The Gate

CHAPTER 8

The proper papers had been filed and all was in order. The Am Nok Sung was cleared to leave San Francisco Harbor any time between 2200 and 2400 local time. The ship was 20,000 tons, less than mid-sized as oceangoing ships went. The forward deck consisted of several large hatches leading to refrigerated holds for the fish. At the rear a three-story bridge complex rose up, overlooking the ship.

The Am Nok Sung actually had a complement of twelve men on board whose only job was to indeed conduct fishing operations to maintain the ship’s cover and sail the ship. A platoon of North Korean Special Forces made up the rest of the crew. Minus the two men they’d lost on Yerba Buena Island, whose identity baffled San Francisco police, there were still sixteen combat-hardened men left on board.

They only had seven MAC-10s between them for firepower, but a black belt in a Taste Kwon Do was a requirement for every member of the North Korean Special Forces. When getting ready to depart on this mission it had been a most difficult decision to not bring their own weapons on board the ship. The platoon commander had demanded that he be allowed to bring weapons, but the overall mission commander in North Korea had overruled him. The American customs officials had too good of a record. A platoon of soldiers on board a ship with hidden weapons would have been a most unfortunate discovery. Thus, when the ship had come into port, customs had found nothing other than a very strange-looking crew; but there was nothing illegal about that.

There was a twenty-ninth man on board, neither soldier nor crew, who answered only to the platoon commander. This man was a linguist, fluent in English and Japanese, and he was currently locked in a room on the second floor of the ship’s bridge tower, three-quarters of the way back on the deck. The bridge and radio shack were one floor above him while the main quarters were one floor below. The twenty-ninth man, Kim Pak, had the box that so many people were now interested in sitting on the desk in front of him. He was going through it, one document at a time, reading carefully, looking for a couple of key items.

In the center of San Francisco Bay, Nishin stood on the bridge of an old tugboat, watching the Am Nok Sung through a set of night-vision goggles. He could see the crew moving about the deck of the trawler.

“They will be leaving shortly,” Oyabun Okomo said. “We must follow until they clear the inner shoals.” He nodded toward the man standing inside the bridge at the wheel. “My friend Captain Ohashi says he will be able to follow with all lights off. He knows these waters quite well.”

“How will we get on board?” Nishin asked. “Oyabun,” he added after getting no immediate response.

“Leave that to me,” Okomo said. “You are paying but I command.” The old man smiled. “My men will make short work of those Korean pigs on board.”

Nishin glanced down at the deck of the tugboat where two dozen Yakuza toughs armed with automatic weapons waited. He had fought the Koreans at the university and fort. He’d seen what they’d done in the tunnel. They had been disciplined and professional. He knew it would not go as the Oyabun thought it would. That was fine with Nishin. Because in the end, he preferred no one, North Korean or Yakuza, came off the trawler alive.

Lake grabbed the duffle bag out of the back of Araki’s van. “How’d you arrange for the chopper?” he asked as they walked down a set of stairs to the concrete landing pier built out over the harbor. A four-seat Bell Jet Ranger sat waiting, blades slowly turning.

Araki smiled and pulled out a small piece of plastic. “MasterCard Gold Card. No credit limit. I have promised the pilot a very generous bonus if he ignores whatever he sees tonight.”

“Your government treats its agents better than mine,” Lake said as he slipped into the back seat while Araki sat in the right front seat next to the pilot. He put a set of headphones on and pulled the boom mike in front of his lips as the blades increased velocity and the skids lifted.

As they swooped over water, Lake began emptying the contents of his duffle bag on the back seat.

The Am Nok Sung rounded the northeast side of the San Francisco peninsula and the Golden Gate Bridge have into view. Fog was beginning to swirl about the top of the towers, slowly descending. The trawler slipped underneath the arch of the roadway.

Screws picked up speed. Going with the current, the Am Nok Sung was making good time, as was the tugboat that followed unseen. Point Bonita was several miles off to the right, not visible as the fog cut visibility down to under three miles.

“You can pay me all you like,” the pilot of the Jet Ranger announced, “but the fog rules out here. I can’t go any lower.”

The Am Nok Sung had been lost to sight just before going under the Golden Gate. They knew it was down there somewhere and by using navigational charts they could guess at the course which would follow the main shipping channel, but they couldn’t be sure of the speed.

“Any bright ideas?” Lake asked from the back seat. He was ready. He had a parachute on his back, a helmet with night-vision goggles attached on his head, a silenced MP5 Heckler and Koch submachine gun strapped across his chest, and a wet suit on under all the gear. He’d gotten all the equipment from the Ranch drop site prior to meeting Araki. He was ready, but the weather wasn’t cooperating.

“Actually,” Araki said from the front seat, “I do.” He pulled his metal briefcase up and flipped open the lid.

“What’s that?” Lake asked, peering over the back of Araki’s seat.

“Direction finder,” Araki replied.

“You put a bug on the trawler?” Lake was impressed.

“No,” Araki said. “I have a bug in Nishin.”

“In Nishin?” Lake repeated. That brought two questions to mind and he asked the most immediate first. “Is Nishin on board the trawler?”

“No, but he will be soon. I intercepted some of his communications. I know he was in contact with the local Yakuza and they are providing him with assistance. They are following the trawler on board a tugboat. When they stop the trawler, this computer will tell us where both are. I am sure they will wait until the boat is outside the twelve mile limit.”

Lake had to wonder at the extent of Araki’s intelligence net. The man knew more of what was going on than Lake did, and this was Lake’s turf. He asked the second question. “How did you get a bug in Nishin?”

“It is a long story,” Araki said. He turned and looked at Lake with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I must be allowed to keep some of my organization’s secrets.”

“Right,” Lake said, leaning back in the seat. He looked at the rear of Nishin’s head as the man directed the pilot, keeping them in the air above the position the computer told him was Nishin’s location. Lake wondered if he had underestimated his Japanese counterpart. Lake could tell they were steadily moving to the west, out to sea, but all he could see below was a wall of white fog.

“Nishin is directly below us,” Araki announced, tapping the screen of the small computer on his lap.

“What’s our altitude?” Lake asked.

“Six thousand feet,” the pilot answered.

“Get us up to ten thousand,” Lake said. “How far out to sea are we?”

Nishin was working his computer. “I put us seven miles from the Golden Gate.”

“The fog’s not as thick this far out,” the pilot added.

Lake leaned over and looked down. There were patches of clear below. He could see the dark surface of the ocean here and there.

“Look!” Nishin said. “There, ahead. The Am Nok Sung.”

Lake followed Nishin’s finger. The running lights of a ship were visible about a half-mile ahead, then they just as quickly disappeared again into the fog. “Where’s Nishin?”

“Directly below. He’s closing on the trawler.”

“Next opening we get,” Lake said, “I’m going down. We can’t wait too much longer.” He felt the familiar thrill of pending action surge through his body. He checked the MP-5 one more time.

The openings in the fog bothered Nishin. He was afraid they would be spotted. “We must take them now!” he insisted.

“We are not twelve miles out,” Okomo said.

“We are close enough,” Nishin said. “We wait any longer we will not be able to surprise them.”

Okomo pointed a finger forward and Ohashi pushed down on the throttle. The powerful engines increased revolutions and the tug’s stubby prow butted its way through the four-foot swell.

“Here,” Araki said, handing what looked like a watch back to Lake. “Put this on.”

“What is it?” Lake asked, taking it.

“A homing device. I will be able to find you with my computer.”

Lake strapped it on his wrist.

“I’m not going to be able to pick him back up,” the pilot said, worry over the entire operation showing in the pitch of his voice. He had glanced back and watched Lake rig the parachute and gun and his enthusiasm had waned accordingly.

“You will not have to get involved. I will make other arrangements,” Araki said confidently. “There! She’s in the clear again.”

“I’m out of here.” Lake took off the headset. He pushed open the left rear door. Reaching with his feet, he found the skid. Holding onto the side of the doorframe, he stood on the skid, then dove outwards, assuming a perfect exit position, arms akimbo, palms down, back arched, head looking at the horizon. He waited a few seconds, then pulled the ripcord. The chute blossomed open and he quickly grabbed the toggles, to control the square canopy.

He could still see the Am Nok Sung on the open patch below and began a long, slow circle above it, descending all the while. As he was watching, a second ship appeared in the opening, less than two hundred feet behind the Am Nok Sung, then just as quickly the fog shifted and both were gone. Lake maintained his orientation and went down toward where he thought the ships would be when he reached ocean altitude.

Above him, Araki tapped the pilot on the shoulder and directed him to head to a location farther to the west.

“Ai!” Captain Ohashi cried out as they suddenly broke into clear air and the Am Nok Sung suddenly appeared a couple of hundred feet ahead. “Full reverse,” he hissed into the phone connecting him to the engine room. He rapidly spun the helm several revolutions to the right and the prow ponderously swung in that direction.

Every muscle in Nishin’s body was tense as he unconsciously tried to will the tug back into the protective covering of the fog. Okomo barked out a command and the Yakuza on deck trained their weapons on the rear deck of the trawler.

Just as quickly the Am Nok Sung was gone again, a line of white floating along its length and then the stern disappearing. Ohashi spun the wheel back right and ordered full thrust forward. “We will be on them in a minute,” the captain said.

Okomo turned and climbed down the short ladder to the front deck and Nishin followed. Several of the Yakuza held grappling hooks with knotted ropes attached to them.

Nishin pulled back the charging handle on his Steyr AUG. He put the stock into his shoulder and looked through the scope. Nothing but white ahead. He peered over the weapon.

A black wall appeared suddenly, thirty feet in front of them. Nishin snapped the weapon back into the ready position. The tug slid up to the left side of the ship and hooks were thrown.

A face looked over the side of the ship at the sound of metal hitting metal, and as the Korean prepared to call out an alert, Nishin settled the laser aiming dot on the center of the man’s face and lightly squeezed the trigger. A red flower blossomed where the man’s face had been and then it was gone. The piece of expended brass fell onto the deck plates at Nishin’s feet, the only sound the gun made. The first of the Yakuza were clambering up the ropes.

Lake was disoriented. Not just as to where the Am Nok Sung and the tug were below him, but also vertically. He shifted his eyes from looking down to a quick glance at the altimeter on the navigation board strapped on top of his reserve. Four hundred feet above sea level. He was in the middle of a thick white soup with nothing to orient on.

“Shit,” Lake muttered. He braked hard, slowing his descent as much as possible, but no matter what he did, he was still going down.

On board the Am Nok Sung the translator put the document he had just read in the completed pile and looked at the next one. His eyes froze as he read the heading:

The translator turned the page and there it was: the further orders with the following day’s date, time, group. He read down the text of the document and sharply exhaled. He quickly copied the text of both messages onto a piece of paper. He sprang to his feet and ran for the radio room, the paper grasped in his hand.

Nishin was working his way up the right side of the short rear deck, his destination the bridge. Whoever was in charge would be there and he had no doubt that not far from that person would be the documents.

A roar of automatic fire from one of the Yakuza signaled the outbreak of all-out combat on the deck of the trawler. At least they were all on board, was Nishin’s thought as he carefully aimed and killed a Korean on the wing of the bridge deck.

Nishin made it to the base of the three-story bridge complex and slowed down, edging his way along the steel wall. He had far outdistanced the Yakuza who were still making their way across the rear deck, embroiled in combat with a handful of Korean soldiers.

Lake heard automatic fire below him and to the left. He pulled on the toggles and steered in the direction of the firing.

The battle became pitched as the North Koreans rallied and fought back ferociously. Their lack of firepower, only seven MAC-10s, was made up for by their training and disregard for their own safety. A hatch swung open in front of Nishin and two Koreans sprang out. He killed the first with a burst from the Steyr AUG. In his dying second the man threw himself onto the muzzle of the gun and Nishin was forced to drop it to face the second man, who was armed with a fire ax.

The man swung and Nishin leaped back, the ax scattering sparks as it hit the side of the bridge tower. Nishin jumped in, grabbing the Korean’s arm that controlled the ax and striking a kite blow in the direction of the man’s throat. He missed, his hand slamming into the man’s collarbone, snapping it.

The ax fell to the deck with a clatter, but the North Korean was far from being done. He snapped a front kick into Nishin’s gut, doubling him over. Nishin dropped the standard moves he’d been trained on and growled as he butted his head forward into the man’s stomach, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. He lifted him and slammed him back against the wall. Again. Shifting slightly he did it a third time and the Korean screamed as the handle for the hatch ripped into his back, tearing through skin and muscle.

Nishin stepped back. The Korean was caught on the handle, but he was still alive, writhing in agony, trying by force of will to lift himself off the metal hook, but his feet could get no purchase, dangling six inches off the deck.

Nishin slipped past the man, ducking the dying blow the Korean threw at his head. Inside, a set of stairs beckoned to Nishin, heading up toward the bridge.

Lake had his feet and knees tight together, just like the jump masters at Fort Benning used to scream through megaphones at novice airborne students to do as they drifted toward the ground on their first jump. The firing was much closer now, but the fog was just as thick. Lake glanced at his altimeter: one hundred feet.

He cocked his head. He could hear the throb of a ship’s engines in between staccato bursts of fire. He rotated his elbows in to protect his face and kept his knees slightly bent.

Something passed by, about twenty feet in front of him. A ship’s crane. He pulled in the last inch of slack in the toggle lines and then he touched down on steel decking, grateful for the deceleration of the square canopy that made his landing so soft. He kept on his feet and ripped open the canopy release assemblies on the front of his shoulder. He popped open the small steel loops inside. The parachute hadn’t even settled yet and he was out free of it. The chute drifted over the side of the ship and disappeared.

Lake unhitched the MP-5 as he looked about. He was on the forward deck, standing on top of one of the large cargo hatches. All the firing seemed to be coming from the rear. Lake began making his way to the stern.

Quantity was prevailing over quality. Surprise also was a factor with a third of the North Koreans having died before they realized they were under attack. The platoon commander screamed commands from the open windows of the bridge, rallying his forces, with their final defensive line being the island the bridge was on.

He gave instructions to the ship’s captain, then went to the radio shack at the back of the bridge. It was a small, windowless room with half its space taken up by a sophisticated communications array.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, seeing the translator sitting at the small table, rapidly typing a message into the encryption device.

“I found it’v” *e man yelled excitedly. “You will not believe what it says.” He thrust the piece of paper he was copying off of in the platoon commander’s face.

“You have radioed this information?” the commander asked.

“Not yet,” the translator said. “I just finished typing the message into the encryption machine.”

“Good,” the commander said. He pulled out a double edged knife from its sheath.

“What are you—” The translator never finished the sentence as the commander slammed the blade to the hilt into the man’s chest.

The commander shoved the body aside and sat down at the radio. He began checking the equipment to make sure it was properly set.

Nishin pushed open the door to the room on the second floor and stepped in, muzzle of the AUG leading. The room was empty and he turned to leave when he noticed the box sitting on the small table in the center of the room. Stepping over, Nishin confirmed it was the box stolen from the university the previous evening. There was no time to investigate further. He had to make sure the Koreans were finished first. He went back out, closing the door behind.

Lake surprised two men locked in combat on the left side of the bridge tower. He killed them both with a short burst from his MP-5. There were several other bodies scattered about, both Korean and Japanese. Lake could hear firing coming from above him and he knew that was where he had to go.

Nishin cleared the bridge with one sustained, silenced burst from the Steyr AUG. He leaped over a body and kicked open the door at the back of the bridge. A man sat by the radio, his hands on a computer keyboard, a body at his feet. Nishin fired, his bullets slamming the man up against the radio console, blood spraying the machinery.

Nishin rushed over but he saw he was too late. Two words flashed on the computer screen: message sent.

There was a paper in the man’s hand. Nishin knelt and carefully pulled it out of the dead fingers that clutched it. He stuffed it inside his shirt. He checked the numbers on the digital displays of the radio, committing them to memory.

There were voices speaking behind him in Japanese. He reentered the bridge. Oyabun Okomo was standing with a handful of surviving Yakuza, several of them sporting wounds.

Okomo pulled a body off of the bridge controls and grimaced. “We are sinking.”

His words caused Nishin’s trigger finger to pause just a millimeter from pulling back. He looked about. The ship was listing slightly to the right. Three more Yakuza entered the left side of the bridge, weapons at the ready. Nishin removed his finger from the trigger.

“The captain opened the sea cocks to scuttle the ship,” Okomo explained, slapping the control panel. “They are jammed. We cannot close them. We must get to the tugboat before it is too late.”

“We have achieved what we came for,” Nishin agreed. He would get the box on the way out. They all turned for the stairs.

Lake heard the voices one flight up. There was no more sound of gunfire. He edged open a door, the muzzle of his MP-5 leading. An empty cabin with a couple of bunks and a small table. On the table a cardboard box stood unattended. Lake slid into the room and checked. The box was the one that had been stolen from Harmon’s archives. A folder ^was open on the table top, Xeroxed pages pressed flat about halfway in. Lake quickly shut the folder and stuffed it into the box. He pulled a couple of plastic garbage bags out of his wet suit and wrapped them around the box, sealing each one with duct tape.

He could feel the ship angling over to starboard. Lake estimated about a ten-degree list, getting worse very quickly. Since he had heard no explosion he had to assume someone was scuttling the ship. He worked faster.

As he sealed the last bag, Lake heard footsteps clattering on the metal stairs outside. A head poked in the door and Lake greeted it with one round from the MP-5 right between the eyes. He could see two men behind, but the door swung shut before he had a chance to shoot again.

Pieces of skull and gray brain matter exploded into Nishin’s face from the Yakuza in front of him who had looked in the room. He flattened against the bulkhead. He had had just a glimpse into the room, but that had been enough. The American gun dealer again! What was he doing here and why was he with the box? The man was wearing a wet suit, which indicated he had gotten on board the ship after it left the harbor, even though they hadn’t seen anyone board. Nishin checked the magazine on the AUG. He was going to finish this meddlesome round-eye once and for all.

Okomo was on the other side of the door and held up a hand as Nishin reached for the door handle. “Leave whoever is in there. The ship will be down soon. We must go! Now! We do not have time for this.” The Oyabun’s voice brooked no dissension. Nishin was tempted to kill the old man then and there, but there were too many of his henchmen about. Now was not the time.

Recovering the box was not essential, Nishin knew.

Making sure no one else would ever recover it was. If the ship went down, that would be sufficient.

Nishin grabbed a fire ax and slid the wood handle through the metal spokes of the hatch’s handle. It jammed against the far side of the hatch, effectively freezing the wheel. The American would die with the ship.

They continued on their way out of the bridge castle. As they ran they could feel the trawler listing farther to the right.

The tug was still nudging the right rear of the trawler, although closer to deck level now that the trawler was lower in the water. Nishin grabbed one of the lines that was tied off on the railing and lowered himself hand over hand to the waiting deck.

Lake heard the feet move away, but he continued to wait another couple of minutes, fearing a trap. He tried the door but it didn’t move. He tried again, straining against the metal wheel. Nothing. Now he knew the meaning of the Japanese words he had heard but not understood and the sound of wood on metal that had followed them.

Lake ran through the options. He turned about. There was no other door and no portholes in the room. Just metal walls, ceiling and floor. Conduits in PVC pipes disappeared through the ceiling. There were two pipes, each three inches in diameter. Even if he ripped them out he would barely be able to get his arm through, never mind his whole body.

Lake looked back at the door. The metal wheel handle had no exposed screws or nuts that would allow him to remove the entire handle. He grabbed hold and tried turning in the opposite direction from open. The handle moved about an inch then froze. He shifted back the other way an inch. Then again.

The trawler’s engines were contributing to its rapid death by pushing water into the openings in the hull. The trawler was still moving forward, albeit slower than before, as it was ten feet lower in the water. Fifty yards to starboard, Nishin was watching the ship go down. He hadn’t gotten the box, but that wasn’t the important thing — it was going down with the ship and no one had it now. The American, well that was a puzzle, one which he would not have to figure out now.

“We must circle and make sure there are no survivors,” Nishin said.

Okomo grunted out some commands to Captain Ohashi and the tugboat began circling.

“I lost sixteen men,” Okomo said. He spit. “The Koreans fought better than I expected.”

Not as well as Nishin had expected, though. There were still a dozen armed Yakuza on board the tug. His wish to get rid of Okomo and his thugs would have to be forgotten. He needed them to make it back to the safety of land to report the mission’s success.

He was concerned about the man he had killed in the radio room, though. The Koreans had managed to send out a message. What had been the message? He hoped Nakanga would know, yet at the same time he dreaded informing him of it. He thought of the piece of paper he had taken off the man at the radio, but he knew he dared not read it in front of Okomo.

A wave crashed over the bow of the trawler. “How deep is the water here?” Nishin asked.

“Eighteen fathoms. Just over a hundred feet,” Captain Ohashi said.

A voice cried out on the forward deck. Nishin looked down at a Yakuza who was pointing to the port. Two figures in life vests were struggling in the heavy swell.

A Yakuza raked them with fire from an AK-47, killing both men. “Pull the bodies on board!” Okomo yelled out. “Take their lifejackets off and throw them back for the sharks to have.” The Yakuza did as they were ordered. “Another circle,” Okomo said. “I want no one alive to tell tales.”

Lake’s arms were like pistons as he rammed the handle back and forth in the one inch of slack. He was leaning now, the deck beneath his feet angled at thirty degrees to starboard. There was no give yet in the wood on the other side, but there were no other options. Perspiration poured down his neck, seeping into the collar of his wet suit, joining the sweat that was already soaking it.

There was a loud crashing sound and the ship paused in its forward momentum. Lake didn’t stop, his arms moving back and forth.

“One of the forward cargo hatches just went,” Captain Ohashi said as the sound reverberated through the fog. “It won’t be long now. The water will get to the engines soon.”

They had circled the trawler twice now and found no other survivors. The bow of the trawler was now completely underwater. As the ocean cascaded into the forward hatches, the ship dipped farther down until everything was under except the bridge castle, angled over to the right, sinking down a couple of feet a second. “Let’s go home,” Okomo ordered.

Ohashi spun the wheel about and pointed the prow of the ship toward the Golden Gate. Nishin turned and watched, his last sight the top of the bridge of the trawler disappearing and nothing left on the surface. Then the fog swallowed up the tug.

Lake had listened to the engines sputter and stop a couple of minutes ago. At least the list wasn’t getting any worse, staying steady at about thirty-five degrees to starboard. But he could hear hatches blowing out and water tearing through bulkheads under his feet. The ship was dying and he didn’t have very long before he matched its fate.

There was the slightest give in the distance the hatch moved freely, perhaps an extra quarter inch. Lake’s arm muscles were screaming in pain from the exertion of the constant movement. He laid on the floor and jammed his back against the floor as he used his feet to kick the handle, then his arms to pull it back the inch and a half, then he kicked again. He fell into the new rhythm even as he heard water sloshing in the hallway on the other side of the door. The seal on the door wasn’t perfect as water under pressure slowly began to seep in around several spots on the frame as the water filled the corridor outside.

The PVC pipes exploded, sending shards of plastic through the room. Seawater spurted through where they had been. Lake shook the spray out of his eyes and turned his head. The level in the room was going up at an inch every five seconds. Slower than the ship was going down, he estimated, based on how quickly the water had filled up the passageway on the other side of the hatch.

The arc of movement oh the handle was getting slowly larger, now almost two inches. As water crept up around his chest and threatened to cover, his head, Lake had to stand and go back to just using his arms. As his muscles worked, his mind calculated. There were three variables. The wood holding the door shut was the key one. If it didn’t give before water filled the room, nothing else mattered. If it did, then there was the question of inside pressure versus outside water pressure. The ship was probably all underwater now and the pressure outside was greater than that in here. Lake wondered how deep the ocean was at this point. If they went down over a hundred feet, he could forget everything. There was no way he could make it out of the bridge complex and then make it to the surface from that depth.

The water edged up around his hips and continued sliding up his body. Lake had tied off the trash bags with the document box in them to his weight belt and the box thumped against his back as he continued to work the handle.

As the water reached his neck, Lake’s hands slipped off the handle. He quickly regained his grip and continued. Three inches now.

“Goddamn!” Lake hissed. The thing had to give! He accidentally sucked in a mouthful of seawater and tilted his head up to spit it out. He stood on his toes and took a deep breath, then squatted, completely submerged and gave one great shove. Four inches but that was all.

Lake let go and floated to the air trapped in the upper left corner of the room and took another breath. He felt the ship settle and come to a halt, still angled down and to the right. Lake didn’t know it, but the keel was down at over a hundred feet, but the height of the ship itself and the bridge tower put his depth at just about sixty feet below the ocean’s surface.

Lake dove down to the handle and gave three shoves before he had to swim back to the air pocket. It was about four feet by three feet by fourteen inches deep. Lake visually marked a spot on the wall before he dove back down for another try. When he came back for more air, he noted that the pocket had lost two inches. That gave him about four or five more tries before he was out of air. At least the pressure on both sides of the door would be equal now, which was a slight consolation.

Lake dove down and grasped the handle. He pulled it up, then slammed it down. Up again, then down. He felt something give. Excitedly he spun the handle and was rewarded with the door swinging open. The way out beckoned.

Lake turned and swam up to his air pocket, which-was now less than six inches in depth. He tilted his head back and his mouth was just below the ceiling as he sucked in several lungfuls of air.

Taking one last deep breath, he turned and dove for the door. He shot through and turned left up the outside corridor. The door to the left railway was open and Lake was out in the open, then he slammed to an abrupt halt, his waist jerking him. He twisted and looked. The garbage bag had caught on the railing and he was anchored to the ship. His hand grazed down his side and pulled out his dive knife. Just as he was about to slice through the offending plastic and free himself he halted. He reached down and grabbed the railing with his free hand. Dropping the knife, he pushed on the bag and freed it. Then he finned for the surface. Looking up, Lake could only see dark green. He had no idea how deep he was.

He reached and grabbed the knobs of his life preserver and popped them. The water wings inflated and accelerated his race to the surface.

Lake trailed a steady stream of bubbles out of the corner of his mouth as he’d been taught to do by sadistic instructors so many years ago in the water outside of Coronado, California, just a couple of hundred miles to the south of here.

But he realized he’d never been as deep as this as he ran out of air to blow out. He felt his chest spasm, then he involuntarily opened his mouth and seawater came in, filling his mouth, leaking down his throat into his lungs. Lake spasmed, doubling over, no longer swimming, his body fighting to expel the foreign substance filling his lungs, but no matter how much he retched out, it was just replaced with more water.

Lake felt unconsciousness from lack of oxygen coming and he was looking forward to the relief from the pain in his lungs when he burst to the surface. He retched again, water and vomit pouring out of his mouth and air making its way in as he gasped. Lake’s insides felt like they were being torn apart as he coughed and hacked at the same time trying to suck oxygen in.

After several minutes of agony, he could breathe somewhat normally and he lay on his back and looked up. The fog was dissipating and the ocean around him was empty. There was a three-foot swell and an occasional wave lapped over his face.

Lake knew the currents around here were not favorable.

He was caught in the great surge of water coming out of the Golden Gate and pushing out to sea. He lay on his back and began finning to the east, even though he knew it was futile; the outward current was much stronger and quicker than his leg strokes.

Lake reached across his chest with his left hand and pushed a button on the side of the homing device that Araki had given him. Now he was going to find out how trustworthy his expedient partner was.