River of Ruin

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

Captain Wong Hui watched critically as deckhands secured heavy manila ropes to his ship. The other end of the lines were wound around diesel-powered capstans at the far end of the dry dock. Powerful lamps attached to the enormous shedlike building spread a glare of white light across his ship and the black waters that lapped against the newly built structure. The massive doors were open and in moments the four-hundred-foot refrigerator ship Korvald would be drawn into the enclosed dock and her long trip from Shanghai would be finished.

He muttered a few terse words to the helmsman as he felt his ship move against the sluggish tidal surge. Athwartship thrusters adjusted her heading, lining her up perfectly with the narrow, concrete-lined berth. His walkie-talkie crackled and an operator at the far side of the building indicated he was ready to engage the winches.

Wong knew that his ship had been chosen by COSTIND, China’s military-industrial combine, because she carried a sophisticated cooling system that usually kept her cargoes of meat frozen, but also because her superstructure was low enough to fit into the dry-dock chamber. Still he kept a wary eye on the roof of the building as the capstans slowly drew the ship past the doors and into the dry dock. From where he stood, forty feet off the water, the span of the ceiling trusses were another fifty feet above him.

Even with fifteen feet of clearance on each side of the Korvald, Wong paced from wing bridge to wing bridge watching to see that his vessel stayed in the exact center of the dry dock. He looked aft in time to see her fantail clear the steel doors and the heavy gates begin to close. She was in. The winches hauled the reefer ship another one hundred feet to the front of the building until her graceful bows loomed over the quay and a pair of forward ropes dropped almost vertically to mushroomlike bollards.

The veteran seaman gave no outward sign that reaching Panama had reduced the tension that had robbed him of sleep since leaving China. He remained erect and aloof, fitting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it from a match. Just because he’d delivered his cargo didn’t mean the danger was past, thanks to the coded orders he’d received en route from General Yu. It would be at least another day before the large overhead crane, normally used to pull heavy machinery from disabled ships, would haul away the Korvald ’s load of eight DF-31 medium-range missiles.

The solid rocket boosters were fifty feet long and weighed nearly nine tons without their nuclear payload. The Korvald had undergone modifications to her hatches while in Shanghai so the missiles could be removed safely. He recalled that when the train carrying the rockets had arrived in Shanghai from the Wuzhai Missile and Space Center near Beijing, it had taken six hours for the workers to settle the boosters into the special cradles deep in the hold. Without the distraction of so many hawkish politburo members watching the work, he was sure the men here could cut that time in half. Once the canal was disabled, he wanted his ship out of Panamanian waters as soon as possible.

Had General Yu not ordered he wait, he would have liked to see the rockets unloaded tonight, but that was not to be.

Wong pitched the stub of his cigarette into the oily waters separating the Korvald from the dock and watched as Liu Yousheng strode down the length of the pier to where the ship’s gangway had been lowered. With him were two armed soldiers and an ancient figure who moved with bird-like steps that covered the ground deceptively fast. Wong supposed he owed Liu the deference of meeting the executive when he came aboard, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he sent his first officer to the deck to escort Liu and his party to the captain’s day cabin directly behind the bridge.

A steward brought in tea just as Liu Yousheng reached the cabin. He nearly toppled the young servant as he pushed past. The two guards stayed outside the spartan room while the elderly man in the dark suit stood mutely at Liu’s side. Wong struggled to hide his distaste at the man’s pallid appearance.

“Wong?” Liu made no move to formally greet the captain or introduce his guest.

“I am Captain Wong, master of the Korvald.” Wong bowed, sensing the fury already radiating off Liu.

“Your first officer just told me that you won’t allow the missiles to be unloaded.” Liu’s voice was a low snarl.

Wong wasn’t about to be intimidated aboard his own ship and his tone rose to match Liu’s. “By order of General Yu.” He handed over a decrypted transcript of Yu’s recent orders. “We are not to remove the rockets from this ship until after the canal has been sealed. As you can see there in the second paragraph, the general still harbors reservations about your plan and is unwilling to risk the DF-31s in case you fail. My orders are to keep all officers and crew aboard the Korvald and to be prepared to leave this facility at a moment’s notice.”

Liu scanned the orders and then read them again slowly, his anger subsiding as he saw the wisdom in Yu’s instructions. This wasn’t an attempt to double-cross him or undermine his authority. Yu just wanted to maintain the security of the rockets. There were a total of twelve DF-31s currently in China’s arsenal and two-thirds of them were on the Korvald . They represented an investment far beyond the gold bullion that had been spent on Operation Red Island, and unlike the gold, they could not be quickly replaced. Still, the orders felt like a mild rebuke.

Wong continued. “I intend to raise the gangplank as soon as you are off my ship and I expect that you will post workers in the control room to open the dry-dock gates if I need to leave quickly.”

“The general is so concerned about his precious rockets,” Liu said sarcastically. “Did he say what is to be done with the mobile launchers in case I fail? They are a rather expensive investment and would create quite an incident if the Americans discovered them here.”

Wong shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. Perhaps General Yu believes you know your duty regarding them.”

Liu took a calming breath, realizing that he’d gain nothing by goading the captain further. Wong was under the same kind of control as he himself felt. And he knew that mechanics here at the terminal could disassemble the monstrous trucks in a couple of hours and load the parts into shipping containers. His voice returned to the silken tones he used so effectively in board meetings and business negotiations. “What do you know about the warheads themselves?”

“Before leaving China, General Yu told me to report that they have already been loaded aboard a submarine for transit directly to this facility. The sub is diesel-electric and will need to be refueled en route. An oiler has been dispatched to the rendezvous point north of the Society Islands. Because the at-sea refueling must take place when there is no satellite coverage, I can’t give an exact arrival time, but it should be approximately three weeks after departing China.”

Liu nodded. “Very well, Captain. You have your orders and apparently I have mine. If tomorrow’s schedule is maintained, the submersible carrying the men off Gemini should reach Gamboa at about ten forty-five in the morning, which means the canal should be rendered inoperable at eleven.”

“Then we will commence the unloading a short time later,” Wong said, warily eyeing the old man, who watched him like an undertaker looks at a fresh corpse.

“Sergeant Huai,” Liu barked.

The noncom stepped into the cabin and snapped a salute. “Sir?”

“You and Mr. Sun are to remain on board this vessel until I return tomorrow to supervise her unloading. Captain Wong has the authority to leave the dock under certain circumstances. Mr. Sun knows what they are. If Sun deems the captain is attempting to leave without those conditions being met, it is your duty to prevent it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Huai saluted again.

Liu expected Wong to report this back to General Yu. He was counting on it. Yu had to understand that he didn’t like being told a change in his plans by a mere ship’s captain and that he was still in charge of Red Island. He leveled his gaze at Wong, just so there was no misunderstanding. “This isn’t personal, Captain.”

Wong gave a short laugh. “I know it isn’t. What games you and General Yu wish to play are no concern of mine. I do as ordered and leave politics to others.”

“Sergeant Huai, how many men do you need to carry out my orders?”

“What is this ship’s complement?”

“Eight officers and twenty-two crewmen,” Wong answered.

“I will need four men, sir.”

“Very well. Captain, I will see you in the morning.”

Liu left the men awkwardly regarding each other in Wong’s cabin and made his way down the utilitarian companionway to the main deck. A foreman waited for him at the gangway.

“Sir?”

“Tell your men to stand down for the night. We won’t be unloading the ship until tomorrow.” Liu barely broke stride as he gave his orders.

He checked his watch. Midnight. He had to hold everything together for another eleven hours. His stomach remained calm even if he felt a headache growing behind his eyes. Yu had known when they spoke at El Mirador that he wasn’t unloading the rockets until after the canal was sealed, and had deliberately withheld that information. It was a petty trick, a small bit of intimidation that rankled the more Liu thought about it. Red Island was about to push Yu one step higher in the government and he chose to humiliate the man who was giving him the boost.

Wong had been right. Politics. It was his nation’s curse. Take away just half of the government infighting and Red Island would have been unnecessary because China would already control all of the Pacific basin.

Well, Liu thought with a touch of pride, thanks to me and despite themselves, the government’s going to get their wish anyway.

“Merrcerrrr, Merrcerrrr.” The voice dragged him back from the deepest sleep he’d enjoyed for weeks.

Mercer opened his eyes. Hovering in front of him was a face as wrinkled and gray as a balled-up piece of newsprint. Harry. “Ugh!” he groaned. “Waking to you makes my nightmares seem pleasant.”

“It’s five-thirty, Romeo. Shag your ass.”

Mercer remembered he hadn’t gone to bed alone and felt across the sheets. Lauren was gone.

“She’s already in the bathroom,” Harry informed him. “Judging by how rested she looked, you couldn’t have been much.”

“Not only are you a depraved bastard, but I suspect you’re deprived as well.” Mercer swung his legs out of the bed. He was surprised that other than a twinge of apprehension deep in his gut, he was feeling reasonably well. “Besides,” he added to stifle Harry’s leer, “nothing happened.”

Harry tossed a bundle of dark clothes into his lap. “Compliments of Foch. This is a spare uniform from the guy injured yesterday picking up Maria.”

“How is he? Do you know?”

“The driver’s still in the pokey. He managed to call Foch’s room late last night. The guy who was hit is going to be all right.”

“You’ve seen Foch. How long have you been awake?”

Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin. “When you’re as handsome as I am you don’t need much beauty rest.”

“Funny.” Mercer drew on the black fatigue pants and T-shirt.

“I woke up at five, went down to their room and heard they were all awake. When I came back up, Lauren was in the bathroom. Seems you’re the only one who wants to sleep through the fun.”

“I would if I could.” The clothes fit well enough so Mercer laced up his boots and followed Harry into the sitting room. A coffee service waited on a credenza. The aromatic steam was strong enough to start reviving Mercer even before he started on his first cup. “Any word about the Special Forces guys?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if Lauren’s called her father yet.”

She entered from the bathroom, dressed in clothes that matched Mercer’s. “Morning, boys. Who do I thank for the fatigues?”

“Me,” Harry answered quickly. “Sewed ’em myself.”

“You got the length right, but if you really think I have a thirty-six-inch waist I’m going to hurt you.”

Mercer suspected that she wouldn’t give any acknowledgment to how they’d spent the night even though they hadn’t so much as kissed. He was wrong. She stepped to him and pressed her lips to his. “How’d you sleep?”

He smiled into her eyes. “Never better.”

“Me too.”

“Break it up,” Harry growled. “You’re going to make me gag.”

When Bruneseau, Foch, and the four remaining Legionnaires entered the suite, Mercer was on his third cup of coffee and Roddy had already arrived with Miguel. The boy understood something important was about to happen and wanted to be with his two heroes for as long as possible. Considering his recent loss, neither man begrudged his clinging presence. It was a little after six in the morning. The Mario diCastorelli would be entering the canal in less than an hour, while the Special Forces were still more than two hours out.

The twinge in Mercer’s gut tightened a degree.

Sitting around the coffee table eating breakfast, he led them through their plan once again. Lauren would drive the van to pick up the American commandos. She would take them straight to the Balboa Yacht Club where Mercer, Roddy, and the Legionnaires would be waiting with the boat. No amount of argument could keep Harry White from also joining them at the marina. It was then up to the Special Forces to assault the Mario diCastorelli. If they failed, however, Mercer wanted to be ready to lead an attack of his own. He had no illusions about taking on a potential force that had just defeated an elite American unit, but he figured the initial raid would sorely deplete the number of defenders on the ship and give them a chance.

The faces confronting him were grim and set. Everyone knew and accepted the risks. The French wanted a chance to avenge the comrades felled by Liu Yousheng and Hatcherly Consolidated. Roddy was defending his very home, hoping to keep it from slipping back into the kind of tyranny not seen since Noriega’s day. Lauren had a sworn duty to defend the United States and never in her career had her mission been clearer. If they failed, America would face a Cold War-style nuclear confrontation with an adversary possessing a frightening strategic advantage.

What about Harry? Mercer wondered. Why did he want to be a part of this? Like so many of his generation, Harry hadn’t waited for the draft. He’d signed up to do his part during World War II and rightly placed himself among those called the Greatest Generation. It could be that he thought this fight was worth the same kind of sacrifice. Or maybe, Mercer chuckled to himself, the stubborn fool had never backed away from anything in his life and was too set in his ways to stop now.

And his own reason for accepting the risks? Mercer knew it was a combination of them all—with one more addition. He made no distinction between the carbon dioxide gas that had wiped out Gary’s camp and the squad of soldiers Liu had dispatched to the river to kill them. To him the Chinese were as responsible for those deaths as the geologic anomaly. Mercer looked at Miguel. For no reason other than greed and ambition, this innocent had been orphaned by Liu Yousheng. It was a burden the boy would carry for the rest of his life.

Mercer had always been haunted by the idea that the terrorists who murdered his parents had probably been congratulated for their barbarity. In a thousand dreams he’d seen them celebrating the ambush that had cost him everything and gained them nothing. It made him hate the killers all the more, a deep and primal emotion that he’d carry to his grave. He wasn’t sure if punishing Liu would give Miguel any comfort as he grew into adulthood, but Mercer understood too well how the boy’s soul could be corroded if the Chinese mastermind succeeded.

“I think we’re set,” Lauren said when the briefing was over. “When I talked to my father this morning he said the commandos made their flight okay. They managed to bring extra communications gear so we can all stay in contact during the assault.”

“What about your missile cruiser?” Foch asked.

“The destroyer USS McCampbell is already within Tomahawk range and will be able to bring her VGAS cannon to bear in another two hours. They will keep the ship out of Panama’s territorial waters but will be overflying an experimental spotter drone based on the Predator aircraft.”

“If Liu has moved SAM batteries here to protect his nuclear rockets, your drone won’t last five minutes,” Rene Bruneseau interjected.

Lauren gave him a smug look. “The spotter drone has the radar cross-section of a hummingbird. No worries.”

One of the Legion soldiers leaned forward. Named Rabidoux, he was the dark-complected son of an Algerian mother and a French father. He more than any of them had been stunned that Rene was a fellow Muslim. “I have been on NATO exercises with the American Green Berets. We won’t need the destroyer, its gun or missiles. I think we won’t even need us.”

Mercer nodded to him. “Hope you’re right.” He looked at the Timex Harry had lent him. “It’s seven o’clock now. I know it won’t take us that long to get into position, but I suggest we get going.”

All the weapons had been bundled in cheap nylon bags so they aroused little interest on the way to the elevator. While the majority of the group continued to the lobby, Miguel insisted that Mercer and Roddy escort him back to the Herraras’ room.

“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” he asked. He’d already asked that same question a dozen times.

“You have to stay here to take care of my children,” Roddy answered. “When I am gone, they look up to you.”

“But you might need me,” the boy insisted with a touch of petulance, then continued his appeal in Spanish.

Mercer admired Roddy’s patience with Miguel. Working past his own apprehension and fears, he was able to speak in reassuring tones. Mercer didn’t know the words but could follow the conversation, recognizing the exact moment of capitulation by the tears that formed in Miguel’s eyes. Roddy spoke to him some more, and like a magician managed to turn the tears into a weak smile and then a small giggle.

Not a magician, Mercer realized. A parent.

Miguel hugged both men and made Mercer promise to look out for Mr. Harry.

“You should know by now,” Mercer teased, “that with Harry on our side it’s the other guys who have to look out.” He pantomimed how Harry had shown Miguel the sword secreted in his walking stick. “He’s bloodthirstier than old Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama City.”

Roddy whispered to Mercer, “Then shouldn’t he drink his namesake’s rum?”

“Poetic license,” Mercer retorted. “Besides, I don’t know if Jack Daniel was bloodthirsty.”

Mercer retreated down the hallway to give Roddy and Carmen some privacy to say good-bye. Even if her husband wasn’t going to be in danger, she worried for him, for them all really.

A pounding rain had erupted in the few minutes it took to get to the parking lot. It stung Mercer’s face as he looked up to judge how long the foul weather would be with them. The sky was an arc of bruised gray clouds that obscured the tops of the tallest buildings. It appeared that the storm would last for hours.

Roddy had borrowed his brother-in-law’s pickup truck to drive the Legionnaires and the weapons to the Balboa Yacht Club. Victor had just finished the night shift at Hatcherly’s container port, and he and Roddy spoke quietly while the arms were loaded into the truck’s enclosed bed. It would be a tight fit for the soldiers in back, but they only had to drive fifteen miles or so. Lauren was already behind the wheel of the idling van.

Mercer climbed into the pickup’s cab to get out of the rain. Harry sat next to him and was squeezed in when Roddy jumped behind the wheel once Victor marched off for a bus stop.

“Victor says that last night Hatcherly moved a ship out of its dry dock. It had been there for weeks, although he’s sure no work was ever done to it. The freighter that took its place is about four hundred feet long. He thinks it’s a refrigerator ship but didn’t see the name.”

“Sounds like the Korvald.”

Roddy nodded, rainwater dripping from his nose. “I think it must be. The dry dock is fully enclosed, allowing the Chinese to unload their rockets without being detected.”

“That’s probably how they brought in the missile-launcher trucks.”

“Makes sense,” Roddy agreed.

“Once we hook up with the Special Forces we can alert the USS McCampbell. Taking out the Korvald sounds like something the navy should handle.”

Roddy started the truck and maneuvered so Mercer’s window came abreast of Lauren’s. “You all set?” Mercer called to her.

She rolled down her window a couple of inches. “This is gonna be a milk run.” She grinned. “We should be at the Balboa Yacht Club around ten. It all depends on customs at the airport.”

“And we’ll have the boat ready to go. See you when we see you.”

Lauren blew him a kiss and put the van in gear. Roddy waited until she had pulled into the early-morning traffic before turning around in the parking lot and leaving the hotel in the opposite direction.

Twenty minutes after reaching the Gamboa Highway they pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, a grandiose title for a rather run-down establishment located immediately below the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the parking lot they could see a PANAMAX container ship in one lane of the lock and a cruise liner about to enter the other.

As Roddy had predicted there were no other vehicles at the club. It was a Tuesday morning and the weather only helped keep sailors away. Rain hitting the tin roof of the two-story clubhouse sounded like hail. There were a dozen sailboats in the marina and an equal number of powerboats tied to the wooden jetties. Like most small boatyards, there were watercraft resting on wooden trestles and a battered crane to hoist them into or out of the water. A lone gasoline pump stood like a sentinel on one of the piers.

Beyond the marina lay the mile-long Miraflores Lake. Like forgotten castles on a mist-shrouded moor, several cargo ships floated eerily on the water, their running lights barely cutting into the storm and the smoke from their funnels blending with the murky clouds. A single horn blast echoed across the artificial lake.

The three men sat in the quiet truck for a second until Harry broke the spell the haunting scene had cast over them. “What a shitty day.”

Mercer threw open his door at the same time Foch and Rene emerged from the rear of the pickup. His men swarmed out after him with the bags of weapons. Only Harry and Roddy had rain jackets with them, but the storm didn’t faze the soldiers. If anything they knew the weather would help the American commandos when they staged their assault.

Roddy led them around the clubhouse and across the lawn to the marina. Wind whistled through the rigging on the sailboats and waves slapped against their hulls. The boat he had borrowed was a thirty footer with a tuna tower that rose fifteen feet and a cabin accessible through a sliding glass door. He leapt onto the craft and jammed the key into the lock. The men piled into the cabin, water dripping from their clothes onto the faded indoor/outdoor carpet. The soldiers were more intent on the weapons than the fact they were all soaked to the skin.

“They okay?” Mercer asked.

“Oui,” Rabidoux said and handed over one of the .45-caliber pistols.

Mercer checked the action once, then popped the magazine so he could replace the round he’d chambered. With two more hours to wait, there was no need to charge the weapons yet. Roddy had gone forward and returned with a handful of towels. He passed them around and turned to start the gas stove to make coffee.

“Anyone bring a deck of cards?” Harry asked from the settee. He played idly with the spring mechanism on his cane.

At ten minutes past nine, Lauren called from the airport to tell Mercer that the jet from Miami had just arrived. No sooner had Mercer cut the cell connection than Roddy’s phone rang again. It was Victor. From the hotel, he had taken a bus to the viewing area at the Miraflores Lock to wait for the Mario diCastorelli. Mercer handed over the phone and listened as Roddy spoke in Spanish with his brother-in-law.

“The ship is already in the upper of the two western locks,” Roddy reported after hanging up. The western lock was on the opposite side of the canal from the marina. “The doors just closed behind it and they are beginning to flood the chamber.”

“It takes an hour to cross the lake, right?” Mercer asked.

Roddy nodded. “A little longer with the rain.”

“Man, this is going to be tight.” Mercer and Foch exchanged a look. “What do you think?”

“I think that if the Green Berets don’t arrive in forty-five minutes we should do this ourselves.”

Mercer looked out into the storm. He could just see the darker shadow of a cargo ship approaching the locks. “I agree.” He dialed Lauren. “It’s me. Victor just called. Our friend is already at the Miraflores Lock.”

“Passengers are beginning to come through now. No sign of the guys in the green hats yet.”

“We might not be able to wait for them,” Mercer told her.

“I hear you, but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do we.”

“As soon as we’re on the road, I’ll call.”

“Roger. And Lauren, be careful.”

“You too.”

Her call came fifteen minutes later. “We’re coming. Should be with you in twenty minutes. The storm’s keeping traffic down to a dull snarl.”

“Good. Hey, let me talk with the commanding officer.”

“This is Jim Patke.” The voice was mild, not the nail-eating fire-spitter Mercer expected. “You’re Mercer?”

“Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to go over some details about the assault.”

“Forget it. The plan you discussed with General Vanik isn’t going to happen. Delta Force and SEALs go for those kinds of attacks. Not us. I’ve seen pictures of the lock area. What you’re going to do is take us by boat to the other side of the canal. We’ll make our way onto the retaining wall and jump to the target while it’s in the chamber.”

“Doesn’t give much time to secure the ship,” Mercer said.

“Won’t know ’til we get there since no one has intel on the target’s complement.” Patke’s voice was filled with bitter complaint.

Mercer could understand the commando’s frustration. He was leading his team against an unknown force without any time to properly plan or train for the attack. For all Patke knew there were a hundred Chinese soldiers on the Mario diCastorelli. “I hear you,” Mercer replied at last. “If you think you’ll need it, there are seven of us ready to help.” He counted Lauren in his tally but not Roddy or Harry. Roddy’s orders were to drive the boat for the Special Forces and remain out of the way until events had been played out. Mercer could not risk the family man.

“No way,” Patke answered. “It’ll be hairy enough without having to worry about civilians.”

There was no point explaining that the Foreign Legion veterans weren’t civilians or that he himself had probably seen more combat than Patke or any of his men. Besides which Mercer had already determined a fallback position he wanted to use while the Green Berets took over the bomb ship. Roddy had mentioned it when they’d arrived at the marina.

“Okay,” Mercer said. “We’ll be waiting.” He clicked off the cell phone.

Bruneseau cleared his throat. “Well?”

“They’re going to take the ship in the lock. Roddy will take them to the other side of the canal in the boat. I think the rest of us should move to where the pilot boats are stored on the upper end of the lock chamber.” There was a small marina used exclusively by the Canal Authority a half mile up the road from the Balboa Yacht Club. It was this boatyard where the launch that had chased Mercer from the Pedro Miguel Lock came from after Lauren’s ill-fated dive. If necessary Mercer and his team could commandeer one of the thirty-foot pilot boats and stage their own last-ditch attack on the Mario diCastorelli.

“We’ll leave now,” Foch announced. “Monsieur Herrara, are you certain that they won’t question us if we park the truck near that marina?”

“Just as long as you park in the lot reserved for tourists who watch ships going through the lock. There’s a chain-link fence separating it from the employee lot. The pickup can smash through it no problem.”

Harry slid open the door and stepped into the salon. His coat was shiny with rain, and when he pulled off his hood, water cascaded to the floor. He’d been up on the flying bridge keeping watch for the Mario diCastorelli. “I think I saw her.” He set down a pair of binoculars and dried his hands on his pants so he could pull a cigarette from its crumpled pack. “I also saw a couple other freighters behind her and a ship with a huge white superstructure just coming out of the Miraflores Locks. Must be a PANAMAX cruise ship.”

Roddy consulted the manifest he’d gotten from Essie Vega. “The freighters will be the Robert T. Change, the Englander Rose and the Sultana. The cruise ship is the Rylander Sea.”

Harry seemed to lose focus for a moment when he heard the names. He said nothing, just silently smoked his Chesterfield.

Roddy added, “The Rylander Sea carries about five thousand passengers and crew. Transit cruises are some of the most popular so she’ll be full. Also, she’s considered to be a luxury ship with cabin prices about twice most other liners. Her passengers are going to be elderly since they have the money and the time to take a twenty-five-day cruise from Alaska to Puerto Rico.”

Mercer’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this information. “Unless the Green Berets need you to wait at the lock, I want you to go across the lake and be prepared to warn that ship off if it looks like we won’t stop the explosion.”

“With any luck I’ll know the pilot.”

Foch got to his feet. “We should leave.”

“Take the truck. I’ll join you when Lauren arrives,” Mercer said.

“D’accord.”

“Harry, I think you should stay with Roddy.”

“I’m sure you do,” the octogenarian replied. “And I would, except for one small problem. None of you know how to handle a ship the size of the diCastorelli. If Patke or you run into trouble, you’re going to need me. I’ve got twenty-some years of experience on freighters, many of them as master. I’m the only one here who can maneuver her if the Chinese attach that submersible to her hull and try to crash her in the Gaillard Cut.”

Mercer watched Harry’s blue eyes, struggling with his feelings of loyalty and duty. “Can you walk me through the procedures over the radio?” he asked.

“No. I need to be on her to feel how she responds.” They continued to study each other. “Hey, don’t think I wouldn’t rather be on my bar stool at Tiny’s,” Harry added.

Mercer finally broke eye contact and glanced at Foch. His meaning was clear.

“Do not worry, my friend,” the Legionnaire said in French. “My debt to you for saving my life will be protecting his at all cost.”

“All right. Lauren and I will be with you in a few minutes.”

The men tucked their weapons back in their bags and climbed over the gunwale for the dock. Bruneseau led them and Foch stayed at Harry’s side. Harry didn’t bother using his walking stick and as far as Mercer could tell his gait was even. His prosthesis wasn’t bothering him because he was in the grip of the same adrenaline surge coursing through Mercer’s veins.

Ten minutes later, multiple pairs of feet leapt to the deck of the fishing boat. Lauren opened the door and twisted rain from her hair when she stepped inside. Behind her were the six Green Berets. Mercer stood to shake Patke’s hand. “Philip Mercer.”

“Captain Jim Patke.” The soldier was about thirty, with blue eyes and blondish hair kept longer than army regulations. He was a bit shorter than Mercer but appeared well proportioned. His grip was firm. His stance bespoke a selfassuredness that came from years of training. Mercer introduced Roddy Herrara. “For operational security,” the team leader said, “forgive me if I don’t present my men.”

The five other soldiers were cut from a similar mold—athletic without the steroid bulk of movie heroes. Mercer could see intelligence in their eyes and just a hint that being called into action, no matter how ill-planned, gave them a thrill.

They set their luggage on the floor and quickly began to change into black fatigues. Patke spoke as he stripped out of jeans and a button-down shirt. “A spare radio is in my bag there.” He pointed with his chin. Lauren retrieved it from its hiding place. “You’re familiar with it, Captain?”

She flicked it on and settled the earpiece and throat mike. “Affirmative.”

“Pre-select channels one through four are me and my guys.” Patke showed no self-consciousness about stripping to his underwear in front of her. “We’ll call out as we change them. Your code name’s Angel. We’re Devil One through Six. The McCampbell’s Heaven. She’ll be on channels five, six, and seven. Give ’em a call and see if they’re listening.”

“Heaven, Heaven, this is Angel. Radio check. Over.”

“Angel, this is Heaven, reading you five by five. Over.” The comm officer aboard the McCampbell was a woman. “Sit rep?”

“Devils and Angel are ready to go. Target is—” she looked at Mercer, who told her “—fifteen minutes from entering the lock. It will take about thirty minutes for her to clear the chamber and proceed to the cut.”

“Understood, Angel. The UAV is flying just low enough to see through the overcast. We’ve got her under surveillance. Heaven is standing by with all the wrath you might need.”

Lauren knew that meant her VGAS cannon had already locked onto the Mario diCastorelli and that her Seahawk helicopter was ready to go. “Roger that, Heaven. Angel out.”

“Let’s see the weapons,” Patke said when he’d finished dressing. Mercer lifted the second nylon bag onto the table. The commandos descended on the guns. In seconds each had an M-16 stripped down to its component parts. After one of them checked the assault rifles thoroughly, they gave the pistols the same attention. “You haven’t fired these yourself?” Patke asked Lauren.

She shook her head. “I only got them last night.”

Patke made a disgusted face. “This just gets better and better.” He looked to the armorer who’d inspected the weapons. “How about it?”

“Can’t promise accuracy but they’re all in good shape, sir.” He looked at Lauren. “Government issue?”

She wasn’t surprised the soldier could deduce that from his brief examination. These men were all experts on the tools of their trade. “I got them from a contact in the police.”

“Good enough for me,” the armorer announced, and his teammates, though unhappy about going into combat with unfamiliar arms, seemed satisfied.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. We’re gonna need Mr. Herrara to stay with us,” Patke said absently.

“No way,” Mercer snapped. “He’s more of a civilian than any of us.”

“That may be, but he’s also the only one who can maneuver that ship. None of my guys have experience with anything over a thirty-foot assault boat. We can take the ship, but unless we can get her out of the way, the Chinese will likely just take it back again with a superior force.”

Mercer wanted to protest again, maybe volunteer himself. That’s what his instincts told him to do, but he had no idea how to control a ship the size of the Mario diCastorelli. Roddy was the only logical choice. Goddamnit.

Roddy forestalled any further argument. “I will do it.”

There was no need to mention what he was risking by going with the Americans. The love he felt for his family was reflected in his eyes and the proud set to his shoulders.

“Right.” Patke checked over his team. “Once we get control of her, we’ll determine how the explosives are triggered and render them inoperable. Two of my men are demolition experts. Mr. Herrara will keep the ship moving so the Chinese can’t board her from a launch.”

“We’ll be waiting at the upper side of the lock complex,” Mercer told him.

Roddy was at the window, looking through the storm for the Mario diCastorelli. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time. She’s just about at the lock.”

The others joined him. Through the woolly curtain of rain, the bulk carrier loomed over the waters like a rust-streaked cathedral. Her four-story superstructure was located at her stern, and was painted a murky blue, with a single funnel that belched black smoke. Three cranes rose from her low deck on spindly stalks, like enormous insects whose arms could pick at the carcass they were poised over. Her bows flared upward, and where her anchor dangled on a massive chain her name was stenciled in faded letters.

Nothing about her dilapidated appearance gave a hint to the deadly cargo in her holds.

“We’ve got to go,” Roddy said.

Patke fitted his earpiece and told Lauren they were starting on channel one. All the team members checked the comm link with each other and with the guided-missile destroyer standing off the coast.

Mercer shook Roddy’s hand and that of Captain Patke. Lauren gave Roddy a quick hug and saluted the Special Forces officer. “Good luck, Captain.”

Nothing further needed to be said. Roddy climbed up to the bridge and keyed the engines to life. Mercer and Lauren began jogging off the pier. In a minute they heard the timbre of the fishing boat’s engine change as Roddy pulled from the marina. It would take only a couple of minutes to dash across the shipping lines and deposit the commandos on the far bank of the canal. From there, Mercer estimated Patke would wait until the last minute before rushing the lock chamber and boarding the bomb ship. After that he had no idea how it would go.

He looked at Lauren as she ran at his side through the deluge. Her jaw was relaxed as her breathing came deep and even. Her hands were formed into loose fists. When she felt his stare upon her she turned to him, her eyes undiminished in the washed-out light.

He put aside his growing feelings toward her and turned his gaze back into the storm, his eyes slitted, his stomach a churning mess.