“Belay that order,” Peck said. “Run diagnostics on the Harriers’ computers. I want them in the air with ordnance in the next ten minutes. We’re going to blow that trawler out of the water before the gunboat gets there.”
“The Marines, sir,” the XO said.
“Captain Denny will get them out of there,” Peck said, hoping he was right.
Breacher up!” Goodrich called over his shoulder and into the Molar Mic.
Staff Sergeant Ski padded up behind him, blood on his forehead from some hand-to-hand fighting of his own. “PFC Geddis is down, sir,” he said, panting.
“Down?”
“He’s dead, Captain. Hit seconds after we got on deck.”
“Wounded?”
“Everyone else is good, sir.”
Goodrich clenched his jaw. “I need a breacher.”
“Explosives are in the water with the other squad,” Staff Sergeant Ski said.
“How about this, sir?” A lance corporal named Garcia held up an RPG.
SEALs were coming over the side now, working aft from the bow.
Goodrich waved them back, still fuming about his dead Marine. “Who knows how to shoot one of these?”
“I had experience with them in Fallujah, sir,” a corporal named Cooper said.
“Very well.” Goodrich pointed a knife hand at the wheelhouse hatch. “Marine, I want you to blow these guys a new asshole.”
The operations specialist, petty officer first class, sitting at radar and IFF — Identification Friend or Foe — system held up a hand, watching his screen intently.
“What is it, OS1?”
“The trawler is turning, Admiral,” he said. “One eight zero degrees.”
Captain Denny’s voice came across the radio. “Captain Goodrich has given me an all-good,” she said. “Marines and SEALs have control of the trawler and the LRASM.”
“The gunboat?” Peck asked.
“It’s turning as well, Admiral,” OS1 said. “Bugging out.”
“Very well,” Peck said. “I still want the Harriers in the air ASAP. There is still the matter of an American warship bobbing around out there that we’ve dressed up to look like a Chinese destroyer.”
Clark was lying down reading a book at the JW Marriott Hotel in downtown Chicago when his cell phone began to buzz on the nightstand. Marriott had good mattresses, and he’d learned over the years to take advantage of a soft bed when one presented itself. There was plenty of opportunity to be uncomfortable. He half-rolled with a quiet groan and reached over the Glock 19 nine-millimeter pistol that lay next to the lamp on a folded washcloth and picked up the phone.
Resting the open book, pages down, against his chest, he tilted his head until he got to the right spot on his glasses so he could make out the number on the caller ID.
“Hey, Gavin,” he said.
“Shit’s about to get real, John,” Biery said. Breathless, like a kid about to tell his dad he’d won a race at school. He was known to gloat a tad when he came through in a pinch — which he obviously had.
“What have you got for me?”
“I got
“In Chicago?”
“For now,” Biery said. “You have something to write with?”
Clark sat up straight, tossing the book on the mattress and swinging his legs off the bed, stifling the groan this time. “If it were up to me, you’d get a raise,” he said while he got the hotel ballpoint pen and notepad off the nightstand.
“You know me, John,” Biery said. “I’d do this for free. But still—”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Biery said. “I don’t know where he is right now, but I do know where he’ll be at two p.m.”
“Two?” Clark checked his watch, already on his feet. “You should have led with that, Gavin. It’s almost one.”
“Sorry, Boss,” Biery said. “He’s close, though.”
Clark put the phone on speaker and threw what little gear he had in a small daypack while Biery filled him in on the details.
Kang was indeed close, but Clark had a lot to do to make it work. This was going to be tight.
The last cubes of ice that Kang had brought with him aboard Amtrak Number 5 westbound out of Chicago melted in the early hours of morning somewhere between McCook, Nebraska, and Denver, Colorado. He’d bumped the wound on the wall coming through the door of his compartment, nearly sending him to his knees in agony. Alone, he’d been able to replace the sodden bandage and study the wound more closely somewhere other than a public toilet.
The bullet had clipped off his pinkie at the base, blowing away the proximal joint where the finger connected to his hand. Fascinated by the tattered flesh, he cleaned it as best he could, nearly breaking a tooth from the pain as he dug out a centimeter of white bone. He used superglue to close the wound, but it continued to weep blood. Some of the skin flaps were beginning to turn a deep purple. He’d need to cut them off soon, or they’d begin to smell. There was a doctor he could trust in Los Angeles. He could make it that far. He’d get the antibiotics he needed, some stitches — and proper pain medication. Then he’d put together another team and go back for Li.
