“What about these guys?” James asked. “Fish bait, right?”
Grant shook his head. “Not yet. They’re all coming with us. We’ll get answers from them, one way or other. And they may come in handy. Put ’em on deck, forward of the cabin. Mike, let Ken and DJ handle those guys. You get rid of the van.”
“Sure, Boss.” Novak handed his rifle to Slade, then hopped into the cab. Making a quick U-turn, he drove along the dock, trying to see through the fog.
A minute later, there was a loud splash. Novak came running back through the fog. “Done,” he said.
“Okay, Mike. Let’s board.” Grant looked one more time into the distance, in the direction of where he left Adler and Diaz. Lowering his head, he started to go to the boat when the sound of a far off explosion made him swing around. It was immediately followed by another. All blood drained from his face. He sunk down into a squat, beating his fists against his forehead. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t have happened. The rest of the Team rushed out on deck, with disbelief on their faces.
“Holy shit!” Novak whispered. After a moment, and after trying to clear this throat, Novak said softly, “Boss.” He laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Boss. We’ve. . .we’ve gotta go.”
With his head down, Grant stood, wiping fingers across his eyes. “Yeah, Mike. I know.”
Novak went ahead, as Grant started walking slowly toward midships. He climbed on board then eased his way along the narrow port side, going to the bow. Staring ahead, he knew there wasn’t anything he could’ve done. Refocus. You’ve got responsibilities, he kept telling himself, as he took in a deep breath.
The fog was still thick. There wasn’t any way in hell they’d be able to pull out, and yet, the sound of boat engines firing up told him fishermen weren’t waiting. He looked overhead, feeling rain on his face. The fog started lifting as the sky opened up. Another downpour.
Unbelieving, but grateful for the rain, Grant turned to go to the cabin. He stopped briefly near the prisoners. They were sitting on deck in front of the cabin. Duct tape now secured ankles, too. Rain beat on their heads. They squinted, trying to see Grant.
He wiped rainwater from his face, before giving them a cold-blooded, threatening look. They cringed, shrinking farther down on the deck, as they saw his hand moving to his holstered weapon. He started drawing it out, picturing bullets splattering their brains against the bulkhead. And then, maybe an extra tap just for the hell of it. But he restrained himself, resisting the urge. Silencer or not, he couldn’t take the chance. Besides, there were still a shitload of questions yet to be answered. Grinding his teeth, he slid the .45 back into the holster.
He entered the cramped cabin, seeing the faces of his men and the SEALs looking at him. It was easy for them to understand what he was feeling. They all lost friends before. Now, they had Adler and Diaz on their minds.
Grant stepped closer to the SEALs. “Gentlemen, as soon as we’re in the clear, we will talk. Okay?”
“Yes, sir, look forward to it,” John Becket replied, then immediately added, “And, sir? We’re. . .we’re sorry. We all know what it’s like to. . .”
Grant gave a quick nod, before returning to the urgent task at hand. “I suggest that everybody sit down. Stay out of view, just as a precaution. We’ve got a long way to go. Be prepared for anything.” Nods were followed by the sound of weapons being made ready.
He turned toward Slade. “Ken, there’s a jumble of fishing nets forward. Toss it over those three,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.
“Aye, aye, Boss.”
Becket asked, “Sir, any chance we could get a couple of weapons. . .just in case?”
Grant didn’t have to respond, as James and Stalley handed over their .45s. Immediately, they lifted the straps of their Uzis over their heads, holding the weapons close.
The two SEALs automatically ejected the clips, rammed them back in, then jacked back the slides. “We’re ready, sir,” Becket said.
Grant gave somewhat of a smile, before saying, “DJ, Ken, get some glasses. Keep watch. Mike, get ready to cast off.” The three men responded immediately.
Grant turned and took a step toward the wheel, squeezing it tightly with both strong hands. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on the river ahead, as he swiped the back of a hand across his eyes. The sound of rain beating on the overhead and windshield started to bring him back to the current, dangerous situation they were in.
He reprimanded himself. Goddammit, Stevens! Get your head on straight.
Struggling with all that was in him to toss his current feelings aside, he pictured a map of their present position on the river. If calculations were accurate, it should be less than twenty miles to the open body of water.
Other fishing vessels were starting to cast off their mooring lines, with a flurry of activity on each boat. More engines started. One by one, and some two at a time, the boats started heading toward the Yangtze. With deckhands and captains being preoccupied with navigating the river and preparing fishing nets, this was Grant’s chance to head out.
His brain was telling him it was time to fire up the engine. He tried reaching for the switch. “What the hell’s wrong with my arm?!” he mumbled softly, staring down, not understanding what was happening to him. A familiar noise made him spin around. It was coming from somewhere on deck.
James jerked his head up, and looked at Grant, before he dove for his rucksack and pulled out the radio, just as a voice said:
“Yankee Two-Seven calling Alpha Tango! Come in Alpha Tango! Over!”
“Alpha Tango! Go ahead Two-Seven! Over!”
“Yankees Two-Seven and Three-Six request a ride! Do you copy?! Over!”
“Hell yes! Copy that! Holding position!”
“Arriving under fiver! Out!”
High-fives went around by the men sitting on the cabin floor. Then looking up at Grant, they saw relief on his face before he lowered his head, taking in long deep breaths.
A short while later, hearing a vehicle, Novak came rushing into the cabin. “Boss! There’s some kinda ratty-ass lookin’ vehicle comin’ from our eight.”
Grant ducked his head, trying to see out the small window, before he stepped out on the port side deck.
The driver hit the brakes. The wheels skidded on dirt. The beat-up vehicle jerked back and forth as the engine suddenly stalled. The vehicle came to rest parallel to the boat.
Adler and Diaz climbed out from the right side back seat. But who the hell was driving?
“Jesus!” Grant said under his breath. Kwan!
Chapter 17
The three men jumped onto the boat’s stern, and immediately rushed into the cabin. Grant stood with his back against the wheel, shaking his head. “We’ll talk later.”
Adler tilted his head toward Kwan. “Tell him about your equipment.” Kwan didn’t respond. “It went boom! He blew it up!”
They were wasting precious time. “Fill me in later; sounds interesting.” Grant turned to Novak. “Mike, dump that vehicle.”
Novak hustled off the boat. Once he started the car’s engine, he shifted into reverse, then stepped on the gas. The tires spun on slick mud before they caught.
Grant pointed to Slade. “Ken, get ready to cast off!” Slade ran on deck, crouching low in the pouring rain, holding onto the mooring line. As he waited, he kept his eyes in motion, watching for anything out of the ordinary, constantly wiping rain from his face.
“Joe, take the wheel.” Adler dropped his rucksack then immediately went forward, as he wiped his wet hands on his pants. The only instrument available by the wheel was a compass. At least we’ve got a GPS, he thought gratefully. He waited for Grant to give the word.
Grant ducked down, looking out the window, waiting for Novak. “Joe, get ready to fire it up as soon as Mike comes back.”
“Roger, Skipper.” With one hand on the wheel, Adler stood in the doorway facing aft, trying to spot Novak.
The sound of the car engine sudden
ly went quiet. Within two minutes, Novak came running back, jumped on deck, then quickly ducked into the cabin. He squatted down, then saw Grant looking at him. He gave a thumb’s up. “Deep-sixed, Boss! Didn’t see anybody watching.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Adler started the engine. As soon as he did, Slade undid the line, then he waited until the boat cleared the dock. He came back inside the cabin, dripping wet, and immediately sat down. He took his Uzi from Stalley.
Kwan stood by the forward starboard door, looking aft. They were already in the middle of the river, and the last boat to leave the dock. Then he looked toward the bow, seeing they were approaching the section of river where it was about to join the Yangtze.
“Take over the wheel,” Grant said to him. “If anybody decides to put 'eyes' on us, it’d be best if they saw you.” As Kwan stepped behind the wheel, Grant said, “Listen, we owe you a lot. I want you to know that it took guts to do what you did. Just want to say thanks.”
“Sure,” Kwan responded, glancing at the compass. “I haven’t taken this boat out very often.” Purchased with CIA funds, the boat was specifically chosen because it would blend in if the need ever arose.
“Don’t worry. If there’s trouble, Joe can takeover again. He’s a bonafide Navy Boatswain’s Mate!” Grant sat on the deck, intentionally bumping his elbow against Adler. “You know, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Scared myself. That was one helluva mess of wires.”
Grant whispered, “And the cans?” Adler pointed to Diaz. “Okay. Now, give me a short version. Why the explosions?”
“Couldn’t leave that shit, Skipper, and we couldn’t take it. Frank and I got up on the roof to make sure it was clear. The best we could tell, it was. So, decision was made. We’d do a ‘controlled’ explosion.”
“You mean ‘two’ controlled explosions,” Grant added.
“Yeah.”
“What about the remote that guy had. Was the clock started?”
“Sure was. But those guys didn’t plan on staying around. They gave themselves more than enough time to haul.”
“And you and Diaz,” Grant added with a smile.
“Yeah. Us, too. Hey! Where the hell are they?” Adler asked looking around.
“Forward.”
Unaware the men were aboard, Kwan asked with surprise, “Who?! Who are you talking about?!”
“We’ve got three men tied up outside the cabin; captured them at the place we found the explosives. I’ll explain later.”
Kwan stood closer to the wheel, straining to find the men, but unable to see below the window.
Adler picked up where the conversation left off. “So, did you get anything out of them?”
“Haven’t had the time.”
“Don’t understand that!” Adler laughed.
*
Slowly the rain began letting up. Water dripped off the cabin’s roof. As the boat swayed slightly from port to starboard, water rolled off the deck.
Kwan reduced engine speed, as he spun the wheel to starboard, steering the boat into the Yangtze. Somehow, by keeping a steady speed to this point, he’d been able to catch up to some stragglers.
Feeling the boat lean, Grant looked up at him. “Still clear?”
“So far.”
“How much father until they start throwing out nets?”
“We have a way to go, but after Hengshaxiang Island.”
“Do we follow the fleet?” Grant asked.
“If you want the shortest way to international waters, I’d say follow the channel south of the island.”
“And if they don’t go that route? Will we draw attention to ourselves?”
“It’s hard to say, but there’s always a chance. Gunboats patrol up and down the river.”
Another detail Grant worried about. They’d never be able to outrun the ChiComs with the size of engine this boat had.
Becket overheard the conversation and scooted closer to Grant. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Sure,” Grant said, “but how about some introductions first.” He leaned forward, extending a hand. “I’m Grant Stevens, this is Joe Adler, and those guys,” he pointed, as he smiled, “are Team Alpha Tango. And that’s Dao Kwan driving.”
Becket gave no indication that he recognized the name Grant Stevens. He shook Grant’s hand. “Lieutenant John Becket, sir, and that’s Petty Officer Jake Kidd.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.” He gave a nod toward Kidd, “Petty Officer.” Pointing at Becket’s injured, swollen eye, Grant asked, “Are you doing okay? That’s gonna be quite a shiner.”
Becket laughed. “Maybe, but you should’ve seen the other guy’s fist, sir.”
“If it was the guy we found in Bridge House, he won’t be bustin’ any more faces.”
“Dead, sir?”
“Yeah, but not by us. Okay, let’s get back on track. You wanted to comment about our proposed route?”
“Yes, sir. The way you’re talking about going is the way my team and I came when we extracted General Zhu. We pulled into one of the smaller islands on the south side of that big island.”
“What’s your recommendation?” Grant asked. “Is that the best and shortest way?”
“Well, sir, if the carrier's still steamin’ the same course as when we left her, I’d say so.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. One more question.”
“Sir?”
“Can you give me some idea where the carrier was when the ChiComs intercepted you?”
“I can give you more than that, sir. I can tell you exactly where she was.”
“Wait one,” Grant said, as he reached for his rucksack and took out the GPS. “Okay. Give me those numbers.”
“Her coordinates were 31° 10' 30.76, 122° 27' 22.90.” Grant fed the numbers into the GPS as Becket added, “We had the chopper in sight, but it and the fleet had orders to remain in international waters. But there’s not a doubt in my military mind, sir, that the chopper hovered as close to that damn ‘border’ as it could get.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Grant smiled. “Let us know if you need more water.”
“We’re good for now, sir. We’ll get more aboard ship soon enough.”
“I like your attitude, Lieutenant!”
Becket started to scoot backwards, when Grant reached forward and extended his hand again. “I just want to tell you that was one helluva brave decision you both made that night.”
“No more than all of you coming to find us. . .Captain Stevens,” Becket replied with a wink, as he shook Grant’s hand, then said, “Thanks.” He gave a quick nod, before scooting backward on the deck, rejoining Kidd near the bulkhead.
Adler poked Grant in the ribs with an elbow. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Chapter 18
White House
President Carr sat opposite General Trevor Prescott and CIA Director Hank Bancroft. On the coffee table between the two sofas were new satellite images.
Prescott commented, “The ones on the right, Mr. President, were images of Shanghai taken two days ago. I circled an area in red.”
Carr picked up the black and white photo. “Is this the Consulate building?” he asked, circling his finger around a specific area labeled with an “A.”
“Yes, sir. All the buildings in the neighboring area are part of old Shanghai. The government ordered that all homes be abandoned before construction was started on the Consulate.”
Carr noticed another building. “What does this ‘B’ indicate?”
“That’s the Bridge House.” Before Carr could comment, Prescott picked up the second photo, handing it to Carr. “You’ll notice in this photo, in an area not far from the Consulate, it appears to have been demolished.”
Carr held both photos, with his eyes going from one to the other. “What’s the answer, Trevor?”
Prescott nodded to Bancroft, who answered, “Well, sir, we started picking up a lot of chatter. The Chinese weren’t too concerned this time about who
was listening. From what we could piece together, two explosions occurred within a matter of seconds at location ‘A.’ But we also heard them talking about another explosion in an area known as the ‘ghetto’ about a mile or two from there.”
“What the hell happened?” Carr asked, totally surprised.
Bancroft handed Carr a third photo. “That, Mr. President, was where our operative was located. It’s gone. Totally wiped out.”
Carr dropped the photos on the table, then flopped back against the couch. “Are you trying to tell me the Chinese blew these places apart?”
“No, sir, at least we don’t think so.”
Carr was sounding frustrated. “Then what’s your opinion?” he asked looking back and forth between the two men. “Somebody has an idea, right?!”
Bancroft scooted toward the edge of the cushion. “If our operative followed the usual SOP, he already had that house booby-trapped. If the ChiComs found it, then he took care of it and them. But from the chatter we picked up, the ChiComs were caught off guard when the other buildings exploded, too.”
Carr stood by the coffee table. “If you gentlemen are thinking what I’m thinking, whoever had their hands on that plutonium was preparing to use it while the Vice President was on his visit.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Bancroft confirmed, with General Prescott nodding in agreement.
“Then can we safely say it was Alpha Tango that took care of the explosives?”
“Yes, sir,” Prescott replied. “That’s the only logical explanation. And since we haven’t detected any plutonium in the air, it also means the Team most likely has the canisters, Mr. President.”
Looking down, Carr folded his arms across his chest. “But the bigger question still remains. Who originally planned on using the plutonium?”
“The only person who might be able to answer that, Mr. President, is Grant Stevens,” Bancroft answered as he sat back, and put his glasses in his jacket pocket.
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