The same type of submachine gun SEALs used.

“Russian RPG in the bottom of the boat.”

“Fire!” said Danny.

SOMEHOW DAZHOU TI SENSED THAT THEY WERE UNDER FIRE before he heard or saw the gunfire. He immediately reached to the motor of the boat—they’d kept it off so they could make a silent approach—and started the engine. The four-stroke pancake motor, adapted from a motorcycle design, was located completely underwater, except for the air intake and exhaust. It coughed then caught with a roar, lifting the prow of the rubber assault boat forward in a rush. As it did, one of Dazhou’s men fell back against him; the captain pushed him back upright but the man slumped to the left, his face and arm riddled with bullets.

“There,” shouted one of the others, pointing. The guns began popping, the loud staccato competing with the roar of the engine. A stream of lead ripped against the wall of the boat, puncturing some of the cells but not enough to threaten its buoyancy. Another of Dazhou’s men leaned to the side, then fell into the water; Dazhou kept his sight fastened on the dock area ahead.

He’d thought there were no more than three people here, but obviously there were.

Something roared behind him, and part of the platform crumpled and fell into the water—the Barracuda began to fire its cannon.

THE FIRST SHELL LANDED ON THE DECK BELOW THEM, rumbling through the metal framework with a groaning screech. The cannon flashed several times again, apparently without hitting the platform.

Meanwhile, the boat was continuing toward them. Danny emptied his magazine, then slapped in a fresh box.

“Liu, put a grenade on it if it gets close enough,” he told the sergeant as he ran in the direction of the ladder down to the dock. As he reached it, the enemy ship’s gun found its target once more and the platform rocked with three blows from the cannon. Danny fell near the railing; he looked over and saw Boston down below emptying his M4, a shortened version of the M16.

“What the hell are you doing down there? Get up, get up,” yelled Danny. Machine-gun fire peppered the dock near his man, and at least two slugs bounced off Boston’s carbon-boron vest. Danny couldn’t find the boat for a second; finally he saw it at the far end of the dock area. He fired his MP5 submachine gun, the bullets rattling out from the weapon, his whole body shaking. Someone in the boat began to fire back and Danny pushed back, out of the line of fire, and reloaded.

“Boston where the hell are you?”

He, didn’t answer. Danny pushed back to the edge of the deck area as the platform rocked violently with fresh salvos from the enemy ship. He thought he could get a grenade into the boat but didn’t want to with Boston exposed somewhere below.

“Boston, where the hell are you?” he said again, firing a short burst in the direction of the boat.

Aboard “Penn,” heading toward the Brunei coast

0553

Zen saw the flashes in the right side of his screen even though the radar was having the devil of a time picking up the low-lying ship near the oil platform. He changed the input to only optical and saw what looked like a Civil War-era Confederate ironclad with stubby, sharply angled wings on either side. A cannon was firing at the oil platform from what looked like an open porch at the top of the hull.

Zen pushed left, moving to get the Flighthawk’s nose on the cannon. The pipper blinked red then went solid; he waited a half second and then started to fire. His stream of bullets punctured the side of the ship immediately behind the cannon. He pushed his stick left, trying to run the slugs into it.

And then the targeting screen abruptly disappeared. He was out of ammunition.

Off the coast of Brunei

0554

The ladder down to the dock extended from an open hatchway on the lower deck. It was completely exposed to fire from the water. Further down at the end of the deck a pair of close-set girders dropped to the edge of the platform; Danny thought he could climb down them and be protected from gunfire by their bulk.

He half-crawled, half-ran to the railing there, moving his large frame gingerly into the open space. His right hand started to slip as he swung around; his left boot missed the strut that ran between the two pier pieces. Danny clamped the hand to the metal, trying to somehow rub it dry without actually losing his grip. For a moment he dangled freely against the side, his weight supported by only one hand. A thick bolt extended from the girder in front of him; he was able to grab it with his left hand, the submachine gun falling and hanging by its targeting wire to his smart helmet. He managed to get a foothold as a fresh salvo of cannonfire rocked the platform. The vibrations tingled in his hands and knees, but his grip was tight. Danny managed to work his way down, slapping his knee hard against the steel. He climbed toward the waves, able to peek through the space but not seeing much of anything.

“Boston!” he yelled as he neared the platform.

He heard a squelch or something over the circuit, but no answer. Danny pulled his gun to his right hand, then swung around to the dock. The boat had pushed against the far side; he could see people in front of it.

“Boston?” he yelled, but still there was no answer.

VANITY HAD BROUGHT DAZHOU TI TO THIS POINT, AND VANITY now kept him from retreating. One of his men was dead, another overboard.

“Captain?” shouted his other crewman.

Dazhou didn’t answer. He knew he had made a grave mistake. They’d made it to the docking area, but there was no sense now going aboard; the Barracuda was pummeling it with shells.

And yet he wouldn’t throw the vessel into reverse.

Something moved in the water to the left of the dock and platform area. As he raised his gun to fire, a fresh round of bullets rained down from above. Dazhou turned his rifle upward abruptly and raked the spot; he continued to press the trigger even as the magazine was exhausted.

“All right,” he said in a whisper to himself. He reached for the motor, reengaging it. “All right”

Aboard “Penn,” heading toward the Brunei coast

0557

Dog came out over the water just as Zen announced that he had run out of ammo for his cannon.

“Bring up one of the AMRAAM-pluses,” Dog told McNamara.

“Uh, Colonel? An AMRAAM against a ship?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, sir, if I can get the computer to allow it.”

“Use the manual setting if you have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

McNamara busied himself with the targeting screen. Though they were less than fifteen miles from the vessel, the radar had difficulty locating it, let alone getting a lock. Dog could see the vessel in the enhanced video screen. The gun had stopped firing, and smoke seeped from the opposite side.

“Got a lock:’ said McNamara finally.

“Fire.”

Off the coast of Brunei

0558

Dazhou had just pulled the small boat around to retreat when the missile or bomb struck the side of the ship. It plowed right through without igniting. Dazhou stared in disbelief, the sun glinting into his eyes.

It couldn’t have happened, he thought. He couldn’t have seen it.

And then the Barracuda’s stern slid down to the port side, bobbed upward, and then down, disappearing. The nose of his ship—his great, wonderful ship—rose from the water like the mouth of a shark getting ready to clamp on its prey. It stayed upright for a moment, locked in his stare, then slowly slipped away.