Red Shark

One at a time, Scott and the SEALs made their free ascent from the ASDS. Scott surfaced beside Chief Brodie, who immediately made a head count. With everyone present, they turtlebacked toward shore with life vests partially inflated to help carry their towed combat loads. Scott looked back and saw the rest of the team following, their heads in a straight formation. The mini-sub lay to submerged off the bottom, with a glowing laser homing beacon to mark its position for their return.

With Jefferson and Zipolski out front, the team, with help from the light, setting current, advanced along their designated approach lane through the channel until it opened like a fan. Scott felt the bottom come up fast and saw Jefferson signal “stop” with a raised hand.

Scott checked his compass, then, treading water alongside Jefferson, looked in toward the beach with its pier and moored motor launch. The swimmers were less than a hundred feet from shore and could almost touch bottom with the blades of their fins: Van Kirk had been right about the walk-in.

Scott scanned the beach through NV goggles for activity but saw none. Greenish night-vision anomalies, white blobs, green reflections and yellow starlight, bobbled across the island and on the surface of the sea, ahead of which a light, curling, pale green surf hissed ashore over coarse shingle.

The SEALs regrouped and, weapons ready, scurried ashore in two four-man files, keeping low and staying clear of sight lines Fat’s men might use to scan for seaborne intruders. Quickly, they set up a defensive perimeter above the surf line, where they stripped off their fins and dry suits, transitioning from swim gear to land gear, and cached them at what would be their rally point.

Scott surveyed their surroundings. The heavy smell of jungle foliage, wet from an earlier rain squall, struck his nostrils. And something else: diesel fuel. The pier and motor launch were less than fifty yards away to his left. Straight ahead, behind the beach berm, stood a thick wall of dripping cabbage palm and mangrove. It would provide excellent cover to prepare for their move inshore. Through it, Scott saw lights on in the villa high up on the bluff above them. It was, he judged, another hundred yards from their present hide to the base of the bluff, with its cut-stone stairs leading to the villa.

Scott felt Jefferson come up beside him. Both had flipped up their NV goggles; in the dark, the whites of their eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

“See anybody on the pier?” Jefferson said.

“No. Strange.”

“Tell me about it.” Jefferson looked around at the others forming up around them and said, “Well, fuck it all. Maybe they’re in bed.”

Scott said nothing. The diesel reeked, as did the dead seaweed piled against the thick mangrove roots. He slithered forward so he could see better through the wall of foliage. He flipped down the NV goggles and surveyed their line of approach to the bluff. Still nothing. All he heard were humming insects, a night bird calling, and rustling palm fronds, which sounded like a rushing stream. The terrain they’d have to cross to reach the foot of the bluff was strewn with stacked drums of fuel, an assortment of parked vehicles, and what looked like a toolshed. He didn’t see any men patrolling the area.

“Okay,” he said, crabbing backward on elbows and knees toward Jefferson. “Where’s Caserta?”

Caserta had charge of the micro air vehicles and their control gear; he was the expert flier. The “gizmos,” as Caserta called them, were packed in a pressure- and water-proof suitcase-like container strapped to his harness along with his other gear. Scott motioned, and Caserta drew abreast of him and knelt.

“We’re going to move out,” Scott said, “and set up shop at the base of the bluff.”

Caserta nodded his understanding. The others, ready, gripped their M4s.

“Yo, Skipper,” Chief Brodie whispered. “Comms from Reno.” Brodie had charge of the miniaturized satellite communications equipment. The size of a cellular flip-phone, it allowed instant communications with the Reno, and, theoretically, via satellite, with anyone in the world, including Radford at SRO and Fumiko at JDIH.

Scott plugged his inter-squad ear and throat mike into the sat-com and pressed the device’s thumb key. Viewing through NV goggles, he saw the Reno’s three-digit call ID light up. His callback triggered a response from Sam Deacon.

“Reno One.”

“Copy,” said Scott.

“Heads up. White Dragon’s about to land.”

A hesitation. “Say again.”

“White Dragon’s about—”

“I heard you. Where?”