Commercial boats were moored side by side, extending out into the river. Private fishing boats were docked at no particular locations. Any place along the riverfront that had access from shore, boats were moored — any size, any shape, and mostly old. This day it was nearly impossible to see any boats or the river, with a thicker fog rolling in.
“Damn,” Stalley said squinting, as he slowed the van even more.
“Okay, turn to starboard here,” James directed. “It should be about fifty yards ahead.”
At forty-five yards Stalley brought the van to a near crawl, when Grant said, “Hold it, Doc. Let me out.” Stalley hit the clutch then brake.
Grant opened the door, and got out, feeling a heavy mist on his face. Standing by the van, he looked and listened. He turned three hundred sixty degrees, straining his eyes. If anybody was close, he sure as hell couldn’t see him. And all he heard was water lapping against hulls, hulls bumping against hulls. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn blared. According to Kwan, the boat was supposed to be moored in a small tributary, a couple hundred feet from the Huangpu. The Yangtze was just under a mile away.
He turned in the direction of the water, stepping closer to the edge of the dock, trying to distinguish numbers on the boat. Black paint-worn sets of registration numbers on the stern and bow matched what Kwan gave him. One set was in Chinese, immediately followed by a set in English. The vessel was made entirely of wood, thirty-five feet in length, about fourteen feet in width at midships, then narrowed to a point at a high bow.
Grant got on board at midships, taking a quick look at what they had to work with. The aft deck had no more than seven feet of total space. Old tires, hanging over the sides, were used as bumpers. A cabin, eight by ten, was constructed of horizontal wooden planks, covered with a sheet of warped plywood, covered with canvas. Small individual windows were on all four sides. One wide door was at the back, barely held in place with rectangular pieces of leather, acting as hinges. There was one sliding door port and one starboard of the wheel. Across its roof were long bamboo poles with black and red flags attached at the top. A pile of fishing net lay close to the bow, with smaller ones on the stern.
From the boat’s physical condition, Grant only hoped the engine was in better shape. He jumped on the dock and immediately returned to the van. “This is it. Let’s go,” he said to Stalley and James.
The three rushed to the back and opened both doors. “Grab your gear,” Grant said. “Find a place inside and make use of the limited space.” Slade and Novak got out then helped the SEALs.
“Doc, help them get inside,” Grant said as he gave each SEAL a pat on the shoulder as they passed by. “Maybe you can patch them up a little more.” He unhooked his canteen from his belt and handed it to Stalley. “Not much in there, but it might help. Once we’re underway, give them MREs. We should have extras.”
Slade and Novak dragged the three other men from the van, forcing them on the ground. Duct tape was wrapped around their wrists, with a piece slapped across their mouths.
“What about these guys?” James asked. “Fish bait, right?”
Grant shook his head. “Not yet. They’re all coming with us. We’ll get answers from them, one way or other. And they may come in handy. Put ’em on deck, forward of the cabin. Mike, let Ken and DJ handle those guys. You get rid of the van.”
“Sure, Boss.” Novak handed his rifle to Slade, then hopped into the cab. Making a quick U-turn, he drove along the dock, trying to see through the fog.
A minute later, there was a loud splash. Novak came running back through the fog. “Done,” he said.
“Okay, Mike. Let’s board.” Grant looked one more time into the distance, in the direction of where he left Adler and Diaz. Lowering his head, he started to go to the boat when the sound of a far off explosion made him swing around. It was immediately followed by another. All blood drained from his face. He sunk down into a squat, beating his fists against his forehead. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t have happened. The rest of the Team rushed out on deck, with disbelief on their faces.
“Holy shit!” Novak whispered. After a moment, and after trying to clear this throat, Novak said softly, “Boss.” He laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Boss. We’ve… we’ve gotta go.”
With his head down, Grant stood, wiping fingers across his eyes. “Yeah, Mike. I know.”
Novak went ahead, as Grant started walking slowly toward midships. He climbed on board then eased his way along the narrow port side, going to the bow. Staring ahead, he knew there wasn’t anything he could’ve done. Refocus. You’ve got responsibilities, he kept telling himself, as he took in a deep breath.
The fog was still thick. There wasn’t any way in hell they’d be able to pull out, and yet, the sound of boat engines firing up told him fishermen weren’t waiting. He looked overhead, feeling rain on his face. The fog started lifting as the sky opened up. Another downpour.
Unbelieving, but grateful for the rain, Grant turned to go to the cabin. He stopped briefly near the prisoners. They were sitting on deck in front of the cabin. Duct tape now secured ankles, too. Rain beat on their heads. They squinted, trying to see Grant.
He wiped rainwater from his face, before giving them a cold-blooded, threatening look. They cringed, shrinking farther down on the deck, as they saw his hand moving to his holstered weapon. He started drawing it out, picturing bullets splattering their brains against the bulkhead. And then, maybe an extra tap just for the hell of it. But he restrained himself, resisting the urge. Silencer or not, he couldn’t take the chance. Besides, there were still a shitload of questions yet to be answered. Grinding his teeth, he slid the .45 back into the holster.
He entered the cramped cabin, seeing the faces of his men and the SEALs looking at him. It was easy for them to understand what he was feeling. They all lost friends before. Now, they had Adler and Diaz on their minds.
Grant stepped closer to the SEALs. “Gentlemen, as soon as we’re in the clear, we will talk. Okay?”
“Yes, sir, look forward to it,” John Becket replied, then immediately added, “And, sir? We’re… we’re sorry. We all know what it’s like to… ”
Grant gave a quick nod, before returning to the urgent task at hand. “I suggest that everybody sit down. Stay out of view, just as a precaution. We’ve got a long way to go. Be prepared for anything.” Nods were followed by the sound of weapons being made ready.
He turned toward Slade. “Ken, there’s a jumble of fishing nets forward. Toss it over those three,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.
“Aye, aye, Boss.”
Becket asked, “Sir, any chance we could get a couple of weapons… just in case?”
Grant didn’t have to respond, as James and Stalley handed over their .45s. Immediately, they lifted the straps of their Uzis over their heads, holding the weapons close.
The two SEALs automatically ejected the clips, rammed them back in, then jacked back the slides. “We’re ready, sir,” Becket said.
Grant gave somewhat of a smile, before saying, “DJ, Ken, get some glasses. Keep watch. Mike, get ready to cast off.” The three men responded immediately.
Grant turned and took a step toward the wheel, squeezing it tightly with both strong hands. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on the river ahead, as he swiped the back of a hand across his eyes. The sound of rain beating on the overhead and windshield started to bring him back to the current, dangerous situation they were in.