Don Pendleton - Stealth Sweep

Everywhere across the Kowloon District, lights appeared in windows, and somewhere a fire alarm began to clang, then an air raid siren cut loose with a long, pronounced howl.

Burning out of control, the destroyed warehouse continued to explode irregularly from the tons of military ordnance that had been stored there. Bullets crackled like strings of firecrackers, land mines thundered, and as the remains of the warehouse began to collapse in upon itself, something flared white-hot for a long moment in the heart of the inferno, then died away, making the rest of the blaze seem pale and inconsequential by comparison.

“Well, that certainly put Ortega out of business!” Tsai laughed, shakily rising to her feet.

“Almost certainly,” Bolan said, giving a half smile.

“Almost? Damn, you’re a hard man to please.” Tsai started to say something else when somewhere in the darkness ahead there came the warning siren from a Red Chinese gunboat. It was promptly joined by another, and then countless more. Then an aircraft rumbled by overhead, the hot wash buffeting them both and rocking the speedboat.

“How did a jet fighter get here so soon?” she asked with a frown.

“It doesn’t matter. Time to go,” Bolan said, angling away from the open harbor and heading back toward the rolling waves cresting nosily on the rocky shoreline.

“I’m ready,” she announced, tucking the mouthpiece of her rebreather into place.

“Change of plans,” Bolan said, lowering their speed to avoid attracting unwanted attention. “You’re not going crash the boat as a diversion so that I can hijack a gunboat.”

She yanked out the mouthpiece. “We’re going to charge across Victoria Harbour and into up the West River in this old thing?” she demanded askance. “We’ll be slaughtered!”

“True.” He glanced at the large wooden crate in the rear of the craft. “Which is why we’re going back to the boathouse. I’ll need some time to get ready.”

“Get ready for what?” Tsai asked, looking over the crate. It had been the first thing the big American had hauled out of the warehouse, and even though he had used a hand truck, judging from his expression at the time, it had to weigh a ton. There was no company logo, manufacturer name or even a description on the packing slip, only a string of numbers.

“Okay, what is it?” she demanded, loosening the ponytail to let her hair billow in the wind. “A miniature submarine or something?”

“Better, if it actually works,” Bolan answered, throttling down the engine to head for the shore.

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