handgun, with the business end pointed directly at the bodyguard’s face. Instinctively grabbing for his own weapon, the bodyguard had barely moved his hand when the .25 emitted a muffled cough. A neat red hole appeared just above the bodyguard’s left eyebrow and the large man raised up and back momentarily before collapsing to the floor with a thud, a river of red blood running from his head.
Bridges failed to detect the muffled gunshot but heard the bodyguard collapse. Turning to see the waiter pointing the gun at him, Bridges could only mutter, “What the hell?”
The bald man in the waiter suit stared back at him with deathly cold black eyes, then broke into a sadistic grin that revealed a row of crooked yellow teeth. Without saying a word, he squeezed the trigger two times and watched as Bridges grasped his chest and fell to the ground. The assassin pulled a typewritten note out of his pocket and rolled it up tight into the shape of a tube. He then bent over and wedged it into the dead diplomat’s mouth like a flagpole. Carefully disassembling his silencer and placing it in his pocket, he gingerly stepped over the two bodies and out the door, disappearing down a hall toward the kitchen.
The fiberglass bow of the twenty-five-foot Parker work-boat plunged through the deep, wide swells, cutting a white foamy path as it rolled through the trough before cresting on the peak of the next wave. Though tiny in comparison to most vessels in the NUMA fleet, the durable little boat, identified on the stern as the Grunion, was ideal for surveying inland and coastal waterways, as well as supporting shallow-water dive operations.
Leo Delgado rolled the helm’s wheel to the right and the Grunion quickly nosed to starboard and out of the path of a large red freighter bearing down on them near the entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
“How far from the strait?” he asked, spinning the wheel hard to port a moment later in order to take the passing freighter’s wake bow on.
Standing alongside in the cramped cabin, Dirk and Dahlgren were hunched over a small table studying a nautical chart of their present position near the entrance to the Pacific Ocean, some 125 miles west of Seattle.
“Approximately twelve miles southwest of Cape Flattery,” Dirk said over his shoulder, then dictated latitude and longitude coordinates to Delgado. The Deep Endeavor’s first officer reached over to a keyboard and tapped the position into the small boat’s computerized navigation system. A few seconds later, a tiny white square appeared in the upper corner of a flat-screen monitor that hung from the ceiling. At the lower edge of the monitor, a small white triangle flashed on and off, representing the Grunion as it motored into the Pacific. With the aid of a satellite Global Positioning System interface, Delgado was able to steer a path directly toward the marked position.
“Now, you guys are sure Captain Burch isn’t going to find out we borrowed his support boat and are burning his fuel just for a pleasure dive?” Delgado asked somewhat sheepishly.
“You mean this is Burch’s private boat?” Dirk replied with mock horror.
“If he comes snooping, we’ll just tell him that Bill Gates stopped by and offered us a few million stock options if he could take the Grunion out for a spin,” Dahlgren offered.
“Thanks. I knew I could trust you guys,” Delgado muttered, shaking his head. “By the way, how good is your fix on the submarine’s location?”
“Came right out of the official Navy report on the sinking that Perlmutter faxed me,” Dirk replied, grabbing the cabin door sill for balance as the boat rolled over a large swell. “We’ll start with the position that was recorded by the destroyer after she sank the I-403.”
“Too bad the Navy didn’t have GPS back in 1945,” Delgado lamented.
“Yes, the wartime action reports weren’t always entirely accurate, especially where locations are concerned. But the
Bridges failed to detect the muffled gunshot but heard the bodyguard collapse. Turning to see the waiter pointing the gun at him, Bridges could only mutter, “What the hell?”
The bald man in the waiter suit stared back at him with deathly cold black eyes, then broke into a sadistic grin that revealed a row of crooked yellow teeth. Without saying a word, he squeezed the trigger two times and watched as Bridges grasped his chest and fell to the ground. The assassin pulled a typewritten note out of his pocket and rolled it up tight into the shape of a tube. He then bent over and wedged it into the dead diplomat’s mouth like a flagpole. Carefully disassembling his silencer and placing it in his pocket, he gingerly stepped over the two bodies and out the door, disappearing down a hall toward the kitchen.
The fiberglass bow of the twenty-five-foot Parker work-boat plunged through the deep, wide swells, cutting a white foamy path as it rolled through the trough before cresting on the peak of the next wave. Though tiny in comparison to most vessels in the NUMA fleet, the durable little boat, identified on the stern as the Grunion, was ideal for surveying inland and coastal waterways, as well as supporting shallow-water dive operations.
Leo Delgado rolled the helm’s wheel to the right and the Grunion quickly nosed to starboard and out of the path of a large red freighter bearing down on them near the entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
“How far from the strait?” he asked, spinning the wheel hard to port a moment later in order to take the passing freighter’s wake bow on.
Standing alongside in the cramped cabin, Dirk and Dahlgren were hunched over a small table studying a nautical chart of their present position near the entrance to the Pacific Ocean, some 125 miles west of Seattle.
“Approximately twelve miles southwest of Cape Flattery,” Dirk said over his shoulder, then dictated latitude and longitude coordinates to Delgado. The Deep Endeavor’s first officer reached over to a keyboard and tapped the position into the small boat’s computerized navigation system. A few seconds later, a tiny white square appeared in the upper corner of a flat-screen monitor that hung from the ceiling. At the lower edge of the monitor, a small white triangle flashed on and off, representing the Grunion as it motored into the Pacific. With the aid of a satellite Global Positioning System interface, Delgado was able to steer a path directly toward the marked position.
“Now, you guys are sure Captain Burch isn’t going to find out we borrowed his support boat and are burning his fuel just for a pleasure dive?” Delgado asked somewhat sheepishly.
“You mean this is Burch’s private boat?” Dirk replied with mock horror.
“If he comes snooping, we’ll just tell him that Bill Gates stopped by and offered us a few million stock options if he could take the Grunion out for a spin,” Dahlgren offered.
“Thanks. I knew I could trust you guys,” Delgado muttered, shaking his head. “By the way, how good is your fix on the submarine’s location?”
“Came right out of the official Navy report on the sinking that Perlmutter faxed me,” Dirk replied, grabbing the cabin door sill for balance as the boat rolled over a large swell. “We’ll start with the position that was recorded by the destroyer after she sank the I-403.”
“Too bad the Navy didn’t have GPS back in 1945,” Delgado lamented.
“Yes, the wartime action reports weren’t always entirely accurate, especially where locations are concerned. But the
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