Free Checkmate by Tom Clancy Page A

(Escape and Evasion) mode.
    And the list went on. Of course, having been an operator himself, Lambert wasn’t a stickler for details, especially when things got hot. “Mind yourself and the mission first,” he was fond of saying. “If the paper-pushers want details, they can make some up.”
    Still, Fisher saw some value in real-time reporting. Over the years he’d seen a lot of operators die because they’d reacted too fast, had failed to think a step ahead. In this case, even before the guard had turned toward him, Fisher had already decided lethal force was his best choice and there was a low chance it would jeopardize the mission. Even when it came to quick decisions, the Six P’s applied.
    “Roger,” Lambert replied.
    “Going to the bridge.”
    Fisher checked his watch: forty minutes until the FBI arrived.
     
     
     
    HE headed down the port-side deck. Over the railing he could hear the hiss of water skimming along the Duroc ’s hull. He paused, pressed himself against the bulkhead, and lowered into a crouch. He needed a moment to think.
    The puzzle of who was behind the Trego and Slipstone attacks was rapidly becoming complicated: The Trego , true registry and owner unknown, had been manned by a single Middle Eastern man who’d set the ship on a collision course with the Virginia coastline. The conclusion was easy to jump to and, in this case, seemingly correct. But now this, the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. So far, the Duroc ’s crew appeared uniformly Asian—Chinese American, judging by their accents. If the satellite images were correct and the Duroc had in fact taken the remainder of the Trego ’s crew to Freeport City, where did this Chinese crew fit in? And why the Bahamas? And why were they monitoring the fire bands—
    Then it struck him: loose ends . He should have seen this immediately. He keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, put Grim to work: Unless I miss my guess, the Trego ’s crew is dead. Executed and buried in a burned-out or burning building somewhere on the island.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “Just adding two and two together. I’ll explain later. Just have her monitoring the fire radio bands.”
    “Will do.”
    Fisher stood up and crept forward until he could see through the bridge hatch porthole.
    Inside, the bridge was dimly lit by bulkhead sconces and a single white light filtering up from what Fisher assumed was the rear interior ladder. A lone man sat in an elevated chair at the helm console. Fisher craned his neck until he could see all of the rear bulkhead, which he scanned until he spotted what he was looking for: an electrical panel.
    He drew the SC-20 from his back holster and thumbed the selector to STICKY SHOCKER: LOW . The charge would be enough to paralyze the helmsman for thirty seconds to a minute. He needed the man alive and able to talk.
    He reached up and tested the doorknob—slowly turning it until certain it wasn’t locked. The helmsman would be instantly alerted when the door opened, and Fisher had to assume he was well trained and ready to sound the alarm. He took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.
    Surprisingly, the man didn’t turn, but instead laughed. “Man . . . It took you long enough.”
    What . . . ?
    “Where’d you go for the coffee? Peru?”
    Now the man turned.
    Fisher didn’t give him a chance to react. He fired.
    The sticky shocker struck the man in the neck, just below the right ear. Fisher heard a faint sizzle. The man stiffened, then slumped over, his torso hanging toward the deck. The man’s limbs, still stimulated by the shocker, continued to twitch. His hand thumped rhythmically against the chair leg.
    Fisher shut the door, crouched down. He holstered the SC-20 and drew his pistol. Expecting coffee . . . As if on cue, he heard the clang of footsteps on the rear ladder. A head rose from the ladder well, followed by a torso. “Hey, Tommy, here’s your . . . What the hell are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
    The man