“You can pay me all you like,” the pilot of the Jet Ranger announced, “but the fog rules out here. I can’t go any lower.”
The Am Nok Sung had been lost to sight just before going under the Golden Gate. They knew it was down there somewhere and by using navigational charts they could guess at the course which would follow the main shipping channel, but they couldn’t be sure of the speed.
“Any bright ideas?” Lake asked from the back seat. He was ready. He had a parachute on his back, a helmet with night-vision goggles attached on his head, a silenced MP5 Heckler and Koch submachine gun strapped across his chest, and a wet suit on under all the gear. He’d gotten all the equipment from the Ranch drop site prior to meeting Araki. He was ready, but the weather wasn’t cooperating.
“Actually,” Araki said from the front seat, “I do.” He pulled his metal briefcase up and flipped open the lid.
“What’s that?” Lake asked, peering over the back of Araki’s seat.
“Direction finder,” Araki replied.
“You put a bug on the trawler?” Lake was impressed.
“No,” Araki said. “I have a bug in Nishin.”
“In Nishin?” Lake repeated. That brought two questions to mind and he asked the most immediate first. “Is Nishin on board the trawler?”
“No, but he will be soon. I intercepted some of his communications. I know he was in contact with the local Yakuza and they are providing him with assistance. They are following the trawler on board a tugboat. When they stop the trawler, this computer will tell us where both are. I am sure they will wait until the boat is outside the twelve mile limit.”
Lake had to wonder at the extent of Araki’s intelligence net. The man knew more of what was going on than Lake did, and this was Lake’s turf. He asked the second question. “How did you get a bug in Nishin?”
“It is a long story,” Araki said. He turned and looked at Lake with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I must be allowed to keep some of my organization’s secrets.”
“Right,” Lake said, leaning back in the seat. He looked at the rear of Nishin’s head as the man directed the pilot, keeping them in the air above the position the computer told him was Nishin’s location. Lake wondered if he had underestimated his Japanese counterpart. Lake could tell they were steadily moving to the west, out to sea, but all he could see below was a wall of white fog.
“Nishin is directly below us,” Araki announced, tapping the screen of the small computer on his lap.
“What’s our altitude?” Lake asked.
“Six thousand feet,” the pilot answered.
“Get us up to ten thousand,” Lake said. “How far out to sea are we?”
Nishin was working his computer. “I put us seven miles from the Golden Gate.”
“The fog’s not as thick this far out,” the pilot added.
Lake leaned over and looked down. There were patches of clear below. He could see the dark surface of the ocean here and there.
“Look!” Nishin said. “There, ahead. The Am Nok Sung.”
Lake followed Nishin’s finger. The running lights of a ship were visible about a half-mile ahead, then they just as quickly disappeared again into the fog. “Where’s Nishin?”
“Directly below. He’s closing on the trawler.”
“Next opening we get,” Lake said, “I’m going down. We can’t wait too much longer.” He felt the familiar thrill of pending action surge through his body. He checked the MP-5 one more time.
The openings in the fog bothered Nishin. He was afraid they would be spotted. “We must take them now!” he insisted.
“We are not twelve miles out,” Okomo said.
“We are close enough,” Nishin said. “We wait any longer we will not be able to surprise them.”
Okomo pointed a finger forward and Ohashi pushed down on the throttle. The powerful engines increased revolutions and the tug’s stubby prow butted its way through the four-foot swell.
“Here,” Araki said, handing what looked like a watch back to Lake. “Put this on.”
“What is it?” Lake asked, taking it.
“A homing device. I will be able to find you with my computer.”
Lake strapped it on his wrist.
“I’m not going to be able to pick him back up,” the pilot said, worry over the entire operation showing in the pitch of his voice. He had glanced back and watched Lake rig the parachute and gun and his enthusiasm had waned accordingly.
“You will not have to get involved. I will make other arrangements,” Araki said confidently. “There! She’s in the clear again.”
“I’m out of here.” Lake took off the headset. He pushed open the left rear door. Reaching with his feet, he found the skid. Holding onto the side of the doorframe, he stood on the skid, then dove outwards, assuming a perfect exit position, arms akimbo, palms down, back arched, head looking at the horizon. He waited a few seconds, then pulled the ripcord. The chute blossomed open and he quickly grabbed the toggles, to control the square canopy.
He could still see the Am Nok Sung on the open patch below and began a long, slow circle above it, descending all the while. As he was watching, a second ship appeared in the opening, less than two hundred feet behind the Am Nok Sung, then just as quickly the fog shifted and both were gone. Lake maintained his orientation and went down toward where he thought the ships would be when he reached ocean altitude.
Above him, Araki tapped the pilot on the shoulder and directed him to head to a location farther to the west.
“Ai!” Captain Ohashi cried out as they suddenly broke into clear air and the Am Nok Sung suddenly appeared a couple of hundred feet ahead. “Full reverse,” he hissed into the phone connecting him to the engine room. He rapidly spun the helm several revolutions to the right and the prow ponderously swung in that direction.
Every muscle in Nishin’s body was tense as he unconsciously tried to will the tug back into the protective covering of the fog. Okomo barked out a command and the Yakuza on deck trained their weapons on the rear deck of the trawler.
Just as quickly the Am Nok Sung was gone again, a line of white floating along its length and then the stern disappearing. Ohashi spun the wheel back right and ordered full thrust forward. “We will be on them in a minute,” the captain said.
Okomo turned and climbed down the short ladder to the front deck and Nishin followed. Several of the Yakuza held grappling hooks with knotted ropes attached to them.
Nishin pulled back the charging handle on his Steyr AUG. He put the stock into his shoulder and looked through the scope. Nothing but white ahead. He peered over the weapon.
A black wall appeared suddenly, thirty feet in front of them. Nishin snapped the weapon back into the ready position. The tug slid up to the left side of the ship and hooks were thrown.
A face looked over the side of the ship at the sound of metal hitting metal, and as the Korean prepared to call out an alert, Nishin settled the laser aiming dot on the center of the man’s face and lightly squeezed the trigger. A red flower blossomed where the man’s face had been and then it was gone. The piece of expended brass fell onto the deck plates at Nishin’s feet, the only sound the gun made. The first of the Yakuza were clambering up the ropes.
Lake was disoriented. Not just as to where the Am Nok Sung and the tug were below him, but also vertically. He shifted his eyes from looking down to a quick glance at the altimeter on the navigation board strapped on top of his reserve. Four hundred feet above sea level. He was in the middle of a thick white soup with nothing to orient on.
“Shit,” Lake muttered. He braked hard, slowing his descent as much as possible, but no matter what he did, he was still going down.