where miners drank air like it was made from Dom Perignon.
“Report, Ruiz.”
He described what he was seeing, standing on the second-from-the-bottom stair, waiting, watching, ever- careful, his Super 90 moving along his line of sight, an extension of himself.
A large area, probably a dozen feet across, was open at the bottom of the stairs. A single crate rested against a floor-to-ceiling wall made of more crates.
“Frat, get the rear. Laws, move next.”
Laws descended and swung the barrel of his MP5 around in a tight arc. Holmes came next, followed by Fratty.
18
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S DECK.
Walker watched as all four of his teammates descended into the hold. Now they had no cover. Walker lifted his eye from the optic and looked around. He lowered his NVGs over his eyes and ran them through the spectrum, checking infrared and starlight. There was no one and nothing at his twelve, three, six, or nine o’clock, which meant that he wasn’t doing anyone any good.
Fuck it.
He folded the bipod and hooked it to his leg. He began to back down from his perch.
Hoover growled.
Walker spun around, searching, then realized that the dog was growling at him. He switched off his MBITR. “What is it, girl?” He moved to lower himself.
Hoover growled again.
“You think I should stay? Is that it?”
The dog sat on her haunches and cocked her head. The result was a perfect
Walker grinned and hopped down. “Easy there, Wonder Dog. I know what I’m doing. I lost line of sight and need to get a better position is all.”
He began to walk away, but Hoover remained. Walker went another five feet, then turned around. “Well? Are you staying there or coming with?”
Hoover looked from the top of the cargo container where Walker was supposed to be and then back to Walker. Finally she made up her mind and padded toward Walker.
“There you go,” Walker said. “Good girl.” He reached down to pat the dog’s head, but the dog dodged away from him and took the lead. All Walker could do was follow. He kept his NVGs in place as he wondered who was in charge, him or the dog.
19
MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.
Laws found a light switch on a pole that was part of the structural support for the stairs. He let Holmes know, and after a moment’s hesitation, Holmes told him to flip the switch.
The danger, of course, was that the light might be noticed by someone. But this wasn’t their usual mission. If this were a hunter-killer mission, they’d be in and out after taking down or capturing their target. But in this case, they were gathering intelligence. Had they been able to communicate to the Sissy, they’d be relaying the mission narrative as analysts viewed their real-time footage. But with the threat of Chinese signal interception, they were running old school and off the grid. All they had for backup was the new guy. At least he had the dog to supervise him.
Laws lifted the NVGs so that they rested on the top of his helmet. He closed his eyes as he flipped the switch, then cracked them open, letting light in a little at a time. Now that there was light, he could see more details of the boxes. He’d expected Chinese writing, but instead found himself reading English beneath a logo that displayed a pink and blue big top and an elephant:
“Do you think there are clowns inside?” Fratty asked. Like Laws and the rest of the SEALs, he’d racked his NVGs onto his helmet as well. Even when he was whispering, his smartassedness came through.
“Shut it,” Holmes commanded. “Walker. Come in.”
After a moment, “Walker.”
“You still in position.”
“Roger. NTR,” came the boy’s voice, saying
“We’re inside so if there’s any movement, anything, report.”
“Wilco,” Walker said.
Maybe the boy was going to work out after all. He was headstrong, but then most SEALs were the same way. As long as he could work within the team, he’d be all right.
“We need to crack one of these open,” Holmes said. “Ruiz and Fra—”
Suddenly a Chinese man rolled free from a space near the ceiling made from a stack of smaller crates. He fell hard to the floor and lay there for a long moment, long enough for Laws to think that he was dead.
The SEALs had reacted, aiming weapons in every direction except toward the man, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else. Then their weapons swung toward him.
The man popped to his feet. His arms shot in the air as if he were a doll on wires. No taller than five feet, he wore stained white underwear and an equally stained white tank top. Red and orange gore stained his chest. His hair was cut in a buzz. He had three-days’ growth on his face. He wore plastic-framed glasses, taped at the corners and the crosspiece. One piece of glass was covered with tape.
“What the hell?” Ruiz backed away as the man began to dance in a circle.
Holmes moved to his left and put his back against a wall of crates. Seeing him do it, Laws mimicked the move on the other side. They both trained their MP5s on the man.
“
“What’s he saying, Laws?” Holmes asked.
“He’s saying we’re all dead, sir. It’s Mandarin. Beijing dialect.”
The man still danced as if he was being controlled by someone, but it was ridiculous really. There were no strings attached to him, nor was there anyone else nearby.
“
“What do we do?” Ruiz asked, his eyes narrowing. He glanced toward the shadows at the tops of the rows.
“We don’t do anything.” Holmes adjusted the grip on the MP5. “Laws, why is he saying that?”
“Don’t know, sir. Want me to ask him?”
“Why don’t you do that?”
“
“
“
Suddenly the old man did stop. He lowered his arms and crouched like a monkey. His head reared back and he gave a high-pitched scream that made the SEALs wince.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Fratty demanded.
“Take it easy, SEALs.” Holmes had pressed himself against the crates and now moved forward a few grudging inches.
“Everyone okay?” came Walker’s voice, slightly out of breath over the MBITR.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Fratty said.
“After the Stretch Armstrong, I’d believe anything.”
“Walker, stay put.” Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “And why are you out of breath?”
