Power and Empire

There was a long pause as Meriwether swung around, broadside to the gale, at the mercy of the approaching storm.

“I’m not sure it’s even—”

Holloway cut him off. He didn’t want fatalistic talk.

“Give me an estimate.”

“I’ll do my best, Skipper,” Patton said.

“That’s all I can ask, son,” Holloway said. “So long as you understand that we’re about to get a very uncomfortable saltwater enema if this typhoon hits us while we have no power.”

“Aye, sir,” the mechanic said.

“I’ll send Rockie down to see to your burns.” He nodded to the navigator, who was already grabbing the medic bag from under the console.

Holloway took a deep breath, cursing at his own stupidity.

He’d taken out a green crew on a ship he didn’t quite trust. It didn’t matter how much the suits back in Anacostia had wanted him to hurry. He knew better. DIA wasn’t to blame for this. He couldn’t even blame the previous mechanic for faulty diesel maintenance — though that was surely the cause.

The little spy ship groaned, turning again before the wind, wallowing in the middle of a vast and unfriendly ocean. There was a lot of tech on board that the Chinese navy would just love to get their grimy hands on — if the typhoon didn’t sink her first.

Whatever happened, the blame rested squarely on Holloway’s shoulders. He was the skipper and he’d disregarded his rule of threes.

• • •

Clark estimated it would take him less than a minute to cover the forty meters to the dock. Most people who tried to swim that far underwater ended up flailing around and wasting energy trying to go too fast for fear of running out of breath. Clark would swim at a walking pace, gliding rather than powering through, because if you fought the water, you always lost. Holding his breath wouldn’t be an issue. Staying on course in the chocolate-brown lake water would be the challenge, that and timing his arrival so Muffin Top was facing the other direction.

The heavy beat of rap music was still rolling down the grassy hill when Clark made it to the bottom of the finger ridge east of Zambrano’s. He kept low, on the far side of the hill and out of sight. Hours of surveillance had shown him that each of the triad sentries had his own method of patrol. Muffin Top spent a great deal of time gathering skipping stones on the shore, in between sauntering out the twenty feet or so of pier to walk back and forth a few times on the floating T where the boat was tied. The boat occupied most of the western arm, which made it more difficult to skip stones. Consequently, the chubby sentry spent a hair more time on the easternmost ten feet of floating dock — a fact that Clark intended to exploit.

He entered the water silently, wearing the CamelBak and all his gear. The slow, deliberate movements came as second nature to him, and he was up to his chin in no time without creating even the slightest splash. He ducked his head under once, wetting his hair and face while he took the time to get a feel for the rocky bottom under his boots.

In the Navy they’d almost always had a swim buddy — especially in the perilous world of the SEALs. The hazards of going it alone underwater were well documented. But the real world was a brutal place. Taking three deep breaths to saturate his lungs with oxygen, he worked his way around the point, slowly cutting the pie to bring the docks into view. Muffin Top was on the shore, his back turned, picking up stones. Anyone who hadn’t done their homework might think now was the time to go, but Clark didn’t need the man with his back turned now. He needed him with his back turned in forty seconds.

The chubby sentry turned with his hands full of rocks. The second his lead foot hit the pier, Clark ducked beneath the surface and began his swim.

The poor visibility that made navigation difficult also saved Clark from getting shot as he swam. Even so, he stayed as deep as possible, skimming just inches above the rocky bottom. He concentrated on keeping his strokes and kicks even, making certain to go in a straight line. Forty seconds later, he slipped under the darkness of the dock. It was relatively shallow and he was able to stand with his head above water. Long shafts of light showed through the wooden treads above Styrofoam floats.

Muffin Top hummed softly at the other end of the dock, pitching stones one by one. This was the point where things grew difficult. Sentries were human beings. Enemy or not, they were somebody’s kid, somebody’s brother, uncle, or husband. Some of them sang and skipped rocks. But Muffin Top wasn’t just a security guard who happened to be working for the wrong guy. He was Sun Yee On triad, complicit in the slavery of at least the two girls up by the pool. He’d laughed his fat ass off when one of those girls had almost drowned. No, he could sing like Pavarotti for all Clark cared. That didn’t give him a soul.