that might rattle and cost someone his life.
Almost no one spoke now, as the final minutes ticked by, save for a master chief who was murmuring quietly, “You have been trained for many years to undertake such a mission. No one in the history of military conflict has ever been better trained…if you stay sharp, you guys are invincible…just remember everything you have been taught about care and attention to detail…take no chances unless you have to…and if you have to kill, do it hard, quick and silent, because if you don’t kill him, he’ll sure as hell kill you. I have complete faith in every one of you… and I want you back, every one of you. Don’t let me down, guys. Now go get ’em.”
The master chief slapped a few of them on the upper arm as he walked out, and a buzzer went off three times. Slowly the SEALs followed him out to the companionway leading to the flight deck, where the big choppers would roar them out over the water to the waiting submarines.
Colonel Hart and Lieutenant Commander Hunter remained in conference until the last minute. Through the high windows they could see two nuclear attack submarines, USS
Finally it was time for Lieutenant Commanders Hunter and Bennett to leave, and they shook hands with Colonel Hart before striding out to the elevators, down to the flight deck and on out to the submarines for the next leg of the journey to the prison on Xiachuan.
Both submarine commanding officers planned to dive and join
The SEALs who had seen the jail were divided into two groups of four, Rusty Bennett, Dan Conway, Buster Townsend and John in
The maps and charts were excellent to study, but the opportunity to speak to colleagues who had actually been in the place was overwhelming. And the issues they all wanted to discuss were (a) the number of guards, (b) was the jail nearly impregnable, short of blowing it up? and (c) did they have a real chance of success?
The veterans were accurately optimistic. So far as anyone could tell, the Chinese had no idea there was any danger. The guard was moderate but not scarily large, and all of the men who had been in there thought success was nearly certain, as long as they could smash up the communications system thoroughly.
And all the way in, both Lieutenant Commander Bennett and the vastly experienced Chief McCarthy went over and over the lesson: If we hit the comms hard and fast, we’re golden. If we fail to do so, we have a very good chance of dying. None of the SEALs liked the latter option at all.
Quinlei Dong carried his toolbox out to the car and stowed it in the trunk. In his hand he carried a square white box that contained a brand-new electrical switch. He started the engine and turned along the old familiar way to the People’s Bridge, and then took the road to the dockyard. It was a bright warm evening, the sun still high, as the master electrician pulled up to the gate.
The guard walked up to him, a different man from yesterday. “Hello, sir. Where are you headed?”
“Same place as yesterday and all last week, the ops room in B Block, where the electrics are still in chaos.”
“Why are you here on a Sunday?”
“Mainly because, on pain of death, I have to have the system up and running by tomorrow morning at 9:00 A.M. sharp…orders of the commandant…you think I like being here?”
The guard smiled. “Do the guards at Block B know you’re coming?”
“They do. I told them all yesterday. Here, you see this switch…this is the new part. I was just about ready to have the whole yard dug up to find the fault when I noticed the old switch had burned right at the back. Now I have to put this little devil in place. Thirty minutes and I’m out of here. Come and help me if you like — I need an assistant.”
The guard laughed, checked the windshield sticker and said, “Okay, Mr. Quinlei…see you a bit later.”
Dong drove on slowly through the empty yard, empty, that is, except for the waterfront, where there was the usual army of personnel surrounding the American submarine. He parked his car in his usual spot, way along the back street, much nearer the derelict stores building than the ops room where he was working.
He walked back briskly to where there was one single guard at the bottom of the B Block stairs. The two men greeted each other cordially, recognizing each other from the previous day’s meeting.
“Got the new switch, heh?”
“Right here. I’ll be about a half hour.”
“Okay.”
Dong climbed the stairs and began to clear up his mess. The new switch was unnecessary but he fitted it anyway and then made his wire joins, cleaning up the clutter and replacing the ceiling panels. He checked the electrics all through the room, dumped the trash in a bin and strolled downstairs. It was exactly fifteen minutes before seven.
“That it?” said the guard.
“That’s it for me. You can lock up now. I won’t be back. Lights all working, computers all working. See you tomorrow.”
“’Bye, Mr. Quinlei.”
Dong walked back along the street to his car, went to the driver’s side and stared back the way he had come. The guard must have gone into the building, because he was no longer outside. So far as he could see, the street was completely deserted. And he dashed for the big building, pulling open the door and ducking inside, his heart pounding.
And now he had to hurry, because the guard could return at any moment and he would wonder why the car was still there, maybe even walk along to find out.
Dong hit the iron stairs running, taking them two at a time, charging upward to the seventh floor. When he arrived he shot back the two bolts and stepped carefully out onto the roof. He ducked down and edged along to the chimney block, then reached up and undid the trash tie, removing the gray plastic cover in one movement. Then he edged up onto the sloping part of the roof and stared through the lens at the crosshairs. The submarine had not moved, nor had the viewfinder, and he was looking at the precise spot on the deck of USS
Then Quinlei Dong, husband of Lin, father of nine-year-old Li, switched on the laser machine that would guide an American bomb toward the first major nuclear catastrophe in the entire history of Canton. He watched the little green light flicker, then harden up, and he knew the invisible laser beam was lancing across the jetty, over the heads of the massed ranks of China’s naval guards, pinpointing a spot on the ship’s casing, illuminating it for the incoming bomb, which, right now and for the next six hours, could not miss.
He waited for a few seconds, looking out over the parapet at the American submarine. Even at this hour, early on Sunday evening, there was unusual activity around the great underwater ship. He could see a group of four men in white laboratory coats talking to uniformed officers on the casing; three other men were walking back across the gangway. He could see, on top of the sail, at least four uniformed figures on the bridge. Guards were everywhere.
Dong ducked down before they saw him and moved quickly back to the door, quietly bolting it behind him. He
