“About a quarter mile,” Sam translated. “Getting from there to the complex means we have to cross the road.”
“Got it.”
“Only trees and a little stream here,” Sam added. “The island is relatively flat.”
There appeared to be no other man-made structures or geographic obstacles in the way.
“What’s your opinion, Min?” Crocker asked.
Sitting there in an olive-green flight suit and rubbing the stubble on his neck, he seemed a million miles away.
“Min, are you with us? Is something wrong?”
Min mumbled something to Sam, who translated. “Yes. He thinks it is a logical choice. The buildings here south of the complex…this is housing for the guards. The only way to reach the island is by boat. Boat is best for us, too. The dock is here.”
Min pointed to a small man-made cove on the southwestern side, facing the mainland and the city of Munchon.
“Is the dock well guarded?” Crocker asked.
“Yes. Machine guns. DShK antiaircraft.”
Crocker didn’t want to have to mess with them. “So the east side is better?” he asked.
“Yes, better. Yes.”
Gaining entrance to the complex itself presented another set of challenges. The layout showed two entrances, front and back, a large ventilation shaft at the north end of the complex and a long underground drain that emptied into the north end of the bay.
“I assume both entrances are heavily guarded,” said Crocker, turning to Sam and Min, and trying to squeeze as much info out of Min as he could.
Sam translated again. (He was proving to be extremely useful.) “Always two soldiers in the front, two in the back. Sometimes more. Inside there is a vestibule with a stairwell and two elevators. We might find other soldiers…or patrols…inside. The printing presses are one level down…to the north. So you enter from the front…turn right. If we go in at night, the door will probably be locked.”
“What about the labs?”
“Those are located on the second floor.”
“Any idea where the hostage is being held?”
Min shook his head.
The Vinson’s operations officer appeared at the door to announce that a Blackhawk helicopter would be ready at 2130 to ferry the insertion team to the USS Dallas, a nuclear-powered attack submarine currently twenty-one miles off Ung-do.
Crocker looked at his watch: 2041.
“Okay, grab your gear and assemble on the flight deck at 2115. You have any messages to send home, best do it now, because comms will be restricted when we get closer to our target.”
“Roger.”
“Akil, make sure you collect all maps and charts.”
“On it like white on rice.”
“Davis, recheck the comms.”
“Got it.”
“Sam, double-check all first-, second-, and third-line gear. I’ll eyeball the med kits and the big bag. Suarez, check the CL-20, detonators, all that stuff is critical. Make sure it’s triple-sealed in case we capsize and hit the water.”
“Done, boss.”
“I’ll see you gorillas in half an hour.”
Despite the hundreds of things on his mind and the several dozen he had to get done, he shoehorned in a minute to contact Cyndi on Skype-then realized it was something like 4 a.m. in Las Vegas. So he tried Jenny back home, instead.
It was just after 7 a.m. in Virginia.
“Dad?” Jenny answered.
“Sweetheart, I hope I didn’t wake you. How’s everything? You okay?”
“All good. No problem. I’m up early studying for a civics exam. You talk to grandpa?”
Crocker reminded himself that he had to huddle with the SDV pilot as soon as they reached the Dallas. SDVs usually ran with a two-man crew and carried a maximum of four operators with gear. Since both Davis and Akil had served a tour at SDV Team One, he was hoping that under these extraordinary circumstances one of them could replace the copilot.
“No. Why?” he asked back. The team already felt thin without Mancini and Cal. Cutting another operator on an op this perilous would make them even more vulnerable.
“You didn’t get my texts?” Jenny asked.
“No, sweetheart. I’ve been off the grid a while. What’s going on?”
“Yesterday he was exercising after he woke up, and started having trouble breathing and was getting sharp pains in his chest. So he called some lady friend of his.”
Crocker tensed up. “Carla?”
“Yes, Carla. She drove him to the ER. Turns out one of his arteries was like ninety percent blocked, and they caught it just in time.”
He could already feel the guilt burrowing into him. “He okay?”
“Yeah, Dad, thank God. They had to insert something called a stent. He’s probably sleeping now. I talked to him last night and he was really out of it.”
“What did the doctor say?
“I didn’t speak to the doctor, but Carla said the procedure went well. She seems like a really nice woman. Uncle Bob is driving down now. He’ll be there in the morning.”
A quick glance at his Suunto told Crocker he was running short on time. “Where is grandpa now?”
“Inova Fair Oaks Hospital.”
Someone started rapping on the door behind him. “You have a number I can call?”
“Seven oh three, three nine one, three six oh six.”
Akil, on the other side, was summoning him urgently.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Tell Grandpa I’ll call him first chance I get. I’ve got to run now. I love you, and good luck on your test tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Dad. Love you, too.”
The wind hit the helo and rocked it, causing the fuselage to twist right and the tail to dip. Across from him, he watched Sam lean forward and throw up into the yellow bucket at his feet. Great kid so far, smart, focused, and thorough. Excellent command of Korean. His face had assumed a greenish tinge in the dim cabin light.
Beside him Davis listened to music through earbuds, seemingly oblivious to the noise, danger, and stench. Eyes closed, he didn’t even flinch when the helo was buffeted a second time, even harder.
Crocker was thinking about his father, who had served in the navy as a pilot and was one of the kindest, gentlest men he’d ever known. Proof of that was the fact that he’d put up with Crocker’s raucous rowdiness as a teenager, including various gang fights and arrests. Never stopped believing in him.
God, please look after my father, and help him heal quickly and fully.
Crocker reminded himself that he hadn’t been with his mom either when she’d died in a fire. In fact, he’d left her side hours earlier.
What kind of a shitty son am I?
All the birthdays, weddings, and special events he had missed because he was busy training or deployed overseas with ST-6 unreeled in his head.
What am I supposed to do, cancel the mission and jeopardize thousands of lives because Dad is in the hospital?
Questions like this were the most agonizing part of SEAL work. The long hours, danger, and physical hardships were easy in comparison.
Over the roar of the engine, he heard the copilot establishing comms with the USS Dallas.
“SNN-700, Bravo Tiger Seven, do you read me? Over.”
“Copy, Bravo Tiger Seven. SNN-700. Read you loud and clear. Currently waiting above at 36-16-77 lat, 127-37-23 long. Over.”
Seconds later a bald man in a flight suit turned back to Crocker and held up ten fingers followed by a thumbs-up.
Crocker said into his headset, “Five minutes to ready. Ten minutes to launch.”
The SEALs to his right and across from him started to get their gear ready and pull on their gloves. Davis didn’t budge. Crocker reached his foot across and kicked Davis’s boot. The blond SEAL opened his eyes and nodded. Cool as a fucking cucumber, like he wrestled harder shit than this in his sleep.