Collins grinned. “Going soft? Hell, Sam, I know better. How about a cup of coffee?”
THEYsettled into Collins’s cabin, a cramped space with a fold-down desk, a bunk, and a small sink and mirror. As submarines went, it was luxurious. A steward knocked on the door and handed Collins a tray with two mugs and a carafe of coffee. Collins poured Fisher and himself a cup each. Fisher could feel the thrum of the Houston’s engines through his feet.
“I just got updated surveillance shots for you,” Collins said. “I see you’re invading another island all by yourself. Shame on you, Sam.”
Fisher sipped his coffee; it was hot and bitter and overcooked—the Navy way. He loved it. “Just being a good soldier, Max. So, how’s it look?”
“Ugly. What’s the story?” Collins caught himself and quickly said, “Never mind, I don’t want to know. With luck, we’ll have you there in fourteen hours. Get some sleep, then I’ll show you what you’re facing.”
39
ASthey always did, the sounds of a submerged submarine lulled Fisher into a deep sleep. The combination of the hum of the engines, the faint hiss of the water skimming along the outer hull, and the white noise of the air circulators acted as a tranquilizer.
He needed the sleep. He’d been going hard since the Trego, and as accustomed as he was to the lifestyle, he knew the stress and lack of sleep would eventually catch up to him, slowing his reactions and his thinking. Given where he was headed, he couldn’t allow that.
Four hours after Collins left the cabin, he returned and gently shook Fisher awake, waved a mug of coffee under his nose, and said, “Had enough beauty sleep?”
Fisher groaned and sat up, planting his feet on the deck. “You tell me.” He took the mug and sipped. It was scalding hot and salty.
Collins said, “Briefing in the wardroom in ten minutes.”
FISHERwas there in five. Like the rest of the sub, the officers’ wardroom was a cramped affair: three sets of vinyl bench seats, tables bolted to the deck, and a small kitchenette in a side alcove. Pictures of the Houston, from her keel-laying to the current crew photo, lined the walls.
Waiting with Collins was his executive officer, Marty Smith. Fisher had never met Smith, but knew of his reputation. Halfway through his career, Smith had had a change of heart, leaving behind Naval Intelligence for a fleet posting, where he’d worked his way up the ladder of submariner billets—Supply and Admin, Weapons, Sonar, Engineering, to finally XO. In another five years he’d have his own boat to drive.
Fisher sat down and Collins made the introductions. “I asked Marty to sit in because of his intel background. He’ll have some insights on the material we’ve got for you.”
Collins opened the briefing folder and spread a series of ten eight-by-ten photos across the table. Each showed Shek’s island, Cezi Maji, from different altitudes, angles, resolutions, and formats, including infrared, EM, and night vision—all taken either by satellite or P-3 Orion flights while Sam had been en route to Kadena.
“A little background first,” Smith began. “Cezi Mali is part of the Zhoushan Archipelago at the mouth of Shanghai’s Hangzhou Bay. It consists of fourteen hundred islands spread across seventy miles of ocean. Of those, only about a hundred are inhabited. Cezi Mali is roughly seven thousand acres, or nine square miles.”
“Terrain?” Fisher asked.
“A good-sized cove and natural harbor on the north side of the island; on the south, east, and west sides, the place is a fortress: fifty-foot cliffs and narrow beaches. The interior is triple-canopy rain forest punctuated by exposed rock escarpments, peaks, and ridges.”
“Peachy,” Fisher said, taking a sip of coffee.
“Now, the fun part,” Smith said, pushing a photo across the table at Fisher. It was from a P-3, Fisher could see, but it was color-enhanced. Using a pen, Smith traced a faint white line that seemed to follow the contours of the cliffs. “That’s a road. A dirt path, really, but wide enough for these.” Smith pointed again, this time to a rectangular object on the path.
“Jeep,” Fisher said.
“Yep. Six of them patrol the cliffs day and night, rain or shine. Two armed guards per vehicle.”
“Pattern?”
“That’s the good news. They’re on a schedule. Your people loaded the details onto your thingamajig. She said you’d know what that meant.”
Fisher nodded. OPSAT. Good ol’ Grim.
“Once past the cliff road, you’ll have a three-mile slog through the rain forest. More good news. No patrols and no EM emissions anywhere, which means no cameras or sensors. The wildlife probably makes them useless. More bad news. No matter which route you choose, you’ll have two escarpments and three gorges to deal with.”
This fact, more than any other, had ruled out a parafoil insertion. Jumping into triple-canopy jungle was dicey enough, but given its thickness, there was no way to tell what lay under it. Dropping through the canopy to find yourself plunging into a gorge tended to put a damper on your day.
“Once through the jungle,” Smith continued, “you’ll come to what I’ve named the inner ring. Whoever owns this place is diligent about his security. For a one-mile radius around the estate—which I’ll get to in a minute—they’ve cut the rain forest back to single-canopy. Mother Nature’s on your side, though. Jungle is hard to control, so there should be some cover on the forest floor—providing you don’t mind crawling.”
“I love crawling,” Fisher muttered. “The cutback means cameras and sensors, I assume?”
Smith nodded. “Lots of them, but they’re plotted and loaded on your . . .”
“Thingamajig.”
“Right. Now, guards. The inner ring is divided into zones—twelve of them, like a clock. One guard per zone, moving randomly. No patterns or consistent timing that we could see.”
This was a mixed blessing for Fisher. Sentries on random patrol could turn up anywhere at any time, and usually, per Murphy’s Law, at the most inconvenient of moments. On the upside, sentries were only human, and the human mind subconsciously gravitates toward order and pattern. With enough patience, Fisher might be able to find a gap in the coverage and slip through.
“Radio signals?”
“All guards have portable radios, but it looks like there’s no scheduled check-in procedure.”
“Probaby by camera,” Fisher replied.
Each guard was likely required to regularly appear before a camera in his zone and give an “all clear” signal. A missed check-in would either trigger a visit from a security supervisor or raise an alarm.
“Once through the cutback area, you’ll find yourself facing fifty yards of open, well-groomed lawn.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope One of these pics even shows a groundskeeper on a riding mower. Across the lawn is twelve-foot-high hurricane fence topped with razor wire.”
“Of course there is,” Fisher said.
“It’s not electrified, though. The island is on the outer edge of the archipelago, so it gets a fair number of storms, which means a lot of blowing debris. Hard to keep an electric fence running smoothly when it gets bombarded frequently. There are sensors, though, attached to the fence. There’s no way to tell whether they’re motion, touch, or beam.
“Now, the estate itself,” Smith said, pushing another photo across the table. “There’s a central building—this one here with the red tile roof. It’s a six-story Chinese pagoda. It’s surrounded by smaller buildings, probably staff quarters, storage, workshops, utility spaces, all of them inside the fence. Lots of guards here, about eight per shift. As for the pagoda itself, we’ve got nothing. No details of the interior. Guess you’ll have to play it by ear.”