Gunmetal Gray

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The first explosion confirmed Colonel Dai’s fear that he’d walked his force into a trap, but for the past several minutes other clues had led him inexorably towards this conclusion. His men had made their way into positions around the estate after circumventing the most perfunctory police presence on the rural roads nearby, and then they’d made it over the barbed-wire fences in four different locations without seeing patrols at the perimeter. The attackers moved in teams of five, and the first group had reported that they had reached the back door of the main house on the property without encountering a single sentry during their ingress.

Colonel Dai Longhai himself was nestled with a sniper team and the mission commander in an overwatch position higher on the hillside from the front gate of the property, close enough to see for himself that the building in the center of the estate was well lit and appeared to be occupied on all three floors, so he found it odd there was no security at the fence line or in the large clearings around the buildings, but it wasn’t until his second squad made it to the front doors of the building, having not seen any sign of a guard, a motion detector, or even a dog, that Dai’s level of apprehension reached the point where he articulated his concerns.

He took the radio out of the hand of his ground force commander next to him. “Teams Three and Four? Do you see any movement inside any of the buildings?”

Three and Four were at the edge of the tropical forest that grew in the estate, inside the fence line of the big property, with better vision of the overall scene than the ten men stacked at the doors.

“This is Team Three. We see nothing.”

“Team Four. Lights are on, but no movement. It’s midnight. Maybe they aren’t expecting any trouble.”

Dai shook his head there in the dark foliage above the scene. This didn’t feel right at all. “No. All units egress quietly.”

“This is Team One. We’re at the back door now. Confirm you want us to—”

“I said get the fuck out of—”

A simultaneous volley of four rocket-propelled grenades raced out of the jungle to the south and hit the area around the men at the back door, and, within a half second, four more RPGs struck the entrance to the building coming from the northeast, decimating Team Two just as they were stepping down from the large porch.

Ten of Dai’s men were dead or horribly wounded in the blink of an eye.

And then, around the cleared portion of the large estate, large wooden boards arced up from the ground on buried hinges, each covered with straw or recently felled brush, and neat rows of camouflaged men stood from hidden trenches and fired Kalashnikovs at the jungle around them.

As Dai watched, some six or seven different groups of men around the property engaged his remaining forces, sending men sprawling, spinning, dying in the clearing or in the jungle, or retreating for their lives back to the fence line.

Up on the overwatch where Dai was positioned, the two sniper teams were preparing to engage with their bolt-action rifles, but Dai called out to them before they fired their first round. “No!” he said. “There must be fifty or more of them. We will just draw fire on ourselves, and we can do nothing for our comrades below.”

The battle lasted over ten minutes, but nine of those minutes were just mopping up, because the result had been decided in the opening seconds. Twenty PLA special forces operators were cut down while the six men on the hillside watched: stunned, dismayed, and yet overjoyed to be up on the hill and not down there.

Kulap Chamroon observed it all from the upper stern deck of the Medusa, more than a mile and a half to the south of his family compound on Phuket. He had binoculars in his hands, as did several of the Italians at the long table around him, and they drank and ate and enjoyed the show as if they were watching a fireworks display.

They also had wireless cameras set up in both the front and the back of the big home on the estate, and through these views, projected on the large-screen TV in the upper-deck salon there next to the big table full of men, they could all see plainly that the Chinese invaders were being slaughtered.

The fighters dug into Kulap’s estate were not Chamroon Syndicate men. No, the syndicate gunmen, other than the security detail used by the Chamroon family, were poorly armed gangsters, great in a bar fight or a back-alley mugging but hopeless for this kind of an affair. No, for tonight he had brought in members of Barisan Revolusi Nasional, the National Revolutionary Front, an insurgent group in southern Thailand and northern Malaysia. BRN had no quarrel with these Chinese, and they knew absolutely nothing of a Chinese computer hacker named Fan Jiang who had been forced into servitude by the Chamroon Syndicate, but they did know the Chamroon Syndicate, because the organization had provided the BRN with weapons and funding over the past few years, as a simple foil to the Thai government.

For tonight Kulap had simply rented fifty-six of the BRN’s best fighters, paid their commanders for their services, and moved them up north via a coastal barge here to his compound on Phuket.

The BRN guerrillas dug in with orders to wait for an attack that would surely come.

Two days after they arrived and prepared positions, the Chinese hit and, from all appearances, the Chinese had all either died or retreated.

When it was over, one of the Italians sitting with Kulap at the stern of the yacht turned away from the television and looked at his Thai business associate. “Those savages you hired blew up your house. Was that in your plan?” He said it with unmistakable mirth. He was ’Ndrangheta, a millionaire dozens of times over. The loss of one of his properties would have been nothing to him, and he presumed the same of his little Thai business associate.

Kulap laughed himself, then downed a huge gulp of Sangiovese. “I told them to do what they had to do… but you’re right, Paolo. It seemed to me like they enjoyed firing those RPGs a little too much!” He laughed again. “Dirty fuckers.”

Another man watching the video said, “Looks like the Chinese killed about five of the rebels.”

Kulap shrugged. “I have to pay their commanders the same amount of money, no matter how many live or die.”

Everyone at the table laughed now.

Half a football field ahead of the conversation at the stern, Zoya Zakharova climbed the anchor chain of the Medusa, hanging upside down, her rippling muscles tightening with each pull upwards.

She was a supremely fit woman, but this wasn’t an easy task for her. The salt water had taken no time finding its way into every tiny little cut she’d earned descending the cliff face, but she pushed the pain and the ache of her fatigued and bruised muscles out of her mind as she climbed out of the water and towards the hull of the ship where the anchor chain disappeared into the chain locker. She couldn’t see up on the bow at all from her position, but she knew Court was floating in the water, just far back enough to see the bow, waiting with the pistol taken from the guard on the balcony at the Chinese safe house. If anyone saw Zoya boarding the Medusa, Court would fire on them before they could kill her, giving her time to simply drop from the chain back into the water.

This would ruin tonight’s plan, but from the sounds of the small jungle war that was petering out to the north, Zoya thought it likely that Colonel Dai and his men would only continue to be a threat to Sir Donald Fitzroy. Not to Fan, not to her, and not to Court.

This mission was all about getting Fan, and getting Fan was all she cared about now.

Zoya made it to the bow, then turned back to look at Court, hoping to see him in the black water. He was just outside the glow of the yacht’s bow lighting, floating with her scuba gear next to him, and he swam forward a few feet and raised his gun arm straight in the air: their signal that all was clear.

She climbed around the chain now and used it to stand on as she looked over the bow itself. It was pitch-black here at the foredeck, but above on the higher decks she could hear voices and see lights. The Medusa’s bow faced out to sea, clearly so those partying at the stern could see the shoreline and the battle raging inland, but Zoya used the darkness to move silently to a place to hide in front of a forehatch.

Two minutes later Court came over the bow at the anchor chain, rolled onto the deck, and crawled forward to her. She was impressed with his stealth and skill; the Zaslon men she had worked with — on and off — had been some of the best on Earth at clandestine movement, but Court was as good as she’d ever seen.

He knelt next to her, took the pistol out of a mesh bag he’d worn over his shoulder, and let the water drip from the barrel. He whispered, “Two sentries on the top deck. They can’t see us from here. The rest of the action on deck is at the stern.”

She touched the forehatch in front of her with the tip of her .38 revolver. “Where do you think this leads?”

“Belowdecks will be a hallway, the engine room, quarters for the crew. All the staterooms and public areas will be on the upper decks with all the glass.”

Zoya said, “If you were keeping Fan here, do you think you’d keep him down here, or up there?”

Court said, “Let’s try below. Even if we don’t find Fan there, someone in the crew will know where he is.” Court pulled a screwdriver out of the bag and got to work on the forehatch. It was locked from the inside, but he was able to remove the hinges and pull it open just a few inches. Looking down, he saw a dimly lit hall, and he could hear the sounds of electric generators. He looked back to Zoya and nodded, then struggled for another minute to reach in and flip the hatch lever open from the inside with the screwdriver.

Zoya lowered herself down through the hatch, dropped into a crouch, then raised her weapon. Court came down himself a few seconds later, and he found himself in a hallway lined on both sides with doors. He imagined this was all crew living space. He had no idea how many berths there were, but a yacht this size could easily house a crew of twenty-five or more.

After midnight Court didn’t expect much action here belowdecks, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He felt a little glare from Zoya as he passed her, but he wasn’t going to let her take the first bullet that came up this narrow hall.

He thought about checking the doors one by one. But this was a 160-foot yacht, and it was a long hallway, and he decided he needed some intelligence about where to look. He just walked past all the doors and into the engine room beyond.

Court knew the engine room would be the easiest place to find someone working alone, or at least not out in the open.

Directly inside the hatch, electrical panels displayed all the generator battery levels, water tank levels, and other gauges used by the engineers on the crew. They passed several water filters and more control panels, air-conditioning equipment, and the hydraulic pump. The massive Caterpillar engines took up the main part of the room. Court and Zoya passed them by moving low and carefully.

He found a target just thirty seconds later: a man sitting at a desk and eating a piece of chocolate cake. He was in his fifties, wearing blue coveralls and glasses, and he couldn’t have been easier to sneak up on with all the noises here in the engine room.

Court tapped him on his back with the pistol, then held it in his face as he turned around.

The man sat stunned, bits of cake hanging out of his beard.

“English?” Court asked.

The man’s response came in a hoarse whisper. “No. Italiano.”

Zoya had been keeping an eye out for others, but when she heard this she stepped in to the desk area and began speaking in rapid-fire Italian.

Court stepped out and began covering the rest of the engine room.

After a minute Zoya leaned out. “He says we can kill him, but he won’t talk.”

Court pulled the small vial of scopolamine hydrobromide out of a zippered pocket in his wetsuit. He held it in front of the engineer. To Zoya he said, “Tell him what this is, and how fast it works.”

She did, and the man listened a minute, drew his shoulders back, and spit at Court.

Zoya reared back to punch him in the face, but Court grabbed her arm. “No. Allow me.”

He cracked the little vial in his hand, lunged forward, and shoved it in the man’s left nostril. In the shock of the moment the engineer inhaled through his nose, then almost immediately began thrashing.

Court held him down and held his hand over his mouth. He turned to Zoya. “Find a head.”

“You mean a bathroom?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him with bewilderment. “You have to take a bathroom break now?”

“No,” he said, “I’m going to lock him in when I get what I need from him.”

Ten minutes later the engineer was in his underwear, he had his arms and hands taped behind his back, he had been pushed into the tiny head aft of the engine room, and the door latch was broken off on both the inside and the outside.

The man was conscious but completely out of it. He’d conveyed in Italian that the Thais had come out to the boat yesterday in a party of eight men. He didn’t know anything about a Chinese prisoner, but he told Court and Zoya that all the new guests were staying in the five staterooms on the upper deck.

Court realized he was as far as he could be from his target as possible.

After they had him tied and locked in the head, Court turned to Zoya. “One more thing. Ask him where the tenders are.”

Zoya spoke again, and the utterly compliant man answered through the door. She looked at Court. “The subdeck below has two fifteen-foot tenders. They can be deployed out through hull hatches.”

Court now wore the blue coveralls and tennis shoes he’d taken from the engineer. The coveralls were baggy and the shoes were a full two sizes too large, but Court tightened the laces and wore them anyway, because a barefoot engineer would be an odd sight. He and Zoya went aft out of the engine room to the ladder that led both down to the subdeck and up to the upper decks. Here Court said, “Any chance I can get you to go down to one of the tenders and get ready to deploy it? I might come hard and fast with Fan and we’ll need to get out of here in a hurry.”

Zoya shook her head. “You’ll need me upstairs and you know it.” When Court started to say something else, she added, “Forget about me leaving now. I’m with you all the way.”

Court let it go; it was a battle he knew he’d lose before he’d even begun fighting it.

Passing the lower deck, they went through the kitchen. Zoya was still in her wetsuit. All the lights were on and they could hear noises just around the corner.

Zoya peeked out first, then stepped out fully. Court walked out into the passageway and saw Zoya stepping up close behind a female server in black slacks, a black button-down shirt, and a black tie. Her black apron lay on the stainless steel island next to her, and she was well into the process of drinking a glass of wine.

“Long night?” Zoya said, and the woman spun around, sloshing some of the wine on the deck.

The woman spoke with a French accent. “Who are…”

She stopped speaking when she saw Court appear behind Zoya, the pistol low in his hand and facing down.

Zoya said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need your clothes, and some information.” Her voice was soft, friendly, but she had an intensity on her face that made it plain she could be trouble if challenged.

The woman nodded, an expression of terror on her own face.

“How many more working in the kitchen?”

“Two,” the French server replied.

“Where are they now?”

“Upper deck, serving at the party.” Her eyes then went even wider.

“What is it?” Zoya asked.

“A dishwasher. He went to smoke. He will be back in a moment. I’m sorry. I forgot about him.”

“We all make mistakes. How many armed security on the yacht?”

“I don’t… Maybe ten?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know for sure. At least ten. And I think the Thais have guns.” The young woman started to cry.

Zoya said, “Calm down, dear. You aren’t in trouble.” Then she said, “I’ll need to borrow your outfit. Let’s go somewhere private where we can change.”