by Tom Clancy
Fisher waited for the IKS’s speed to drop below ten knots, then reached behind him and flipped a switch. With a hum, the electric motor engaged. He adjusted the tiller and turned the nose toward the Duroc.
* * *
“Down and safe,” Fisher radiod.
“Scalp still in one piece?” Lambert asked.
“Very funny.” Fisher had once made the mistake of sharing his misgivings about the Skipjack with Lambert; since then the gibes had never stopped. “Where’s the FBI?”
“Just leaving Freeport harbor aboard a Bahamian fast-patrol boat. They’ll catch up to you in about fifty minutes.”
“By the way, what’s my ROE?” Fisher asked, referring to Rules of Engagement.
“Weapons free.” No restrictions; lethal force authorized. “But a witness would come in handy.”
“I’ll do my best.”
* * *
Two hundred yards off the Duroc’s stern, Fisher pulled out his binoculars and scanned the decks. Aside from the mast and navigation beacons, the only visible light came from the yacht’s main salon: A yellow glow peeked from between the curtains covering the sliding glass doors. As he watched, a man-shaped figure passed before the curtains, then moved out of view.
Something on the starboard side caught Fisher’s eye. He panned and zoomed in.
A man walked onto the afterdeck, shining a flashlight as he went. Fisher could clearly see the outline of a gun in his other hand. KSC/Ingram MAC-11 submachine gun, he thought, recalling the stats. Firing rate, twenty rounds per second; standard magazine holds forty-eight. The MAC-11 was not the most accurate of weapons, but what it lacked in precision was balanced by sheer firepower.
Fisher keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, better get word to the FBI: The Duroc’s crew is armed.”
* * *
Though his time was rapidly dwindling, he forced himself to wait and watch until certain the guard was alone and on a fixed schedule. Hollywood movies aside, covert work was as much about patience and preparation as it was about skulking in the shadows with a knife in your teeth. Among the dozens of axioms special operators lived by, the Six P’s were arguably the most important: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.
Dying on paper before a mission was preferable to dying in the real world, and attention to detail could save your life. Of course, this didn’t fit the romanticized version of covert work most civilians held, but it was reality.
He waited until the guard finished his second round of the decks, then cranked the IKS’s throttle to full and sprinted ahead until he was under the Duroc’s stern rail. Having rehearsed his movements in his head, Fisher went into action. He tapped a series of buttons on the OPSAT, engaging the smart-chip in the IKS’s engine that would keep the kayak loitering a few hundred yards off the Duroc’s stern, then stood up, grabbed the lowermost railing, then started climbing.
* * *
As soon as his foot touched the deck, he heard the salon door sliding open. A shaft of yellow light poured out. A silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway.
Fisher lowered himself onto his belly and eased to his right behind a coil of mooring line. It wouldn’t be enough to hide him, he knew, but it would break up his form.
“Hey, Chon, where you at?” the figure called
The language was English, but the accent was not. Americanized Chinese, Fisher thought.
The MAC-11-armed guard walked down the side deck. “I’m here. Stop yelling.”
“Boss needs a cigarette.”
That told Fisher something: The guard probably didn’t have a radio, which in turn meant he probably wasn’t required to check in with anyone. Good news. If it became necessary, the man’s disapperance wouldn’t immediately raise an alarm.
The guard fished around in his shirt pocket and handed over a cigarette. “Anything on the police scanner?” he asked.
The first man shook his head. “Nothing on the fire band either. They haven’t found it yet.”
It? Fisher wondered. He assumed they were talking about Bahamian radio bands. Were they listening for signs of pursuit, or was it something else?
“They will,” the other man replied with a chuckle. “Believe me, they will.”
Not pursuit, Fisher decided. Something else.
The men chatted for a few more seconds, then parted company. The first man went back into the salon and closed the door. The guard turned to the railing and lingered there, staring over the side.
Come on, pal, where’re you going?
Fisher drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
The guard drew his flashlight, clicked it on, and started walking toward Fisher.
12
Fisher didn’t hesitate. He lifted the pistol and fired. The SC gave a muted cough. The bullet struck squarely in the center of the man’s forehead and he crumpled.
Fisher remained motionless, waiting to see if the shot had attracted attention. After thirty seconds, he holstered the pistol and crab-walked to the body. The 5.72mm bullet had left a neat, nearly bloodless hole between the man’s eyes. Only a trickle of blood had leaked onto the deck.
Contrary to movie portrayals, this type of nearly bloodless wound was as much the rule as the exception when it came to handguns. In this case, however, Fisher had an edge: His pistol was loaded with low-velocity Glaser Safety Slugs. Prefragmented and loaded with dozens of pellets, each the size of a pencil tip, a Glaser goes in cleanly and then shatters, spreading shrapnel inside the wound.
He quickly frisked the body, found a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an electronic card key. He kept the wallet and key and tossed the rest overboard. He used the sleeve of the man’s jacket to wipe up the trickle of blood on the deck, then manhandled the body to the aft railing and slipped it into the water.
He keyed his subdermal and whispered two words: “Sleeper; clean.”
Even with the operational autonomy Fisher enjoyed, Third Echelon was still part of the bureaucratic machine known as Washington, D.C., and Lambert was still required to file after-action reports, including details of how and why lethal force was used.
“Sleeper; clean” translated as “lethal casualty; no complications.” “Napper; clean” stood for “nonlethal casualty, no complications.” Similarly, the word “mess” meant Fisher’s use of force had drawn attention or was likely to. “Wildfire” meant he was engaged in an open gun battle. “Breakline” meant he’d been compromised and the mission was in jeopardy. “Skyfall” meant he was now operating in E&E (Escape and Evasion) mode.
And the list went on. Of course, having been an operator himself, Lambert wasn’t a stickler for details, especially when things got hot. “Mind yourself and the mission first,” he was fond of saying. “If the paper-pushers want details, they can make some up.”
Still, Fisher saw some value in real-time reporting. Over the years he’d seen a lot of operators die because they’d reacted too fast, had failed to think a step ahead. In this case, even before the guard had turned toward him, Fisher had already decided lethal force was his best choice and there was a low chance it would jeopardize the mission. Even when it came to quick decisions, the Six P’s applied.
“Roger,” Lambert replied.
“Going to the bridge.”
Fisher checked his watch: forty minutes until the FBI arrived.
* * *
He headed down the port-side deck. Over the railing he could hear the hiss of water skimming along the Duroc’s hull. He paused, pressed himself against the bulkhead, and lowered into a crouch. He needed a moment to think.
The puzzle of who was behind the Trego and Slipstone attacks was rapidly becoming complicated: The Trego, true registry and owner unknown, had been manned by a single Middle Eastern man who’d set the ship on a collision course with the Virginia coastline. The conclusion was easy to jump to and, in this case, seemingly correct. But now this, the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. So far, the Duroc’s crew ap
peared uniformly Asian — Chinese American, judging by their accents. If the satellite images were correct and the Duroc had in fact taken the remainder of the Trego’s crew to Freeport City, where did this Chinese crew fit in? And why the Bahamas? And why were they monitoring the fire bands—
Then it struck him: loose ends. He should have seen this immediately. He keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, put Grim to work: Unless I miss my guess, the Trego’s crew is dead. Executed and buried in a burned-out or burning building somewhere on the island.”
“How do you figure?”
“Just adding two and two together. I’ll explain later. Just have her monitoring the fire radio bands.”
“Will do.”
Fisher stood up and crept forward until he could see through the bridge hatch porthole.
Inside, the bridge was dimly lit by bulkhead sconces and a single white light filtering up from what Fisher assumed was the rear interior ladder. A lone man sat in an elevated chair at the helm console. Fisher craned his neck until he could see all of the rear bulkhead, which he scanned until he spotted what he was looking for: an electrical panel.
He drew the SC-20 from his back holster and thumbed the selector to STICKY SHOCKER: LOW. The charge would be enough to paralyze the helmsman for thirty seconds to a minute. He needed the man alive and able to talk.
He reached up and tested the doorknob — slowly turning it until certain it wasn’t locked. The helmsman would be instantly alerted when the door opened, and Fisher had to assume he was well trained and ready to sound the alarm. He took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.
Surprisingly, the man didn’t turn, but instead laughed. “Man… It took you long enough.”
What…?
“Where’d you go for the coffee? Peru?”
Now the man turned.
Fisher didn’t give him a chance to react. He fired.
The sticky shocker struck the man in the neck, just below the right ear. Fisher heard a faint sizzle. The man stiffened, then slumped over, his torso hanging toward the deck. The man’s limbs, still stimulated by the shocker, continued to twitch. His hand thumped rhythmically against the chair leg.
Fisher shut the door, crouched down. He holstered the SC-20 and drew his pistol. Expecting coffee… As if on cue, he heard the clang of footsteps on the rear ladder. A head rose from the ladder well, followed by a torso. “Hey, Tommy, here’s your… What the hell are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
The man turned his head. Fisher fired. The man’s head snapped to the left and he toppled over. The coffee mug clattered to the deck and rolled away.
Wrong place, wrong time, friend.
Fisher holstered the pistol, hurried forward, grabbed the dead man’s collar, dragged him under the nearby chart table, then turned his attention to the helmsman.
He pulled Tommy the helsman from the chair and bound his hands using a flexi-cuff. Tommy groaned, slowly regaining consciousness. Fisher dragged him to the rear bulkhead and propped him up. Tommy’s eyes fluttered open. “What’s going—”
“If you want to live, stay quiet,” Fisher whispered. “Nod if you understand.”
“What? What’s going—”
Sam slapped him across the face. “Quiet. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded groggily.
“Do I have your attention?”
Another nod.
“Let’s make sure.”
From his calf sheath, Fisher drew his only sentimental weapon, a genuine Sykes Fairbairn commando dagger.
Given to him by an old family friend, one of the original combat instructors at STS 103—also known as the legendary WWII Camp X commando training school — the Sykes was more than an artifact. Finely balanced and razor sharp, it was arguably the finest special ops knife ever made. And at seven inches, the dagger’s double-edge blade and needle-sharp point was the ultimate attention-getter.
Fisher inserted the tip of the Sykes inside Tommy’s left nostril and stretched it outward. Tommy’s eyes went wide.
“I’ve got a few questions for you, and one job,” Fisher said. “Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded.
“There’s a man in charge on this boat. What’s his name and where is he? Lie to me and I’ll give you a pig snout.”
Fisher considered pressing him for more information, but it was unlikely someone at Tommy’s level would have the details he needed. Besides, in about thirty minutes, the FBI would be here to squeeze every last bit information from the crew.
“His… his name is Lei. He’s in the captain’s cabin. Down one deck, then forward through the main salon and down the ladder. Last cabin at the end of the passage.”
“How many men on board?”
“Six.”
Make that three now, Fisher thought. “Can the power to the boat be restored anywhere else but here?”
“Yes, in engine room, but I’m the engineer. It would take a while for anyone else to do it.”
“Good. In about a minute I’m going to cut the power. When I do, someone will call up here to ask about it, yes?” The man nodded. “You’re going to tell them a circuit blew and that you’ll have it back on in a few minutes. Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded.
“If you say anything else, it’ll go badly for you.” To reinforce his point, Fisher lifted the tip of the Sykes, stretching the man’s nostril even more. “Are we clear? You can answer.”
“Yes, I understand.”
He sheathed the Sykes, then rolled the man onto his belly, grabbed him by the flexi-cuffs, and stood him up. Fisher opened the electrical panel and threw the main breaker. The bridge went dark. He flipped his trident goggles into place and switched to NV.
On the intercom, a faint voice called, “Hey, Tommy, what’s going on? We lost power.”
Fisher pulled Tommy close and whispered, “Show-time. No mistakes.”
The voice said, “Tommy, you up there? Answer, damnit!”
Fisher guided Tommy to the console and keyed the intercom’s TALK button.
Tommy said, “Give me a minute! A circuit blew. I’ll have it back in five minutes.”
“Well, hurry it up. I’m sitting on the can in the dark.”
Fisher flipped off the intercom. “Was that Lei?”
Tommy nodded. “What now?”
“Now, you get lucky,” Fisher replied.
He reversed the Sykes and struck Tommy behind the ear with the haft. Fisher dragged his limp body to the chart table and shoved him under with the other man.
He keyed his subdermal. “Going belowdecks.”
13
Fisher started down the ladder, then stopped and returned to the helm console. It took five seconds to find what he was looking for. He keyed his subdermal. “Grim, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m looking at a computerized helm console with both a USB and an IR port on the front.”
“Excellent,” she replied. He could hear the excitment in her voice. Like a kid at Christmas. Grim lived for this. “Sync up the OPSAT and I’ll scan the system,” she said. “Let’s see where the Duroc’s been.”
Fisher punched a few buttons on the OPSAT. The screen replied,
INFRARED PORT INITIATED. READY FOR SYNCHRONIZATION.
Fisher aimed the OPSAT at the console’s IR port.
LINK ESTABLISHED… DATA FILES LOCATED… DOWNLOAD? (Y/N)
Grimsdottir said, “I’m in. Downloading… Ah, that’s beautiful… look at that. Jackpot.”
“Pictures of Brad Pitt?” Fisher asked.
Grim snorted. “God, no. I prefer my men a little more… roughened. And mature.”
Oh, really? Fisher thought.
“Okay, I’ve got it. You can disconnect. There’s a lot of data here, Sam. I’ll get started on it.”
“Time check?”
Lambert replied. “We’re tracking the FBI’s boat. Twenty more minutes and you’re out of there.”
“Understood.”
Fisher took the ladder down one deck. At the bottom was a single door, which he assumed led into the salon. To his right was a steel hatch. He pressed his ear to it and heard the hum of engine noise.
He crouched down and snaked the flexi-cam beneath the door. The salon was lit only by a few nightlights — probably run by emergency backup power — but even in the washed-out glow of NV, Fisher could see the salon was well appointed: cream-colored Berber carpet, a leather couch and matching club chairs, and teak wall paneling.
Someone had spent a lot of money on the Duroc. Who, though?>
He played the flexi-cam around until he spotted a man sitting in the far right chair near the lamp. Feet up, head back, mouth open, newspaper splayed in his lap. Fisher smiled. He loved lazy guards. Made his job so easy. Perhaps this was the right time for a little experiment.
He retracted the flexi-cam, then drew the SC-20 and thumbed the selector to Cottonball. He turned the doorknob and eased it open. He stepped inside, shut the door. The man didn’t stir. Fisher picked up a magazine off the coffee table and tossed it onto the man’s chest. The man gave a grunt and sat up. Fisher fired.
He heard a soft thump, followed by a faint pffft.
The man shook his head as though he’d been slapped, said, “What the—” then slumped sideways in his chair.
I’ll be damned, Fisher thought. He hadn’t doubted Redding’s word, but there was no substitute for real-world testing.
He dragged the man behind the couch, then smashed the two nearby nightlights and keyed his subdermal. “Napper; clean.”
Only two left, Fisher thought. The boss — Lei — who was awake and presumably no longer occupied in the main cabin’s bathroom, and the last crewman, location unknown. Fisher checked his watch: No time to go looking for him. Keep moving.
