The Cross-Com's uplink channel flickered with an image from Beasley's camera. "Bravo Lead here, sir. We just hit the paved road, still heading to the coast. Lights are still out down here."
"Roger that," replied Mitchell. "Check the map. Once you get on the shore drive, look for that overpass we discussed. We'll see you there."
"You got it, Boss."
Brown, who was now up front with Diaz and had donned his night-vision goggles like her, pointed to the road ahead and said, "There's the turnoff."
As she took the left fork, Mitchell's Cross-Com once more flashed with an incoming transmission from the downlink channel. General Keating thumbed his glasses higher on his nose and lifted his voice, "Keating here, Mitchell."
"Go ahead, General."
"Our DIA mole managed to draw off one of those patrol boats, but the other's still out there, running up and down the harbor."
"Sir, he'll tag us in a second."
"And Montana can't take a shot at him without the risk of being tagged herself, but intel from the Predator has presented some interesting possibilities."
"I'm all ears, sir."
"Intel believes that the patrol boats were put in place by one of the Spring Tigers himself, Admiral Cai. He added harbor security prior to their operation. You got lucky those boats didn't arrive before your infiltration."
"I hear that, sir."
"Cai also ordered in a refueling barge to support the boats, and he called in a crane to load pallets of fuel onto the pier for additional support elements. Have a look."
Mitchell studied the rotating graphic of the eighty-foot-long, self-propelled barge with a squared-off bow and a small control house. A tower with a boom jutting out in a V pattern rose just past amidships. Attached to that boom was a large refueling hose ready to be extended down and outward. The data bar indicated that the barge had a crew of six.
Next appeared the floating crane seated atop a rectangular, rust-laden barge not unlike its land-based counterpart. The crane's boom rose some 120 feet into the air, and written in English on the side of the operator's cabin was the company name: Wuhan Noontide Industries, Inc. The crane had a main operator and an assistant.
"Now Mitchell, I've just gotten off the horn with Captain Gummerson, and we're running this a couple different ways to help get you out of there. With all the injured you have and the two CIA casualties, Gummerson is willing to surface at the last possible second to get you aboard, but he won't do that unless you make it past the gap."
"Which takes us back to where we started."
"Not exactly. Now pay attention, son. We have a lot to discuss."
THIRTY-TWO
While Ramirez was technically the assistant team leader, the shooting pain from his gunshot wound made it difficult to think straight, so he'd placed Beasley in charge. Smith, who'd been hit himself, had done a fine job of taping up Ramirez and fitting him with a makeshift sling, but Ramirez had refused painkillers. He'd wanted his head to be clear. Maybe he'd have Nolan inject him with a local anesthetic when the medic arrived.
Ramirez and Beasley remained inside the idling SUV while Jenkins and Smith had gone down to the docks and loading ramp, just fifty meters ahead to secure the boat.
All of Haicang up to the Xiamen Bridge was still dark, but just across the harbor, Xiamen Island remained brightly — and unnervingly — lit.
Ramirez checked his watch, then pulled up the tactical map in his HUD and zoomed in on Mitchell's SUV. "They should be here by 0410 hours."
"And the sun comes up at what, 0524 hours," said the team sergeant. We need to move."
"Yup."
"You know something, Joey? I don't like this plan." Beasley grinned.
"Neither do I."
They banged fists, the words and act a little ritual often repeated during exfiltration.
Headlights shone behind them, and Ramirez whirled. "Captain's early? But I just saw him on—"
"No," grunted Beasley. "That ain't him. Get down!"
Beasley, who was in the driver's seat, shut off the engine and lowered the window, pistol in hand.
Ramirez clutched his own pistol and hit the window button as the headlights drew nearer.
"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead."
"Go ahead."
"Boss, we might have a problem."
Jenkins had found the fishing boat's engine key in Buddha's pocket, and once down at the boat, he and Smith had climbed aboard, and Jenkins had inserted the key. He didn't start the engine. Not yet. Beasley had ordered them to lay low until he signaled.
"This thing's a piece of crap," said Jenkins. "We'll sink before we're saved."
"And this water is a freaking biohazard."
"You're not kidding. And hey, what if she doesn't start?"
"Dude, don't jinx us."
A flash of light on his peripheral vision stole Jenkins's attention. "Maybe I already have."
"Bro, there's a four-by-four up there," said Smith. "You see him? That ain't the captain! That looks military!"
"Matt, this is Bo," called Jenkins. "What's going on up there?"
Chances were high that the four-by-four belonged to the army and that the Spring Tigers had ordered patrols out during the predawn hours as part of their larger plans. Ramirez held his breath as the truck pulled up behind them and stopped.
The side-view mirror reflected a green truck not unlike the Brave Warrior but with a canvas top and large windows. Two armed soldiers got out and came toward them, pistols drawn.
Ramirez looked at Beasley, whose gaze was trained on his side-view mirror.
"Here we go, bro," Beasley whispered.
Suddenly, more lights wiped across the overpass, and the two soldiers whirled to face yet another military truck turning off the road and coming down toward them.
The second truck rolled to a stop behind the first, and the soldiers turned to face it.
"Joey, now!" stage-whispered Beasley.
In unison they bolted up, hung out their windows, and shot both men, who dropped, even as a third soldier was emerging from the second truck.
Before he could get back inside to take cover, and before either Ramirez or Beasley could fire, the soldier's chest blew outward, and he slumped below his open door.
Ramirez detected movement in the passenger's seat. Yet another troop.
As he shifted his aim, a thump came from the canvas window in back, and blood clouded the windshield.
"Bravo Team, this is Diaz. You're clear now. We're coming down."
"Roger that," said Beasley.
Ramirez turned back into the SUV and slumped in his seat, taking long, slow breaths. "She could've told us they stopped," he snapped.
Beasley frowned. "She does that." He opened his door and started out of the SUV.
"So much for the quiet exit," said Ramirez, joining Beasley outside. They grimaced over the dead soldiers, the fourth lying in a pulp inside the other car.
The sight of death hardly bothered them. The ramifications of those deaths did. "They've lost contact with their unit."
"Yep. We have their attention," said Beasley with a groan. "Give me a hand with these bodies."
Ramirez snorted and gestured with his sling. "One is all you're getting."
Montana had slipped in under the patrol boat, gliding into the pass between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. She had headed northeast, coming around to the east side of the spit, where SEAL Chiefs Tanner and Phillips locked out and swam ashore.
Tanner had thought it was high time that he and his blond, freckle-faced colleague got more involved in the Ghost Team's exfiltration, and after the captain had briefed them on the mission and asked if they had questions, Tanner had answered, "Sir, SEAL Chief Phillips and I have just one question."