The suspect compound was set up fifty yards from the western bank of a bend in the Batang Sadong River. Clearly visible in the day and night shots were a collection of six metal-roofed buildings surrounded by a combination wooden and mesh fencing topped with razor wire. Thick vegetation closed in from all sides because someone was either too lazy or too complacent to keep a killing zone cleared around the five-acre compound.

  There were some kind of sleeping quarters, a kitchen building, a latrine, and generator shack, along with a collection of other sheds and outbuildings in a cluster at the center of the compound. Only one building, the largest, was electrified, and showed lights from the interior in night photos. There were no guard towers, and a review of heat-signature footage showed there was no organized system of sentries, despite the fact that the place housed a permanent population of twenty or so souls, by early estimate.

  Vehicles on hand were a pair of Toyota 4x4s and four dirt bikes.

  On the roof of the largest building was a pair of satellite dishes. One of these was the one used to download the movies and other content that let the brains back at Langley zero in on Young-El's twenty. The dishes were used for incoming web traffic only. Outgoing traffic was still handled by mules carrying flash drives, CDs, or tapes to either update the websites or communicate with lone-wolf operatives around the world.

  A dirt road snaked away from the compound through the jungle for twenty miles to join the north/south highway 21. No doubt that during the monsoons the road would be impassable; a treacherous gator slide of clinging mud. The dirt bikes would be the only reliable transport through for the next month at least. But the trip would be hell for whoever took it and sat images confirmed that the compound was isolated for now. There were no fresh tire tracks leading in or out. Dana's assessment was accurate; the team and their quarry would be trapped together in the kill zone with no chance of help for either side within reach; their own little battleground far away from reinforcement or resupply.

  They went over every scenario and contingency and just plain bugfuck crazy idea. Helos, high altitude jumps and humping in from the interior were all out of the question. The risks of separation, discovery, or misadventure were too great. The only clear alternative was to use the river to get close to the target compound, now codenamed Tombstone. That meant entering from the delta where the river opened out into the South China Sea. Then the team would follow the river upstream to Serian and Tamin Pasir; a distance of over one hundred kilometers. That would mean taking one of the submersible SEAL Delivery Vehicles.

  "That's a long ride in a tin can," Flame said.

  "Then you better make sure no one has Mexican before you close the hatch," Ernie Davies said with a grin.

  "I estimate you'll be submerged for eight hours," Daneker continued. "You've done more time than that in training."

  "Wet or dry, Bill?" Manny asked.

  "Has to be dry, bro," Daneker said. "Going wet exposes you to the elements for too long. And you still don't really know what to expect on the other end. We'll try to keep you posted on any changes to the target picture. But the only real surprise is when there are no surprises. You're going to need to arrive at target as close to one hundred percent combat-capable as possible."

  "Evac?" Chili asked. "We get in by mini-sub. How do we get back out?"

  "Boats says they can tweak a Carp's range to bring you back out with the current," Davies answered. "Boats" was Naval Special Warfare Group 4: Special Boat Teams. They were the resident masters on sea-going and underwater craft within SEALs. The Carp was a special-built submersible that the team had not yet used on a mission, though they passed trials by using one back at Coronado during a retraining exercise a year before. The mini-sub was a super-secret held closely within the Navy and the personal pet project of an Admiral Clarence who mothered it for decades as he rose to his lofty rank.

  "What if that goes south?" Heath asked. "These jungle rivers will change up from raging to piss streams if the monsoon ends early."

  "Helos can pull you out," Daneker said. "We can't park the Vinson within chopper range off Sarawak without a damned good reason. But we could have an amphibious assault ship that just happens to be cruising by in convoy during your mission window."

  "What about the Carp?" Chili asked.

  "You can't leave it behind intact," Davies said. "It will have to be 86ed. And use enough ka-boom this time. No one wants to see a Chinese knock-off six months from now."

  The stealth-modified Blackhawk that was blown to pieces at Abbottabad left the tail section intact enough for the Chinese to reverse-engineer their own model. And the Pakistanis stalled returning the wreckage to the US long enough for PRC to rush down and go over it with a microscope. The SEALs classified flying carpet had been compromised and that couldn't be allowed to happen again.

  "What you're describing will take some squeaky-tight timetable," Manny said shaking his head over the river charts.

  "Maybe not," Re-Pete said. "Maybe not."

  It had been a long two days and most of the guys were ready to rack out and forget about topo maps, current estimations, and mission execution windows for a few hours. But they sat silently waiting while Re-Pete collected his thoughts.

  "We need to think Vietnam on this," Re-Pete said. "Vietnam."

  "That's it?" Blair said. "Are you suggesting we just go home? We lost in Vietnam."

  "Maybe you did, Freeman," Heath said. "But the SEALs were still kicking tail and takin' names when you spooks were getting your asses aboard choppers and on up outta there."

  "We work out our mission profiles to the second because that's what we do to conserve risk," Re-Pete ignored Freeman and Heath and went on. "But back in 'Nam the SEALs didn't roll like that on most missions. Most missions. They went in quiet and stayed in the enemy's house for as long as it took. Sometimes they would be right in Charlie's AO for days before anyone knew. Sometimes the VC never knew. Our guys passed in and out of the bush like ghosts and owned the AO. Owned it."

  Re-Pete was a compulsive reader with a keen interest in anything military, with an emphasis on SEAL history. One of the things Re-Pete understood about military operations was that, from the first time a caveman picked up a rock, they shared similar restrictions and limitations. Timing, opportunity, weather, morale, and the indefinable quality of will all factored in, along with other imponderables and intangibles. You could learn as much reading about Xenophon or Marshal Ney as you could the latest hand-downs from the game players at the Agency or the Pentagon. Despite all their hi-tech equipment and expensive gear, war, and what it took to win, hadn't changed.

  The guys listened intently. Re-Pete knew his shit. Also, they'd never heard him speak for such an extended period.

  "The 'Nam was rich with lessons learned," Re-Pete continued. "And the teams operated more independently then. They chose their own targets lots of times, and went deep and went long. And they would operate far from any kind of support or contact. No support. This mission already fits the profile of a 'Nam operation. River insert. Remote enemy position. Little or no chance of resupply or reinforcement for the bad guys. Like Operation Thunderhead. The last POW rescue. Slow going in and quick evac. We take our time and determine the mission length on the ground. On the ground."

  "We make absolutely dead bang we find Young-El, do what we do, then call for the helos," Heath said.

  "Even if it takes a few days in the AO," Re-Pete said. "Sure and quiet as cobras on the hunt. As cobras."

  "I like it," Pig said.

  "You're crazy," Blair said. "You're all so anxious to get off this flat top that you've lost your grip on reality."

  "Then fuck it, Freeman," Manny said and threw up his hands. "Send in some cruise missiles and turn a square mile of jungle into a parking lot. But you'll never be sure. You'll never have that scalp for your office wall. And when Young-El is back up and running you can kiss that desk in the West Wing goodbye."

  Blair glared at them all, and they gave him back the dead-eyed stare of the already committed.

  "Or send us in old-school and let us clean house," Heath said. "All in hi-def and fully documented."

  CHAPTER 28

  USS CARL VINSON, LOCATION CLASSIFIED

  The transfer off the Chuckie V was scheduled for night. The ship went under a radio silence protocol restricting all outgoing and incoming traffic to only the necessities like location beams and essential updates. Non-vital crewmen were sent below decks and even internet access was limited for off-duty swabbies for the next six hours, as the big boat ran dark over a looking-glass sea.

  The water was calm despite a steady driving rain. But even the simplest actions at sea could get complicated and the nearly moonless night didn't help matters. The submarine that surfaced three hundred yards off their port stern was visible only as an intermittent gleam on the water. No lights showed from its tower or masts except one blinking UV lantern.

  The team assembled amidships on a hangar deck open to the sea. Sailors hustled around a small Mark V transport boat, with a salty E-6 loudly criticizing their speed and dexterity as well as their parentage and sexual preference. The sailors were securing the boat to the davits that would swing it out over the water and lower it to the sea with the SEALs and boat crew inside.

  There was a hot wind blowing in through the broad opening. It was heavy and sticky and the team was breaking a sweat in their summer-weight blues and the life jackets the skipper of the Vinson insisted they wear. The captain had all the respect in the world for the swimming abilities of his guests but he wasn't taking any chances. It was his duty to see the team safely on their way and he was going to see that duty done to the letter of his sealed orders.

  "I can already smell jungle," Flame said.

  "You're crazy," Manny said. "We're twenty miles of the coast at least."

  "I can just about smell it too," said Chili with his eyes closed. "Mold and rotting fruit. You grew up smelling buses, Manny. Your nose is ruined."

  "You'd think it'd be big enough to smell that far," Manny said and touched his nose; an impressive honker that hooked to one side after being broken a dozen or so times in training, play, and combat.

  When the transport was ready, they boarded it and then loaded on a pile of thick canvas gear bags and long steel cases, with the help of the swabbies. This was their arms and armor, medical kits, clothing, rations, and more. Even more gear would be waiting for them on the sub.

  Daneker and Davies watched as they were cast off. They would remain on the Chuckie V to monitor the team's progress and provide any intel support and interpretation they could. Blair Freeman was absent. He was off in his hidey-hole using the excuse of having to stay updated on the target area in order to miss the team's send-off. Manny and the others were glad of that. The fucker was a jinx as well as a posturing jackass. They could only hope he'd done his homework this time. Daneker and Davies would be here to keep him focused.

  The crane's electric motors whined as the transport dropped into the sea, lapping up along the waterline of the becalmed aircraft carrier. A susurrating hiss of spray nearly drowned out all other sounds as the heavy rain struck the gentle roll of the sea. Lines were quickly cast off as the transport was unlimbered and motored away into the night towards the unseen sub.

  A pair of E-4s piloted them outbound with another four crew members along to assist. They wore goggles that would expose the ultraviolet running lights the sub was now flashing from its stern, bow, and tower masts. The pilots said as little as possible beyond keeping the team apprised of their progress and took the ultra-secret nature of this business and their part in it very seriously.

  The night and rain limited their range of visibility to the hand in front of their faces. A silhouette soon appeared on their bow as an enormous black object against the dark of the starless, overcast night. It was the tower of the USS Henry M. Jackson, an Ohio-class ballistic missile sub. It seemed fixed in the calm sea as surely as if it were somehow bolted to the ocean floor. The tower rose high above them. They came alongside and the crewmen on the transport prepared a boarding ladder and swung it over the Jackson's deck, where it was secured by men aboard the sub. The ladder rested on wheels on the sub side to allow for roll, but the sea remained still. As they crossed one at a time over the gangway stretched between the decks, the team could see a pair of safety divers waiting on the sub's deck in case one of them fell into the chop between boats. So, the Jackson's skipper was going to be as much of a mother hen as the Chuckie V's was.

  Next, their gear was handed over in a carry chain from SEAL to submariner and stacked, as the crew greeted the SEALs with a terse exchange of coded challenges and responses in the unlikely event that a US Navy transport had been hijacked by pirates on the same dark and stormy night a nuclear submarine just happened to surface in the middle of fuck-all. And the team sure looked like pirates. The weeks aboard the Vinson allowed their beards to grow in thicker. Even Flame's orange-red fuzz had turned into an impressive Viking goatee with a bushy mustache tailing down either side of his mouth.

  They were shown below, but not before catching a glimpse of what would be their own personal ride on this trip.

  Secured on the rear deck of the Henry Jackson, just forward of the tailfin and aft of the tower, was a thirty-foot long shape that was about eight feet high and roughly tubular. Unseen beneath it was a special hatchway that would allow access from within through the aft deck of the submarine while submerged. The details of the object were impossible to see, as the whole thing was covered by a tarp tied over it and dogged down to the deck. This was the Carp; the vehicle that would carry the team up-river.

  Their ride was a highly modified, highly advanced version of the ASDS--Advanced SEAL Delivery System. It was nicknamed The Carp. It was basically a miniature submarine that could fit six men and their equipment. It ran on two ultra-quiet electric motors powered by hydrogen energy cells. It was a "dry" vehicle, which meant that the pilots and crew stayed dry inside while in transit. But this version had the option of going "wet" as well; the interior could be flooded to take on weight and go to greater depths. It had an outside range of two hundred miles at a top speed of nine knots. That range would be reduced as the boat fought the swift current of the river at full monsoon surge. It could remain submerged for twelve hours. The crew breathed an atmosphere mixed from oxygen tanks on board, or could raise a pair of snorkels fore and aft to extend the submersion time.

  The Carp was equipped with sonar, FLIR, GPS, and 360° video imaging. They'd rely on the sonar more than anything else in the dark, silt-choked waters of the Sarawak jungle. The mini-sub was shallow draught and could remain fully concealed under the surface in as little as ten feet of water, as long as the water wasn't clear. That wouldn't be a problem with the Sarawak at this time of year. The jungle river was a tawny brown for its entire length, swollen with muddy run-off from the highlands to the east and south.

  The little sub made for cramped quarters but it was warm and dry, and conserved the team's full physical strength for the fight at the end of the trip. It was highly classified; it was the Stealth Fighter of silent branch of the Navy.

  The skipper of the Jackson greeted the team as their gear was being stowed. He introduced his XO, who took over as the captain returned to the control deck.

  "We're housing you in the senior ratings bunks," the XO said as he led them forward and down one level. "We don't really have room for guests so the officers will be hot bunking in the junior berths."

  "Don't mean to put you out," Heath said.

  "It's just for a day," the XO said. He showed them to their bunks, where their bags and cases were already stacked, making a tight space even tighter. Re-Pete took a quick inventory.

  "The galley's open 24/7 for you guys," the XO said. "You can eat or sleep but our orders are to restrict the crew's access to you."

  "The less they know, the better," Heath said.

  "We want to take a look at the Carp as soon as possible," Manny said.

  "No problem," the XO said. "This is your show. We have some gear waiting for you. It's in sealed trunks and was stowed aboard at Pearl. You get your personal gear squared away and I'll take you back to your mini."

  * * * * *

  Manny and Heath climbed up a drop-down ladder and through a hatch in the ceiling of the engine room at the stern of the Jackson. A second hatch awaited them at the top of a turnout chamber curved to follow the shape of the sub's hull. They undogged the second hatch and clambered up into the Carp's interior.

  The sub was dark and Manny used the narrow beam from a pencil-sized flashlight to find his way to the pilot station where he flipped on the interior lights. The hull was painted white to improve visibility and relieve some of the claustrophobic feel of being inside a steel can which was being crushed on all sides by millions of tons of water. The pilot station was set at side-by-side in the bow of the boat. Two rows of two seats each sat bolted to the deck with a flat area for storage and a narrow aisle between the seats. Manny and Heath did a quick but thorough check to make sure the Carp was tight and dry. There's always some water inside any submersible vehicle but they needed to be sure it was condensation and not seawater coming in from the outside. The next time out was the mission. There was no time for a shakedown.

  The rest of the team handed up gear and Heath secured it in hatches set in every available inch of the bulkhead. What couldn't fit in the hatches he secured to the deck with bungees.

  Manny sat in one of the pilot seats and did a run-through of the mini-craft's detection gear. He stripped off the plastic inspection bands from levers and handles. Sonar, radar, video, and sat connections were all running to standard as he did a soft check. He couldn't really activate the sonar and send a ping through their host. He ran diagnostics to check levels on compressed air, energy cells, and ballast. Everything was optimal, just as it was when it was secured to the Jackson by the boats team at Pearl. They'd load reserve cells before putting off.