Grant and Adler were on one side of the alley, Diaz opposite them. “Frank, watch the road,” Grant said, as he and Adler focused their attention on the target house.
Alder used his .45 to point up at a slight angle. “Light. Second floor.” Just as quickly as the light appeared, it went dark again.
Grant leaned forward slightly, seeing Slade and Stalley just before they disappeared down the alley across the street. “Four-One. Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“Light on second floor; now dark. You copy?”
“Copy that. Out,” Slade responded in a whisper.
He and Stalley began edging their way along the wall, slowly and cautiously. Once at the back corner, Slade took a breath then leaned forward, holding his .45 with both hands, keeping it close to his cheek. “Clear,” he whispered. He motioned Stalley to follow him.
Across the street, Grant, Adler and Diaz continued to monitor the area, continued to look for lights or movement inside. They waited impatiently for word from Slade and Stalley.
“Zero-Niner, Four-One,” Slade whispered.
“Go ahead, Four-One.”
“Panel truck behind target. Empty.”
“Roger that.”
They just found their transportation.
*
Standing next to the back door of the end building, Slade hoped it was unlocked just like the door at their “hideout.” He slowly turned the rusted knob, then eased the door open.
Preparing to enter the room, he aimed his weapon straight ahead. Looking through the NVGs, he took a step into the darkened room, and swiveled his head. “Clear,” he whispered. Stalley followed closely behind him.
They moved close to the wall that divided it from the target house. Putting their ears next to it, they listened. Slade held up two fingers, then one more. Three men. It was impossible to know if those were the only ones inside. He had his doubts.
He pointed to the stairs. Stalley nodded, then both men walked as quietly as possible to the staircase. Rain water was still dripping down the steps. They looked overhead, seeing that a section of roof had caved in, but not recently.
Slade stood on the first step, hoping the stairs were more secure by the wall, and less likely to cave in or creak. Both men continued up the staircase, slowly, cautiously.
Finally at the top, Slade walked toward the center of the room, while Stalley stood watch. Without hesitating, Slade went to the front window. Trying to see through broken slats, he whispered, “Zero-Niner, Four-One.”
“Go ahead, Four-One.”
“On second.”
“Copy that,” Grant responded.
For Grant and the other four men, the next moments would be agonizing, as they waited to receive word if the SEALs were in the next house, then waiting to hear if they were alive.
*
Slade and Stalley looked overhead at the hole in the roof. They had to get up there, then try and find a way to get to the house next door.
All the ceilings in these homes were low, under seven feet. The two men were tall enough. They could do it.
Slade intertwined his fingers, then braced his legs. Stalley looked up then put a foot in Slade’s palms. With one fluid motion, Slade lifted Stalley who was able to grab hold of a section of roof then pull himself through. He immediately stretched out on his belly.
“Zero-Niner, Four-One.”
“Go ahead, Four-One.”
“Five-Two is topside.”
“Roger that.” Grant blew out a breath.
With Stalley safely on the roof, Slade stood close to the dividing wall, trying to hear anything, something that would give them a clue what was happening next door.
Stalley got up into a crouch then cautiously went to the wall where the two buildings were joined. He looked down the row of houses. Each one had some damage done to its roof. He took a breath, sat on top of the dividing wall, then slid both legs over the edge. He stepped onto the roof, focusing the NVGs on a jagged-edge hole, with an eight foot circumference. This is it, he thought, as he slowly walked as close to the opening as he dared.
He got down on his belly and crabbed his way closer, a little at a time, ensuring the roof was stable. Finally, he was able to lean his head over the edge, aiming the NVGs around the room. He reached into his chest vest and pulled out his penlight, then raised the NVGs. Aiming the narrow beam toward a corner of the room, he pressed it on and off, directly toward the two men.
Becket and Kidd were lashed together, back to back. Their hands and feet were bound, rags were tied around their mouths.
Becket blinked his eyes, then turned his head. He nodded, acknowledging Stalley’s signal. He bumped his back against Kidd, over and over, thinking Kidd was unconscious.
Kidd slowly looked up. Confused, he shook his head, trying to get rid of the cobwebs. Finally he noticed the flashing light. Both men stared up toward Stalley.
Stalley turned the light on his own face and winked, then gave a thumb’s up. Pressing the PTT, he whispered, “Zero-Niner, Five-Two. Have eyes on deuce. Affirm okay.”
“Copy that, Five-Two!” As relieved as he was, Grant wanted more information. “Request number of UFs.”
A sudden noise made Stalley roll away from the opening. He whispered, “Wait one.”
With a sound of footsteps on the stairs, both Becket and Kidd instinctively lowered their heads and closed their eyes. They stayed motionless. Whoever was checking on them, only came part way up the stairs, stopped, then went back down.
Stalley waited until it became quiet, then rolled over on his belly, positioning himself at the opening. Pausing for an extra minute, he reported, “Clear.” Then, he shined the penlight toward the floor in front of the men and signaled in code: Number of bad guys. Once again he shined the light on Becket, waiting for a response.
Becket blinked his eyelids: Five. Then he immediately added: Deuce bombs.
Stalley shut off the light, then pressed the PTT. “Count is fiver, deuce ‘boomers.’ I say again, deuce ‘boomers.’ Do you copy?”
“Copy that. Wait one.”
Grant immediately called Novak. “Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“Any sign of guest?”
“Negative.”
Grant couldn’t take the chance Kwan would return, and unknowingly bring along ChiComs. It was time to pull Novak and James from their positions.
“Seven-Three and Six-Eight, exit now. Do you copy?”
“Copy that. Exiting. Seven-Three, out.”
Within a matter of minutes, Novak and James had packed up their gear. Following Adler’s directions, they joined the three men in the alley. Adler motioned toward house that was their target.
Grant notified Stalley and Slade. “Four-One, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“A.T. approaching.”
“Roger that.”
*
Fog had descended over the city. The humidity--oppressive. The morning temperature--eighty degrees. A distant sound of ship horns, coming from the harbor, were all that broke the early morning silence.
The Team was one house down from the target, staying close to the rundown building. There hadn’t been any activity in the area. The next conversations would be kept to a minimum, with Stalley and Slade being so close to the UFs.
Grant pushed the PTT, then spoke softly. “Five-Two, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“Proceed to friendlies. Protect. Do you copy?”
Stalley nodded to himself, then replied, “Copy that. Out.” He crabbed backwards from the roof opening, then quietly went back to the other building.
Slade was already waiting beneath the hole in the ceiling, looking up. There were two options for him to get through the hole: either Stalley could “arm” hoist him up, or they’d use a rope. The rope was the way to go. It would keep Stalley far enough away from the opening, and keep less pressure on the rag
ged, unstable edge.
Stalley took the length of rope from his rucksack, dropped one end into the hole, then wrapped the other end around his waist. Grabbing the rope with both hands, he jerked it, signaling Slade he was ready to accept the weight. Tall and slender, Stalley belied his appearance. He was known as the “young Doc who had muscles in his shit.”
Grant and the rest of the men waited for word that the two had successfully entered the target building. Finally, they heard Slade, “Affirm all safe.”
Stalley and Slade couldn’t take the chance of being heard now that they were inside. Sharing water and treatment of wounds would have to wait.
Crouching slightly, Slade took one slow step at a time, cautiously moving near the top of the stairs. He was able to hear voices. ChiComs.
Listening to the voices, he determined there were at least two men closer to the back door. Another sound indicated something was being dragged across the floor. One voice rose slightly. Everything went quiet for a moment. Then, someone started talking softly. Another person gave what could have been a response. Slade backed up, continuing on watch, staying several feet back from the staircase, trying to remain hidden in the shadows.
Stalley used his K-bar to slice the ropes tying the SEALs’ wrists and ankles. Then, he took up a defensive position in front of the two men. The four were in a precarious situation. If they made the slightest sound, it could bring the UFs right to them.
But they’d have to be patient and wait until word came from Grant--or until all hell broke loose.
Chapter 14
Chinese Army Garrison
Shanghai
Colonel Tao Chiu stood behind the desk, with his fists balled up by his side. He looked down at a mass of paperwork, covering every inch of the desktop. He still couldn’t find the missing piece of the puzzle. He was positive it was somewhere in the papers, but somehow he kept overlooking it.
Leaning forward, he rested his fists on the desk, letting his eyes roam the white pieces of paper. Every sheet pertained to Peng Zhu’s disappearance, the captured Americans, and the three men who they presumed escaped to America. “Three,” he repeated softly.
He began sorting through the papers carefully, picking up one at a time, looking for dates and names. Most of the papers were copies of transmissions from Beijing. Some had been hand-carried by couriers.
As he was looking, his mind drifted to the “orders” that sent Zhu to Shanghai. Clever Americans, he thought. He lifted the forged paper, turned it over, then held it up to the light. It was accurate right down to the smallest details: type of paper used, the style of writing, the specific wording, the signature.
The intelligence people had yet to decipher or uncover any coded message. It has to be here, he thought, bringing the paper closer to his eyes. Frustrated, he tossed it on the desk. But reading this specific paper again, realizing how accurate it was, made Chiu more sure than ever. There was a CIA operative. And he was somewhere in Shanghai.
“Faan!” he shouted.
Bursting into the office, Faan snapped to rigid attention. “Yes, Comrade!”
“I want extra personnel brought in to monitor all transmissions--all transmissions! I want interpreters! I want patrols ready to act on a moment’s notice! I want. . .” Chiu went silent, then suddenly rushed back to the desk.
He started pushing papers aside, looking for one in particular. He slapped his palm on a paper and jerked it toward him. The communicated message, delivered by courier, warned of a traitor who stole two canisters of plutonium from the Huludao Shipyard.
“Comrade, is there anything else you want me to do?” Faan asked, still standing at attention.
Chiu looked up slowly, staring at Faan, as his words finally registered. “No. Take care of everything. . .and immediately.” Faan had just started opening the door, when Chiu ordered, “Bring me any transmissions as soon as they come in.”
“Yes, Comrade. I will.” Faan left.
Chiu again turned his attention to the message. There wasn’t anything he remembered or saw that drew him to this particular one. He was reacting on pure instinct. Something was telling him the dead man--the one who had been stabbed at Bridge House--was this man, the one who stole the plutonium.
But where were those canisters? Could they be in the hands of the Americans? That seemed to be a very strong possibility. With the confidential papers stolen by Zhu and the actual plutonium, the Americans would learn how far along his country’s nuclear submarine program had progressed.
He started mentally reviewing what he saw in Bridge House. The officers and guards were killed by martial arts experts. And yet the man in the basement was bloodied, killed with a knife. “His jacket,” Chiu said to himself. “His jacket was unbuttoned, yet both sides were drawn slightly together.” Could someone have tried to help him? The longer he thought, the more questions he had.
A knock at his door. “Comrade Chiu!”
Chiu turned toward the door. “Yes!”
Faan entered, handing him a piece of paper. “We have intercepted a message!”
Chiu snatched the paper from Faan, glanced at it, then threw it back at the officer. “It hasn’t been decoded!”
Faan caught the paper in mid-air then responded, “Our men are working on it, Comrade, but. . .” He rushed over to one of three wall maps. “We were able to triangulate the exact location.” He leaned closer to a map of Shanghai, tracing a route along Chifeng Road, before he jabbed his finger on a location. “Here! This is where the transmission came from! We are less than two kilometers from there, Comrade!”
That’s the old ghetto, Chiu thought, before barking his order to Faan. “Have ten men ready immediately!”
Faan gave a quick, sharp salute then hurried from the office.
Chiu drew his Norinco pistol from its leather holster, ejected the eight-round clip, then rammed it back in. He grabbed his hat off the desk.
As he rushed outside, he hoped this was the break he needed. He was confident if this were the CIA operative, he would lead them to whoever had the plutonium, and whoever may have killed Lieutenant Ji and his men.
*
A truck with canvas stretched over the top of its bed carried ten men as it traveled closely behind a “Beijing Jeep.” Military green in color, it was a diesel-powered, light-duty, off road utility vehicle.
Sitting in the Jeep’s front passenger seat, Colonel Chiu had binoculars hanging around his neck. With one hand on the safety bar attached to the front of the dash, he balanced himself as Faan drove in and out traffic, traversing the streets of the Hongkou District, finding his way through the fog.
During World War II, when Shanghai was occupied by the Japanese, Jewish refugees from Nazi-occupied Europe lived in a notoriously overcrowded, square-mile section. Apartments and hastily built houses became home to multiple families. The district became known to the West as the “Shanghai ghetto.”
Once they were on the east side of the district, Faan turned off a main road, and headed to an area just behind a row of rundown apartments. Where streets and sidewalks left the downtown area cold and sterile, this section that bordered the ghetto had grass and trees. If there were any houses, they were dilapidated, most were vacant, some were slowly becoming piles of rubbish.
Faan slowed the Jeep, and finally stopped. Shifting into neutral, he kept a foot on the brake. He pointed to a small house, just over fifty yards away, blurred by the fog. It was constructed entirely of wood, and in poor condition. One small window was to the left of a wood door that showed patches of original blue paint. The only greenery was unkempt grass, but mostly weeds.
“The triangulation indicated this one, Comrade.”
Chiu leaned forward, squinting, trying to get a better view of the house. “Do you know who lives here?”
“No, Comrade. Most are shared by more than one family. Some are vacated quite frequently, then new families immediately move in.”
Chiu looked at the house, then let his eyes roam around
the entire property. An old dump truck was parked on the grass, close to the house. He leaned his head out the window, and put the binoculars to his eyes.
“That truck’s engine is running.” Puffs of smoke escaped from the exhaust pipe. “Burlap sacks are loaded in the back. It must be used as a delivery vehicle.”
Keeping the binoculars focused on the house and vehicle, he said to Faan, “Have the men prepare to search the property.”
Faan got out, then walked toward the truck. “Everybody! Out!”
Men jumped out of the back and hurried close to Faan. Lining up side by side, with straps of their AKs slung over their shoulders, they stood at rigid attention waiting for their orders.
Faan returned to the Jeep. “The men are ready, Comrade.”
“Send five men around back,” Chiu said. Faan carried out the order. The men started forward then split up, going along both sides of the property.
Chiu lowered the binoculars, letting them hang from his neck. He got out, then drew his pistol. Waving his weapon in a forward motion, the remaining five men understood the signal to advance. Continuing to search the area with his eyes, he followed behind the line of men.
The truck on the property sputtered and backfired, then went silent. But still, no one came from the house.
The five men, along with Chiu and Faan, were within fifteen feet of the truck, when he ordered them to stop. First, he confirmed the other five were safely around both sides. Then, he signaled Faan and the remaining men to approach the front door, while he stayed a safe distance back, continuing to scan the property.
He started to walk toward the corner of the house, when a flash of light from within the cab of the truck made him abruptly stop. A second later, an explosion sent a ball of fire straight up. Pieces of sharp, jagged metal and wood shot out in every direction.
The men at the front of the house fell to the ground, trying to protect themselves from projectiles of every size. Then, as small pieces of burning debris hit the ground, they heard a sudden whooshing sound. It was too late for anyone to take cover. The debris lit off a trail of black powder, leading directly to the house.
Shanghai Mission Page 10
