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Kekepi, Pacific Ocean
Monday, 10 May
0630 Local Time
Mr. L huddled in the relative safety of the pilothouse while Sergeant Wei and Privates Jun and Minzhe fought the attackers in the salon. His mind struggled to cope with this development. Who were the attackers? They appeared to be civilians, but that was ridiculous. Mr. L had lived in the US and knew that, despite the silly Hollywood propaganda films about ragtag citizens defeating trained armies, civilians did not fight back against the military. Hawaii was not some crazy, lawless place like Texas. Hawaii had strict gun laws.
They could have been the same group that had plagued Manu Ho and the Hawaiians on Molokai, but Mr. L couldn’t see how they would have followed the commandos across the ocean. CIA, then? A branch of military intelligence? But the black man had looked... old. And the woman had bared her breasts. Who goes into battle half-naked, with grandparents?
A grenade cracked inside the ship, shuddering the walls of the pilothouse. He had confidence in Wei and his men. They were hard, well-trained men. And yet... the attackers, though small in number, seemed determined.
Mr. L clutched his pistol and considered his own death. Capture was not an option. He had no illusions that, if captured, he could resist torture. Sooner or later, everyone broke. He had seen the training videos, and even though most Americans peed themselves at the thought of inflicting such indignity on another, there were more than enough realists in their military and clandestine services who wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to break him.
Small-arms fire thundered from the dining room. The dining area separated the salon from the forward section, which included the pilothouse—an area accessed by an open staircase—and the galley. If he cared to, Mr. L could peek down the stairs and observe Wei and the others defending the narrow passage along the starboard side, which joined the salon with the dining area. He did not care to.
Escape from the yacht was not an option either. The Kekepi was their escape. They needed the Hatteras to carry them far out to sea, where the submarine waited to pick them up and torpedo the yacht. All remaining evidence, including the charts and plans—which were lying out in the salon!—would sink to the bottom of the sea.
Mr. L slapped his forehead and cursed in Chinese. His laptop and all the documentation the Americans would need to piece together his responsibility remained in the salon, where he had foolishly left it. The computer was encrypted and had built-in fail-safes to destroy the hard drive if anyone tampered with it, but the Americans were extremely good at computer forensics and code breaking. Even the paper documents in his portfolio might reveal enough to defeat the carefully constructed false-flag operation and lead them back to China instead of North Korea.
Disaster. Even suicide was not an option, at least not until he secured the laptop. But for the moment, he had to complete the mission. Mr. L removed the encrypted satellite phone from an inner jacket pocket and keyed a speed-dial number.
The phone burbled in his ear, ringing five times before Lieutenant Peng answered. “Shi?”
“Have you reached the channel?”
“Yes.”
“Are the charges placed?”
“Yes.”
“All the charges?” Mr. L asked.
“Yes.”
Unknown to the Hawaiians, Peng and his men had placed specially designed breaching-and-detonation charges on the LNG containers. When Mr. L keyed the detonation sequence, not only would the ship sink and block the channel, but the globes containing liquid natural gas would also be ripped open and the escaping vapor triggered to create a massive conflagration. A large section of Pearl Harbor would be turned to ash.
Mr. L continued, “The Kekepi is under attack by a... small force of irregulars. Return at once. Leave the Hawaiians to pilot the ship. I will blow the charges in five minutes. That’s how long you have to get clear. Understood?”
“Ahh... shi. We can be back in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Make it sooner.” Mr. L ended the call and tucked away the phone. He checked the chamber on the North Korean CZ 75 knockoff pistol, drew a deep breath, and settled on his haunches. His thumb moved over the keypad and dialed the detonation sequence then paused over the send key.
The Golden Sun was a prophetic name. Honolulu would soon see a new golden sun arise in their harbor.
#
THE GRENADE tinked off a bust of Bill Walsh and bounced under a red, white, and gold armchair. Yeager dropped behind his new favorite sofa and clamped his hands over his ears. The detonation punched him like God’s angry fist. Glass along both sides of the salon blew out, and a giant foot stomped his brain flat. Shrapnel blew chunks from the leather sofa, and something hot jabbed Yeager in the ribs, though the sensation came to him via airmail from a distant country.
Automatic-weapon fire raked the room, which he dimly sensed through the broken film images flashing in his brain.
Pock-pock-pock!
That was Victor’s Ruger. Somehow, Por Que was still in the game. White smoke drifted along the floor in wisps.
Metallic taste in his mouth. Wetness under his nose. Blood dripping on the carpet.
Weapon? Wilson Combat in his fist. Hammer back. Safety off.
Yeager’s consciousness returned the way an old computer booted up. His reflexes recovered, and his muscles regained connectivity with his brain. His head rang with a high-pitched whine, but he could function.
Directly ahead of him was the bulkhead with the wet bar. To the right of that was the corridor held by the defenders. Behind and to the right somewhere, Por Que was keeping the enemy from extending into the salon.
They had caught Yeager and Victor by surprise with that first grenade but had been too slow to follow up. Had they charged in right away, Yeager would be dead and Victor overwhelmed. Somehow, Por Que had saved his ass again by reacting quickly and driving back the aggressors, allowing him time to recover.
Get back in the fight, dummy. Yeager belly-crawled to the wet bar and levered himself upright. He edged toward the corridor. He paused at the corner then glanced back and noted Por Que, sheltered behind a splintered mahogany coffee table tipped on its side, and raised an eyebrow. He received a thumbs-up from Por Que.
They knew the drill without needing to discuss it. Yeager would lay down cover fire, and Victor would advance. Yeager would change mags, and Victor would return the favor, pinning the enemy until Yeager was ready to assault the corridor. The last part was the hardest: get close enough to the enemy to inflict casualties without getting killed.
Yeager assessed the odds and didn’t like the result. Charging a narrow corridor in the face of enemy guns was a suicide mission. He wouldn’t make three steps before being shot to shit. Yeager cursed and slapped a palm against the wall. His way forward was blocked, and he still had no idea whether Charlie was on the far side of the defenders, somewhere else on the ship, or...
No. There is no third option. She’s here somewhere. Yeager scrubbed his face in the crook of an elbow. Think, Yeager. Take the time to think it through, and do the smart thing. You have a few minutes, so use them.
#
WINSTON PETTIGREW OPENED his eyes to the grinning face of a big ugly bastard bending over him with a knife. His head ached, and a line of fire scorched his chest. He was lying in a puddle of seawater. No. Make that blood. And the guy standing over him...?
Oh. Godzilla. Well, fuck.
Godzilla knelt on Pettigrew’s knife arm and pushed his head back to the deck with one meaty hand. Pettigrew’s right arm creaked under the weight and threatened to break. But he had bigger problems. Six inches of shining steel scythed toward his neck.
“Goodbye, old man,” Godzilla said.
The point of the blade touched his throat.
“Hey, asshole!” The comment came from a voice behind Godzilla. Pettigrew twisted his head, but he couldn’t see, his view blocked by six tons of Samoan. It had sounded like... a woman’s voice?
Godzilla spun around, though he kept his knee on Pettigrew’s arm. Pettigrew grinned despite the pain. Charlie Yeager stood on the far side of the deck, in muddy shorts and dingy tank top. Legs scratched. Copper hair matted and grimy. She held the Mossberg in an awkward grip, left-handed, with the muzzle braced across her forearm. Her right hand was swollen, purple and yellow, and twisted.
She was the most beautiful woman Winston Pettigrew had ever seen.
“Hello, Mizz Yeager,” Pettigrew wheezed. “Your husband’s been looking for you.”
#
CHARLOTTE YEAGER HELD the pump-action shotgun on Kimo and suddenly realized she had no idea whether the chamber was loaded or empty. Shotguns were not her favorite type of firearm—she had occasionally gone trap shooting with Dad in the long-distant past and had used an over-under then. Her experience with pump guns was limited. There was a pump release somewhere near the rear of the trigger guard, as best she could remember, and loading the chamber with a live shell required depressing the tiny button, pulling back the pump, then ramming it forward. On the gun she had fired, a button at the front of the trigger guard controlled the gun’s safety.
Oh, happy day. It was all meant to be operated right-handed.
“Red wants to play, huh?” Kimo leered at her from across the deck, where he knelt by Winston, whose tan windbreaker was soaked red.
Kimo stood. A knife dangled from his massive hand. He twirled it around his fingers in a fancy movie-stunt sleight of hand.
Your husband’s looking for you, Winston had said. How was that even possible? Could he be here, on the boat?
Kimo stepped forward, and Charlie pulled the shotgun’s trigger. Click.
“Abel!” she shrieked. She fumbled around the grip, fingers seeking the release button as Kimo took another step. He was between her and the hatch. Winston appeared dazed. His blood tinged the seawater slopping over the swim deck.
“You need to jack it back.” Kimo pantomimed pumping a shotgun. “You know how to jack it, right?”
She risked a glance and found the button next to the trigger guard, right where it was supposed to be. After clicking it up with her thumb, Charlie jammed back on the pump, which she pinched in the crook of her elbow. The chamber clacked open, and a bright-red shell spun away to fall into the sea with a soft plop.
“There you go.” Kimo was within reach. He seemed to be encouraging her, but his grin was mocking, sneering. “Now push it back up.”
Charlie panted, her face hot and dripping with sweat. Her heart thundered, and she tasted copper on her tongue. The giant loomed over her, cast in silhouette, his shape eclipsing the low morning sun. Slick with sweat, the pump slipped out of her elbow when she tried pushing it forward. The weight of the shotgun pulled at her left hand, unsupported, the muzzle wobbling toward the deck.
“No, no,” Kimo told her. “Don’t drop it. Here, want me to—huhn!”
Charlie glanced up in time to see Kimo’s mouth open and a scream of such hideous horror pour out that it washed her with terror. At his feet, Winston Pettigrew cackled.
“Take that, Godzilla motherfucker.” Pettigrew’s extended arm held a knife, its blade buried to the hilt—as best she could tell—between Kimo’s ass cheeks.
The giant stood on his tiptoes, lips pinched, eyes bulging. Charlie snagged the pump in the crook of her elbow again, this time muscling it forward until it clattered home and locked a fresh shell in the chamber. She didn’t waste time on speeches or fighting words. She tucked the Mossberg under Kimo’s chin and pulled the trigger.
Winston sagged out of the way as Kimo toppled. He choked out a laugh and grinned at her with reddened teeth. “I believe that feller done lost his mind,” he rasped then flopped on his back and closed his eyes.
#
“ABEL!”
Yeager snapped his head around. That was Charlie’s voice coming from somewhere behind them, back toward the swim deck. A dark object sailed past his ear.
What was...? Oh hell.
The grenade bounced off the side of the shredded armchair blown up by the first grenade and rolled to a stop at Yeager’s feet.
David Buchanan Yeager—Charlie’s son who had taken Yeager’s last name after Abel and Charlie were married—played soccer. The twelve-year-old approached the game with the same intensity with which he tackled everything. He gave one hundred percent and practiced daily. Yeager had been roped into front-yard practice sessions even though he booted the ball like a pregnant yak. David ran rings around him while Yeager flayed and stomped at the bouncing sphere.
But something must have stuck—muscle memory. By reflexive habit, Yeager side-kicked the grenade, launching a perfect shot back down the corridor. The detonation slammed through the gap a heartbeat after his sweeping foot had shot the metal ball back the way it had come. Smoke billowed from the hole, followed by a shriek of pain.
Victor raised a fist and screamed, “Goooaaalll!”
Yeager hesitated. Tactically, the right course of action would be to follow the detonation with an assault and attack the stunned defenders before they recovered. But Charlie’s voice had called him. She sounded desperate. Hurt. She needed him.
But going back would leave an enemy at his rear, one who might recover at any second and overwhelm them with numbers.
Victor’s shout broke him free. “Go! I got Charlie.”
Yeager screamed his frustration and charged the hall. A commando lay sprawled in a ragged heap on the deck, his body torn as though run over by a threshing machine. Another knelt against a square high-top dining table, holding his face with one hand. Beyond the table, an Asian guy dressed in a neat suit and tie lay stunned, his mouth gaping.
Yeager stepped up and coldly shot the kneeling man in the head. He crossed to the bloody heap and added two more insurance shots. The man in the suit had regained some control and was groping for a satellite phone on the deck.
Yeager kicked it away. “Hey, you.” Yeager snagged the survivor by his tie and dragged him to his feet.
The man blinked and focused. “I tell you nothing.”
Yeager punched him in the face. Hard. The man’s head snapped back, and his eyes fluttered. He gaped at Yeager as blood ran into his mouth from a squashed nose. Tears flooded his eyes. Yeager hit him again, and the man’s eyes rolled back. He passed out.