Beyond All Limits

1

Despite the enormous pressure, Captain Hank Sherman was not sweating; his skin was dry and cool, his respiration perfectly normal, his heart rate barely above resting.

The US Navy selected their submarine captains for their incredible cool under operational conditions, and Sherman was among the most experienced of that nation’s skilled submariners. And even now, in the middle of the Bohai Sea, his craft crawling along underneath a cavalcade of merchant marine traffic while the radar and sonar operators of the PLA coastal defense forces tried to distinguish friend from foe, Sherman looked like he was an executive sitting down for a sales meeting in a comfortable office — an everyday occurrence, and all business.

Sherman had piloted the sub through the narrow strait which separated the Yellow Sea from the Bohai just a few hours before, coming into the enclosed sea in the late afternoon — perfect to make his position in time for the nighttime dispersal of the SDV.

He had avoided the wider northern section of the strait, knowing that it was busier and monitored far more closely than the waters around the southern islands, and had instead travelled completely undetected between the Miaodao Archipelago and Tanglang Island.

It had been a nerve-shredding journey, so close to elements of the Chinese coastline, and Sherman had been forced to admit that — despite his years of operational success — this was the first time he’d had to infiltrate the territory of a technologically competitive nation. It was one thing to patrol the waters of the Persian Gulf and deliver special ops teams into Saudi Arabia, Iran and Pakistan, but it was an altogether different prospect to invade the waters of an enemy which had a real chance of detecting him.

But despite his reservations, he knew that the Virginia-class sub he commanded had been designed exactly for missions such as these, and if any submarine in the world was capable of performing such a task, it was the USS Texas.

He was well into the Bohai now, his sonar operators picking up such dense traffic in the waters above that Sherman felt certain that — even if the Texas wasn’t discovered — the SDV was sure to be seen by someone. The waters of the bay were shallow, the rivers that ingressed into the mainland even more so.

Intelligence reports also estimated that there were up to three Soviet Kilo-class submarines currently patrolling the waters of the Bohai Sea, under the banner of the PLA Submarine Force’s East Sea Fleet. However, Sherman’s crew hadn’t found signs of any, and his own analysts suggested that they might have left the close coastal waters to project power further out to sea, possibly as far as Taiwan. And anyway, with their diesel-electric engines, Sherman was confident that his crew would detect them before they could detect the Texas.

Sherman had already given the order for the special ops team — he still didn’t know who they were, or which branch of the military they represented — to enter the DDS and prepare for disembarkation.

He now received confirmation that the team was in place within the SEAL Delivery Vehicle, and the DDS had been flooded and pressurized.

Some of the divers from SDVT-1 were also now in the DDS, while others exited from the lockout trunk to help control things from outside.

Sherman looked around the combat direction center, checked for another update from his sonar operators, and consulted his large-screen monitor one last time. In place of a traditional periscope, the system used fiber optic imagery to generate above-sea views of the surrounding area.

The live images of the nighttime sea confirmed what the sonar said — there were cargo ships to both port and starboard, but not close enough to interfere with the release of the SDV, and further to stern were two fishing trawlers.

The area directly around the Texas was all-clear.

He looked across the CDC to the SEAL lieutenant in charge of the SDVT-1 squad and raised an eyebrow.

The commando looked back and nodded his head.

Sherman turned to his intercom and gave the order.

‘Launch SDV. I repeat — launch SDV.’

He sighed, at once relieved and terribly nervous.

It was out of his hands now.

Cole watched through his underwater night vision goggles as the SDVT-1 divers unlocked the circular hatch at the end of the DDS, opening it with the assistance of the team members waiting outside.

Cole was sitting in one of the two pilot’s seats, holding himself clear of the frame slightly and looking back so he could see where he was going as Collins reversed the SDV back out of the tubular Dry Dock Shelter, helped by the expert hands of the release team divers.

Cole and Collins were fully open to the elements, the pilot area simply two recessed gaps in the fuselage. There were sonar and GPS tracking and navigation systems, but the SDV was so small and maneuverable that skilled operators often relied on sticking their heads out and simply piloting by direct line of sight, using a manual control stick for the rudder, elevator and bow planes. Not too bad in shallow waters during the day, but far more problematic at night when the undersea kingdom was entirely pitch black and operational security demanded the absence of electric lights. The night-vision gear they had was good, but Cole was glad Collins would be doing most of the driving.

Still, he reflected as the battery-powered all-electric propulsion system slowly pulled the vehicle into the open waters of the Bohai Sea, at least he could see where he was going, a luxury that his four colleagues in the passenger compartment sadly didn’t have.

Navarone, Davis, Grayson and Barrington were all going to have to sit in the cramped, flooded, dark compartment behind Cole and Collins for the duration of the journey, a fact for which Cole didn’t envy them. But the ability to cope with the demands of such claustrophobic environments was one of the hallmarks of the special forces operator; it wasn’t just how well a person could fight, but their willingness and capacity to withstand the appalling conditions in which they often had to operate.

The infiltration up the Yongding New River from Bohai Bay was just under forty kilometers, well within the SDV’s sixty-six kilometer range. The mini-sub could go as fast as eight knots, but Cole and Collins had decided that five would be a more manageable cruising speed, and both men knew that it would often be far less than that as they entered shallower waters.

Figuring an average speed of only about three to four knots for the entire journey then, Cole expected to be at the RV point near the Changshen Expressway in five to seven hours. Cole’s CIA contact had agreed to meet the team on the G25 at four the next morning, exactly seven hours away. If they were early, then they would wait in the dark for the man to arrive; if it looked like they were going to be late, then they would have to risk increasing speed to make up the time. Seven hours was already a worst-case scenario according to their plans, but Cole knew that even the best laid plans might go completely wrong.

The SDV was fully out now, and the divers were disconnecting the hoses and pipes which fed the mini-sub from the dry dock. Cole watched the lead diver through his night-vision goggles as he gave the signal that the SDV was now fully under the pilot’s control, and felt the vehicle turn in the water as Collins led it round to face towards the Chinese coast.

The two men turned and nodded towards each other, and then Collins pressed the throttles and accelerated the tiny submarine inwards towards Bohai Bay.

Cole checked the instruments, visible through the night-vision goggles, and was pleased to see that they were making good progress. It had been a long time since he’d travelled via SDV, and he had forgotten what a rapid and maneuverable form of transport it was.

Collins was an excellent pilot too, keeping the mini-sub as low as it would go, careful to avoid the marine traffic above. They had been travelling for an hour now through the murky depths of the Bohai Sea, warped into an eerie, virtual reality green by his goggles, which at once made things clearer but also more disorientating.

Once again, he was glad that Collins was taking the lead; despite his recent session back at Coronado, there was no way Cole would have been as slick or smooth as the young Team Six man.

Cole was monitoring the sonar and GPS, preparing for the next set of directions — the vital route through Bohai Bay and into the Yongding New River. The bay was filled with inlets and harbors, most of which led nowhere; if the SDV entered through the wrong passage, at best they would reach a dead end and lose precious time, or else find themselves in the wrong river going away from Beijing. At worst, they would be found and perhaps even killed.

They were getting close now, and Cole checked the instruments again and again, using his hands to inform Collins of their route. It was strange, his body in and out of the SDV, the undersea world around him black and green, the dark waters silent except for the faint hum of the battery and the whir of the shielded electric propulsion unit; it was like a video game and not at all like real life. Yet he knew that if they made a mistake, things would become real all too quickly.

He was monitoring the GPS system when he felt the SDV lurch suddenly to starboard, the entire vehicle ripped to the side, Collins’ body collapsing onto him, his own grip on the fuselage slipping, knocking him out of the SDV altogether.

His head span, the green and black images spiraling in front of his eyes, unable to focus; his hands reached out, securing themselves to the mini-sub’s frame, pulling himself blindly back towards it before it carried on without him and he was lost forever.

What the hell had happened?

Collins was struggling with the controls, attempting to correct the wildly tilting pitch of the SDV, but it was being pulled hard through the water and even with the throttles open completely, the batteries at full power, the ship merely turned, unable to get forward motion.

Cole’s mind sharpened in an instant, his vision cleared, and he looked in at Collins, who shook his head in confusion.

Cole looked around, turned his head upwards, saw what looked like the hull of a ship high above them, checked the sonar for confirmation. Looking at Collins, he pushed his palm down twice, telling him to cut the power; then he disconnected himself from the central open-circuit air unit and swam past the rear compartment, knocking gently twice on the hull, the message for the other four F1 operators to stay where they were. He knew they would be concerned, ready to burst out of the SDV all guns blazing, but wanted to keep them inside for now, unwilling to compromise the mission.

Cole thought he knew what had happened, and burst into action, swimming powerfully around the body of the SDV as Collins throttled back on the power, maintaining the ship’s position in the water.

Cole pushed through the inky waters to the starboard side, checking the rudder, confirming what he’d thought; it had been caught in a fishing net from the marine trawler above them. His hazy green and black imagery showed thick rope netting, fish flicking back and forwards inside, part of the net caught on the starboard blades.

Holding onto the SDV with one hand, he withdrew his knife with the other and started to cut, aware that the longer they stayed here, the more time the fishing vessel would have to register the weight of its catch and start to haul in the net; and the last thing Cole wanted was for the SDV to be pulled up alongside a Chinese boat just a few hundred meters from the Chinese coast.

He sawed away at the net frantically, just one single twine wrapped around the rudder; but it was thick and heavy, and it was going too slowly; already Cole could feel the net starting to be pulled in.

Cole let go with his other hand, pulsing his legs to keep in motion with the vessels as he secured the rope now with that hand, cutting even more frantically with the other.

He could see the hull above him more clearly now, the net being pulled inexorably closer; he looked back to the net, saw fish swimming past from the hole that he was pulling open, hands working with savage rapidity.

The hull was growing bigger, bigger, and Cole cut even harder, acid in his muscles building up until the pain was excruciating, but he ignored it completely and continued to saw, and saw, and saw, until…

The rope suddenly went slack, Cole’s knife finally passing through, separating the SDV starboard rudder from the fishing net, and Cole clamped down on the fuselage and gave Collins the hand signal to go, go, go!

Collins didn’t need telling twice and immediately burst forwards, throttles open, propelling the SDV fast through the waters, away from the prying eyes of the fishermen above, Cole’s body being dragged alongside the mini-sub, no time to climb back in.

But eventually, finally, the SDV slowed, out of the danger zone, and Cole swam around and climbed back into the open cockpit, securing himself back onto the central air system, breathing a sigh of relief.

He wondered what Navarone and the others must have thought, pulled around in the complete dark of the rear compartment with no idea what was happening, and was glad once again that he was in the front.

Terrifying though it was, at least he knew what was going on; and that, as he well knew, was always half the battle.

2

‘Mr. Vice President,’ the secretary greeted Clark Mason with wide-eyed surprise, ‘what an honor, we had no idea you were coming here today.’

Mason smiled back, suave and charming as always. ‘Oh really?’ he said earnestly. ‘I was sure that my office had made the arrangements. Could you show me through to the director?’ He smiled again. ‘I’m sure he’ll see me.’

The secretary nodded her head, flustered, and picked up the internal telephone to call through to Dr. Bruce Vinson, Director of the Paradigm Group.

Mason’s own assistant had provided him with a full briefing document on the Washington think-tank, and although it seemed to be absolutely genuine and above-board, Mason was an old-hand in these matters and believed he could read between the lines.

The Paradigm Group was a respected international policy analysis unit, and had served Washington for several years now, initially under the leadership of respected Harvard professor and ex-Secretary of State Hugh Miller — a man that Mason knew and liked. It had been an effective but relatively low-key organization until late last year, when it had received a considerable cash injection from Miller’s successor and the Paradigm Group’s new director, Bruce Vinson.

Vinson had obviously had the backing of some serious investors, and the group had bought up some valuable real estate and relocated to the exclusive DC suburb of Forest Hills, not too far from Mason’s own home.

The Paradigm Group had since escalated in its endeavours, rapidly becoming the go-to think-tank on matters of national and international security issues, right up there with the Council on Foreign Relations, the Brookings Institute, and the RAND Corporation. It paid its staff top-dollar, and was pulling in the cream of the crop. Its facility was also supposed to be state of the art, not too far removed from a national intelligence agency headquarters.

Dr. Bruce Vinson seemed to be an interesting man, Mason had thought upon reading his profile. An Oxford don from England, his academic credentials were impeccable; he also came from money, which explained how he had transformed the Paradigm Group. What was not in his official record — but was in the document that Mason’s investigative team had pulled together — was the fact that Vinson had served with the British Army’s Special Air Service commando unit before gaining his doctorate, and had gone on to work for that country’s Secret Intelligence Service while posing as a respected academic. Eventually, he had ended up in Washington, a high-level liaison officer between UK and US intelligence. That had been years ago now, but Vinson’s presence as the head of the Paradigm Group raised a lot of questions in Mason’s mind.

Mason had called up his old friend Hugh Miller and asked why he had sold the group to Vinson. Miller had told him that he was getting old and wanted to enjoy his retirement, and the offer had been too good to refuse. Mason could sense there was something more but — despite their friendship — Miller had refused to expand on his explanation.

But Mason could tell what had happened — elements of the US government, no doubt led by President Abrams herself, had wanted to create another secret intelligence group, unhindered by the rule of Congress. They had recruited Vinson, funded him, and helped to push the Paradigm Group into the elite ranks of DC think-tanks, a perfect cover for such a unit. They would have access to the sharpest minds, the best intelligence, the costliest technology.

Was there a direct-action wing? Mason had no doubts about it — why else would Mark Cole, the legendary special ops ‘asset’, be involved?

Mason’s team had also created a file on Dr. Alan Sandbourne, one of the Paradigm Group’s top analysts, and the man Mason suspected was really Mark Cole.

Like Vinson, Sandbourne’s academic credentials were beyond reproach — he had gained his doctorate from Georgetown University right here in DC, travelled the world attached to various educational institutions, policy units and think-tanks, before migrating back to take on a teaching role at Georgetown.

Apparently he had been taken on the year before, as part of Vinson’s high-level recruitment drive, and now headed up one of the international security desks. His papers were well-regarded, and he was often seen around DC giving briefings and being used as an expert consultant.

But — although his background appeared immaculate — when Mason’s investigative team had done a bit of digging, it seemed that precious few people from Georgetown actually remembered him. There were records and reports, pay checks and minutes of staff meetings at which Sandbourne had supposedly been present, but actually finding someone who had met the man before he came to work at the Paradigm Group had been a lost cause.

Which led Mason to one inescapable conclusion — Dr. Alan Sandbourne did not in actual fact exist at all, but was merely a very cleverly-constructed covert identity.

But Mason knew that suspicions were not the same as proof, and before he confronted Abrams with what he knew, he had to get something more concrete that he would be able to use. That was part of the reason that he was here today — on the off-chance that he would find some form of evidence.

But the other part was to convince himself that he was right — he would look in Vinson’s eyes and see if the man was lying to him.

He was also curious to find out the current location of Dr. Alan Sandbourne. Mason’s people had discovered that he had not been at the offices for several days, and Mason couldn’t help but wonder if this meant he was engaged on an operation; and if that was the case, if it had anything to do with China and General Wu.

And if that was the case, Mason thought as the secretary gestured him in towards Vinson’s office, then Ellen Abrams might finally be his.

Captain Liu Yingchau of the People’s Liberation Army Special Operations Forces was worried. Indeed, he was hovering somewhere between worry and panic, and the sensation wasn’t one he was happy with. As a military man he liked to be in control, and the situation he now found himself in was entirely out of his hands.

An experienced officer with the Chengdu Military Region’s ‘Hunting Leopards’ Special Forces Unit, Liu had been on secondment to the People’s Armed Police, helping to train their personnel in anti-terrorism tactics, when General Wu had instigated his military coup.

His liaison job had in fact been the reason that he had been unaware of the military’s plans; it soon transpired that his own senior officers had been involved with Wu, and had already committed certain elements of the Special Operations Forces to reconnaissance of Taiwan in preparation for the invasion. Liu had marveled at the secrecy and compartmentalization which had surrounded the coup, something which he was sure would be impossible in the West. While he had been training the PAP, his own friends had been out scouring beach-heads in Taiwan for the upcoming landings. But soldiers did as they were told, and Liu had no doubts that his commando brethren would have had no idea that their orders were coming from General Wu and the officers of the Central Military Commission, and not from any member of the Politburo.

After the generals had taken charge, Liu had been ordered into Beijing to help protect the Zhongnonhai. In the confusion, it had taken him several hours to understand that there had been a coup at all; he’d been instructed to come to Beijing by his superior officer, and that was all a soldier ever needed.

Indeed, this was why military coups could happen in the first place; if the generals all agreed, they would order their colonels to follow, who would order their majors, who would order their captains, who would order their lieutenants and junior officers, who would order the men and women who made up the bulk of the armed forces. The chain of command would still be in place, save for the politicians at the very top; but for the regular soldier, it would just be business as usual.

But the trouble for Liu was that he knew General Wu De, and believed the man to be singularly unsuited to lead his beloved nation. Wu was a psychopath, and one who had serious delusions of grandeur.

Liu had come across him while on a joint training mission with the Second Artillery Regiment, and had been appalled at Wu’s obvious lust for power, his savage, bestial personality. He was able to put across an entirely different persona to the people he wanted to impress — military colleagues, politicians and foreign governments; but to the people beneath him, Wu was nothing more than a medieval barbarian warlord.

Liu genuinely feared what would happen if Wu was allowed to remain in charge of the People’s Republic. He had no idea what the man’s ultimate plans were, but didn’t think for one moment that things would stop with the occupation of Taiwan. He was already hearing rumors about Japan, and there was no telling where it would end.

Liu was also sure that Wu had the capacity to use nuclear weapons against his perceived enemies, with no thought of the consequences; because the man was a sociopathic maniac, he wouldn’t think to be concerned with an American counter-strike. If he was opposed, his pride would force him to lash out, and it was Liu’s greatest fear that such an action would wreak absolute devastation on China and her people.

It was purely for the love of his country that he had sought to get in touch with his colleagues in the American military, to place himself at their service. He had gone through his contacts within the Joint Special Operations Command in the first instance, who had then assigned him to a CIA handler who was now ‘running’ him from the embassy in Beijing.

They had initially wanted him to try and find out what Wu’s plans were, but it was harder than it looked; Wu was surrounded by people that were one hundred percent loyal, and anyone about whom he was unsure was destined to remain outside Wu’s immediate area. But Liu was a resourceful individual, and had himself recruited people within the inner circle itself; a secretary here, an executive assistant there, none of Liu’s contacts were particularly high level, but between them he was starting to build up a picture of the new Wu government.

Eventually, the CIA had put him in touch with an American commando unit that apparently wanted to gain entry to the city. Liu quickly agreed to assist the CIA in getting the unit where they wanted to be, and also to gain the information needed for the operation they were launching. They needed to know General Wu’s schedule and security details, as well as the exact location of the members of the Politburo and information about the forces which guarded them.

Liu already knew a significant amount about the general’s security — he had watched and catalogued what movements he could from his own restricted position, but had gained most of his information from his special contacts, which he had passed on to the CIA and the covert action team that was already en route to Beijing.

Security for General Wu was fierce, handpicked men he had brought in from outside the Chinese mainland, commandos of Hong Kong’s ‘Five Minute Response Unit’ Special Operations Company. They were well-trained and experienced, a formidable combination, and were backed up by Macao’s ‘Kimchee Commandos’ Guard Unit.

These elite units also monitored the various military groups who were responsible for the Zhongnonhai compound and the Forbidden City, ensuring that high standards were adhered to at all times by every element of the government security forces.

But it wasn’t the inner security group itself which Liu worried about the most; perversely, it was the solitary figure who controlled them with the proverbial rod of iron — Zhou Shihuang.

If Liu had misgivings about Wu’s sanity, then he was convinced of the absolute lack of it in Zhou. The man was a half-blind monster, a renegade Shaolin monk who lived only to hurt — and preferably kill — others. Indeed, the threat of this huge man and what he would do to informers was one of the reasons that Liu had faced such difficulty in getting information out of the Zhongnonhai — it was a rare person who was willing to cross Zhou Shihuang.

From Liu’s limited research on the man, it appeared that Zhou had been taken in at the Shaolin Temple — a renowned center of Buddhist teaching and austere martial arts combat training — when he was just a boy. The reasons given for this varied in the telling — some said that he had been forced to flee after killing his abusive father, others claimed that it was due to the repercussions of gang violence — but whatever the reason, Zhou had proved to be a most capable pupil.

Reports from the temple indicated that he was less than enthusiastic about the Cha’an Buddhist teachings, but had soaked up the physically demanding Kung Fu lessons like a hungry sponge. Such was his prodigious combative talent that — despite his less than impressive spiritual fortitude — he was eventually appointed as a senior monk, and a martial arts instructor to the temple.

Recognizing his discordant spirit, the Shaolin abbot had given him the Buddhist name Kung, which meant ‘empty’.

Liu could see how appropriate the name had been, for Zhou turned out to be a dangerous sociopath, truly ‘empty’ of all emotion.

Zhou had been an instructor at the temple for years before his debased, inhuman proclivities were revealed, one lone incident with a young boy leading to an investigation which finally showed everyone his true nature; he had been bullying and abusing the students ever since he had become an instructor, his victims numbered by the dozen. Two had even died in ‘training accidents’ which later came under close scrutiny, his every action subsequently looked at in great detail.

His gross negation of responsibility and his heinous crimes were covered up by the senior monks of the temple — the abbot deciding that police involvement and a public inquiry would only besmirch and demean the good name of Shaolin — but Zhou Shihuang was banished from the temple forever.

He subsequently became a hand-to-hand combat instructor for a large number of private bodyguarding firms, his incredible talent and skill quickly bringing him to the attention of government forces, whose recruits he also started to train.

But eventually the inevitable happened and he killed a student during training. The incident would have again been covered up had the student not been the son of the provincial governor, who demanded that an arrest be made.

It was at this stage, rumor had it, that Wu De had intervened, sweeping aside all accusations and taking Zhou on as his own private, personal bodyguard.

The man’s life had been one long episode of murder, abuse and sexual depravity, and Liu was sickened merely by the thought of him; but Zhou’s skills in unarmed combat were legendary, and Liu had no doubt that he would be a ruthless opponent. Certainly, he would ensure that Wu’s protective detail was on the ball at all times, as he was known to kill men who showed any sign of inattention.

So Wu’s security detail was tough, but not insurmountable; Liu knew that American special operations forces were probably the best in the world. But it sure as hell wouldn’t be easy. The unit hadn’t explained their plan in detail — they had no reason to trust him, after all — but to Liu it was obvious. They were coming to Beijing to kill the general and rescue the communist government. Despite their skill, Liu knew they needed all the information they could get.

One of his contacts was able to update him regularly on the position of the captured Politburo members, and he passed this on to his CIA handler. He had already informed them of the death of Vice President Fang Zemin at the hands of Zhou Shihuang, an act which had brought the number of politicians to be rescued down to twenty-one. He had also managed to get a detailed schedule of General Wu’s movements from an assistant of an executive secretary, and had also provided this information to the Americans.

Although he didn’t know the details, Liu believed the CIA had managed to organize a meeting between Wu and the American agent, which would take place at that afternoon’s Dragon Boat festival. Wu had sponsored the teams which would be racing in Beihai Park just north of the Zhongnonhai, and would be leaving the immediate security of the government compound to watch. He would even be presenting flowers to the winning team.

But now Liu had just found out that General Wu wasn’t even in Beijing.

Unable to sleep, Liu had been watching the late-night news on China Central Television and had been horrified to see the general making a speech from the steps of the Presidential Office Building in Taipei.

Liu’s contacts had never even told him that Wu was flying to Taiwan, and he in turn had never told his American handlers. His visit to Taipei had been completely unexpected, and Liu was now intensely fearful that the US operation would fail because of it. How would the American assassin kill Wu if he wasn’t even in the same country?

Another problem was now the respect and trust with which the Americans would treat the information he gave them — if he couldn’t even keep them informed of which country General Wu was in, why would they trust anything else he had to say?

Liu himself still trusted his Zhongnonhai contacts — he genuinely believed that they hadn’t known about Wu’s departure. But would the Americans believe him?

The special operations captain poured himself three fingers of the strong white spirit known as Baijiu, and downed the glass in one.

He was definitely going to need help sleeping tonight.

3

‘I hope I’ve been able to answer all of your questions satisfactorily,’ Dr. Bruce Vinson said with his cut-glass English accent and a winning smile.

They were sat in Vinson’s private office, a mahogany-paneled English Regency-style study complete with bookcases filled with custom-tooled leather-backed volumes, gilt-framed oil paintings of hunting scenes and landscapes, an imported desk with tortoiseshell inlay, a couple of leather wingback armchairs and a button-backed Chesterfield sofa. After so long living in America, it was like a home from home for Vinson.

The view from the window was equally charming, the leafy suburb of Forest Hills opening up across the rooftops. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the view afforded from the don’s office at Oxford University, and served to bring back pleasant memories.

But Vinson wasn’t a man to live unnecessarily in the past, and turned his attention fully to the man sat across from him.

‘You have indeed,’ Clark Mason replied, finishing off his coffee before looking directly into the director’s eyes. ‘But I have one more question, I’m afraid. Many of my colleagues have had great things to say about one of your key analysts here, a Doctor Sandbourne. Alan Sandbourne. He’s often at the White House it seems, although I only ran into him for the first time myself the other day. Anyway, I was wondering if you might know where he is? I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, I thought he might be useful on this China thing, you know? But nobody seems to know where he’s gone.’

Vinson nodded his head in understanding, his eyes not betraying his thoughts.

You clever bastard, the old intelligence chief thought as he looked at the Vice President. Got your suspicions about the place, don’t you? Angry you weren’t informed? Have a bee in your bonnet about it, have you?

But what, Vinson wondered, did Mason actually want?

Although he had acted as though the man’s visit had been a surprise, in reality it was nothing of the sort. You didn’t get to be the director of an organization like the Paradigm Group by being surprised. Vinson knew about the visit the moment Mason had left his home and told his driver where he wanted to go; and he also knew about the Vice President’s little investigative team and its interest in his business.

Despite his formidable academic reputation, Vinson wasn’t a mere ivory-tower theorist, and nor was he only the director of the Paradigm Group. He had a business interest in the think-tank certainly, but he also understood that — despite its success and influence — the group was only a front for something far more valuable.

Force One.

Although Mark Cole — who worked for Vinson as Alan Sandbourne — was the titular head of the covert action group known internally as Force One, the operation needed someone to run things from an organizational standpoint.

Cole was all about the action; he couldn’t help but get physically involved in the operations. While admirable from one point of view, it nevertheless detracted from his ability to monitor other ongoing missions. Cole saw Force One as a small unit, and himself as a small unit leader, a platoon commander leading his men into battle.

And so what was needed was someone to ‘stay home and mind the shop’; and that person was Bruce Vinson. Cole was the commander, out there in the thick of it, but Vinson was the chief of staff, the backbone of the operation who made sure that it all ran smoothly.

And Vinson didn’t mind in the least; it was the perfect job for the man, combining his love of academia with his arguably even greater love of espionage, covert ops and dirty wars. He helped to run the Paradigm Group purely in order to provide intelligence to Cole and his Force One members; the profit from everything else was just a bonus really.

Thinking again about what Mason wanted, Vinson was sure he knew; he’d had a psychological profile drawn up of the man from the first moment he’d started sniffing around the Paradigm Group, and knew him to be desperate for the top job. He wanted to be president, and everything else he did was purely to meet that objective.

So it was clear that he was trying to find out what he could about the group’s secrets, possibly with the intention of blackmailing Ellen Abrams in some way, or else going public with it in an effort to damage her reputation, possibly even force her to resign so that he could slip straight into the job without even going through the inconvenience of an election.

But despite Mason’s reputation, his wealth, his power, Vinson was not in the slightest bit fazed or intimidated by his presence. He had faced a lot worse over the years, and had always come out on top. An overgrown bully-boy politician who’d never served a day in his life was not a man who could worry a lifelong professional like Vinson.

And yet the man could be dangerous if his activities were not quickly curtailed. An official investigation of the Paradigm Group — and particularly of Dr. Alan Sandbourne — would be especially unwelcome at the moment, given that there was an ongoing operation which involved the safety of thousands — if not millions — of citizens.

‘Doctor Sandbourne is out of the country at the moment,’ Vinson said finally, taking a sip of his milky tea before reaching for a biscuit.

‘Official business?’ Mason asked.

Vinson chuckled. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Friend’s wedding.’ It was true as well, to a certain extent; tickets had been bought, photographs would be taken, receipts would be issued. To all intents and purposes, ‘Alan Sandbourne’ would be at a wedding this weekend. It was in Nice, France; but Mason could find that out for himself, if he wished to pursue it.

‘Unfortunate timing,’ Mason said.

‘Well, what can you do?’ Vinson replied. ‘We’re hardly the military, are we? I can’t order the man to stay. And let’s face it — if I made every analyst stay for every crisis that happens, nobody would have the time to eat, sleep or even use the lavatory, never mind go on holiday, would they now?’

Mason smiled. ‘I guess you’re right.’

‘I am right,’ Vinson confirmed. ‘And anyway, if it’s China you’re wanting then Sandbourne’s not the man for the job anyway. He’s more into the Middle East really. For China, you want Richard Stark or Norma Valente, they’re the best we have in that sector.’ He took another bite of his biscuit and met Mason’s eyes again. ‘Shall I make you an appointment with them? Although I believe they’re actually at the White House already, come to think of it. That’ll save you some time I suppose, won’t it?’

‘I suppose it will,’ Mason replied, looking back at the academic with daggers in his eyes, though his mouth formed a semblance of a smile. He pushed his chair back and stood, holding out a hand. ‘I’ll have to get back now actually, as a matter of fact. Thank you for your hospitality.’

Vinson shook the man’s hand, sensing that Mason knew he was being played with, and that he wasn’t happy about it one little bit.

But Vinson was a man who liked to play games, and Mason had come into his arena and demanded a shot at the champ. Who was Vinson to turn him down?

‘Not at all, old chap,’ Vinson said, clapping Mason on the shoulder and walking with him to his office door. ‘Any time you need anything, please feel free to come back. It’s been an honor having you here. Maybe you’d be good enough to sign the guest book on your way out?’

The look on Mason’s face was priceless — Vinson labeled it the ‘constipated monkey’. It was such an obvious effort to contain his rage that Vinson thought it hilarious; Mason managed a contorted half-smile, nodded once, and turned on his heel and marched off down the corridor to the elevators.

Bruce Vinson closed the leather-embossed door behind him and let out a great, rumbling belly laugh. He still couldn’t quite get over the look on Mason’s face; it was like dealing with a two-year-old. It was a shame that the man was also one of the most powerful in the entire United States.

Vinson stopped laughing and poured himself a glass of brandy. If there was one thing he had learned from this meeting, it was that Vice President Clark Mason was going to have to be taken care of, one way or another.

Vinson already knew about the man’s current mistress, along with a long list of previous dalliances, but that couldn’t really hurt him. Mason’s wife already knew about it, and the American public had long ceased to be shocked by such things. Bill Clinton was still remembered fondly, despite the cigar incident.

But Vinson was not without resources, or imagination.

And as he started to form a plan, he sipped at his brandy and once again started to chuckle happily to himself.

‘So Bruce thinks he’s serious?’ asked Pete Olsen, body ramrod straight in the easy chair in the corner of Abrams’ private study.

Ellen Abrams nodded her head. ‘I’m afraid so. It seems that my VP wants to get a bit of political capital out of the current situation.’

‘Son of a bitch!’ Olsen said, slamming his hand down on the arm of his chair, almost breaking it off.

‘What are we doing about it?’ Catalina dos Santos asked.

‘Bruce says he’s going to deal with it,’ Abrams said, ‘and I think we can trust him on that.’

Olsen nodded. ‘He’s a resourceful guy,’ he agreed. ‘Anything we can do to help?’

‘Just play it cool around Clark if he comes snooping around asking questions,’ Abrams said. ‘I’ve got an idea I might have some urgent jobs for him to do out of town though, so we shouldn’t be seeing him too much until this is over.’

‘Good play,’ dos Santos agreed, ‘let’s try and keep him out of the picture until Force One completes its mission. Do we know how they’re getting on?’

‘According to Vinson, they should be close to the Chinese mainland by now,’ Abrams said. ‘We’ll know soon enough if they’ve been successful.’

‘Report from the Texas is that they managed to get away in the SDV just fine, Captain Sherman’s sweeping back south as we speak,’ Olsen added. ‘Does the CIA have everything in place?’ he asked dos Santos.

‘As far as we can tell, they do,’ she said. ‘Although we don’t know many of the ins and outs surrounding their role. That’s between Force One and the agents on the ground.’

‘General Wu?’ Abrams asked. She had been as perturbed as Liu Yingchau to discover that their target had left the Chinese mainland.

‘Our sources indicate that he will fly back by military plane by tonight our time, early morning in Beijing, in time to make the Dragon Boat festival.’

‘How sure are we on that?’ Olsen asked.

‘Fairly sure,’ dos Santos replied, ‘but Wu is a law unto himself, and we won’t really know until he’s actually back there, on the ground.’

Olsen frowned. ‘There’s a lot that could still go wrong,’ he said. ‘Now, I know Cole and his teams are the best we have, but we have to face up to the fact that we may have to use one of our contingency plans.’

It was Abrams’ turn to frown. Of course, she had never agreed to place all her eggs in one basket, and had authorized planning for several contingency plans, all of which relied on far more military firepower than a single six-person squad. But although she had authorized such plans, she had no stomach for going through with them if she could possibly help it; even the best-case scenarios would result in hundreds of deaths, the worst-cases running into the millions.

‘I understand that we might have to push ahead with those operations, Pete,’ she said at last, ‘and I expect you to have everything in place should we need to move to that level. But let’s just hope and pray that things never get to that stage, for all our sakes.’

4

Cole hadn’t had time to consider the ramifications of nearly being caught by the fishing trawler; the possibility that someone on board had seen them, that an experienced fisherman had examined the net and realized it had been cut by a knife and not by the teeth of a large fish, that it wasn’t a real trawler but a disguised surveillance ship which was even now tracking them via sonar — these things touched the edges of his consciousness but were not allowed to take hold. He simply had no time. What would be would be, and there was no use wasting mental energy on things he had no control over.

So, with the threat of the possible consequences of their narrow escape banished from his mind, he fixed his concentration on the task he could control — that he had to control.

Getting the SDV out of Bohai Bay and into the inlet of Yongding New River.

He could literally see the hulls of the boats above him, next to him, behind him; and all the while Tim Collins was maneuvering the small submersible, head out to one side as he moved the manual control stick in smooth, practiced, fluid actions, the SDV magically following the inputs as it glided unseen through the busy waters.

Cole’s GPS was telling him they were right up at the harbor wall, his sonar confirming; he could even see it now through his goggles, a looming black mass lurking ahead through thick green shadow.

Cole placed his hand on Collins’ arm, gesturing with his other hand with two sharp actions to the side. Collins nodded, adjusting the stick slightly, the SDV sliding gently to the right, lining up towards the entry for the Beitangkou inlet towards Sanhe Island and the Yongding beyond.

The stretch of the harbor wall that Cole could see ahead of him separated the Beitangkou inlet from the twin waterways that led to Tianjin Port. Making a mistake at this stage would surely be fatal — Tianjin Port was one of the busiest marine traffic areas in the world. But even without the GPS, Cole could see they were headed for the right area — Beitangkou was far quieter as it didn’t lead directly to a port, and all the major shipping was immediately south of the SDV.

Collins let the SDV crawl along the harbor wall until it opened up into the broad inlet, and Cole felt the craft begin its turn into Beitangkou, to be finally free of the Bohai Sea and the immediate threat of the Chinese navy.

But then Cole’s hand touched Collins’ arm again, giving him the signal to slow down; a larger vessel had appeared on Cole’s screen, moving into the same channel.

Collins did as instructed, throttling back, positioning the SDV so they could look at the hull through their goggles.

It was a large vessel, but not large enough to be a container ship. Cargo ships would be headed for Tianjin anyway, and Cole guessed it would be another local fishing trawler.

Cole and Collins watched as the hull slid close past them, breaking through into the inlet in front of them, and then Cole touched the pilot’s arm again and nodded his head, pointing to the stern of the fishing vessel.

Collins nodded, understanding Cole’s intention, and increased speed, slipping in right behind the fishing boat to follow in its wake.

Despite the dark night, one of the dangers of an SDV insertion — especially in the narrower channels as they began to work their way inland — would be people noticing the tell-tale bubbles produced by the ship’s movement and its open-circuit breathing systems. By following in the wake of the fishing boat, they would not only disguise their visible presence, but would also blend in with the vessel on any sonar system which might be monitoring the Chinese coast.

Collins matched his speed perfectly, following the trawler into the Beitangkou inlet just ten feet from its stern, unseen within the murky depths of the bay.

Cole smiled with satisfaction.

They had made it; they were now inside the Chinese mainland.

Now they just had to get to Beijing.

Yuan Ziyang mopped his sweaty brow, wiping moisture from his eyes so that he could see the road ahead.

Damn the CIA.

He was driving his delivery truck down the S30 highway from Beijing, en route to some sort of rendezvous at a very specific place on the Changshen Expressway. He had been told to be in position next to where the expressway crossed the Yongding New River by four o’clock in the morning, forty-five minutes before first light. He would meet six people there, and take them into the back of his truck for the return journey north to Beijing.

Who they were, or what they were doing here, Yuan didn’t know. In fact, he didn’t want to know. The less he knew, the less he could tell anyone if he was caught.

And didn’t the CIA realize how likely it was that he would be caught?

The city — indeed, most of northeastern China — was in full lockdown. General Wu was claiming that life was proceeding as normal under military rule, but Yuan knew better — there were increased guard units all over the place, and restrictions on mobility were being enforced day and night. Especially at night.

He’d told the man from the embassy that the odds were against him being allowed out of the city at all, but he’d been told to stop worrying and to just get on with it. If only he could be so confident, Yuan thought unhappily as he shielded his eyes from the headlights of oncoming traffic, every time terrified that it was the armed police.

But it never was.

And leaving Beijing hadn’t been quite so fraught with danger as he’d initially feared; he had passed unmolested through the manned checkpoints, allowed to go on his way with not so much as an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be stopped though, and he tried to remember again what he would say if the security forces pulled him over. At the minute he didn’t even have anyone else aboard, but he didn’t want to alert anyone by seeming nervous. He breathed deeply, going through his cover story once again in his mind.

The thought of the money helped calm his nerves, he had to admit. He wasn’t a man driven by strong moral convictions, providing information and assistance to the ‘enemy’ due to some sort of ingrained sense of right and wrong; nor was he a candidate for blackmail, another easy way to recruit agents. In fact, he led a fairly quiet and innocuous life.

But the one thing he was, was greedy. He saw how the more well-off citizens of Beijing lived, the things they had, and he wanted the same for himself and his family. He already had access to western satellite television, which made him crave even more things. And as a lowly delivery-truck driver, how else was he ever going to be able to afford those things except through betraying his country? And the CIA paid well.

He almost missed the flashing lights ahead of him, his mind filled with the images of hundred-yuan banknotes.

But then the sirens sounded, and the situation soon became all-too real.

There was a roadblock up ahead, three police cars strung out across the highway flagging down passing vehicles. Yuan’s truck was just one more, and yet his mind started screaming at him with insistent fury.

They know! They must know! Crash through them! The truck’s bigger than the cars, you can do it! Go!

For a few terrible seconds, Yuan was actually going to do it — drive right through them, crash through the police cars and high-tail it out of there with the gas pedal pushed all the way down to the floor.

But then sanity resecured it grip on him and his foot went instead to the brake, easing the truck in to the side of the road as he struggled to breath, to control his racing heart rate.

He wound down his window as an armed patrolman came up to the side of his truck, and Yuan’s hand went reflexively to the small revolver he’d hidden under the cushion of his seat; ludicrously underpowered compared to what he faced, but a source of comfort nevertheless. Unless they search the cab, he thought suddenly, pushing the gun back under the seat cushion as far as he could, presenting both hands on the wheel. He tried to smile but stopped himself; the cop might think something was amiss if he started to act strangely.

‘Your papers?’ the cop asked, and Yuan relaxed ever so slightly; despite the presence of the assault rifle in the man’s hands, his attitude was bored, lethargic, typical of someone in the middle of an enforced night-shift.

Yuan nodded and pulled his papers from the glove compartment, handing them over smartly.

The policeman looked them over with no real interest, jotted something down in a notebook, then raised his eyes to Yuan’s face, regarding him with sudden interest.

‘You are…sweating?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Is something perhaps the matter?’

Yuan’s hands went to his face, his neck, felt how the sweat was dripping over him and smiled feebly before he could stop himself. ‘It’s this damned summer heat,’ he said, ‘I can’t stand these close nights, so stifling. I’ve had a bit of a fever too.’ Stop talking, he willed himself; talking too much was always a sure sign that someone was lying or hiding something.

‘Are you working?’ the cop asked next, and over his shoulder Yuan could see his two armed colleagues looking over at them, wondering what was taking so long. If this didn’t end soon, they would probably head on over this way too.

‘Yes,’ Yuan answered, ‘taking a delivery over to Tianjin.’

‘What are you delivering?’

‘Electronics.’

‘What kind?’

‘Televisions, DVD players, that sort of thing.’

The cop nodded, eyeing him with interest.

‘Get out,’ he said finally, ‘open her up.’

Yuan’s pulse jumped even higher and he concentrated hard on his breathing. It was going to be okay; there were electronics in the back, the company he worked for was legitimate even if the delivery destination itself was a CIA cover. But there was nothing to worry about; the people he was supposed to pick up weren’t even in the back yet. Everything was above board. Yes; he had nothing to worry about.

But still the sweat poured, and his heart raced.

He opened the door and climbed down from the cab, walking with the cop to the back of the truck, unlocking the steel double doors and letting them swing open.

The cop looked at the cardboard boxes piled high, then at Yuan, seeming to assess him.

Then he turned, shouting to his colleagues.

Yuan could hear booted feet racing to the truck and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Damn it! He didn’t even have his revolver. What the hell was he going to do?

Silently, as smoothly as he could, Yuan’s hand went to his belt, sliding out a thin metal dagger from the horizontal sheath disguised by the thick leather. He palmed it by his side, looking for his opening.

He was still going through his options, his mind racing, when the two other cops stopped next to him and stared into the back, whistling appreciatively, clapping their friend on the shoulder.

What the hell was going on?

The first cop jumped on board and started rooting through the boxes, pulling one from the top of a large pile. It was a forty inch, 3D LCD television, and he called for his colleagues to assist him.

Yuan watched in open-mouthed wonder as they took the TV off the back of his truck and carried it across the brightly-lit nighttime highway towards their own vehicles.

It was a shakedown, as simple as that.

Just as slowly and smoothly as he’d withdrawn it, Yuan sheathed his dagger, amazed that he’d come so close to using it, supremely happy that he hadn’t needed to.

The cops returned twice more, a gift for each of them carted away to the roadblock vehicles, and Yuan just stood there and watched.

When they had finished, the policeman who had been dealing with him looked at him sternly. ‘I presume you know what happened here?’ he asked Yuan.

‘Nothing,’ Yuan said, hiding his elation and pretending to be glum about being robbed. ‘Nothing happened here.’

‘Good,’ the cop said, gesturing to his notebook, and then to his gun. ‘Because we know where you live, if you understand me.’

Yuan just nodded sullenly.

‘Good,’ the cop said again, all smiles now, ‘you are free to go. And please be careful — there are some dangerous people out there.’

‘I will,’ Yuan replied. ‘Thank you for the advice.’

As he climbed back into the cab, Yuan heard the policeman laughing as he strolled back to his friends.

But the cop had no idea that the man he’d just robbed was laughing too.

5

The fishing vessel had finally docked in a small inlet off to the starboard side, and the SDV now continued up the Yongding New River alone.

Cole wasn’t overly concerned that they’d lost their cover, now that they had worked their way inland to some extent, but was monitoring everything very carefully just to be on the safe side — not just the GPS and sonar systems, but the waters themselves, always on the lookout for anything unusual.

He also had to make sure the SDV was continuing to go the right way; to starboard up ahead was the turn-off for a whole network of inland waterways, which they would have to avoid — if they took a wrong turn, it might take them hours to correct the error.

Immediately adjacent to that, as the Yongding curved around to the left was a small island which connected to the left bank of the river via a bridge. If the SDV went to the port side of the island, it would have to slip in between the bridge pylons, which would be unlikely to show up on the sonar systems in enough detail to avoid. Collins would have to rely on the underwater night-vision goggles and pilot the SDV by sight.

The chance of impact in such a situation was too great, and Cole therefore wanted the SDV to take the path between the turnoff for the waterways and the clear starboard side of the island.

Monitoring the ship’s systems, and also the murky green view up ahead, Cole gave hand signals to help guide Collins on the correct route, and he saw now the bulge of the island underwater on the port side, happy they were going the right way.

Confident in Collins’ skills in getting the SDV past the island, he switched gears in his mind to the next section of river, which would take them on a northwesterly course to the rendezvous by the G25 expressway.

His mind occupied, nothing prepared Cole for the incredible noise that suddenly assaulted him, the impact, the shocking, abrupt motion of the SDV as it rolled up and down underneath the water.

Collins looked at him as if to say, what the hell was that?, and Cole could only return the look right back. He had no idea what it could be, nothing had appeared on his instruments; and yet as he looked back behind the SDV, he saw the water swirling as if something had exploded behind them.

Were they under attack?

Cole chopped his hand forwards, giving the signal to Collins to accelerate and get them the hell out of there, and then the impact came again, the colossal sound, the surge of water; and then again, and then again.

The SDV was pulling away, increasing distance when the waters behind started to clear and Cole, hanging out of the side of the SDV, zoomed in with his night-vision goggles to try and see what had nearly hit them.

But when he finally identified it and reached over to tap Collins’ arm, signaling him to slow down, he couldn’t help but smile.

It was kids.

Four kids, half-naked teenagers, kicking and swimming now for the island which the SDV was leaving behind. Cole remembered that there was a bridge over the river just before the island, and realized the kids must have jumped off, dive-bombing into the river.

Cole could barely believe he’d mistaken four teenagers for dangerous explosive weapons, and suppressed a laugh. The bridge was high, and their impact upon hitting the water was exactly like the concussive blast of a grenade.

But, Cole decided, he and the team could laugh about it later; it was during times of relief that you let your guard down, and that was when things could really get you.

And so, back to business, Cole directed the SDV to the northwest and continued with the mission.

Captain Hank Sherman was, like Cole, still on high alert. He too knew the old samurai adage — ‘after the battle, it’s time to tighten your helmet straps’.

It would have been all too easy to have disgorged the SDV, collected back the SEAL dive team, and set back home while patting himself on the back, congratulating himself on a job well done.

But he knew that complacency was the military man’s worst enemy, and it was during the ‘quiet after the storm’ that the worst things always happened; and they happened simply because you weren’t expecting them, which doubled or tripled the psychological impact. He knew that soldiers would try and re-take a piece of ground immediately after losing it for this very reason; the enemy would be high on their perceived success, would make the fatal mistake of relaxing, and thus be completely unprepared to defend their new position effectively.

And Sherman knew very well that he wasn’t out of trouble yet; while he might have got the USS Texas through the East China Sea, the Yellow Sea, and right into the middle of the nearly enclosed Bohai Sea successfully and without detection, he knew this was only one half of the equation.

Now he had to get out again, and there was no reason to think things would be any easier on the way out than they’d been on the way in.

Added to which, there was always the chance that the SDV and its commando team would be discovered, and then the Chinese navy would go all-out to try and find the submarine which had dropped it off.

And then Sherman and the Texas would really be in trouble.

He wasn’t headed home anyway, he considered as he monitored the sub’s navigation systems, checking they were still en route to the correct location. There would be no rest for him or the crew; not yet anyway.

They were being sent into harm’s way yet again, although this time he would have to come south through the Yellow Sea and then enter into a holding pattern in the well-patrolled waters of the East China Sea. Not ideal, but he’d had recent experience in that area and was fairly happy he could avoid detection for the time-frame demanded.

At some stage, though, he would be required to pilot the Texas in close again to the Chinese coast, this time near Shanghai.

No, he considered with a smile as he confirmed the sub’s position and course, he couldn’t afford to relax for a moment.

But at the end of the day, he understood that was exactly how he liked it.

‘So where are we at?’ Captain Sam Meadows asked, cigar in his mouth and hands on his hips. Smoking was not really allowed onboard ships in the modern US Navy, but Meadows knew they had a lot worse problems to contend against and had thus issued his most recent ship-wide edict on the ruling — ‘Screw it. Smoke if you want.’

He knew it would give comfort to some of the men, and in a situation like this — left high and dry by the ‘Potomac desk drivers’, crippled in an unfriendly sea for over a week now — Meadows knew the men needed as much comfort as they could get.

They were getting even more from being kept busy with the ship’s various projects too, and Meadows awaited word on how things were progressing.

‘Good news with the desalination plant,’ his Executive Officer, Bill Duffy, said. ‘It’s not back to normal yet of course — probably impossible now — but we’re getting a good two hundred thousand gallons out of it, about fifty percent capacity. That’s good enough for a decent amount of drinking water, maybe even the occasional shower.’

Meadows nodded, puffing on his cigar. ‘Excellent,’ he said, and meant it. ‘That’ll improve morale no end.’

‘Yes sir,’ the XO continued. ‘Not so great news to report about our medical casualties I’m afraid though.’

‘Go on.’

‘We lost another two today, Petty Officer First Class Jim Franklin and Seaman Veronica Peaks. Takes the total to two hundred ninety eight.’

Meadows closed his eyes and rotated his neck around slowly, counting the cracks and pops as he did so.

Two hundred and ninety eight dead. Damn those fucking Chinese! What the hell were they trying to prove? Every day the ship floated out here was another day injured people might die. Why wouldn’t they agree for the casualties to be taken off? It was amazing to Meadows, the calculated callousness of the Chinese action.

And why wasn’t the US government responding? Word from Admiral Decker and his contacts in the Pentagon and the White House was that things were ‘difficult’, and a diplomatic outcome was being sought, and the men and women of the Ford would just have to ‘hold on’ a while longer.

Well, fuck them.

‘How we doing on the propellers?’ he asked next, anxious for good news.

Duffy shook his head sadly. ‘No big improvements there, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It really is shot all to hell, a real mess. We can only access the area in full SCUBA gear, and I doubt that we have any realistic chance of being able to patch her up, even to make a single knot.’

Meadows exhaled a ring of smoke and nodded his head, determined not to show his disappointment to anyone, even his most senior officer. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay. I appreciate how difficult it is, but we’re not gonna stop trying. Despite what we’re hearing from on high, I can’t believe we’ve been left to the wolves. I think we’re doing a little bit more than we’re letting on back home, and I want this ship in a position where we can help. So keep trying.’

‘Yes sir,’ Duffy said with conviction. ‘We’ve got most of our armaments back online now, our engineers have recalibrated them to take account of our angle in the water and our lack of stability. Our missiles and our guns are ready to go anytime if we need to defend ourselves.’

‘Good,’ Meadows said. ‘That’s good.’ It was better than nothing of course, but the warrior in Meadows knew it wasn’t enough; he wanted to be able to move, to fight offensively, to take the fight to the enemy at the first chance he got. But for now, a self-defense capability was definitely better than nothing at all. ‘Arrange a memorial service for Franklin and Peaks for fourteen hundred hours, make sure next of kin are informed, as well as fleet command.’

‘Yes sir.’

And let’s just hope there aren’t any more, he didn’t add.

But he knew that this was wishful thinking; before this thing was over, there would be a lot more.

6

Two hours had passed since the incident with the teenage divers, and mercifully nothing else had happened to suggest discovery; Cole and his team had made good time along the Yongding, and Cole gave his navigation systems one final check.

They’d made it. They were at the rendezvous point.

Cole checked his watch, saw that it was just after three o’clock in the morning.

They had to keep going past the bridge slightly, and Cole put his hand on Collins’ arm, gesturing for him to slow, then cutting his hand to port.

Collins nodded and eased off the throttles, moving the small submarine towards the southern bank of the Yongding.

Cole peered through the inky green dark of the night-vision-enhanced river, searching for the turn-off. It was appearing on his instruments, but he wouldn’t be happy until he saw it himself.

And then there it was, appearing out of the gloom, and Cole squeezed Collins’ arm, the pilot turning the SDV into the narrow channel. Cole tapped twice on the inner chamber, advising his four other teammates that their journey was almost at an end, and watched as Collins maneuvered the craft into the small inlet.

The narrow inlet, barely a hundred yards long by twenty wide, served as a drainage basin before the enormous Huanggang Reservoir which lay to the south of the Yongding.

It was small, but deep; and because it didn’t go anywhere, a dam separating it from the internal waterway beyond, it had no marine traffic whatsoever, which made it ideal for Cole’s purposes.

As Collins centered the SDV in the middle of the inlet, Cole gave the signal to fill the ballast tanks. Disconnecting himself from the main air supply, he switched to his Draeger rebreather and left the SDV’s open cockpit, swimming quickly towards the rear.

He stopped at the side of the mini-sub, treading water as he removed a long metal panel from the fuselage, giving the thumbs-up signal to Navarone and Grayson inside, who shot the signal back, switched to their rebreathers, and started to maneuver themselves out of the SDV passenger compartment.

The SDV began to descend to the bottom of the inlet as the ballast tanks filled with water, and Cole swam over the top of the falling mini-sub, removing the panel from the other side.

Davis and Barrington were already eager and waiting, thumbs up, and eased themselves out into the dark waters, already breathing through their Draegers.

Cole looked back to the cockpit and saw Collins finally moving out of the sub, which had now come to rest on the bottom of the inlet, its impact throwing clouds of silt up through the already gloomy water.

Four meters down in a tiny, unused inlet, the SDV should be safe enough, Cole figured; and if it wasn’t, it was fitted with anti-tamper explosive devices which would detonate if somebody approached too closely. The US Navy was keen that — if the SDV had to be sacrificed — its technology wouldn’t find its way into enemy hands.

The explosive device was rigged to go off in three days anyway; Cole’s extraction plan didn’t call for the SDV to be used, but it was nice to know it was there just in case. In three days’ time though, that option would cease to exist.

Glad to get their limbs working again after the six hour underwater infiltration, the Force One operators kicked their way through the silt, heading back out to the Yongding New River and their early-morning rendezvous by the bridge.

Yuan Ziyang was sweating again, even more than before.

He’d timed his journey to perfection, arriving by the bridge by four o’clock exactly as demanded. Despite his earlier interruption, he’d made good time from Beijing and — not wishing to merely sit waiting on the bridge — he’d had to drive around some side roads a few times, taking his truck on a winding route between the S308 and the S40 Jingjintang Expressway to waste some time.

But now it was four o’clock, still no sign of the sun in the sky except for the very faintest haze right at the bottom of the horizon, and he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

So where were the six people he was supposed to be picking up?

He shuddered as he considered the options. What if they’d been captured? Would they have talked, told the authorities about him? Was he about to be ambushed by his own country’s military and law enforcement units?

Of course, they might just be late; but what was he supposed to do about that? Just drive up and down the bridge, backwards and forwards, until somebody reported him?

He wiped the sweat from his eyes, remembering what he’d been told by his American handler, wondering why the man’s words had not come back to him before, realizing he must be more tired than he’d thought.

Cross the bridge heading north, the man had said, check for cameras and vehicles, if the coast is clear turn the truck round and head back south to cross the bridge again. If there is no contact, leave the area for ten minutes and then try again. If there is still no contact, head on home.

Okay, Yuan told himself, just do this thing twice and you can go home. If the team doesn’t show, just go right on home.

A large part of him decided that perhaps he would be a lot happier if the team didn’t show. But would he still get his money?

Damn!

Yuan cursed himself for not checking with his handler. He should have insisted on payment whether the six people made it here or not; now his contact might refuse to pay him if the pick-up wasn’t fulfilled as planned.

Yuan drove across the semi-lit bridge, checking for the team; but there was absolutely nothing. He continued on to the other side, checking for cameras and other vehicles as instructed. Seeing none, he turned his truck around and headed back for the bridge, his emotions mixed; he wanted the money, but could do without the stress.

But, he decided, in his line of work you could often have stress without the money, but rarely — if ever — the money without stress.

He headed back out on to the Yongding bridge, slowing down, headlights on full, straining his eyes to see something; anything.

The banging on his truck door sent instant adrenal shockwaves through his system, almost causing his heart to give up entirely; he turned and looked out of his window, shocked to see the blackened face of a commando staring back at him, nodding his head, gesturing for him to continue.

He continued to watch through his wing mirror in amazement as the man then dropped to the roadside again, slipping in past the rear of the truck as it rolled by him, pulling himself on board.

It was then that Yuan realized that the other five people were probably already in the back of his truck, having climbed in without him even realizing.

Whoever they were, Yuan decided as he once more wiped the sweat from his soaking brow, they were good; and as he accelerated away from the bridge, towards the turn-off for the S30 highway which would take them north to Beijing, this gave him some small, but very welcome, measure of reassurance.

Cole smiled at the other members of his team as they stretched out in the back of the accelerating truck.

They had all stripped out of their wetsuits already, back at the bridge. They had packed them away along with their rebreathers and fins, and then dumped the weighted bags into the deepest part of the Yongding.

They were in full combat gear now, checking their weapons and equipment.

‘How was your boat trip?’ he asked them quietly, once everybody was finally settled. ‘Comfortable?’

‘Shit,’ Chad Davis whispered in his Virginian drawl as he cracked his enormous neck and shoulders, ‘Id’ve been more comfortable in a fucking mouse’s ass-crack.’ He snorted. ‘A mouse that’s getting dragged around the house by a fucking cat. If I never do that again, it’ll be too soon.’

Cole smiled; it was typical of Davis to mouth off about the conditions, it was his sense of humor, the way he dealt with the stress of operations. And he knew that the big commando could easily put up with a hell of a lot worse.

Jake Navarone, experienced in SDV infiltrations, nevertheless nodded in understanding. ‘There were a couple of times it could have been a bit smoother,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

The four blind passengers listened as Cole told them about their journey, everyone glad they’d avoided the fishing net, and then laughing quietly when he told them about the half-naked teenage divers.

‘Brave sons of bitches,’ Barrington said. ‘If the authorities caught them doin’ that kinda shit round here, they’d likely be pretty sorry about it.’

‘You’re right about that,’ Cole said, amazed by how unruffled the woman seemed by the journey. This was his first operation with Julie Barrington, and he could already see that he’d made a good choice. But you didn’t get to head up a unit of the Special Activities Division’s SOG by being a shrinking violet; she was obviously at the top of her game.

‘Hey, Country,’ Sal Grayson said to Chad Davis, using the Delta operator’s nickname, ‘we’re gonna be in this rig for a little while, how about a song?’

Cole knew that Davis and Grayson had worked together before, even before they’d been asked to join Force One. A key task of the Air Force’s Pararescueman was supporting covert ops by Delta and other high-risk units. Grayson had deployed with a Delta team two years before and had ended up performing a battlefield tracheotomy to Davis’s partner while under heavy fire. He’d saved the man, gained the Purple Heart, and the eternal gratitude of Chad Davis.

Cole also knew that Davis — a country boy through and through — was a pretty good singer, and often crooned old country ballads before an operation to help alleviate the stress everyone would typically be feeling.

‘Good idea,’ agreed Cole. ‘Let’s hear something.’ He knew he didn’t have to tell the man to keep the volume down; that was a given.

Davis smiled broadly. ‘I should start charging you sons of bitches,’ he said, ‘you know that?’

‘Don’t give us that crap, Country,’ Barrington responded. ‘We all know you’re gagging to get started.’

Davis eyed her mischievously. ‘So what if I am?’

‘Well, if you are, you best get started before we arrive in Beijing, that’s what,’ she said with a smile.

‘Okay,’ Davis sighed, holding up his big hands, ‘okay. You asked for it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now here’s a little number that reminds me of my childhood, growing up on the—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Grayson said with mock impatience, ‘get on with it, why don’cha?’

Davis raised his hand to swat at Grayson’s head, the Air Force combat medic flinching away in response. Everyone laughed, even Grayson.

‘Almost Heaven, West Virginia,’ Davis began, his voice soft, controlled, ‘Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River… ’

The words poured out, sung quietly, beautifully, and Cole wondered if even the late, great John Denver would have done a better job if he’d been there with them in the back of the truck. He doubted it; most people headed into the lion’s den would have been terrified, unable to keep the stress out of their voice; big Chad Davis sounded as if he was singing in church with his family on a Sunday morning.

But that was how the people he had picked for Force One were made, Cole understood.

They had to be, for the things they had to do.

7

In the end, the Baijiu didn’t help Captain Liu Yingchau sleep at all.

It was probably just as well; he had an early start, and it wouldn’t do to be late. He peered from the windows of his concrete apartment block, part of the decrepit tenement in which he had been stationed for the duration of his stay in Beijing, and checked the streets outside. Everything was quiet; the calm before the storm.

His apartment was small, but mercifully above the average worker’s assigned dormitory housing, which was just a shade over six square meters in total. It wasn’t luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it was better than a lot of places Liu had been, and he was grateful for small mercies.

Timing was crucial this morning, he knew; he had to be in position as promised or he would risk damaging everything. But Liu knew he wouldn’t be late.

He was still wired on adrenalin, using the previous night to try and find out where General Wu was, and when he would be back. He had contacted everyone he knew, tried every trick in the book, but still didn’t have the answer. Would Wu be back in time?

He left his apartment, locking the door behind him and descending the concrete steps of his tenement to the muggy streets below. He could feel the humidity in the atmosphere, knew it would rain today, and rain hard. It had to; the air was already too hot, too heavy, not to — even at this early hour. Strange, Liu thought, that the weather forecast hadn’t mentioned rain. Still, that was state control for you; you were only told what the government wanted you to hear.

Liu walked past his motorcycle, watching the glowing disk of the sun as it finally reared its head over the roofs of the apartment buildings which surrounded him, and continued along onto another street.

Two more turns — careful to check if anyone was following him — and he was there, the vehicle parked as promised; a favor he would one day have to return.

He checked his cellphone, hoping for an answer about Wu, but there was nothing.

He wondered how to break the news to the people he would be meeting.

Davis was halfway through a moody rendition of Hey Good Looking when Cole stopped him with a raised hand, the driver’s voice coming through his earpiece intercom from the front cab.

‘Sir,’ the voice said in broken English, distorted in Cole’s ear but just about understandable, ‘I think there is a problem.’

Cole signaled the team, who immediately took up their weapons, moving to defensive positions within the rear compartment. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘Roadblock up ahead,’ the driver said nervously. ‘And I think they will stop us. They got me before, stole TVs right out of back.’

The boxes in the back of the truck were gone now — offloaded to the fake CIA delivery site — but there was packaging and debris strewn around the floor, and the Force One members had used it to disguise themselves, blending into the scattered mess perfectly. It wouldn’t fool anyone who actually set foot in the back, but if someone were only to open the doors and look in — especially as the sun was still not yet fully up — then they were unlikely to be discovered.

But if they were, then they would open fire and run; hardly an ideal scenario, but one that had to be faced. Everyone’s safety catches were off, ready to go.

‘What shall I do?’ the driver’s nervous voice came back. ‘Shall I turn around? Or accelerate? Ram them?’

The man was getting more and more excitable, and Cole had to calm him down; the last thing they needed was for the truck to do something suspicious, and turning around so close to a roadblock might be almost as bad as ramming it. Almost.

‘No,’ Cole said as calmly as he could. ‘Just keep going. Trust me.’

Trust him?

It was easy for him to say — whoever he was.

He had five friends with guns to help back him up. What did Yuan Ziyang have? A revolver and a knife! He was going to end up as road kill.

‘Listen,’ the voice came through again, cool and professional, its tone demanding that Yuan do just that. ‘Don’t worry. Keep driving normally. Be confident. Do not turn around, and do not accelerate.’

‘What if they stop me?’ he asked, getting closer now, seeing them through his windshield; the same men he’d seen earlier that morning, who’d cheated him, robbed him. A part of him wanted them to stop him again, to see what the people in the back of the truck would do to them.

But the other part, the one that wanted to live, didn’t want to see that at all.

And so he did as the voice told him and just kept on driving, right towards the corrupt cops.

Would they recognize the van? Would they stop it? They’d stolen from him once, why not again?

And then he was next to them, and within the next few seconds he was past them, waved on with nothing more than a nod of the head and a sly, knowing grin from the man who’d taken his address.

They hadn’t been stopped! The voice had been right!

‘Yes!’ he called down the intercom. ‘We’re through! We’re through!’

Cole had to pull the earpiece out, the man’s shouts threatening to deafen him.

Cole was pleased, but not surprised; if this team had stolen TVs from the truck on the way to a delivery, they would know it would be empty on the way back. So why try and stop it?

But stranger things had happened, and Cole’s finger had been on the trigger of his M4, ready to depress at the first target that came into his sightline.

Gratefully, gladly, he relaxed the finger slightly, allowing it to switch the safety back on. But the carbine still rested in his arms, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

They were getting close now, Cole noted as he stared at his GPS monitor.

And things were only going to get more difficult.

‘Take the S303 east,’ the voice said just twenty minutes after passing the roadblock.

‘What?’ Yuan said, confused. ‘I am taking you into Beijing, no?’

‘Not anymore. Take the S303 east.’

‘What is this?’

Yuan was unsure of what to do; the CIA had given him orders, but now the team was here, did that mean that they were in charge?

He considered things for a few moments, and made an obvious conclusion; if nothing else, the people in the back of his truck were the ones with the guns.

‘Yes sir,’ he confirmed, changing lanes. ‘No problem.’

‘Good choice,’ Cole told the man, continuing to guide him as they turned south into the Xitianyangcun district, just outside the South 6th Ring Road and the interior of Beijing proper.

Cole knew the driver would be confused, receiving orders which conflicted with those given to him by his CIA handlers, but his discomfort was of less interest to Cole than was getting into the Chinese capital safely and without being detected.

Cole had therefore arranged for another form of onward transport, and one which the CIA would know nothing about; for however good their own security was, leaks still happened, and Cole couldn’t take the chance of their mission being compromised.

Eventually, Cole gave the final direction, and the truck rolled to a gentle stop, the driver giving the all-clear.

The street was empty.

In an instant, Cole and his team were out of the back, into an abandoned junkyard; and then the other five members snaked quickly away through wrecked cars and broken washing machines.

Cole himself ran to the front, calling to the driver through the open window. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now get out of here.’

He banged the side of the truck, and the driver did as he was told, maneuvering the vehicle back out of the junkyard towards the maze of residential streets beyond that would take him back to the S303 and the safety of his normal life.

The relief in his eyes was obvious.

And then Cole was running, heading after his team through the wrecked and twisted metal of the junkyard.

He emerged into a clearing a few moments later, watching as Grayson and Collins were already getting into their next mode of transportation, Navarone shaking hands with the driver, his old friend Liu Yingchau.

Davis and Barrington were apprehensively waiting their turn to get in, and Cole could understand why — their next journey was going to be enjoyed hidden within the filth and muck of a Beijing municipal garbage truck.

‘You’ve gotta be shitting me,’ Davis said as Cole approached. ‘Come back SDV, all is forgiven.’

Barrington laughed quietly. ‘Maybe next time I’ll make the travel arrangements?’ she suggested.

Cole just shrugged, and gestured for them to get inside.

They understood the reasons just fine, and he knew he didn’t have to explain it to them; there was no way in hell that any security force, no matter how zealous they were, would ever check inside the back of a garbage truck.

And as the smell from the rear of the vehicle hit Cole, he could well understand why.

He watched Davis and Barrington climb in, covering themselves with the filth and garbage, miniature breathing masks firmly in place; then saw Liu climb into the driver’s cab, Navarone now by his side; and then, trying to ignore the fetid stench and the horrific feel of the slimy rubbish, he followed them in.

8

Clark Mason was on his way home from the White House, Bruce Vinson’s arrogant words still infuriating him. He knew he should just forget about it, but he couldn’t.

As the armored limousine, driven and guarded by members of his Secret Service security detail, whisked him along Massachusetts Avenue Northwest, he thought back to his meeting with Vinson earlier that afternoon.

It was clear that the man was hiding something, and it was equally clear that he thought that Mason — despite his enormous wealth, power and influence — was no threat to him or his organization.

Well, Mason thought angrily, the sonofabitch is dead wrong about that.

He was going to take Vinson’s organization apart piece by piece, and then destroy him and his pet commando Mark Cole.

Mason had been sitting in on the latest NSC meeting back at the White House, upset but not entirely surprised when a briefing had been given by none other than Richard Stark and Norma Valente, the Paradigm Group’s best people on China, just as Vinson had said. What was even more distressing was that they were very good, and he’d been given nothing to complain about.

The upshot of the entire meeting was that the American government still had no real clue about what to do with General Wu and the People’s Republic of China. There was the usual mix of hawks and doves arguing about the action the United States should be taking, and the meeting had soon degenerated into a shouting match between the two factions.

Mason had noted with interest that President Abrams was reticent on the subject of military action, a course that she was normally only too willing to follow. This, to Mason, was tantamount to proof that an operation must already be underway. Of what sort, he had no idea; but something was happening, of that he could be sure.

Mason wondered whether to confront Abrams about it; after all, as the VP he had a right to know. As did the rest of the members of the NSC, the House of Congress, and three hundred and twenty million American citizens.

But he still had no real proof, and knew he better leave it until he could present his allegations as a fait accompli. He had his people in US Special Operations Command and JSOC looking into things for him now; if any official personnel or vehicles were being used outside of training or ongoing operations, he would soon know about it.

And so he was going to go back to his villa at One Observatory Circle and drown his sorrows with a bottle or two of Puligny Montrachet. His wife was out across country speaking at a charity event — save the poor, or some crap like that; he didn’t remember, and certainly didn’t care — and he was looking forward to having the place to himself.

His phone buzzed, and he picked it up, pleased to see Sarah Lansing’s name on the screen.

Lansing was his latest mistress, twenty-two years old and with the face and body of a supermodel, her ebony skin unbelievably smooth, almost flawless. She might even be a supermodel for all Mason knew; he was sure he must have asked her what she did for a living, and she would have told him, but he supposed he hadn’t really been interested in the answer.

‘Are you going to be all alone tonight?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Perhaps not,’ Mason answered. He’d planned on being alone, but on second thoughts, why not have some company? His Secret Service detail was discreet enough, and the Vice Presidential home had nowhere near the security or the public attention that the White House did. He supposed he’d better take advantage of it before he changed address. ‘Would you care to come over?’

‘I’d love to,’ Lansing said. ‘And I’ll bring something… special.’

‘What is it?’ Mason asked, enjoying the teasing.

‘Oh, you’ll just have to wait and see. But trust me, you’re going to love it.’

Knowing Lansing like her did, he was sure she wouldn’t disappoint him, and he already started to feel himself getting excited at the mere thought of her and what she would do to him.

‘I’ll send someone over to get you right away,’ he said breathlessly.

He put the phone down, more eager to get home than ever.

Despite the pocket air mask, the stench from the garbage was intense.

But it had served its purpose; the truck had been stopped twice on the way in, and neither time had the back been searched. One look at it, one whiff of it, was enough to convince the security forces not to venture any further.

And now the truck was rolling to a stop again, and the beep that came through to Cole’s mobile device told him that they’d made it; and it was time to go.

The sun was up now, but the signal from Liu meant that the coast must be clear, so Cole moved quickly through the noxious, slimy garbage, pulling himself mercifully out of the truck, checking the back alley around him for a moment, and then rolling back underneath the truck in one smooth action.

Once underneath the large vehicle, Cole took hold of the manhole cover in front of him and pulled hard. It moved instantly — Liu had been ordered to make sure it wasn’t welded or rusted tightly shut the day before — and he slid it across to one side, dropping down into the dark hole beyond.

He dropped five feet and landed in ankle-deep water, knees bending to take the impact. He immediately moved to one side and lit his high-powered torch, illuminating the cavern-like sewer tunnel around him as Grayson dropped down, followed by Barrington, Collins and Davis.

Davis stayed where he was, and Cole watched as Navarone levered himself down onto the giant’s shoulders, holding himself there as he pulled the manhole cover back into position above him. The task completed, Navarone dropped to the ground beside Davis, the sound of the truck rumbling off down the alleyway muted above them.

‘Well, it might be a sewer,’ Davis said as he breathed in the air, ‘but I’d take it over that garbage truck any day of the week.’

Cole smiled. ‘We got here in one piece didn’t we?’

Davis acknowledged that fact with a grunt, and then everyone stared to move as one, following Cole’s lead down the sewer tunnel, headed west.

After ten minutes of slow, arduous movement through the thick, sludgy water which at times rose above their knees, they came to a stop at a larger area with a raised concrete platform to one side, the tunnel breaking off in three different directions.

Cole held up his hand for the team to stop.

‘We’ll lay up here for now,’ he said. ‘Check comms, weapons and equipment. Then we go our separate ways.’

The team immediately started their checks, making sure everything was still operational after their long, tortuous journey.

Navarone moved up to Cole, gesturing with his head to move to one side.

Cole did as he was asked, Navarone’s mouth going to his ear. ‘Wu’s not here,’ he said.

‘What?’ Cole asked in surprise.

‘Liu tells me he made a speech from Taipei just last night. The Politburo are still in place, Liu’s got me an updated position, and he’s got a secure cell to confirm just before we launch, but he can’t confirm Wu will be there this afternoon.’

Cole nodded his head, thinking even as he went through his own weapons checks. Just because Wu was in Taiwan last night didn’t mean he would still be there now; he could still make the Dragon Boat races that afternoon.

But even if he didn’t, Cole was here now; if Wu wasn’t here today, he would just wait. It would make things a lot more difficult — the plan was to coordinate his assassination and the rescue of the Politburo on the same day — but not impossible.

Nothing was ever impossible.

It made things awkward, but there was no reason that Navarone’s part of the operation couldn’t go exactly as planned. If the PRC government ministers were rescued before Wu was killed, that would still be okay; it would be more problematic the other way around, as Wu’s death might cause fatal reprisals if the Politburo were still being held.

Cole had planned on extracting with the rest of team, but that too wasn’t an absolute necessity; if needed, he could make his own way home.

‘Continue as planned,’ Cole said. ‘I’ll know beforehand whether he’s going to be there and I’ll let you know via secure comms. But even if he’s not, it doesn’t affect you at all.’

‘Will you extract with us?’

Cole shook his head. ‘Not if I don’t get a shot at him, no. I’ll stay until the job’s finished. You go without me, I’ll get back by myself.’

Navarone nodded, accepting Cole’s statement with total faith.

‘Okay,’ he said, clapping Navarone’s shoulder and addressing the rest of the group, ‘let’s do a final comms check.’

Everyone tested their devices, confirming that all frequencies were working and that they were still secure. Synchronization of the team’s watches came next, and then Cole looked at each member of Force One in turn.

‘Okay. I’m not one for speeches, but we all know what’s at stake here. We know what to do, so let’s get on and do it. Good luck.’

And with that, Cole was gone, travelling down the easternmost tunnel to his final destination.

He knew his team wouldn’t let him down; but, Navarone’s words still on his mind, he could only hope that he would be able to fulfil his own part of the mission.