it?”
The dog sat on her haunches and cocked her head. The result was a perfect What the fuck do you think you’re doing? look.
Walker grinned and hopped down. “Easy there, Wonder Dog. I know what I’m doing. I lost line of sight and need to get a better position is all.”
He began to walk away, but Hoover remained. Walker went another five feet, then
turned around. “Well? Are you staying there or coming with?”
Hoover looked from the top of the cargo container where Walker was supposed to be and then back to Walker. Finally she made up her mind and padded toward Walker.
“There you go,” Walker said. “Good girl.” He reached down to pat the dog’s head, but the dog dodged away from him and took the lead. All Walker could do was follow. He kept his NVGs in place as he wondered who was in charge, him or the dog.
19
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.
Laws found a light switch on a pole that was part of the structural support for the stairs. He let Holmes know, and after a moment’s hesitation, Holmes told him to flip the switch.
The danger, of course, was that the light might be noticed by someone. But this wasn’t their usual mission. If this were a hunter-killer mission, they’d be in and out after taking down or capturing their target. But in this case, they were gathering intelligence. Had they been able to communicate to the Sissy, they’d be relaying the mission narrative as analysts viewed their real-time footage. But with the threat of Chinese signal interception, they were running old school and off the grid. All they had for backup was the new guy. At least he had the dog to supervise him.
Laws lifted the NVGs so that they rested on the top of his helmet. He closed his eyes as he flipped the switch, then cracked them open, letting light in a little at a time. Now that there was light, he could see more details of the boxes. He’d expected Chinese writing, but instead found himself reading English beneath a logo that displayed a pink and blue big top and an elephant: SUWARNABHUMI CIRCUS.
“Do you think there are clowns inside?” Fratty asked. Like Laws and the rest of the SEALs, he’d racked his NVGs onto his helmet as well. Even when he was whispering, his smartassedness came through.
“Shut it,” Holmes commanded. “Walker. Come in.”
After a moment, “Walker.”
“You still in position.”
“Roger. NTR,” came the boy’s voice, saying Nothing to report.
“We’re inside so if there’s any movement, anything, report.”
“Wilco,” Walker said.
Maybe the boy was going to work out after all. He was headstrong, but then most SEALs were the same way. As long as he could work within the team, he’d be all right.
“We need to crack one of these open,” Holmes said. “Ruiz and Fra—”
Suddenly a Chinese man rolled free from a space near the ceiling made from a stack of smaller crates. He fell hard to the floor and lay there for a long moment, long enough for Laws to think that he was dead.
The SEALs had reacted, aiming weapons in every direction except toward the man, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else. Then their weapons swung toward him.
The man popped to his feet. His arms shot in the air as if he were a doll on wires. No taller than five feet, he wore stained white underwear and an equally stained white tank top. Red and orange gore stained his chest. His hair was cut in a buzz. He had three-days’ growth on his face. He wore plastic-framed glasses, taped at the corners and the crosspiece. One piece of glass was covered with tape.
“What the hell?” Ruiz backed away as the man began to dance in a circle.
Holmes moved to his left and put his back against a wall of crates. Seeing him do it, Laws mimicked the move on the other side. They both trained their MP5s on the man.
“Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le…,” he sang, repeating the words over and over in a singsong, off-key version of a nursery rhyme.
“What’s he saying, Laws?” Holmes asked.
“He’s saying we’re all dead, sir. It’s Mandarin. Beijing dialect.”
The man still danced as if he was being controlled by someone, but it was ridiculous really. There were no strings attached to him, nor was there anyone else nearby.
“Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le…”
“What do we do?” Ruiz asked, his eyes narrowing. He glanced toward the shadows at the tops of the rows.
“We don’t do anything.” Holmes adjusted the grip on the MP5. “Laws, why is he saying that?”
“Don’t know, sir. Want me to ask him?”
“Why don’t you do that?”
“Weishenme ni shuo women dou sile?” Laws asked.
“Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le … Nimen dou si le…”
“Zhu shuo! Zhu shuo!”
Suddenly the old man did stop. He lowered his arms and crouched like a monkey. His head reared back and he gave a high-pitched scream that made the SEALs wince.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Fratty demanded.
“Take it easy, SEALs.” Holmes had pressed himself against the crates and now moved forward a few grudging inches.
“Everyone okay?” came Walker’s voice, slightly out of breath over the MBITR.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Fratty said.
“After the Stretch Armstrong, I’d believe anything.”
“Walker, stay put.” Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “And why are you out of breath?”
Before Walker could answer, the Chinese man leaped into the air and landed atop the lone crate. He ripped off his shirt, revealing a bandage wrapped around his torso. He reached behind his back and pulled out a knife.
“Knife!” Fratty yelled.
The appearance of the weapon sent everyone into a crouch, fingers itching to pull their triggers.
20
MACAU WHARF.
Hoover sniffed at the body next to the gangway and gave Walker a look. For a dog, she had a pretty remarkable ability to render readable expressions.
Walker shouldered his Stoner and, working with Hoover, pulled both bodies to the edge of the wharf and shoved them over. After they hit the South China Sea with a satisfactory splash, he turned, got the Stoner back in hand, and followed the dog up the gangplank.
He’d been listening to the operation in the hold over the MBITR. He wondered what the man looked like. By the comments from his teammates, things had entered crazy town on a freight train. He remembered listening to some of the tales of ship boardings the SEALs had conducted in the Red Sea against Somali pirates. His father had talked about when he was a kid and how he’d sneak the radio to bed at night and listen to faraway broadcasts of Mystery Theater and Science Fiction Theater, the words painting pictures as big and bold as any multiplex screen. That was how the tactical radio broadcasts were to Walker. He could imagine, based on his training, where the SEALs stood in relation to the crazy man.
A square of light from the hatch punched away the darkness in front of him. It was the hold, and the closer he got, the more electric his body began to feel. He shook it off as pins and needles from lying in a prone position too long.
He found what he’d spied from his previous position—an air vent. The cowling was about two meters off the ground and a perfect place for him to keep overwatch and see through the hatch into the hold. It was positioned in such a manner that the communications mast next to it would block him from surveillance from anyone other than the partygoers on the cruise ship far out to sea.
As he climbed into place, he heard all hell break loose as the man drew a knife. He got into place just in time to see him raise it over his head.
21
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.
Fratty gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The crazy fuck had the knife over his head and was screaming something in Chinese. One pull of the trigger would end it all, a 12-gauge slug ripping his screaming head free and leaving a wet spot on the wood behind. All he had to do was give just a little more pressure to the trigger and—
“Easy,” came Holmes’s calm voice. “Easy, SEALs.”
That the man was freaking Fratty out was an understatement. The man standing atop the circus box with the knife over his head and his tiny Asian pecker sticking out from the side of his stained underwear was an image that would take a case of beer and a thousand ice picks to
dislodge.
Suddenly the man stopped screaming. The silence that rushed into the space was stark. Then he looked at Fratty and began to whisper in a rough, low voice, “Fratty, Fratty, Fratty, Fratty,” over and over.
“Boss? How the hell does this freak know my name?”
“Dunno. Just be easy until we find out what he’s—”
Holmes never finished his sentence. The man brought the knife down in a vicious arc into his own abdomen. He grunted as it bit through, but he didn’t stop there. He jerked upward, then across. Then control left him. The knife fell to the crate a moment before his intestines roped out in a gush of blood that emptied his gut. He fell face-first atop the crate, his eyes staring directly at Fratty.
Then silence.
“What the hell just happened?” Ruiz said.
“I think he just killed himself,” Laws answered.
“No shit.” Fratty poked the dead man with the toe of his right boot. “What gave you that idea?”
“Easy boys,” Holmes said, lowering the tip of his MP5 and looking around. “Be ready.”
“Loo-look at the bl-blood,” Ruiz stammered.
Fratty saw it move across the flat wooden surface as if it was all part of the same gigantic amoeba, some edges moving faster than others. The blood took on an oblong shape as it slid into several of the circular holes that had been cut in the top of the crate. He hadn’t notice them before, but the holes had been the least of his worries. Right now, he was more concerned with how the blood was moving of its own accord and why.
