Red Shark

Fumiko zoomed in on an L-shaped structure photographed at a 45-degree angle from an orbiting KH-12 satellite. Crisp moving images crept diagonally across manicured grounds and stepped terraces. Details stood out with amazing clarity.

The villa, with its arched galleries, ceramic tile roof, and spacious veranda, sat on a bluff, surrounded by a low masonry wall. All around were hardwoods, palm, and camphor. At the foot of the bluff was the beach, where the narrow channel from the sea ended.

“Whoa, what’s this?” Scott said.

A swimming pool and cabana with diving boards and striped awnings inched across the screen. An Asian woman in dark glasses was sunbathing naked beside the pool on an inflatable mattress, surrounded by beach chairs and colorful umbrellas.

“Looks better than Club Med,” Jefferson said.

Ellsworth coughed into a fist.

The KH-12’s cameras picked out more details — a paved parking area with SUVs and trucks, which could also double as a helicopter landing pad. A dark-skinned man in jungle fatigues and stripped to the waist changed a tire on a green Toyota Land Cruiser.

Scott also saw that aside from a long, steep set of stairs hewn from living rock that faced the beach, the only other way to gain access to the villa was up a twisting service road cut into the back side of the bluff.

Fumiko said, “As you’ll see, the villa is heavily guarded.”

Scott saw armed men moving about the grounds on foot and in vehicles. “What kind of weapons are they carrying?”

“Russian PK machine guns,” said Jefferson. “Also H&K 13s.”

“Is that a guard tower?”

“Yes,” Fumiko said. “There are three of them. Here’s a better view of one.” She manipulated the sequence; the view widened.

The tower, constructed of open steelwork, had a red tile roof that matched the villa’s roof. PK machine guns pointed into the surrounding jungle from the tower’s four sides.

“What else do they have?” Scott asked.

“Figure on grenades and mortars,” said Jefferson. “RPGs, too. We’re betting they have enough hardware to fight a midsized army.”

“Not good.”

“Look, we’re not going in there to start a war, we’re going in to get intelligence.”

“How?”

“With Micro Air Vehicles,” Radford announced. He put his drink down and rose from his chair. “MAVs.”

“You’re serious, General?” Scott said.

MAVs, some only six inches long, had been under development by the SRO for years. Intended to keep soldiers out of danger on the battlefield during recon missions, they had failed to materialize as a deployable weapon. Until now.

“Of course I’m serious. The SRO has put two billion into their development, and now we’ve got one that works and is perfect for this mission. Ms. Kida.”

She switched channels. On the screen was a machine that resembled a dragonfly, complete with multiple wings made of shiny, paper-thin Mylar. Lying next to the bug, a newly minted twenty-five-

cent coin provided a sense of scale. Radford was indeed serious: The MAV was barely three inches long.

“This bug can stay aloft for a half hour,” Radford said. “It uses an RCM — Reciprocating Chemical Muscle — a noncombustible engine, attached to the wings to make them flap at high speed. The body of the robot contains a camera, guidance system, and either an olfactory sensor or a listening device.”

“We could have used one of these in Yongbyon,” said Scott, “instead of those Krypton 85 sensors that looked like plants we stuck in the ground to detect radiation from the NK’s fuel rod reprocessing plant. Let’s hope it works.”

“Oh, it works,” Jefferson said. “I’ve seen what this spy fly can do. Trust me.”

“How much range and speed does it have?” Scott asked.

“About two miles and under ideal conditions, thirty-five miles an hour.”

“That might work,” Scott said.

“It will work,” Radford said, making himself a fresh drink. “The way we see it, you won’t even make contact with Fat and his men. They’ll make themselves scarce for the meeting. All you have to do is get ashore, turn those flies loose, get what we need, and get the hell out.”

“What do you mean by ‘make himself scarce’?”

Fumiko said, “Fat’s job will be to provide security. He and his men won’t be expecting any visitors, so it should make the insertion less dicey.”

Scott said nothing. His gaze fell on Jefferson, who said, “What’s bothering you, Scott?”

“The usual. Like, how many bad guys will we be up against? How the hell do we get that damned bug into the villa and get it out? And how can we avoid contact with Fat and his men?”

“We’ve run a computer model on the op a half-a-dozen times. Ashore, we can insert the bugs from a stand-off position on the beach and record what they see.”