Red Shark

“I think the Americans are investigating why Wu Chow Fat would be meeting with someone important from the new government in North Korea. Perhaps with Marshal Jin himself.”

A murmur of disbelief arose from the conferees. It threatened to drown out Shi until he ordered silence and got it.

“As for the passenger Fat picked up in Chi-lung,” he continued, “our people there think he is an influential Japanese with ties to the yakuza and North Korean drug trade.”

Voices rose again as Shi’s audience argued among themselves about the possible implications of what Shi had described.

“Comrades, I have ordered Commander Zemin to determine what the American sub is doing off Matsu Shan. It would not surprise me that they would try to put an armed force on the island to discover who is there with Fat. Surely it has something to do with the American — North Korean standoff and is so worrisome to the Americans that they are willing to risk a criminal violation of sovereign Chinese territory to find out what it is. We all know that the United States never hesitates to cross borders or disregard treaties when it comes to ensuring its national security.”

The admiral’s audience voiced agreement.

“Always it is the Americans that are the cause of our troubles,” General Liu said acidly.

“No,” said Shi. “This time it is the North Koreans.”

16

On the beach, Matsu Shan

Inside their perimeter at the foot of the bluff, Scott and the SEALs set up shop behind the toolshed. Caserta wore special vision goggles designed for viewing the video monitor and controls he’d use to fly the micro air vehicle, which he’d removed from its padded case. Next he erected a small launching pylon, then prepped the bug for flight.

Meanwhile, Jefferson inched around the perimeter, checking to make sure that the team was ready to take down any of Fat’s men should they stumble into the SEAL hornet’s nest. Scott ran a final comms check, hissing into his throat mike to confirm he was linked to everyone. They all responded in the same fashion. Ready, Scott touched Caserta on the arm and pointed “up.”

Scott heard a low hiss that sounded like a release of gas from a bottle of soda. Caserta toggled the stubby stick on his laptop-sized flight control pack, and the little black bug, its wings a blur, lifted straight up off the pylon, dipped, and vanished skyward with remarkable speed.

Like Caserta, Scott wore goggles to view the control pack’s monitor, and he saw exactly what the bug was seeing. There was a blur of yellowish-green color as the little robot zipped to and fro high over head, orienting itself via its miniature inertial guidance system. Then the image stabilized into an aerial view of the villa. Seen through the bug’s NV camera, it looked like it was midday in bright sunlight. Shadows were sharp and black, and the details were astonishingly clear.

“Let’s see the helo pad,” Scott said.

Caserta finessed the stick and the fly rose high above the bluff, until it was looking straight down on an empty expanse of tarmac.

“Shit,” Scott said. “Bird’s gone. What’s IR say?”

Caserta switched the bug’s sensors to infrared and took a sample. The heat trace outline of a vanished helicopter appeared on the screen.

“Says liftoff was about four hours ago.”

Scott told Jefferson and got a “Shit!”

Caserta brought the fly down from its 100-foot altitude, until it was hovering over the veranda and he and Scott were seeing into the dining room, from the perspective of a six-foot-tall man.

Suddenly the image went black. A heartbeat later it cleared, and Scott realized that a person had walked in front of the camera. An elderly woman servant, Chinese from her looks, stepped away from the camera and bent to clear dishes from the dining room table.

Under Caserta’s control, the bug moved slowly through a pair of open double doors into the main living area. A man appeared, dressed in black and armed with an AK-47. Another armed man came into view. The two conferred, then moved out of camera range.

Caserta made a 360, saw that no one else was present in the room, and moved on. The MAV peeked down a deserted hallway with doors on either side and zipped through an open door into a bedroom. Inside was another man clad in black, asleep in a double bed, an AK-47 at his side. Caserta backed the MAV out. More rooms, more armed men, women, too, lounging, watching TV, drinking, eating. Down a flight of stairs to see kitchen help scouring woks, loading a dishwasher.

Scott heard a “psst,” from Jefferson. “Anything?”