Operation Norfolk (2 page)

When he was within fifty yards of the big wharf, Hawker struck out into deeper water. He did a struggling, awkward sidestroke, fighting the heavy surf. He had planned to swim in close to the dock, grab on to one of the big cement pilings, and then sneak onto the grounds from there. But the closer he got to the pilings, the more dangerous the plan seemed. The surf was crashing into the cement, pushed by a freezing northwest wind. If the waves didn't smash him on the pilings, the barnacles and oysters would certainly cut the hell out of him.

So how would he get past the guards?

Reluctantly Hawker began to push himself back toward shallow water. Finally he could touch, and he stood lifting, rising and falling with every roller that came in, his shoulders just above the surface. Looking up, he could see both of the guards plainly: two short, wiry men in ski masks and heavy coats, holding scythe-clipped automatic weapons—Soviet AK-47s. The dock formed a Τ and, on the inside of the far corner, a thirty-eight- or forty-foot cruiser rocked and creaked. Mercury lights on both points of the Τ bathed the area in a circle of cold white light.

Damn
.

There was no way he could get over the fence without being seen. And, even if he did, the fence was wired for sound as well as to a complex burglar alarm system.

There was only one way in, and that was either on the dock or under the dock … but what about beneath the cruiser? Hawker gauged the distance, wondering if there was any way he could make it underwater.

Nope. No way. Even without all the equipment he was carrying, he probably couldn't have made it.

Why in the hell hadn't he brought some kind of scuba gear?

There was only one way. It was risky, but he had to take the chance. Spitting salt water, Hawker cracked the self-cocking Cobra crossbow down. Then he loaded in one of the silver eight-inch arrows and flipped up the peep sight.

The guard farthest from him had his back turned, a halfhearted effort at walking the picket on this cold, dark night.

That was good. One at a time. That was best.

The guard closest to him was just lighting a cigarette, having trouble getting it going in the wind, cupping his hands around the lighter. Hawker could see the man's face in the orange glow of the flickering light: a gaunt, simian-looking little man with antlike cheeks and eyes.

Waiting for a pause in the rolling surf, Hawker steadied the weapon—he had leaned it against the dock railing—then fired. There was a
thit
sound, nothing for a moment, then the guard buckled at the waist, dropping his lighter, clawing the air violently as he tumbled over the rail into the water.

The splash was absorbed by the hollow roar of the wind and the surf.

Hawker cocked the Cobra again, loaded in another arrow, and moved closer.

The second guard had turned, suspicious, aware that something had happened but not quite sure what. He walked carefully toward the spot where the first guard had been, AK-47 at the ready.

The vigilante brought the peep sight to bear on the man's chest and squeezed the trigger … but a wave hit him unexpectedly, throwing off his aim, causing him to shoot high. When he had wiped the water from his face, he saw the second guard running crazily around the dock, hands clamped to his head … then he hit the railing, waist high, sprawled headfirst into the sea, his screams lost to the waves.

The arrow had apparently hit him in the face—not a pretty thing to see.

Hawker stood in the surf, waited … waited for the alarms to go off, the bells to ring, for a little army to come running out, gunning for him.

But there was only the sound of the sea.

The vigilante waded down the beach, angling shallower and shallower, then climbed up the steel ladder onto the dock. He was plainly visible in the circle of light, and he knew the worst possible thing to do was to act as if he didn't want to be seen—as if he didn't belong. So he strode down the dock like he owned the place, past the big cruiser that rocked and creaked on its lines, into the bank of trees that marked the beginning of the estate.

Through the bare trees, he could see the lights of the big stone mansion glittering. He could see the dim outline of several outbuildings too. The outbuildings interested him. From local information, he knew that Cwong's men kept their drug cache in separate quarters under heavy guard. Hawker liked the idea of destroying the drug stash—or making sure it would be destroyed—before assaulting Cwong's main Norfolk force. He didn't like to leave anything to chance. And he didn't want there to be any doubt about why he was hitting the place.

He singled out a squat one-story building about the size of a cottage, made of cement blocks. The tiny barred windows made it look like a stockade. Hawker crept from shadow to shadow, taking his tme, not rushing anything, not about to make any mistakes. In his belly he felt the warm adrenaline rush despite the soggy cold of his wool clothes, the warming excitement of starting another tough mission. A feeling that was like no other feeling in the world.

When he got near the building, he saw a man sitting outside what apparently was the lone extrance—a set of double doors, probably steel fire doors. Hawker got down on his belly and crawled in for a closer look. When he was about ten yards from the door, he could see the guard plainly: a thin man with jet-black hair, sitting with his weapon at his feet looking at
Playboy
, his jacket collar pulled up tight around his neck.

If this is the type of security Cwong's men maintain, Hawker thought to himself, I won't have much trouble at all. Hawker immediately cursed beneath his breath for jinxing himself. Although he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, Hawker had his superstitions when it came to a mission, and one of them was never to assume it would be easy. That brought the worst bad luck of all.

Hawker lay in the shadows for a minute, wondering how best to handle the guard. He wanted information about the complex, and stumbling upon a lone guard seemed like the ideal chance to get it. But Hawker had also heard rumors about the estate's extensive electronic burglar alarm system. Was it possible there were listening devices planted all over the grounds, with a central listening board someplace inside? If so, it would be foolish to do anything but eliminate the guard right now, silently, then rig the drug warehouse—if that was what it was—to blow. Hawker decided to risk it. Why would anyone plant listening devices near a guard's area, one of the least vulnerable places on the estate?

The vigilante left the Cobra crossbow lying in the bushes and drew his heavy, cold, razor-sharp Randall Attack/Survival knife from its calf scabbard. Carrying the knife in his right hand, he crawled through the bushes to within four yards of the man. The guard was so absorbed in his
Playboy
that he didn't even notice.

Hawker stood and lunged in one smooth motion, knocking the guard off his chair and coming to rest on top of him, the big stainless-steel blade at the man's throat.

“Not a word, pal, not a sound. Nod your head if you understand.”

The Vietnamese man nodded quickly, shocked eyes wide with terror.

Hawker grabbed the man's collar and jerked him to his feet, still holding the knife at ready. “You got one chance to live, pal. Hear me?
One
chance. You answer my questions, give me the right answers, I'll tie you up, leave you for someone to find in the morning. If not—” Hawker pressed the knife closer. “If not, you'll be saying grace through your asshole. Understand?”

The guard whispered, “Anything, anything, I tell anything, everything, just don't kill, huh? Just don't kill,” in the Vietnamese version of pidgin English.

Hawker still held him. “What's in the building? What've they got you guarding? Tell me—”

“Product inside. Much, many product. Heroin, cocaine, chemicals, anything. Much product.” The guard whined as he whispered, seeing in Hawker's eyes that he wasn't bluffing, that the man in the navy watch cap wouldn't hesitate.

Hawker said, “How many men in the house? How many men on the grounds?”

The guard, trying to stand up straight, moving gingerly against Hawker's grip, said, “Many mens. Many very many. Twenties, maybe. Twenties-five. You no kill, I help you, yes? Help you fuck them good, huh, Joe? Only no kill, yes? I use my gun, help you shoot them good.”

The little man's manner was as nauseating as the sour smell of him, willing to turn against his comrades to save his own skin. Hawker said, “All I want from you is the key to this warehouse. Understand? Give me key, I let you live.”

The guard was cringing now, trying to pull away, whining. “No have key, Joe. No have key. Keys inside house, Joe. But no kill, huh? No kill—”

The vigilante shoved the little man roughly away, picked up the AK-47 that had been knocked to the ground, then got his elbow up just in time as the guard, who had been cringing with fear, threw himself full force at Hawker, the stiletto blade of a knife glittering in his hand.

three

Hawker ducked clumsily under the knife, just in time. The guard tumbled over him, then was immediately on his feet, crouched and ready. The vigilante, who had always considered himself quick, was just a microsecond slower in getting to his feet, and the guard got off a vicious karate kick that caught Hawker in the temple, just above the right eye. Hawker staggered backward, shook the cobwebs out just in time to parry the saber-lunge of the stiletto, and hit the guard with a glancing left hook that knocked him backward to the ground.

The vigilante kicked at the guard's right hand—the hand with the knife—and missed. The guard caught Hawker's heel, yanked, and Hawker found himself on his back, expecting at any moment to feel the sickening pain of a blade sliding between his ribs.

But the guard made a mistake. He tried to kick the vigilante into unconsciousness before finishing the job, and Hawker absorbed two more solid kicks to the head and jaw before catching the Vietnamese's ankle, twisting, and pulling the man to the ground. Now he was on top of the guard. Catching his right wrist, Hawker twisted until the stiletto fell … twisted until the man's wrist snapped … twisted until the man's hand was almost backward on its joint, ignoring the shrill scream of agony. Then Hawker drove the heavy, long blade of his Randall attack knife home, through the chest cavity, into the heart, feeling the guard shiver beneath him, quivering, dying.

Hawker stood up dizzily, feeling sick, lightheaded, almost drunk from the kicks to his head.

The guard moaned, his eyes still open … and then was dead.

Hawker leaned, cleaning the blade of his knife on the grass, fought the urge to vomit, then stood.

What should he do now?

The question came at him as if down a long tunnel. The guard had screamed, no doubt about that. Had anyone heard? Hawker looked toward the huge three-story mansion. Had that upstairs light been on earlier? In his confused state of mind, he wasn't sure.

He had to get control of himself, put himself on automatic pilot until his head cleared. He must call upon past experience to take over, help him go through the motions by rote until his brain stopped spinning.

He knew that the first thing he had to do was rig the warehouse full of drugs to self-destruct. He had to make sure that the warehouse was destroyed even if the rest of his mission was a failure. The guard had said there was heroin in there. Heroin, cocaine, chemicals—all of it bound for the U.S. sailors of Norfolk if something wasn't done.

Trouble was, it wasn't going to be easy getting into the damn place.

Hawker went to the double doors. He slid out of the Colt Commando, out of the backpack, and took out a little microflashlight. Peering into his pack, he pushed aside the carefully prepared explosives until he found what he was looking for—two small plastic vials. One was an extremely powerful but inert acid, the other was a catalyst. The catalyst would activate the acid when the two were combined. Using an eyedropper, the vigilante deposited drops of liquid inside both locks of the steel doors. The acid fumed and hissed, eating away the locks' internal works.

When that was done, Hawker took a long wire that had alligator clips on both ends. The burglar alarm, he hoped, would be a standard one; if so, the doors would be wired to an internal electrical circuit. Any break in the circuit would set off the alarm.

Hawker cracked one door just enough to see the conductor plates on the door seal. Then he hooked an alligator clip to each conductor plate and opened the door just enough for him to slide through—being damn careful not to kick the wire loose as he did so.

Once the door was closed behind him, the vigilante breathed easier. There were no windows in the building, none. He patted the wall until he found the switch, turned on the lights … and saw a single large room stacked to the ceiling with boxes wrapped in plastic—black plastic, like garbage bags. He pulled the Randall once again from its leg holster and cut one of the bags. Fine white powder poured out onto the cement floor—heroin or cocaine, he didn't know which. And he wasn't about to taste it like the TV cops did. No cop with any brains would ever chance such a stupid thing because the stuff might be one of the junkie standards or, just as easily, LSD or mescaline or angel dust. Just a taste might send you tripping your brains out.

Working quickly, Hawker removed from his pack a small slab of claylike material, top section blue, bottom section yellow, covered on each side by waxed paper. He kneaded the plastic explosive until the combination of the two colors made green, then broke it into three fist-size chunks. Into each chunk he inserted tiny radio detonating devices. Then after sticking each at the base of the three exposed walls, he stepped back out into the darkness, over the corpse of the dead guard.

The wind was blowing cold off the Chesapeake, wild in the bare tree limbs, but Hawker didn't notice, so intent was he on the house in the distance. The crossbow was strapped over his back now, and in his hands he held the Colt Commando automatic rifle.