Checkmate (7 page)

Unfortunately, tonight, he wasn’t likely to need the ASE; he was hoping he wouldn’t need the SC-20 at all, but then again, ring airfoils and sticky shockers could turn out to be his best tools should he encounter trouble aboard the
Trego
.

He flipped his NV goggles into place and heard the faint electronic whistle in his earpiece as the they powered up. He scanned the darkened deck below. He saw nothing.

“Proceeding belowdecks,” Fisher radioed.

WITH
the SC-20 held at ready-low, Fisher crept down to the next deck, turned the corner, and headed aft. He was halfway down the passageway when he froze. With exaggerated slowness, he crouched down, crab-stepped to the left, and pressed himself against the bulkhead.

Thirty feet down the passageway he’d seen a pencil-eraser-sized red spot on the bulkhead.

Sensor,
he thought. But what type? Infrared, motion . . .

The spot moved.
Not a sensor
. It was the tip of a cigarette. Whether it was a security guard or a NEST person, he couldn’t be sure, but someone was leaning against the bulkhead behind a stanchion, taking an illicit smoke break.

Moving on flat feet, Fisher started easing himself backward.

The figure moved, stepping from behind the stanchion.

Fisher raised the SC-20 and pressed his eye to the scope.

The man was in a white bioharzard suit, the hood tilted back onto his forehead. On his hip was a model- 1911 Colt .45 automatic—standard issue for armed Navy watch personnel.

Other way, sailor. Turn the other way.
. . .

The man turned toward Fisher. He went still. His body tensed. He cocked his head, obviously seeing something in the dim light, but not sure what. His hand drifted toward the hip holster.

Fisher fired. The SC-20 coughed, a barely perceptible
thwump
.

The RAF struck high on the man’s sternum. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the deck. Fisher trotted forward and knelt down beside the man. He felt for a pulse; it was strong and steady. While classified as an LTL weapon, a ring airfoil projectile had a punch to it, and Fisher had seen it kill men, usually from a lung clot.

He unholstered the guard’s Colt, ejected the magazine, and hid it inside a pipe bundle near the ceiling, then reholstered the gun. If things went to hell, this would be one less gun shooting at him.

He found a dark corner for the guard’s body, covered it with a few scraps of discarded cardboard he found nearby, then pulled the man’s hood back in place and fired a dart into the man’s thigh for good measure.

He doubted he’d need more than the two hours the tranqulizer would buy him, but as with the Colt, if things went to hell, this would be one less guard to deal with.

 

 

 

HE
reached the passageway outside the engine room and crouched before the hatch. He switched his goggles to IR, then rose up until he could see through the porthole. Having been powered down for the past eighteen hours, the engine room was a field of dark blue structures broken only by still-warm yellow pipes and the lighter blue outlines of the engines. He saw no one moving about.

He checked his dosimeter reading on the OPSAT: All green. What was the rule with these things? Fisher thought.
Green, good; red, dead
.

He undogged the hatch and slipped inside.

 

 

 

HE
found the section of catwalk between the engines just as he’d left it: pried back and tossed to one side. The fire hose he’d used to stop the
Trego
was also still there, a charred and tangled mass wrapped around the reduction gear. Aside from the ticking of cooling pipes and the occasional hiss of steam, the space was quiet.

He heard the metallic
thunk
of a hatch opening. He switched his goggles to NV and turned around. A pair of figures in bio-hazard suits were stepping through the hatch.

“. . . I told you: I don’t know why,” said one of the men. His voice was muffled inside the hood. “The boss wants another reading, so we’re getting another reading.” He held up a Geiger counter and panned it through the air; it gave off a steady but slow chirping.

“Yeah, well, this place gives me the creeps.”

“Join the club. Come on, let’s get it done.”

They started down the catwalk, circling the space’s outer bulkhead. Fisher waited until they were out of sight, then reached up, grabbed a pipe, and lifted his legs off the deck and hooked them over the pipe. He reached again, this time snagging the edge of a ceiling I-beam with his fingertips. He rolled himself onto his belly with his thighs and chest resting across the conduits.

Below, he heard the clunk of the men’s footsteps on the catwalk.

The chirp of the Geiger counter grew louder.

Fisher drew his pistol. He thumbed the safety off and switched the selector to
DART
.

In his peripheral vision, through a tangle of pipes, Fisher caught a glimpse of a biohazard suit coming closer. The men appeared at the head of the catwalk and walked beneath Fisher. They stopped at the open grating. “You have any idea what this is all about?” one man asked.

“Just the rumors. Somebody was in a hurry to stop the ship.”

“Well, hell, I’d say they got the job done. No way they’re going to be able to cut that outa there. That gear is fried, but good.”

“Not our problem.” The man passed the Geiger first over the engines and then the grating, then knelt down and checked the fire hose. The chirping remained steady. “I got nothing. Control, this is Peterson.”

“Go ahead, Pete.”

“Second engine room sweep is done. All clear.”

“Good. Come topside. Time for you to rotate out.”

 

 

 

ONCE
they were gone, Fisher lowered himself back to the deck and slipped feetfirst through the grating. Using the loops in the fire hose as handholds, he lowered himself to the deck, which was ankle-deep in a frothy mix of bilgewater and firefighting foam. The latter had been pumped aboard by the first rescue ship on scene, a Navy destroyer, in hopes of pre-smothering any fires before they had a chance to start. Fire is a ship’s worst enemy, and it was deadlier still aboard a ship carrying hazardous materials.

True to the blueprints, he found the
Trego
’s twin-diesel engines mounted atop massive dampening springs. Each spring was the size of a fire hydrant and was secured to the deck by bolts as big around as his wrist and as long as his forearm.

As he’d feared, the tightly packed springs made it impossible to wiggle under the engines, so he pulled out his flexi-cam, affixed the telescoping extension, then snaked the lens underneath. He flipped on the cam’s light. The rough metal exterior of the engine casing appeared on the OPSAT’s screen. He started scanning, moving inch by inch.

It took three minutes, but finally the serial number plate came into focus. Fisher steadied the cam and hit the shutter button. He withdrew the cam and tucked it away. He keyed his subdermal, but got only a squelch in return. He looked up.
Too much steel overhead
.

He climbed back to the catwalk and retraced his steps to the hatch and into the passageway. He keyed his subdermal again. “I’m out. Got the numbers.”

“Good work,” Lambert said. “Change of plans. Go to Extraction Point Bravo.”

Extraction Point Bravo was the designated emergency pickup.

“What’s happened?” Fisher asked.

“We think we know what happened to the rest of the
Trego
’s crew.”

THE
satellite feed had been siphoned from a commerical LANDSAT by an NSA picket station, so the angle was heavily oblique and the colors faded, but there was no mistaking the single ship in the middle of the plasma screen.

“The
Trego
, I presume?” Fisher said.

“The one and only,” Lambert replied. “Two hundred miles off the coast of Virginia the morning before your encounter with her. Okay, go ahead, Grim.”

Sitting at the other end of the conference table, Grimsdottir tapped a few keys on her laptop and the image changed. A second ship, clearly smaller than the
Trego,
appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “Now we move ahead thirty minutes. Note the
Trego
’s wake has disappeared. She’s sitting dead in the water.” She tapped the keyboard again. “Ahead forty-two minutes.”

The
Trego
and the second ship were sitting next to one another.

“Ahead twelve minutes. Zooming in.”

The image flickered, then zoomed in until the two ships filled the screen. In the water between them Fisher could make out what looked like a Zodiac raft.

“The whole operation took twenty-two minutes,” Lambert said. “The Zodiac goes over to the
Trego
with one man aboard. Nineteen minutes it comes back with nine more men.”

“The
Trego
’s crew minus one,” Fisher said.

“Right. We’re guessing the intervening time was used to set up the automation system.”

“And to draw straws to see who stays behind. Speaking of which, anything from our prisoner?”

“Still not talking,” Lambert said.

Shortly after the man had woken up handcuffed to a bed in Third Echelon’s medical bay, Redding had begun questioning him. It was another tidbit Fisher didn’t know about Redding: He was in fact a Marine Corps-trained interrogator.

“We’re turning him over to the FBI; let them take a crack at him. Okay, back to the
Trego
. Here’s what we know: Ten minutes after the
Trego
’s crew boards the mystery ship, they both get under way and part company, the
Trego
heading west toward the Atlantic Seaboard, the other ship heading south.”

“Please tell me we know more than that.”

Grimsdottir tapped some more keys. Another satellite image appeared. “Welcome to the harbor at Freeport City, Bahamas. Check the center-right of screen. Behold our mystery ship: the oceangoing yacht
Duroc
. She’s been anchored there since yesterday. I’m working on the registration.”

Fisher stared at the yacht for a few seconds, then turned to Lambert. “When do I leave?”

 

 

 

THIRD
Echelon maintained a private airstrip outside Hanover, eight miles northeast of NSA headquarters. It was just past one in the morning when Fisher pulled his car onto to the tarmac beside a Boeing V-22 Osprey.

The Osprey was Third Echelon’s workhorse, used for insertion and extraction missions. Billed as a half-helicopter, half-turboprop aircraft, the Osprey had twin engines, each one mounted on a rotatable nacelle, combining the maneuverability and vertical takeoff capability of a helicopter and the high speed and altitude limits of a standard airplane.

The Osprey’s rotors were already spinning at idle. Through the lighted cockpit window Fisher could see the pilot, Bird, and his copilot, Sandy, going through the preflight. Bird was a typical Southern boy, with an awshucks drawl and a carefree personality to match. Sandy, on the other hand, was all business, one of the first women to break into the typically male-dominated special operations community.

Fisher gathered his duffel bag from the trunk and walked to the rear ramp. He was surprised to see Redding standing at the bottom.

“Didn’t know I was going to have company,” Fisher said.

“I wasn’t getting anywhere with our prisoner, so I thought I’d come keep you out of trouble.”

“Will, getting into trouble is what I do for a living.”

“How nice for you. I’ve got some new gear for you. Come on, we’ve got some air to cover.”

 

 

 

ONCE
they were airborne and heading south, Redding pulled a black duffel bag from the overhead bin and dropped it on the floor between their seats. Fisher’s standard equipment load-out was maintained in several places, the Osprey one of them. Fisher assumed that whatever was in this duffel was brand-new.

Redding unzipped it and pulled out a familiar item: Fisher’s tactical suit, a one-piece black coverall fitted with the various pouches, pockets, and harness attachments needed to carry all his equipment. Fisher could see immediately this tac-suit was different.

“First and most important,” Redding said, “you’re familiar with Dragon Skin?”

Fisher was. Originally developed by Pinnacle Armor, Dragon Skin was the world’s first “move when you move” body armor. Lightweight and flexible, Dragon Skin could stop bullets as heavy as an AK-47’s 7.62mm. For years DARPA had been working with Dragon Skin-like composites for special operators, but hadn’t been able to decrease the weight enough to make it feasible.

“DARPA’s figured it out,” Fisher said.

Redding nodded. “Meet the Mark V Tactical Operations Suit, code-named RhinoPlate. Weight, four pounds unloaded; thickness, eight millimeters—about a quarter inch. Outer shell is Kevlar; core material RhinoPlate; inner layer is seventh-generation Gore-tex.”

“Stats?”

“Good against shrapnel at twelve feet; rifle rounds at fifteen; pistol and shotgun at eight feet. The Gore-Tex is tested to maintain core body temperatures down to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit with the hood up, and as high as one hundred ten. You could go from Alaska to the Sahara and stay relatively comfortable.”

“The color’s different.”

“Good eye. New camouflage. The outer layer of the Kevlar is treated with a polymer fiber similar to the coating on stealth aircraft: matte-black, slightly rough to the touch for maximum light absorption. I won’t bore you with the physics, but the micro-roughened exterior partially defuses light. Basically, about thirty percent of whatever photons strike the surface gets trapped—if for only a split second—but enough to diffuse them. Bottom line: You stand still in a shadow, you’re virtually part of the shadow.”