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The sun had set almost two hours previously, and it was fully dark now. It was a new moon period, but their NVGs were fine in terms of visibility under the stars and clear skies. Not that they would need them for the approach to target—the 252 compound was lit up like Yankee Stadium in extra innings.
Right after sunset, the team had reformed on Frankle’s position to compare notes and formulate the final assault plan. With Rostov’s arrival, the 252s had stepped up their security patrolling, but Frankle and his men agreed it was more for show than any genuine security concern. The lazy way the guards held their weapons and the shortcuts they took on their rounds reflected complacency. It was not unexpected—there was nothing of value stored here yet, no indigenous population to guard against, and the Chinese were under orders not to deal with them. There was a fixed sentry post where the road entered the compound, but the guards posted there mostly sat around smoking and playing video games on their cell phones.
They debated whether it would be a net positive or negative to hit the powerhouse first and knock out the lights. While that would have the definite advantage of eliminating targeted shots from any of their opponents, it would also sound the alarm at the outset of the operation. Frankle decided there were too many risks in tipping their hand that early, and the powerhouse idea was shelved. The plan that evolved had Gerard and Kelly ambush the roving guard as he neared the vehicle parking area. They would kill the man with the silenced pistols they carried, hide the body, find the keys for one of the SUVs and slash the tires on the others. Frankle and Bell would await the success signal from the other team, then take out the entrance sentry and make their way to the barracks where Rostov and the women were housed. Anyone they encountered on the compound would be dispatched silently.
Finding the keys was another wildcard—given the lackadaisical approach to security, they expected to find them inside the vehicles, probably tucked into the driver’s window shade. But they could be elsewhere, and a search for them might take minutes if they could be found at all. This was the worst case, as they would be on foot to the rendezvous, but so would what remained of the 252 staff. Not the preferred outcome, but still acceptable.
The tentative go-time for the assault was 21:00, time enough for whatever air support they were getting to get on station and build the tactical picture. The GO-NO-GO decision hinged upon a coded burst transmission from Kauai fifteen minutes before launch that she was in position and ready to retrieve them. If something prevented that, mechanical breakdown or activity by the Chinese, for instance, Frankle had a decision to make. He could either sit tight and let the opportunity pass by with a pickup by Kauai the following night or go in gunning to kill Rostov and then withdraw and evade as best as possible in the hope of an alternative rescue mode. His orders from Admiral Irving, known only to him, were the latter. He also had little doubt Irving would cut them loose rather than mount a risky rescue operation, and he was not about to throw away the lives of his team. If they had to abort tonight, he would order his team to lie low for another day, then contact Kauai for extraction, grabbing the captive women, if practicable.
Frankle smiled grimly. He knew before he started that this would be his last trip. He had maxed out his federal retirement and only held on as long as it stayed interesting. The past year’s events, culminating with this op, had taken the shine off fieldwork. If he returned, when he returned, he corrected himself, he would put in for one of the instructor jobs at Quantico, Bragg, or Benning. He was jolted from his thoughts by the appearance of headlights on the coastal road off to his right. He took out his night scope and trained it on the oncoming vehicle. The glare of the headlights prevented him from making out any vehicle details. He would have to wait until it passed him. He knew the vehicle had to be Chinese—they had accounted for all three big SUVs the 252s were using in their work. His heart sank. What if it was one of their SUVs or, worse, one of the VN-4s? What a time for those assholes to start their own patrols!
He watched with interest as the vehicle slowed and then turned off onto the side road leading to the compound. As it entered a gentle curve to the right, the headlights were finally pointed away enough for him to get a vehicle profile. My God! It’s a sedan! A high-end one, by the looks of it. The car stopped at the entry checkpoint, and the guard shined his flashlight in on the driver and passenger, then waved the car through. As it pulled into the bright lights in front of the barracks, Frankle could see that it was one of the latest generation BMW 5 series. He zoomed the scope on the passenger door as the driver jumped out, came around, and opened it. A portly man in a Hawaiian shirt, white pants, and sunglasses climbed out, hurried to the door, and then inside the barracks, his driver hurrying to catch up.
I’ll be damned! That has to be Chen, the mine director. Only a high-up CCP prick would insist on having a status car on a Haitian island, and no boss would let a flunky use his wheels for a booty call! He chuckled at the comedic aspect of the entire event. Dressed like Magnum P.I. and wearing Blues Brothers sunglasses at night for anonymity. Hilarious! He keyed his microphone and whispered, “Bring it in, boys. We need to talk.”
A minute later, the three other men had returned to Frankle’s position. “OK, boys, here’s the deal,” he said. “Confidence is high that the haole who just arrived is the big CCP boss himself, which changes the objectives.”
“Are we going to grab him instead or cap him?” Kelly asked.
“Absolutely not,” Frankle replied. “We have strict orders, which I agree with for a change, that we do not kidnap or kill Chinese nationals. However, there’s nothing in those orders about knocking one out and grabbing his biometrics. Please, one of you tell me you’ve brought a biometrics kit.”
“Yo,” Gerard answered.
“OK, give it to Lashon. Same plan for you guys as before—grab an SUV and bring it upfront after you disable the rest. You will also slash the BMW tires while you wait for us. Clear?”
“Roger, Boss,” Gerard answered.
“Lashon, it’s on us. We move in on the barracks, take out any guards and move on to the bedrooms. I’m pretty sure we’ll find both our guys in flagrante delicto. We stun them, and while Lashon is hooking up Chen and grabbing his vitals, I’ll be sedating Tovarisch Rostov and tossing clothes at the women. We load everyone and beat feet. Questions?”
“Yeah. How come you always get the girls?” Gerard asked.
“Two reasons. First, I’m the boss. Second, they will be pretty shook up and probably respond better to a grandpa type than the Incredible Hulk here or two other guys that look like the mooks who grabbed them from home.”
“Ouch!” Gerard said, smiling.
“Deal with it,” Frankle said. “Any questions?”
“Still want to go with 21:00?” Bell asked.
“Better push it back to 21:30 to give the sex, drugs, and wine a chance to take a firm hold. I’ll tell the Coasties. Off you go.” After the other three men disappeared into the darkness, Frankle took out the antenna and sent an update. After receiving an acknowledgment from the patrol boat out in the darkness, he tucked away the radio and turned to watch the compound. This could be huge—documented evidence of Chinese collusion with the 252s at the highest level. All we need now is one damn set of keys!
They had gone to General Quarters Condition One half an hour earlier, with radar shut down, and moved from their daytime patrol position fifteen miles south of the island to half that distance. For now, Ben was on the Bridge, having briefed Lee and Lopez; he could be on the main deck and ready to launch in less than a minute. The FC3 panel was fully manned, Hopkins had the OOD, as usual, and everyone was in full combat gear.
An Air Force C-130 Compass Call plane, callsign Starfish One Seven, arrived precisely on time at 20:00, forty-five minutes after its launch from its forward base at Guantanamo Bay. On its arrival, the converted tactical transport made a slow pass along the island’s north side, training its extremely sensitive passive sensors, electro-optical, infrared, and electronic surveillance inland. As expected, these detected nothing along the north shore. As they swung in a wide arc around the island’s eastern end on a westerly course off its south coast, the Chinese base was unmasked, and things got interesting.
“Orchid, Starfish One Seven,” said the disembodied voice from the UHF radio speaker.
Haley plugged her headset into the microphone jack and keyed her press-to-talk switch. “Starfish One Seven, Orchid-Actual. Go ahead.”
“Orchid, One Seven, initial sweep complete. No radars operating. Some encrypted traffic on UHF-FM band in the eight-hundred-megahertz range, probably handhelds. One warship dockside, one cargo ship dockside. Warship is active; we picked up a definite exhaust plume on infrared. Over.”
Haley’s hand froze briefly, then she pushed the transmit button again. “One Seven, can you tell if they are running generators, or is it the full plant?”
“Orchid, One Seven, unknown. We will pull in closer on the next pass.”
“One Seven, Orchid. Roger, standing by.” Haley dropped her hand and looked across at the navigation display. The screen showed Kauai as a pipper in the center, with a map display of Ile Ste. Michel stretching from directly north to the screen’s edge to the east. Kauai’s radars were shut down to facilitate emissions control—they would navigate using GPS and bearings from the electro-optical camera. The heat plume from the gunboat was terrible news, and Haley hoped they were just running their generators for maintenance or normal engine turnover. None of the earlier nighttime overflights had shown any activity like this, and the conclusion was the ship usually ran on shore power when moored. The ten-minute wait for the following report was the longest of her life.
“Orchid, One Seven.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not an expert, Captain, but that ship is putting out an awful lot of heat for generators only. I’ve got a large exhaust plume around the stern. Over.”
“Roger. Can you maintain contact? Over.”
“Affirmative. We will maintain a port delta two klicks south of the island’s eastern point.”
“Thanks, One Seven. If that sucker moves, I need to know soonest. Over.”
“WILCO, out.”
Haley unplugged her headset and said, “Chief, the XO and I will be heading below for a minute.”
“Very good, Captain,” Hopkins replied.
Haley looked at Ben and said, “Let’s chat.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
They stepped into Haley’s cabin, and she shut the door. “Have a seat.” After they both sat, she continued. “What do you think, Ben?”
“Things just got a whole lot iffier, ma’am,” Ben said.
“No shit. All of a sudden, the Chinese are doing things they have never done before.”
“We don’t know why they are lighting off. I don’t think they’re expecting us to make a hit. If they thought we had an op going and wanted to intervene, they would be underway already. If I had to make a guess, it’s a standing order to warm up the gunboat whenever the boss goes over the hill in case the 252s do something stupid. I imagine their armored car troops are on alert as well. If they roll when the shooting starts, I don’t see how we avoid an engagement. But I think they’ll try to get an order from the boss first.”
“Do you think that would delay them more than a few minutes?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Which means an engagement with the armored cars, the gunboat, or both would be likely. Something we were explicitly ordered to avoid.”
“I would say so, ma’am.”
“So you are saying I should follow the orders?” Haley asked.
Ben looked her in the eyes. “Ma’am, it’s not my call to make.”
“I know that. I’m asking what you would do if you were in my seat.”
Ben’s mouth tightened, and he said, “I would go in, ma’am.”
“You know we wouldn’t have a prayer if that gunboat pins us in that cove. Even if we break out, they have the speed to run us down, eight times our firepower, and the range to out-shoot us. Air support would be the only thing that could save us, and we can’t count on that. You would take that risk for some abstract geopolitical gain?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t give a crap about the price of rare-earth elements, but I would go in there to save four brave men and two innocent women. This is what we do, ma’am.”
“At the cost of all sixteen of us?”
“I don’t think it will come to that, ma’am.”
“And if it did?”
“I would still go, ma’am. It’s a big risk for us, but certain death for them otherwise. The SAR dilemma.” Ben nodded.
“Very well, thank you for your candor. I need to think about this for a minute. I’ll meet you on the Bridge.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said, then turned and left.
Haley looked at her desk. How can this be a choice? I obey orders, save my ship and crew, or disobey orders, and maybe get them both shot to hell. No brainer. But is it? Those four men and two women—can I really leave them to die, or worse, in the women’s case? These are the choices you have to make, Captain.
She looked from her desk and slowly glanced around the bare walls of her cabin. Cold and sterile, like the mathematics of life and death. Her gaze stopped on the ship’s plaque mounted above her bunk. It was a smaller version of the one that hung on the messdeck, and she had to admit that, unlike the crests she had seen on other ships, she liked the design. It featured the escutcheon of the Kingdom of Hawaii, with a silver-colored fouled anchor in the background and the ship’s motto on a golden scroll below: Fortiter et Fideliter, “Bravely and Faithfully” in Latin.
As the weight lifted from her shoulders, a sad smile crept over her face. Of all the things, a plaque, for God’s sake! She stood, reached over to give the plaque a quick pat, then headed for the Bridge. “Carry on, please,” Haley said as she emerged onto the Bridge to the usual call to attention. “Chief, start your approach. Secure MDEs at four nautical miles.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Hopkins replied.
Haley turned to Ben. “God help us all, XO.”
“Indeed, ma’am. One helluva break-in patrol!”
The diesel engines shut down as Ben went below to the armory to check out his guns for this sortie. The eerie silence that followed gave him the shivers, as it always did. Kauai’s battery bank stored enough energy to propel her at twenty knots for two hours and progressively longer times at lower speeds. They had never put this endurance to the ultimate test, although they had come close at Barbello. They had six hours at their twelve-knot approach speed—plenty of time to roll in and out.
Lopez was already at the armory when Ben arrived, and Guerrero doled out the weapons and ammunition. The Mark 48 machine guns they were checking out were a little longer and three times heavier than the M4s they usually carried on expeditionary operations. It was one of the many factors Ben had to keep in mind tonight.
“Do you need a refresh, XO?” Guerrero asked.
Ben went through the standard checks from memory of his training six months ago. “Did I do alright, Gunner?”
“Spot on, XO.” Guerrero held out his hand. “Good luck, sir.”
“Same here,” Ben said as he shook his hand. He slung the machine gun, grabbed the belt holding his pistol and other equipment, and followed Lopez out of the armory.
“Think we’ll see action tonight, sir?” Lopez asked as they climbed the ladder to the main deck.
“I don’t think you and I will. As far as the boat goes, just a little south of fifty-fifty.”
“Right. Better make sure we get back then.”
“That’s the idea,” Ben replied. They emerged on deck and walked aft to the special operations boat, already lifted from its cradle and positioned at the rail by Bondurant. “Gather ’round, folks,” Ben said as he stood before them. “Plan is the same as we last briefed. The bad news is something is going on at that Chinese base, and we don’t know what it is. This has dialed up the threat and our need to beat feet as soon as possible. So, the order of the day is expedite to the limit of safety—anything we break, lose over the side, etc., is the cost of doing business. Clear?”
“Got it, XO,” Bondurant said.
“Any questions?” Ben asked. Seeing nothing but head shakes, he keyed his radio. “Orchid, Oscar-One, ready for launch.”
“Oscar-One, Orchid, cleared for launch. Good luck, sir.” Bunting’s voice replied through his headset.
“OK, let’s do it,” Ben said, following after Lee and Lopez climbed into the boat. It was the same plan for approach as before, with the boat launched at two miles offshore and cruising silently on the sea painter until a quarter-mile and then on her own to the beach. Ben watched the shoreline through his NVGs as the two vessels approached, trying to pick out the agreed landing point. He looked across the boat at Lopez, who was also looking forward toward the island. He glanced at Lee, coolly scanning between her panel and Kauai to keep pace without putting too much tension on the sea painter.
A little under ten minutes after launch, the “L” signal flashed from the Bridge, and Lee said, “Cast off the sea painter.”
Lopez pulled the marlinspike holding the line in place and, after it disappeared over the side, said, “Sea painter clear.”
“Right, hang on,” Lee said as she goosed the engine, scooting the boat forward along Kauai’s port side. It was a quick trip to the shore, where, unlike the previous night, Ben and Lopez pulled the boat’s bow on the beach after they jumped out.
After slinging the gun over his shoulder with a grunt, Ben turned to Lee. “Now, no beach parties while I’m gone, Petty Officer Lee,” he said, extending his hand.
“You are just so Dad,” Lee replied as she shook his hand. “Come back safe, sir.” She then grabbed Lopez’s outstretched hand. “You too, Boot.”
“See ya in a bit, Shelley,” Lopez replied, plodding after Ben through the thick sand.
It took Ben a minute of scanning between the landscape presented in his NVGs and the tablet with the GPS app to find the correct gap where he and Lopez would wait. Ben led them through the low brush to the gap, which extended about one-hundred-fifty yards to a pair of tree copses about fifty feet apart, beyond which was open ground. As they neared the mouth of the gap, Ben said, “Set up behind a good tree over there,” pointing to the thicket on the left.
“How will they find us, XO?” Lopez asked.
“I’m going to pop a line of five chemlights running right along the center,” Ben replied.
“Won’t that bring the bad guys down on us?”
“I won’t pop them until our guys are a minute out. If there are bad guys, they’ll be following our guys. Anyway, we want them to come here instead of hitting us from the flank. Hopefully, there will be enough adrenaline in play to keep them from thinking too much.”
“Hopefully, sir?”
“Hey, hope is my strategy for so many things these days.”
As Lopez walked to his position, Ben turned and strolled to his. He found an excellent location to the left of a large tree and set up the gun, relieved to get the heavy weight off his shoulder. Once he had everything in place and a round chambered, he pressed the button on his tactical radio. “Delta-One, Oscar-One.”
Seconds later, Frankle’s voice replied. “Oscar-One, Delta-One, copy.”
“Delta-One, Oscar-One, Uber’s here. Call me one minute out so I can string the markers.”
“WILCO, Oscar-One. We’re stepping off now.”
“Good luck, Delta,” Ben said, getting a double-click in return. He then sat and tried to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. Like Frankle before him, Ben was struck by how quiet the island was, the absence of distraction leaving him with nothing to do but think about their situation. Ben thought back to Haley’s decision to go ahead with the mission. It was a gutsy call—Ben didn’t know if he could have made that decision, but he knew they would definitely be on the hot seat when they got back.
