Red Shark

Tokugawa waved this away. “Yes, yes, I’m familiar with these hijacked German technologies. But you fail to understand my point, which is that we risk everything by relying on this Red Shark to make delivery.”

“Are we not also risking everything on your scientists in Vladivostok; on the brigades in the Philippines; on the goodwill of the Japanese people toward the Koreans; and even on our personal relationship. Everything we have planned so far involves risk. If we are afraid to take risks, our plan will fail.”

“Of course we must take risks!” Tokugawa snapped. “I’ve taken risks all my life. But I never take risks backed by promises or dreams. That road leads to failure.”

General Jin bowed low. “My apologies, Tokugawa-san. I would not presume to suggest that your judgment in this matter could be influenced by the weakness that derives from sentiment or illusion. I had hoped that the trust I had demonstrated in the Red Shark would be sufficient to convince you that there is nothing to fear, that she will perform as promised. I am willing to stake my future and the future of the DPRK on this vessel.”

Mollified, Tokugawa sniffed. “If you believe that we must utilize this submarine of yours, then I accept it. You have been a man of your word, so I have no reason to doubt you now. I leave it in your hands.”

Downstairs in a locked pantry in the villa’s busy kitchen, Wu Chow Fat’s secret audio and video recording equipment kept running as Tokugawa and Jin raised a toast to the Red Shark.

13

The Reno, northwest of Matsu Shan

Scott eased back the slide on a Sig Saur P220 pistol and confirmed a 9mm round was chambered. He dropped the magazine in his palm and saw sixteen gleaming brass cartridge cases through the magazine’s witness holes. Satisfied, he slapped the magazine home; the sharp clack got Jefferson’s attention.

“Going hunting?” Jefferson said, looking up from making an adjustment to the manual add valve of his Draeger LAR V rebreather. It was a compact, chest-worn oxygen breathing device that allowed a diver to breathe his repurified expended air without releasing bubbles that would reveal his presence. But because the SEALs were swimming in from the ASDS on the surface, not underwater, they would use them only for emergency backup.

Under the watchful eye of Senior Chief Brodie, the other members of the team had assembled their gear and run through final checks on weapons and communications equipment. The ASDS had passed its final pre-flight, and both pilot and copilot were aboard. Now the SEALs waited, lost in their own thoughts, their normally cocky attitudes and profane jabber on hold. The Reno’s sailors gave them a wide berth, not wanting to jinx the mission by intruding in their ritual preparation.

Jefferson’s shaved head gleamed wetly in the glare from strip lights in the overhead; sweat had soaked his cammie T-shirt. “We’re about six, seven miles from launch, right?”

“Pretty close,” Scott said. “Skipper’s working the boat around to the northwestern side of the island. I want to take a good look at that channel and the beach. It’s a little too tight for my taste. “

Scott knew that turtlebacking ashore through the channel was potentially the most difficult part of the op. It was narrow, and even though they were going in on slack water, strong, treacherous currents might be present. And there was no way to know what else they might encounter. Neither SRO nor JDIH intelligence knew if the narco-traffickers had planted obstacles offshore — anti-swimmer detection devices or mines.

“Too late to change plans now,” Jefferson said. “Besides, that channel’s the only way in there.”

Jefferson examined the blade of his K-Bar, testing its glittering edge with the ball of a thumb. “Besides, this isn’t as tough an approach as some. Dubrovnik, for instance.”