The typhoon worried him at first, but it had turned northward, leaving Holloway and his little boat to their duties of gathering signals intelligence from any PRC or DPRK subs plying the waters of the East China Sea. Masquerading as a fishing research vessel, Meriwether ran a zigzagging surveillance run out of Naha, heading for Taipei to refuel before making the return trip back to Okinawa.
It should have been a straightforward mission, but now the storm track had changed again.
“I don’t like the look of this,” his navigator, a nautical engineer named Rockie Bell, said, tapping the radar screen on the console at the helm. She was sharp, a graduate of the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, and one of the few real sailors on the boat.
“I know,” Holloway said. “Damn thing’s moving west again. We can duck into Keelung City on the north end of Taiwan if need be.” He nodded to the forecastle. “I’ll be out on deck a moment.”
Holloway left the pilothouse through the side door and made his way forward. Instruments were all well and good, but he preferred to look at the waves and sky for important information. He didn’t particularly like what he saw.
The muggy air was clear above, but a line of black clouds to the east made him clench his teeth. The sea was already heaping up and a stiff wind blew at least thirty knots, carrying with it the heavy smell of rain and ripping foam and spray off honest eight-foot waves.
Holloway turned to walk back inside, but a sudden jolt, like an earthquake rippling along the deck, nearly threw him off his feet. He looked through the pilothouse window at Rockie, who shrugged.
A rogue wave, maybe?
Holloway felt Meriwether shift under him as the stern swung around, broadside to the wind. They were slowing.
Stumbling back inside on the rolling deck, Holloway glared at his navigator. “What the hell just happened?”
“I’m trying to raise engineering now,” she said, microphone in hand. She tapped the instrument panel on the console. “Engine temperatures are through the roof.”
The fire klaxon sounded a half-second later, followed by the voice of Don Patton, the twenty-six-year-old ship’s mechanic, halting and breathless.
“Scavenge fire in the diesel . . . crankcase explosion,” Patton said.
“Steam it out,” Holloway ordered.
“I’ve done that, Skipper,” the mechanic said. “Fire’s under control.”
“Are you hurt?”
“A few burns,” Patton said. “But not as bad as the diesel.”
“How long until you can get her running again?” Holloway asked.
There was a long pause as Meriwether swung around, broadside to the gale, at the mercy of the approaching storm.
“I’m not sure it’s even—”
Holloway cut him off. He didn’t want fatalistic talk.
“Give me an estimate.”
“I’ll do my best, Skipper,” Patton said.
“That’s all I can ask, son,” Holloway said. “So long as you understand that we’re about to get a very uncomfortable saltwater enema if this typhoon hits us while we have no power.”
“Aye, sir,” the mechanic said.
“I’ll send Rockie down to see to your burns.” He nodded to the navigator, who was already grabbing the medic bag from under the console.
Holloway took a deep breath, cursing at his own stupidity.
He’d taken out a green crew on a ship he didn’t quite trust. It didn’t matter how much the suits back in Anacostia had wanted him to hurry. He knew better. DIA wasn’t to blame for this. He couldn’t even blame the previous mechanic for faulty diesel maintenance—though that was surely the cause.
The little spy ship groaned, turning again before the wind, wallowing in the middle of a vast and unfriendly ocean. There was a lot of tech on board that the Chinese navy would just love to get their grimy hands on—if the typhoon didn’t sink her first.
Whatever happened, the blame rested squarely on Holloway’s shoulders. He was the skipper and he’d disregarded his rule of threes.
? ? ?
Clark estimated it would take him less than a minute to cover the forty meters to the dock. Most people who tried to swim that far underwater ended up flailing around and wasting energy trying to go too fast for fear of running out of breath. Clark would swim at a walking pace, gliding rather than powering through, because if you fought the water, you always lost. Holding his breath wouldn’t be an issue. Staying on course in the chocolate-brown lake water would be the challenge, that and timing his arrival so Muffin Top was facing the other direction.
The heavy beat of rap music was still rolling down the grassy hill when Clark made it to the bottom of the finger ridge east of Zambrano’s. He kept low, on the far side of the hill and out of sight. Hours of surveillance had shown him that each of the triad sentries had his own method of patrol. Muffin Top spent a great deal of time gathering skipping stones on the shore, in between sauntering out the twenty feet or so of pier to walk back and forth a few times on the floating T where the boat was tied. The boat occupied most of the western arm, which made it more difficult to skip stones. Consequently, the chubby sentry spent a hair more time on the easternmost ten feet of floating dock—a fact that Clark intended to exploit.
He entered the water silently, wearing the CamelBak and all his gear. The slow, deliberate movements came as second nature to him, and he was up to his chin in no time without creating even the slightest splash. He ducked his head under once, wetting his hair and face while he took the time to get a feel for the rocky bottom under his boots.
In the Navy they’d almost always had a swim buddy—especially in the perilous world of the SEALs. The hazards of going it alone underwater were well documented. But the real world was a brutal place. Taking three deep breaths to saturate his lungs with oxygen, he worked his way around the point, slowly cutting the pie to bring the docks into view. Muffin Top was on the shore, his back turned, picking up stones. Anyone who hadn’t done their homework might think now was the time to go, but Clark didn’t need the man with his back turned now. He needed him with his back turned in forty seconds.
The chubby sentry turned with his hands full of rocks. The second his lead foot hit the pier, Clark ducked beneath the surface and began his swim.
The poor visibility that made navigation difficult also saved Clark from getting shot as he swam. Even so, he stayed as deep as possible, skimming just inches above the rocky bottom. He concentrated on keeping his strokes and kicks even, making certain to go in a straight line. Forty seconds later, he slipped under the darkness of the dock. It was relatively shallow and he was able to stand with his head above water. Long shafts of light showed through the wooden treads above Styrofoam floats.