Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

A slightly altered passport and visa got me into the colony. We changed it just in case the authorities might have linked me to some of the violence that occurred here a few days ago. It will also be much easier for me to enter mainland China from Hong Kong instead of trying to get in through Shanghai or another major city. From Kowloon it's a straight overland journey to Fuzhou. I can stop in Guangzhou and visit the consul, pick up my stuff, and make my way to the east coast. It's a good plan.

The only problem now is that I'm unarmed and without my uniform. With Mason Hendricks gone, there's no one in Hong Kong I can rely on to provide me with a weapon. My chat with Jon Ming will have to depend on the old Sam Fisher charm, what little of it there is.

Contacting Ming proved to be much easier than I expected. When I arrived and checked in to a fleabag hotel in Kowloon, I phoned the Purple Queen and in my best Cantonese asked to speak with Ming. The exchange went something like this:

"There is no Jon Ming here. Wrong number."

"Excuse me, but I know this is Ming's nightclub. I'd like to speak to him."

"You have the wrong number."

"Tell Ming I will call back in five minutes. Tell him I have information about the Shop, Andrei Zdrok, and General Tun."

I hung up, waited the allotted time, and called back.

"Who is this?"

"Did you give Mr. Ming my message?"

"Yes. Just a minute." There was murmuring in the background before the guy got back on the phone. "Mr. Ming wishes to talk to you. Come to the Purple Queen at three o'clock today."

At exactly five minutes of three, Ming's Roll-Royce slides into the parking lot and disappears behind the building. I finish my tea, pay the bill, and walk across the street. The big Sikh standing guard glares at me, ready to pull his weight.

"Don't sweat it, big guy, I'm here to see Ming," I say.

The Sikh goes inside and I wait nearly three minutes before I become impatient and step into the club. Two Chinese thugs in suits are waiting for me. With no questions being asked first, thick strong arms grab me from behind and hold me with a viselike bear hug. It's the Sikh and he's a walking lump of muscle. Once I'm sufficiently immobile, "Joe" and "Shmoe" move forward and take turns delivering spear-hand chops to the sides of my neck. On top of the injuries I suffered in the L.A. limo crash, the pain is immense.

"Hey! What's this about?" I gasp.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Joe asks in English.

"I was invited. My name is Fisher."

He says, "You were the man at the warehouse. You are an enemy of the Lucky Dragons." The thug gives me another spear-chop that sends shock waves down my spine.

At first I don't know what he's talking about–there have been so many warehouses in my life. Then it comes to me. The time they had the device that wreaked havoc on my implants. I ended up killing a handful of their men.

"That's before I was on your side." I cough.

"We don't believe you," Shmoe says. He moves in to hit me again but I use the Sikh's arms as leverage, raise my legs, and kick the man in the face. Before Joe or the Sikh can retaliate, I swing my legs back, bend my knees, and ram the soles of my boots into the Sikh's knees. He bellows in pain and releases me. That gives Joe time to perform a jump kick, hitting me squarely on the sternum and knocking me backward into the Sikh. The two of us tumble to the ground. The Sikh is pretty much out of the game–I may have broken his kneecaps–so I concentrate on the two Chinese hoods. As Shmoe moves in to kick me in the ribs, I roll toward him like a log and manage to trip him up. He falls into his partner, allowing me the opportunity to jump to my feet. I immediately spin, thrust out my right foot, and connect the heel to Joe's chin. I follow through, place my right foot on the floor, bend the right knee, and spring forward with my left foot pointed at Shmoe. Bull's-eye, right in the solar plexus. I drop back, assume a defensive stance, and wait.

"Stop!" Jon Ming stands a few feet away. He looks at me and says, "I've seen you before."

"I've been in your club," I say.

Ming turns to Shmoe and orders, "Frisk him. Then bring him to the conference room. There is no need to play rough." He focuses on the Sikh, who is rolling on the floor in agony. "And see to his needs." Ming shakes his head as if the guard hadn't studied for a school quiz and had failed it miserably.

I hold up my arms and Shmoe does a thorough job of patting me down. When he's satisfied I'm not there to assassinate his leader, he gives me the dirtiest look he can muster, jerks his head, and says, "Follow me."

We walk through the empty club. I notice the pretty hostess who served me the night I was here. She's busy wiping the tables, preparing the place to open. She looks at me and wrinkles her brow, trying to remember where she's seen me before. Of course, all gweilolook alike to Asians.

They lead me through the Employees Only door and into the hallway where not too long ago I performed a clandestine search. I'm not surprised when I'm ushered into the very room that was once covered in plastic, the room where I took a specimen of dried blood. Now, however, the place is tidy and devoid of plastic. Jon Ming sits at the small conference table and gestures to one of the other empty chairs. Joe and Shmoe remain standing behind me. One of them shuts the door.

"Mr. Sam Fisher," Ming says in English. "You are a Splinter Cell from the branch of the National Security Agency known as Third Echelon."

Dripping with sarcasm, I say, "I can't imagine how you'd know that."

Ming smiles. "You have a sense of humor, I see. That is good."

"Oh, it's a million laughs that one of your people penetrated our organization and then sold information to the Shop. Yeah, we find that extremely funny, Mr. Ming, but that's not why I'm here. By all accounts I should be at your throat. Not only were the Lucky Dragons in league with the most dangerous arms-dealing outfit in the world, but you also tried to have me killed not too long ago."

"We thought you were a threat to us," he answers. "I apologize. Since you did away with six of my men at the time, I assume you will agree that the score is settled. And you did just break one of my employees' kneecaps just now. Are we even?"

"Perhaps," I say. "That depends on how our conversation goes today."

Ming is silent for a moment as he lights a cigarette. He offers one to me but I refuse it. "May I offer you a drink?" he asks instead.

"No, thanks."

"Very well. What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Fisher?"

"Let's go back to the beginning of all this. Once upon a time there was a physicist working in weapons development in my country. His name was Gregory Jeinsen. He died here in this room."

Ming registers no reaction when I say this but he also offers no refutation.

I continue. "Through Mike Wu, your mole at Third Echelon, you obtained information from Professor Jeinsen over a period of time. This consisted of the specifications, plans, and everything else that's needed to create an MRUUV. Am I right so far?"

"Operation Barracuda," Ming says. "Yes, you are correct."

"Of course I am. You then–wait, why do you call it 'Operation Barracuda'?"

"Because an MRUUV is long and cylindrical, like a barracuda fish."

"I see. Anyway, you then sold all of Jeinsen's material to the Shop."

"We tradedit for goods, but that's neither here nor there."

"Whatever. There was one piece of the pie you didn't give them, though–the guidance system that your illegal research outfit in Los Angeles created. By then you had called off your business relationship with the Shop and closed down GyroTechnics."

"You are exceptionally well informed, Mr. Fisher. I wouldn't expect anything less from someone with your aptitude and abilities."

"Are you aware that Eddie Wu managed to sell the device to the Shop anyway? And that he and the Shop have delivered it to General Lan Tun in Fuzhou?"

For the first time since we began, Ming registers concern on his face by blinking several times. He adjusts himself in the seat and says, "Go on."

"The United States has reason to believe that General Tun is about to attack Taiwan with a nuclear device. I'm not sure why he wants to blow upTaiwan, but all the intelligence we've gathered points to that scenario."

"And why do you tell me this, Mr. Fisher?" Ming asks after a pause.

"Because I know you hate General Tun and Communist China. It's a basic, fundamental tenet of the Lucky Dragons, as it is with all Triads."

"That may be true," Ming says. "But are you asking me for something?"

"I'm asking for your help." There. I've said it. Lambert and I debated for over an hour whether or not we should seek an alliance with a criminal organization that has in the past done damage to the United States. In the end I convinced him there might be some wisdom to it.

I elaborate. "Mr. Ming, you have the means to lead men to Fuzhou and do something to General Tun before he attacks. You have a small army at your disposal. You have people that believe in your cause. Do you understand what will happen if General Tun–if Red China–attacks Taiwan? It would lead us all into World War Three. You and your little empire here in Hong Kong would not go unaffected."

Ming takes a drag from his cigarette and asks, "Are you absolutely certain the MRUUV guidance system is in General Tun's hands?"

"No, but I know Eddie Wu was in possession of it and he was last seen in the company of Shop personnel. We have evidence that they fled the United States and were headed for Asia. They have the ability to get into China and deliver it right into the general's hands. You know they do."

Ming crushes the cigarette into an ashtray. "Is there anything else, Mr. Fisher?"

I consider my words for a moment and then say, "Yes. When I encountered your men at that warehouse near the old airport, they had a device, some kind of transmitter."

"Yes."

"How did you know the thing would be useful against me?"

"That machine was loaned to us by the Shop. It was created by and belongs to them. We gave it back to them. You should direct that question to someone in their organization."

"Interesting." So the knowledge of my implants and how they work most likely came from the Shop's source within our government. Possibly the mysterious informant Mike Wu mentioned? The one who sits "high on the food chain" somewhere in Washington?

"And how did you know I would be at that warehouse?" I ask. "Only two people were aware of my movements that night and one of them is dead."

"Again, Mr. Fisher. The Shop. Our source in the Shop knew where you would be at all times."

"Did you know a man named Mason Hendricks?"

"Yes. He was one of our best customers here in the club. I was very sorry to hear of his unfortunate accident. I believe he perished with a woman who worked for me. Very tragic."

"That fire at his home was deliberately set. Any idea who was responsible?"

Ming shakes his head. "None whatsoever. Although I suspect–"

"I know: the Shop. Regular scapegoats, aren't they, Mr. Ming?"

Ming's eyes flare and then he asks, "Is there anything else, Mr. Fisher?"

I sit back in the chair and say, "No. That's it."

"Very well. It was a pleasure talking with you." Joe and Shmoe move forward and stand on either side of me, ready to escort me out.

"That's it?" I ask. "You have nothing to say?"

"The conversation is over, Mr. Fisher. Let us say that I shall take your words under advisement. You are still an enemy of the Lucky Dragons. I cannot and will not divulge my thoughts to you. Good day and good luck, Mr. Fisher. My men will see you out."

Fine. I've tried my best. I stand and leave the way I came. Little Miss Hostess is still cleaning the tabletops when I go by. This time she smiles at me–if I was important enough to gain an audience with Jon Ming then I must be a VIP of some kind. I ignore her and head for the door. Before I get there, Joe puts his hand on my shoulder as if to give me a word of advice. With the speed of a snake I grab his wrist and twist it, sending him to his knees. Shmoe moves in to defend him but I hold my hand out in front of him, warning him not to get any closer.

"It was a pleasure meeting you guys," I say with a smile, then I let go of Joe's hand. If looks could kill . . . but I pay them no mind as I turn and walk out the door.

33

THEtrip to the coastal region of Fujian was uneventful. I made my way to Guangzhou by train on a falsified work visa and passport that indicated I'd be consulting with high schools on creating a "foreign government policies" curriculum. The U.S. consul received my equipment via the diplomatic bag and provided me with an imported Cadillac to drive to Fuzhou. My passport and visa were changed and the consul sent through the paperwork indicating that my first identity had left the country. Now I'm a U.S. environmentalist studying global temperatures. I just hope I don't have to actually talk about my "work" because I'd fall flat on my face.

Most Taiwanese people consider the Fujian province to be their ancestral home, which is ironic seeing that the country is about to be attacked from there. The language spoken in the region is essentially the same as Taiwanese, although officially it's supposed to be Mandarin, like everywhere else in China. Prior to the fifteenth century, the region was a major port for travelers moving from China to Taiwan, Singapore, the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, and back. Today it's still a heavily used shipping harbor. The capital, Fuzhou, is a city dating back to around the third century and was reportedly one of Marco Polo's favorite stops when he was running around Asia at the end of the thirteenth century. I won't be spending much time in the city, though. I'm heading closer to the coast, where General Tun's encampment lies. I find the area beautiful, to an extent, in that it is fertile and green and typifies the images one might think China is supposed to look like. The land is flat nearer the coast and is covered by rice fields and other farmland, so everywhere you turn there's a bare-legged guy wearing one of those broad Chinese straw hats and leading a team of oxen over his field.

China's situation with Taiwan is akin to that of a strict parent and an estranged child. After being ruled by the Japanese for something like sixty years, the Taiwanese rebelled when Chinese Kuomintang officials occupied the island and imposed their rule on the people. This led to unrest and rioting and the KMT ended up massacring tens of thousands of Taiwanese civilians. This event is still commemorated in Taiwan. Chiang Kai-shek's son and successor eventually executed the KMT military governor responsible for the atrocity. By the time the Korean War erupted in 1950, the United States sided with the KMT and Taiwan against the Communist Chinese forces supporting North Korea. It was a case in which Taiwan became a democracy almost by default.

China's government is under the mistaken belief that Taiwan still belongs to her. The island has governed itself since the Chinese Nationalist forces fled to Taiwan in 1949. Most inhabitants of the island view Taiwan as already sovereign even without a formal declaration. The Chinese government has offered the island autonomy if it will come under China's direct rule. Thus, Taiwan is a major thorn in China's side because the small island country has shown itself to be economically successful on the world stage. The end of military rule and the beginning of full democracy challenged notions that China was better off as a communist country. Now that the capitalist colony Hong Kong is in the fold, there is some thinking this will have an influence on the way China does things in the future. The jury's still out. In the meantime, there are hard-liners like General Tun who insist on reunifying China and throwing a net over Taiwan.

Tun's army encampment is set up along the coast just north of Fuzhou. After nightfall I do a reconnaissance around the place to get an idea of what I'm up against. Satellite photos provided to me by Third Echelon come in very handy. The technology has become so advanced that they can zero in on a chessboard on the ground and determine what the next move should be. From these pictures I can tell how many men are gathered in a particular spot, what kinds of vehicles are present, and how much firepower is sitting around. Sometimes we can get X-ray pictures and see inside certain structures, such as tents and temporary buildings. Thermal vision shots allow us to see where living beings are grouped. This intelligence shows that the army is housed in six barracks lining the perimeter of the base. A command post is set up next to the three large hangar-type buildings on the shore. The analysts at Third Echelon are now certain these buildings are submarine pens. The water happens to be deep enough where they've set up camp as opposed to the beachfront just east of Fuzhou. It makes sense.

Just before I arrived in Fujian province, several Chinese landing craft were mobilized at the shore. Two Luda-class destroyers, one Luhu-class destroyer, and two Chengdu frigates are busy doing maneuvers in the strait. Chinese air support will come from a base in neighboring Quanzhou. If these guys aren't preparing for an invasion then someone's playing a very unfunny elaborate joke. Our own naval forces have gathered nearer to Taiwan and outside of the strait, standing guard like floating sentinels just waiting for something to happen. It's a tense situation.

"We have you by satellite, Sam," Lambert says in my ear. "Just watch the patrolling guards. Otherwise you're good to go."

Temporary wire fences surround the base. Two gates allow entrance, one on the north side and the larger main access on the south. It appears that only two guards stand duty at the main gate at all times, but only one mans the north one. I elect not to use either. Instead I crawl through what foliage there is on the north side of the encampment, about sixty feet east of the gate, and use my wire cutters. There's no moon tonight and it's cloudy so the darkness provides me with a fair amount of cover. I'll still have to be careful, though. There are no trees or other thick vegetation to hide behind if I need to. The base itself is illuminated by a number of floodlights set up at strategic locations.

One of the barracks is right in front of me. I quietly move behind it and can hear snoring through the walls. Everyone's asleep, or at least they should be. From observing the site before I crawled in, I determined that four single-man patrols cover quadrants, moving back and forth within each man's specific section. I imagine they'll be spelled after three or four hours.

I make my way around the barracks, darting from shadow to shadow. I'd like to shoot out the damned floodlights but that certainly would be an attention grabber. When I crouch behind what appears to be the mess hall I see a lengthy stretch of brightly lit turf to the submarine pens. Unfortunately that's where I need to go to learn what I can about Operation Barracuda. How the hell am I going to get from here to there?

"Guard approaching from the east," Lambert says.

There's my answer–walking toward me in the form of one of the soldiers patrolling his quadrant. He's lost in his thoughts, not paying much attention to his surroundings, and probably figures there's no way in hell he's going to encounter any trouble in the middle of an army base. I wait until he's nearly upon me and then I spring forward, clasp my hand around his mouth, and butt him on the back of the head with my Five-seveN. The soldier falls limp in my arms. I drag him into the shadow behind the mess, remove his jacket and helmet, and try them on for size. A little tight but they'll do. I take his assault rifle–a QBZ-95–then I stand, get into character, and slowly walk into the light. I'm now a patrolling Chinese soldier.

As inconspicuously as possible, I slowly and surely make my way to the command post and submarine pens. It's out of my guy's quadrant but I don't think anyone's going to notice. I just don't want to run into the guy who issupposed to be patrolling this quadrant or there might be some fireworks.

The entrance to the first pen is open. I stand to the side and carefully peer in. Sure enough, there's a submarine sitting in the water. Work lights illuminate the pen and I see a couple of soldiers on the platform at the side of the sub, sitting at a table and playing cards. They, too, probably figure no one's going to bother them this late at night.

As I study the submarine I realize it's not a class I recognize. I remember reading a Pentagon report that was distributed to Third Echelon operatives regarding a new class of sub the U.S. military believed China was building. Known at the Pentagon as a Yuan-class sub, it is speculated to be a new type of attack boat that's diesel-powered and built from indigenous Chinese hardware and Russian weapons. I quickly snap some shots of it with my OPSAT and move on to the next pen. There's a little more activity inside this one so I'm unable to get a good look. I do, however, note that a sub is indeed in the pen and might be a nuclear-powered Xia-class.

The third pen is empty. No submarine at all. Yet there are several soldiers moving things around on the platforms on the sides of the slip, cleaning up after a launch operation or preparing for the arrival of a boat.

Then I recognize a guy in civilian clothes standing over a control board some forty feet away. It's Oskar Herzog, now without the white in his hair and beard that made him look older. He's talking with a man in a sharp-looking uniform whose back is to me. From this angle it's difficult to discern his rank.

I carefully slide inside the pen and crouch behind three oil drums so I can get a better look. Finally, the man turns away from the control board and I'm able to snap a shot. It's General Tun himself.

He and Herzog walk away from the control board and head in my direction. I hug the floor as they move past the drums and step outside. I quickly make sure no one is following them or watching, and then I slip out the door and tail them. They head straight for the command post, a small temporary building not far away from the pen.

After they go inside, I move around to the back of the small structure, where there's a window at shoulder height. I reach into my backpack and find what I call my "corner periscope," a device that's really a lot like a dentist's tool–it's a thin piece of metal with a small round mirror at the end. The metal is bendable so I can adapt it to just about any kind of space. It's best for looking around corners when you don't want to be noticed but in this case I use it to look inside the window.

Well, well. A bunch of late-nighters. I've got all of them in one tidy package. General Tun, Oskar Herzog, and Andrei Zdrok stand over a worktable studying maps. Eddie Wu sits on a stool in the corner looking as if he's about to nod off. And lying on a couch, barely awake, is Yvan Putnik.

I'm extremely tempted to lock and load and end it here and now. I press my implant and ask for Lambert.

"I'm here, Sam. What is it?"

I type in a text message: I HAVE ZDROK, HERZOG, PUTNIK, TUN, AND E WU TOGETHER IN CONVENIENT TARGET LOCATION. SHOULD I?

After a moment, Lambert says, "Do you know what they're planning to do with the nuke and the MRUUV?"

I respond: NOT YET.

Lambert says, "Then you'd better wait. Please proceed with the primary directive. Then get the hell out. We'll leave that other thing for the U.S. military. It's not your job, Sam."

Oh, man. Putnik is the one I really want. It's my deepest desire to make the guy suffer for what he did to Katia. As I curse Lambert's orders, I put the corner periscope in my trouser pocket and activate the T.A.K. on my Five-seveN. I aim it at the window and listen in on the conversation. Since the general can't speak Russian and the Shop guys can't speak Mandarin, they've opted for very bad English.TUN: . . . they tell me submarine Maodo reach American west coast seven day.HERZOG: Are you sure about that, General? Only seven days?TUN: Maois fast submarine we have. Xia-class.ZDROK: I was impressed with how it looked today when it left the pen.TUN: It beautiful boat. New diesel-powered sub very nice, too. United Nations not know about.

They do now,I think.

ZDROK: So, General, I believe this finishes our business together. You have the warhead my comrade General Prokofiev supplied to you, you have all the pieces of Operation Barracuda and they appear to be working, and now Mr. Herzog and I would like to leave you with your plans. That final payment . . . ?TUN: It is done. Here receipt for wire transfer into Swiss bank account.ZDROK: Oskar, take a look, is this in order?HERZOG: Appears to be. The figures are correct.TUN: You not see Barracuda work, Mr. Zdrok?ZDROK: Uh, no, General, I got here after your sub left.TUN: Please. Allow me show. Come see before you go.ZDROK: ( big sigh) All right. Yvan, wake up. The general wants to demonstrate his new toy. Eddie, you coming?WU: ( grumbles, unintelligible)

I hear them shuffling about and finally all five men leave the structure and walk toward sub pen number two. I wait until they're inside and then move around the back of the building. By doing so I discover metal rungs attached to the side of the structure, obviously there so soldiers can climb to the roof if they need to. I ascend to the top and come face-to-face with an infantryman who is very surprised to see me.

"Hello," I say as I swing the butt of the QBZ-95 around and into his face. The guy plummets to the metal roof, making a bit more noise than I'd like. I quickly roll him against a ventilation pipe to conceal him a little and dump the Chinese rifle in the shadows. I don't need it as long as I have my SC-20K.

There's an open trap in the roof near the ventilation pipe. I look inside and see rafters along the underside of the ceiling. Perfect. I slip inside like a snake, grab hold and straddle a rafter beam, and scoot away from the opening. I'm now in the darkness and can see everything happening below me. General Tun has led his spectators to the front of the Xia-class sub and is directing soldiers to bring out equipment. A long coffinlike trunk is placed on the platform that runs alongside the boat. Inside is one MRUUV and it looks just like the one Professor Gregory Jeinsen drew up in the Pentagon. It's long and cylindrical, about six feet long and maybe three feet in diameter–kind of like a cigar holder with flat ends instead of rounded ones. I aim the Five-seveN, adjust the T.A.K. frequency, and listen in.ZDROK: So that's it, huh. This is what all the fuss was about?HERZOG: It's a marvelous invention, Andrei. It's beautiful.ZDROK: How many of these things can your subs carry?TUN: Launch from torpedo tubes. Maohas three Barracuda. Like this one.ZDROK: Okay, so one of the MRUUVs has the warhead. What do the other two have?TUN: Nothing! They decoy.HERZOG: When do you plan to make your announcement to the United States, General?TUN: When Maoreach target area. Seven day.HERZOG: And you really plan to use it if they don't let you take Taiwan?TUN: ( nods enthusiastically) No more Disneyland! Boom!ZDROK: What will you do if the United States comes down on you before then?TUN: "Comes down . . ."?ZDROK: Attacks you. What if they attack you first?TUN: ( laughs) You funny man, Mr. Zdrok. Joke, right?

Whoa. I get it now. The general isn't planning to use his nuke on Taiwan at all. He's using the MRUUVs to deliver the weapon as close as possible to a major American city on the west coast. Los Angeles, from the sound of it. And that's his insurance policy for attacking Taiwan. He'll let us know that the weapon is in place and will be detonated if we try to stop him from invading the little island. Since they're using a submarine to launch the MRUUV, it's going to be difficult as hell to track it. From what I understand of the MRUUV technology, it can be shot from the sub's torpedo tube and then be guided remotely to its final destination. The sub doesn't even have to be in American coastal waters; it can sit right on the edge of the international boundary and do its thing. Ingenious.

It's time to get out. I begin to scoot backward along the rafter beam toward the opening when I hear a rumble down below. An entire platoon of armed men barges into the place. The sergeant runs to another uniformed officer, who in turn whispers something to the general. Then everyone looks up at the ceiling as the general is escorted out of sight.

Shit.

Did they find the guard I knocked out earlier? Or the guy on the roof? They're sure acting like they know someone's up here.

A soldier brings out a searchlight, sets it on the platform beside the sample MRUUV, switches it on, and shines it at the ceiling. He slowly moves it along each beam as every man in the place studies what it reveals. I stay perfectly still and pray that not too much of my body extends beyond the outline of the beam I'm on.

Another couple soldiers bring in a device that looks familiar. In fact, it's the boom box sonic transmitter I saw in Hong Kong. They plug it in to an outlet, point the little dish at the ceiling, and turn it on. I can hear the familiar hum as before, but this time my implants are not affected. Thanks to Grimsdottir's work and the operation Coen had me undergo in L.A., their sonic torture device is no longer effective.

The men look at each other questioningly. One man checks the machine to see if it's working properly. He shrugs his shoulders. One guy shouts some orders. Men hustle back and forth. They're not sure if I'm really up here or not. Meanwhile, Zdrok, Herzog, Putnik, and Wu huddle near the door, watching and waiting to see if their intelligence proves to be correct.

So far they haven't seen me. Hell, I'll stay here all day if I have to. As long as I don't move I just might be safe. My biggest worry is how did they learn I'm here?