Black Wind (Dirk Pitt 18)

"You are certain he aims to target the United States with a biological attack?" asked Peterson.

"That's what he insinuated and I don't believe he was bluffing. The incident in the Aleutians would seem to have been a test application

of their technology to disperse a bio weapon into the air. Only now they have boosted the strength of their smallpox virus to a much more virulent form."

"Not unlike stories I've heard that the Russians may have created a vaccine-resistant strain of smallpox back in the nineties," Gunn added.

"Only this one's a chimera. A deadly combination of more than one virus that takes on the lethal elements of each," Summer said.

"If the strain is immune to our vaccines, an outbreak could kill millions," Peterson muttered, shaking his head. The room fell silent for a moment as the occupants considered the horrifying prospect.

"The attack in the Aleutian Islands proves that they have the means to disperse the virus. The question becomes, where would they target a strike?" Gunn asked.

"If we can stop them before they have the chance to strike, then it doesn't matter. We should be raiding Kang's palace, and his shipyard, and his other sham businesses, and we should be raiding them right now," Summer said, slapping a hand on her leg for emphasis.

"She's right," Dirk said. "For all we know, the weapons are still on board the vessel at the Inchon Shipyard and the story can end there."

"We'll need to assemble more evidence," the homeland security man said flatly. "The Korean authorities will have to be convinced of the risk before we can assemble a joint investigative force."

Gunn quietly cleared his throat. "We may be on the verge of providing the necessary evidence," he said as all eyes shifted his way. "Dirk and Summer had the foresight to contact Navy Special Forces before leaving Korea and briefed them on Kang's enclosed dock facility at Inchon."

"We couldn't authorize them to act, but a well-placed call by Rudi got them to at least listen to what we had to say," Summer grinned toward Gunn.

"It's well beyond that now," Gunn explained. "After you and Dirk departed Osan, we formally requested an underwater special ops reconnaissance mission. Vice President Sandecker went out on a limb

to obtain executive approval in hopes we'll be able to locate a smoking gun. Unfortunately, with the ruckus over our military deployment in Korea it's a sensitive time to be nosing around our ally's backyard."

"All they need to do is snap a picture of the Baekje sitting at Kang's dock and we've got proof positive," Dirk said.

"That would certainly boost our case. When are they going in?" Webster asked.

Gunn looked at his watch, then mentally calculated the fourteen-hour time difference between Washington and Seoul. "The team will be deployed in about two hours. We should know something early this evening."

Webster silently gathered his papers, then stood up. "I'll be back after dinner for a full debriefing," he grumbled, then made his way toward the door. As he left the room, the others could hear just a single word being muttered repeatedly from his lips as he vanished down the hall: "Korea."

Commander Bruce McCasland looked up at the Korean night sky and grimaced. A heavy bank of low rain clouds had drifted in over Inchon, obscuring the earlier clear skies. With the low clouds came illumination, the optical boomerang of light waves from thousands of the port city's streetlamps, residences, and billboards. Refracting off the clouds, the lights brightened the midnight hour with a fuzzy radiance. For a man whose livelihood depended on stealth, the dark of night was his best friend, the arrival of clouds a curse. Perhaps it will rain, he thought hopefully, which would improve their cover. But the dark clouds silently rolled by, holding their moisture with taunting stubbornness.

The Navy SEAL from Bend, Oregon, hunched back down in the rickety sampan and glanced at the three men lying low under the gunwale besides him. Like McCasland, they were clad in black underwater wet suits, with matching fins, mask, and backpack. As their mission was one of reconnaissance, they were armed for only minimal close quarters combat, each carrying a compact Heckler & Koch MP5K 9mm submachine gun. Clipped to their vests were an assorted mix of miniature still and video cameras, as well as a pair of night vision goggles.

The weathered boat putted past the commercial docks of Inchon, trailing a pall of blue smoke from its sputtering outboard motor. To the casual eye, the sampan appeared like a thousand others in the region used by merchants and tradesmen up and down the coastal Korean waters as a common mode of transport. Hidden beneath its aged-appearing exterior, however, was a fiberglass-hulled assault craft. With a high-speed inboard motor, the covert boat was specially built to launch and retrieve small teams of underwater special forces.

Meandering through the quiet north corner of the harbor, the sampan approached within two hundred meters of the Kang Marine Services entry channel. Exactly on cue, the twenty-two-foot boat's motor sputtered and coughed several times, then died. Two SEALs, disguised as a pair of derelict fishermen, began swearing loudly at each other in Korean. While one of the men tugged at the outboard motor to restart it, the other made a loud show of grabbing an oar and splashing it in the water in a clumsy attempt to row them toward shore.

McCasland peered over the gunwale with a pair of night vision binoculars trained on the sentry post at the mouth of the channel. Two men looked back from the interior of their guard hut but made no move toward a black speedboat tied up a few feet away. Satisfied the guards were too lazy to investigate further, he called quietly to the three men beside him.

"In the water. Now."

With the gracefulness of a Persian cat leaping from a settee, the three men slipped quietly over the side and into the water with barely a gurgle. McCasland adjusted his faceplate, gave a thumbs-up to the two "fishermen," then followed the frogmen over the side. Having grown hot in the boat wearing the insulated wet suit, he was refreshed by the cool water as it seeped against his skin. Clearing his ears, he submerged to a depth of twenty feet, then leveled off, peering around

into the black gloomy murk. The dank polluted harbor water offered only a few feet of visibility, which fell to zero at night without a flashlight. McCasland ignored the blind diving conditions and spoke into a wireless underwater communication system attached to his face mask.

"Audio and nav check," he barked.

"Bravo here. Nav confirmed. Out," came one voice.

"Charlie here. Nav confirmed. Out," followed a second voice, this one with a slight Georgia twang.

"Delta here. Nav confirmed. Out," the third diver's voice copied.