Red Shark

“Well, as you just saw, Fat and his men have been alerted. There is, I’d say, a fifty-fifty chance Scott and his people can extract without a fight.” Radford knew that estimate was too optimistic: more likely thirty-seventy. “We may have underestimated Fat’s strength.”

“What assets do we have in the area that could help out?” the national security advisor asked.

“Paul, if you mean special-ops, or helos, or—”

“I mean whatever we have — ships, planes, anything.”

“Nothing. We have no ships or aircraft within five hundred miles of Taiwan or the Formosa Straits. We didn’t want to give the Chinese any reason to suspect we were up to something.”

“Damn it. And that North Korean chopper has flown the coop as well?”

“Yes.”

“And this other guy that the JDIH is so sure is a Japanese, what about him?”

“We just don’t know. Scott reported finding only Fat and his men on the island. Jin and his guest must have concluded their business and departed before Scott and the SEALs landed. We’re back-hauling our satellite feeds to see if we can pinpoint the chopper’s flight path back to the Sugun.”

“In other words, we sent Scott, Jefferson, and those SEALs into a trap.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a trap. I’d say our timing was off a bit, but of course we were relying on information provided by the JDIH and—”

“Never mind the ass-covering, Karl. If Scott and the SEALs have to fight their way out, the Chinese will know it, right?”

“I’m not so sure. They may think it’s strictly a local issue, drug lords fighting over turf.”

After a long silence Friedman said, “Keep me updated, Karl. I want to know everything that happens.”

“Of course.”

“Fifty-fifty, you say?”

“If we’re lucky.”

The uplink went silent. If we’re lucky.

“General Radford?”

“Ah, Ms. Kida, I almost forgot you were there.”

“Have you had any direct contact with Commander Scott?”

“We’ve had nothing from him, just the video up-links. Have your people seen them?”

“We made copies for distribution. They’re undergoing analysis now.”

Radford knew that the Japanese had the lead in feature-recognition software. “Perhaps you’ll be able to identify someone on them we can’t,” he said.

“General, I heard you tell Mr. Friedman that the information I provided was faulty, the timing of the meeting—”

“No one is blaming you, Ms. Kida, least of all me. Oh, no, not at all. I take full responsibility for the planning and execution of the mission. You are blameless.”

“General—”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Kida, you are not in any way responsible.”

“General, if you—”

“I’ll keep you informed, Ms. Kida.”

“Sir, if you make contact with Commander Scott, please let me know.”

18

The Villa

Scott heard three-round bursts from M4s, followed by screams, then silence. Someone shouted something in Chinese. Scott next heard the cracking of AK-47s and hot 7.62mm rounds slapping through foliage, spanging off tree trunks, piercing the toolshed’s thin sheet-metal sides.

Jefferson’s voice was on the line: “Contact! Contact!” At the same time, Scott saw a dark figure rushing toward him with an AK-47 pointed, ready to fire. Scott swung his M4 up and triggered a three-round burst. Frangible rounds tore through the man’s chest, knocked him down hard, and sent his weapon flying through the air. All over the island, birds and animals awoke, cawing and shrieking.

Scott grabbed Caserta, who was struggling with the folded-up MAV control pack, and dragged him to cover.

“You two okay?” Jefferson said over his shoulder, eyes glued to the immediate area around them at the base of the bluff.

“Okay,” Scott said, chest heaving. “Any of our guys down?”

“Nope. Just bad-asses.” He pointed to four black-clad figures sprawled on the sand in poses that left no doubt that they were dead.

“Any more live ones?”

“On both sides of us. But they don’t have a bead on us — yet.”

Gunfire coming in at them from the bluff was sporadic and uncontrolled. Scott saw muzzle flashes, like fireflies in the woods. A heavy machine gun burped out several rounds, then stopped. The narco-traffickers seemed confused, and their uneven lay-down of fire proved it. The searchlight’s loom swept across the beach, hunting for the SEALs. It swept over the pier, then the stacked fuel drums. Everywhere it fell, long, inky shadows slashed like knife blades across the rumpled sand.

“We have to take that thing out,” Scott said, ducking as the blinding beam swept overhead.

“Right, if we don’t,” Jefferson said, “we won’t get off the beach.” He hailed Ramos. The SEAL slithered over the sand to Jefferson’s side. He gripped an M4 equipped with an M203 grenade launcher.