Hunt the Dragon Page 8

  “We got to move on, Jeri. You know that.”

  “When did you start sounding like Dr. Phil?”

  She looked out the window at a passing bail bond office and a massage parlor, apparently lost in thought.

  “I forgot,” Crocker said, slapping the top of the Pelican case that rested near his feet. “We recovered this last night.” He popped it opened and Jeri’s eyes widened at the sight of the shrink-wrapped hundred-dollar bills packed inside.

  “Shit, Crocker! Why didn’t you say something before?”

  They left the case with the driver, who stayed with the vehicle as they walked into a brown brick building with the sign on the glass door that read NEVADA POWER COMPANY. Inside, a patently nervous official with a shaved head and strange-looking rectangular glasses invited them into his office.

  In a pinched voice, he said, “We’ve completed a preliminary crisis report and concluded that whoever killed the lights last night did so by hacking into our supervisory control and data acquisition system.”

  Crocker didn’t know what that entailed. Nor did he understand the two-page report the official handed them, which consisted mainly of computer code and terminology.

  “Any idea who was behind the attack?” he asked.

  The official squinted through his glasses. “In my line of work, we don’t use the word ‘attack.’ We call them incursions. Incursions are generally difficult to trace. Sometimes the people behind them are kids showing off and gaming the system. In other instances, they’re individuals or organization with more sinister motives.”

  “Which category do you think this incursion falls into?” asked Crocker.

  The official twitched and shrugged. “I’m a power official, not a criminal investigator. I assume you would know that answer better than me.”

  Jeri yawned and covered her mouth. “Based on what we know now, none of the casinos were hit and nothing was stolen.”

  “Then it’s possible the blackout was a prank,” the official said.

  “Makes you wonder about the guys who ran,” Crocker commented. “Wong and Petroc.”

  Jeri stopped reading the report and looked at him over the top of her glasses. “What do you mean?”

  “Makes me wonder if the whole thing was planned—the blackout to cover their escape, the helicopter to meet them in the desert.” Turning to the NPC official he asked, “How often do blackouts like this happen?”

  “In my eighteen years at the NPC, we’ve had a handful of minor incursions, but never one that shut down the entire system,” the official answered.

  Outside, as they prepared to climb into the SUV, Jeri turned to Crocker and said, “We knew we were looking at a counterfeiting operation that included Wong and Petroc. You think the blackout was part of it, too?”

  “That’s what my gut tells me.”

  “You’re smarter than you look, honey,” she said, scrunching up her face in thought. “I’ll check with DC.”

  Dawkins had consumed half a bottle of silky, dry Clos Fourtet 2012 and enjoyed a dinner of hanger steak with Bordelaise sauce. He even had ice cream and espresso for dessert. But the hospitality ended as the jet started its descent. That’s when the sunglassed guard roughly tied a blindfold over his eyes and handcuffed his wrists in front of him. There were no further explanations from Miss Wa. No announcements from the pilot. No further warnings or instructions.

  The plane banked sharply and bounced, then touched down gently, braked, and taxied to a stop.

  His stomach was in his throat now, and he felt more anxious and alone than at any time in his life. Worse than when he’d gotten lost in the foothills of the Adirondacks while camping with his father. At least then, he knew he was in the United States. Now he was almost certain he wasn’t.

  “This way, Mr. Dawkins,” Miss Wa instructed.

  The guard pulled him upright and wrapped some kind of parka around his shoulders. The air outside was cold and smelled of jet fuel and agriculture. People around him murmured in an Asian language: Chinese? Mongolian? Korean? He couldn’t tell.

  The warm room he entered smelled of rubbing alcohol. Someone checked his blood pressure. Then he felt a cold stethoscope on his chest and back.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked.

  No one answered.

  Fear tingled upward from the base of his spine. Now he was on a bus, thinking about the trip Nan and he had made to Beijing eight and half years ago to meet their adopted daughter. At two months of age she had been placed on the steps of a bank in southern China, clad in a pink dress and wrapped in a blanket. On what the adoption agency called Gotcha Day, he was the first to hold her. The connection he made with Chun, who they renamed Karen, was powerful and immediate. He couldn’t remember feeling happier. Now he missed her. He also remembered his older sister, who he hadn’t spoken to in months. As kids they’d played doctor, until their mother caught them partially naked one day in the bathroom of their house in Colorado.

  After a four-hour bus ride he boarded a boat. The farther he traveled, the more helpless he felt. He and Nan had been married for fifteen years now. She was his rock. All he wanted was to return home and be with his family. He told himself that he would do whatever he had to in order to make that possible. He had never thought of himself as brave, but so far he had surprised himself. Despite the fear and uncertainty, he was holding it together.

  The boat docked, and he was helped off and led down a path to a concrete entrance of some kind and then an elevator. The elevator descended slowly.

  He heard the shuffle of shoes against a concrete floor. He smelled mildew. A door creaked open and he was led into a room and pushed into a chair. Someone removed the handcuffs and blindfold.

  He blinked into the harsh fluorescent light. The walls were painted a dull shade of green. Across from him was a metal bed covered with an olive-green blanket. A young Asian woman moved in front him wearing a white shirt and baggy black pants worn high. She bent at the waist and peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses like she was studying a strange creature in a zoo.

  “Welcome, Mr. Dawkin,” she said in heavily accented English. “My name is Sung. I am your assistant. I happy to meet you. It is my pleasure. Would you desire tea?”

  He tried to conceal the feeling of hopelessness that was descending over him. “No, not now,” he said with a tight smile. “But thank you for the offer.” It felt like three times gravity was pushing down on every part of his body.

  He could barely keep his eyes open and focused. A guard stood at the door like a statue, dressed in a baggy camouflage uniform and cap. Everything felt cold and strange.

  “Would you like soda and crackers?”

  He struggled to get the words out. “No thanks.”

  “You looked tired, Mr. Dawkin, so I let you rest. If you need anything, push white button on wall. I…come.” She pulled the blanket back and beckoned him to the bed as if dealing with a child. He sensed humanity in her gesture. Shivering, he crossed the cold concrete floor.

  He lay down with his clothes on, heard the door lock behind her, and fell asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Character is destiny.

  —Heraclitus

  The pilot of the Blackhawk had a Steelers logo tattooed on the back of his neck. Crocker was tempted to tell him about the time two well-known Steelers defensive players showed up at his house in Virginia to work out with him. Within an hour he was just getting warmed up and both of them were puking on his front lawn. But what would be the point? He didn’t want to appear to be a braggart, and it wouldn’t be smart to distract the pilot, especially when they were closing in on their target, a North Korean container ship named the Cong Son Gang. So he dry-checked the HK416 in his lap and kept his mouth shut.

  Back in DC, Jeri had started to assemble the pieces of an international conspiracy that involved counterfeit money, illegal arms shipments, and narcotics, possibly originating in China, North Korea, or Iran. Now he was chasing a North Korean ship suspec
ted of playing a role in it. The evidence was sketchy—captured text messages about “valued goods” to an Iranian official in Singapore from a phone linked to Wong and Petroc.

  Nevertheless, Crocker was back in the fray and grateful that the hearing in Fairfax County had been pushed back. Two days ago he learned that Captain Sutter had written a letter to the judge explaining the important role Crocker played in protecting the country’s national security and asking that the charges against him be dropped. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to worry about it again.

  Everything on the HK416 seemed secure—the AAC (Advanced Armaments Corp.) suppressor, AG416 40mm grenade launcher and AN/PVS-17 scope.

  His Black Cell teammate Akil, on the bench beside him listening to “One” by Metallica through his headphones, turned to him and mouthed “Awesome.”

  “One” happened to be one of Crocker’s favorite workout songs. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Won’t be so awesome when you shred your eardrums.”

  “What?”

  “Your mama’s so fat the back of her neck looks like a package of hot dogs.”

  Akil nodded to the beat of the music and flashed a thumbs-up. A couple of SEALs on the opposite bench laughed. Akil was a knucklehead, but Crocker loved him. Appreciated his family, too, a tight-knit group of Egyptian Americans employed in Akil’s father’s jewelry shops in and around Detroit.

  Crocker tucked the gold ankh good luck symbol Akil’s father had given him under his combat vest. Last time he was in Michigan, Akil’s old man had told him about the incidences of anti-Muslim prejudice directed against them—slurs painted on their car, rocks thrown through windows, garbage dumped on their front stoop. It pissed Crocker off.

  He tried to be objective. With ISIS radicals routinely hacking off people’s heads and raping women, he understood why many Americans felt outraged and angry. But the guys in ISIS and al-Qaeda occupied the lunatic fringe. Most Muslims were decent people who wanted a better life for their families. Some were freedom-loving Americans, and a few, like Akil, played an important and heroic role in the war on terrorism.

  The copilot barked through Crocker’s headset, “Zero Alpha, Tango Two. Eyes on target, one o’clock.”

  He jolted to attention. “Copy, Tango. Over.”

  Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder, then pumped his fist up and down and pointed at the forward windshield to tell the members of Team Alpha to get ready. Filling out Alpha were four other SEALs from DEVGRU (Team Six)—Jenks, Tré, Pauly, and Sam. Most of them were guys Crocker had never worked with before. His Black Cell teammates Mancini, Suarez, Davis, and Cal were either on medical or personal leave and therefore unavailable.

  A light southeast wind rocked the Blackhawk. They were currently fifteen miles off the coast of Singapore in the Strait of Malacca—a busy shipping lane that had been the scene of hundreds of pirate attacks from 2001 to 2004. Now it was regularly patrolled by the Indonesian, Indian, Malaysian, and Singaporean navies.

  Because their target was still in Singaporean waters, the Singapore Maritime Police cutter White Shark, commanded by Captain Kin Han, would do the initial intercept. Earlier this morning Captain Han and Crocker had traded sets of 350-pound bench presses at the SMP gym. It wasn’t something Crocker did often. Instead of adding bulk, he preferred to remain lean so he could shoot and scoot.

  The SEALs were in the air to provide backup should the crew of the Cong Son Gang try to evade the Marine Police or things get noisy. Given that this was a North Korean freighter headed for Iran and that the North Koreans had a reputation for being crazy, they had to be prepared for anything.

  Crocker slammed a twenty-round 5.56mmx45mm mag in his weapon, checked that everything in his assault vest was secure, then turned left and tried to locate the vessel through the forward windows. The early morning yellow-orange haze obscured the water, making it hard to spot anything, even something the size of a 295-meter-long container ship.

  His last week and a half had involved a whirlwind of travel—Vegas to Virginia Beach; Virginia Beach to DC; DC to Coronado, CA; Coronado to Honolulu; Honolulu to Okinawa; Okinawa to the USS Ronald Reagan, stationed in the Indian Ocean off the island of Sumatra.

  “Zero Alpha, this is White Shark One, do you read me? Over.”

  “Send, White Shark One. Over.”

  “Moving into position. Ready to initiate radio contact.”

  “Copy. Over.”

  The Blackhawk hovering at three hundred meters flattened the chop in a circular pattern. Even with the engines roaring, Crocker could hear EDM blasting through Akil’s headphones. He shoved his shoulder.

  Akil turned to him and lifted his grizzled square chin. “What?”

  “You’re not gonna be able to hear anything,” he said, pointing at Akil’s headphones.

  Akil pulled them down. “This? It’s Swedish House Mafia.” He sang off-key, “‘We’re gonna save the world tonight…’”

  “Not like that, you won’t.”

  “Whadda you know about music?”

  Crocker preferred classic rock like the Stones and sixties-era jazz. Brubeck, Getz, Monk, and Davis were his current faves. He regretted leaving his iPod in the locker back at SMP headquarters.

  The haze was starting to burn off, so he lifted the binos and could now make out the long container ship with the rusted white hull and yellow-blue-and-red stack. Looked like it was badly in need of some TLC. Pulling up to one side was a much smaller and sharper-looking white-red-and-blue Singapore Maritime Police cutter.

  Five minutes passed without the Cong Son Gang appearing to reduce speed and Crocker growing antsy.

  “Zero Alpha, this is White Shark One. The target is not responding to our radio signals, so we’re going to initiate blocking maneuvers.”

  “Copy, White Shark One,” Crocker responded. “We’re standing by. Over.”

  He wasn’t surprised. North Korean vessels were notorious for not responding to internationally accepted maritime signals and conduct.

  “What the fuck we waiting for?” Akil asked as he removed his shiny new Beats headphones.

  “For you to get your shit together. Ready?”

  “Always, boss.”

  “Put your toys away and inspect the rope,” Crocker said, nodding toward the back of the helo.

  “Copy that.”

  Through his Steiner binos, Crocker watched as the Marine Police cutter positioned itself in the path of the container ship and the ship changed course to steer around it. He glanced down at his Suunto watch to start to measure how long this would last when he heard a rip from the White Shark’s 25mm Bushmaster chain gun and looked up.

  Captain Han wasn’t playing. Either that, or the Cong Son Gang was nearing the limit of Singaporean territorial waters and Han was taking this bit of United States–Singapore cooperation seriously. Maybe he had a personal motive. At the gym that morning, he’d talked about wanting to get his daughter admitted to MIT.

  Crocker removed the Hellstorm SOLAG gloves from the carabiner on his web belt and pulled them on. The four SEALs on the opposite bench followed suit. On hearing the gunfire, the pilot of the U.S. Navy Blackhawk moved in closer so they were only a hundred meters behind the North Korean freighter and two hundred meters overhead.

  Crocker felt the adrenaline building in his system. Below he saw the Cong Son Gang tack left past the White Shark and closer to the eastern edge of Sumatra, which glistened in the distance. Interesting corner of the world, Crocker thought. And one he wanted to explore further. He’d read a lot about Borneo and its rain forests and diverse species, which included orangutans, barking deer, pig-tailed macaques, and huge flying fox bats. It lay about six hundred nautical miles to the southeast.

  Below, the White Shark’s Bushmaster and twin 12.7mm machine guns echoed in unison. When the smoke cleared, the Cong Son Gang showed no signs of slowing down.

  Stubborn fucks.

  Through his headset he heard, “Zero Alpha, this is White Shark One. The target is not respo
nding. Engage! Engage!”

  The Blackhawk pilot swooped down and hovered over the forward deck of the Gang at forty meters. A patchwork of orange, rusty-white, and dark-blue shipping containers bobbed and swayed below.

  “Ready!” Akil shouted.

  “Ready!”

  On a hand signal from Akil the copilot disengaged the hatch, whereupon Akil threw the braided-nylon 1.7-inch-diameter fast rope out, located a container to land on, and went down first, expertly and fast. Crocker felt a burst of pride. The other SEALs followed in designated order, ten feet apart. Crocker went last, using his hands and feet to hold the rope and slide down smoothly. Once on deck, he scanned 360 degrees through the AN/PVS-17 scope.

  No greeting party or targets in sight. The ship itself looked old and tired. The foremast was literally coming apart and listed to one side. Some of the shoe-fit latches on the hatch covers didn’t close properly, and the bridge tower front was pitted with rust.

  Move and cover.

  He signaled Akil and Jenks to wait while he, Tré, Pauly, and Sam took the bridge. They slipped past a dozen forty-foot containers, the rubber composition soles of their Merrell boots muffling the sound. Entering the tower, they climbed five levels of metal steps to the bridge. Crocker tried the metal door, but it was locked.

  He banged on it and called out, “We’re U.S. Navy working with the Singapore Maritime Police. We’re here to inspect your ship.”

  “Door no work!” came the answer.

  “Either you open this door or we blow it in.”

  “Door no work!”

  He signaled to the breacher, Sam, to apply the charges—strips of C-4—then shouted through the door, “Tell all your crew members to stand back!”

  As Sam readied the strips and detonators someone unlatched the door from within and let it slowly creak open. Confronting them was a skinny Asian man in black pajama pants and an old white T-shirt with a defiant look on his face. He was holding a .38 revolver in his right hand, currently aimed at the floor but alarming nonetheless.