Ramirez began to struggle. He could no longer hold his breath, and Mitchell turned and kicked harder, heading back up.
They broke the surface just a few meters outside a large pool of burning fuel that had leaked from the chopper and boat as both had begun to sink.
Mitchell's earpiece/monocle was still attached to his head, and although the device was waterproof, he only got static.
He spotted Diaz treading water off to his right. 'Alicia?'
'I'm all right,' she answered. 'I see Marcus, John, and Alex. They're okay.'
Something thumped into Mitchell's head. He shifted around, saw Boy Scout's body floating facedown. Just a few meters off lay Buddha, faceup.
Mitchell wanted to shake his fists at the universe. They'd been so damned close — and now the ultimate failure. Operation War Wraith would be pinned on the United States because he and his Ghosts had failed to exfiltrate. They would be captured, tortured, paraded in front of the media, then spend the rest of their lives rotting away in a Chinese prison. It was hard to suppress those thoughts while floating in the harbor beside a pool of fire.
Beasley and Smith kicked toward him, clinging to a long piece of the fishing boat's hull. Beasley grabbed Ramirez, who was still conscious but barely moving, and pulled him up, onto the wood.
'Got nothing on the Cross-Com,' Mitchell told them.
'Me neither,' said Beasley.
Tanner returned fire, nicking the corner of a tree trunk. One of the sailors behind the tree kept rolling out and firing, while the other was on the ground, wailing over his wounded thigh.
Phillips had shot that man, but not before taking a round in his neck, another to the chest. Now he just lay on his back, breathing slowly.
Tanner crawled to his side. SEAL or no SEAL, it took incredible force of will for Tanner to remain composed with his partner and friend lying there, dying.
A pale orange shimmer out in the harbor caught his attention, and he fished out his binoculars. He gasped over floating wreckage, a wall of fire lifting from the black water, and the Ghosts floating at the edge of it all.
Tanner steeled himself. 'We're getting out of here, buddy. Time for plan B.'
Phillips nodded. 'I'm ready.'
A round blasted dirt in Tanner's eyes, and he rolled, faced that tree trunk, and returned fire. His second shot was echoed by a groan.
With that, he rose, hauled Phillips into a seated position, then, with the inhuman strength fueled by a massive adrenaline rush, he lifted the stocky SEAL over his shoulder, turned, and double-timed off, back toward the pier.
Only ten steps into their escape it dawned on Tanner that they'd shot five sailors. The sixth was still out there, and that fact sent a chill coiling up his spine.
Gummerson stood in the control room, flinching as every new piece of information came in.
The XO came over, his expression souring. 'Captain, SEAL Chief Tanner reports that SEAL Chief Phillips is seriously wounded. Tanner also says he's lost contact with the Ghost Team. We just got some streaming vid from the harbor. The two choppers are down, but the Ghosts are in the water near burning fuel. They've lost their boat.'
Gummerson frowned, then studied the images and map overlays on the screen before him and shook his head. 'They're still too close. We can't risk surfacing there.'
'Agreed, but, sir, how will they get out of the harbor?'
'I want to talk to SEAL Chief Tanner. I bet he's already got a plan.'
Mitchell clung to another piece of the hull, along with Diaz and Smith. All of them floated there, coughing and spitting salt water as the fires began to die. Beasley had made sure that the bodies of the CIA agents were secured to another piece of wood in the event that some miracle happened and Captain Gummerson decided to risk it all and bring his boat into the harbor and surface.
Hijacking a rickshaw and heading west seemed a real possibility and a not-so-amusing quip now.
All right. The team was looking to him for orders, perhaps his final order as a Ghost Team leader. He would instruct them to paddle toward the piers along Haicang. Xiamen Island to the east was twice as far away. They had no other choice.
He took a deep breath. 'Everyone, listen up.'
'Captain, wait,' said Diaz, staring through her binoculars. 'Got a small boat coming from the sand spit. Looks like that Zodiac launched by the patrol boat. One guy on board.'
'Who?'
'Can't see him well enough yet.'
'Beasley? Jenkins? Target that boat. Get ready to fire.'
'Roger that,' said Beasley, trying to balance his rifle atop the shattered piece of hull he was lying across.
'Diaz?' called Mitchell.
'He's turned again, coming right at us. Wait. I see him now, but something's wrong. Aw, no.'
THIRTY-FIVE
Tanner began to lose consciousness as he piloted the Zodiac toward the Ghost Team across the harbor. The puddles of burning fuel blurred into a sheet of darkness painted with shimmering stars.
At the moment, the outboard's vibration was the only thing keeping him awake — that and the idea that he was the only guy left who could get the team home. He had to hang on for a little longer. He turned slightly, saw one of the Ghosts watching him through a pair of binoculars.
Behind them, the night sky was already washing down from mottled black to purple and pink. They were nearly out of time.
Tanner came within a hundred meters of the group and cut the throttle.
Only five minutes prior he'd loaded Phillips onto the Zodiac. His friend was already dead, and just as Tanner had fired up the outboard, that last Chinese sailor, the one he'd been concerned about, ran onto the beach and began shooting.
Tanner had taken a round in the back but was able to whirl fast enough to tag the sailor before he fired again.
Grimacing in pain and barely able to move, Tanner had levered himself into the Zodiac and had launched.
Now, as he drifted toward them, he tried to raise his hand and wave but instead swam forward into the darkness.
