Off to Jeffrey's right was a small airstrip, meant for microlights and gliders before the war. Past it lay more unused land, and in another mile came the tall concrete structures of the Tongaat-Hulett sugar refinery.
Now the local flying club was defunct, the short runway broken up, long steel rods driven in to skewer an airborne assault. The SEAL chief and two of his shooters found the place protected by several old men, retired cops or home guard militia. They died quickly, silently, to protect the rear, the bodies concealed where they'd later be blasted to pieces.
Jeffrey and Ilse and the SEALs were 3,500 yards south of the estuary, 1,400 yards in from the beach, at an elevation of four hundred feet. Before them, eastward, just down the hill on the way to the sea, were the empty outdoor amphitheater, caltrop-covered tourist parking lot, and two-story beige-brown concrete-and-masonry headquarters building of their target, the Natal Sharks Board.
Seeing the bodies hanged in the clearing had forced Ilse to make a decision. There was so much death all around, so many lives being snuffed, what difference was one more, her own? It was best to assume she would die so she could get on with her job. Fear was a useless distraction; concern for survival was dulling her edge. If the mission failed, her death was the least of anyone's worries.
Somehow — perversely, she knew — seeing it this way would help. It brought her a calm concentration, turned everything into a game — granted, a blood sport — an adventure with outcome unknowable, one she'd do her damnedest to win.
She gazed at their objective, vague shapes through her visor, strobed by frequent lightning. The heat signature of the installation told her the laboratory staff was going full bore. Inside that building, behind the blackout curtains, an abomination was taking shape, perverting fifty years of world-class research on marine biology and swimmer safety. By morning Ilse's life might be over, but tonight her task was direct: cauterize these people and what they were doing, send them straight to a hot man-made hell.
Jeffrey crouched amid the chilly runoff in the erosion gully on the south flank of the Sharks Board. He peered into the dripping viewer scope, seeing through the fiber-optic cable — the image was constantly streaked by the heavy downpour. SEAL One panned the cable's other end around. Jeffrey knew One was at the very edge of the semitropical underbrush, wearing a lightweight gillie suit he'd pulled out of his backpack. The gillie suit was designed as sniper camouflage, with an insulated silver lining to suppress the point man's infrared.
"One, Four," Jeffrey whispered. "No guard dogs?"
"Four, One, no," the point man said. "Just foot patrols."
"Pan right," Jeffrey said. "Show me the missile bunker." The image shifted as ordered. " Hold it." Jeffrey zoomed in as lightning flickered again. He studied the emplacement, its rounded corners jutting from the slope. Its bulk was nestled in dead ground inside the asphalt crescent formed by the main entrance's big U-shaped driveway. More thunder rumbled.
"The bunker's thermal signature's diffuse even this close," Jeffrey said. "Looks like they put a resistor grid under the reinforced concrete."
"Yeah," Clayton said as he lay to Jeffrey's right. "Just like with the lab in the basement."
"We can't tell if it's occupied."
"That's the idea."
Something out of focus blocked Jeffrey's view, then passed. He realized it was a soldier.
"One, Four, what are they carrying?"
"Different stuff, Commander," SEAL One whispered, sounding scratchy above the roar of the driving rain. "I see some H&Ks, some Uzis and Galils, and homegrown models."
"One, Six," Clayton said. "Are they using silencers?"
"Everyone I've seen so far, boss, yes. And night-vision goggles."
Jeffrey turned to Clayton. "It's like we thought," Jeffrey said. "Stealthy security. Nothing excessive or obvious. No hostage encampments nearby, to draw attention or make for witnesses."
"That must be why they put a missile bunker here," Clayton said. "An excuse for the fence and patrols."
"Six, Three," came over the circuit.
"Go ahead, Chief," Clayton said.
"Four sentries on the roof. They shift around a lot, trading off the corners."
"Chief," Jeffrey said, "what about inside?"
"IR shows a bunch of them in some kind of meeting on the second floor. In a conference room, I think, watching TV."
"That sounds like research staff," Jeffrey said.
"There are also two people in offices, on the downhill side of the structure, near the overhang by the entrance.
They're sitting, haven't moved in a while."
"First floor?" Jeffrey said as sweat and rainwater dripped from his nose.
"Two soldiers inside the front door," the SEAL chief said, "two by the back exit, two by the stairs to the basement. Two more in the pantry area — one of 'em's making coffee, the other just lit up a smoke."
"Anyone else on one?" Jeffrey said.
"No roving patrols or staff."
"The audiovisual center?"
"The auditorium wing is empty."
"The boat workshop and garage?"
"Wait one, some heat sources in there … Okay, that's just machinery. It's empty."
"The relief shift must bivouac down in the village," Jeffrey said, "by the disused hotels and shopping malls … What's the total number of outside guards?"
"Twelve right now," the SEAL chief said.
"Three, Four, wait one," Jeffrey said. "Break break. One, Four, what's happening to the east?"
"Four, One, Umhlanga Rocks Drive is totally dead, no sign of reinforcements. One vehicle in front, soft-skinned truck, light-duty Samil-20 four-by-four, engine's cold."
Jeffrey turned to Clayton. "That makes two dozen shooters, half a platoon, plus whatever they have in the bunker and basement."
"Unfair odds," Clayton said. "For them."
"Three and One, Four," Jeffrey said. "Can you tell which one is their officer?"
"Four, One, negative. No one's been acting in charge."
"Four, Three, no obvious sergeant either. If one of 'em's actually present, he's smart enough not to show"
Jeffrey turned to Clayton again. "So their HQ squad could be downhill, or here but somewhere hardened."
"Yeah," Clayton said.
"I want Ilse to take a look," Jeffrey said. Clayton got out of the way. Jeffrey slid sideways and watched Ilse crawl through the mud to the viewscope.
"It's just like it used to be," she said. "Except for the fence and the bunker … and the soldiers, of course."
"You sure?" Jeffrey said. "One, pan around again. Ilse, watch for anything strange, bumps in the ground, things sticking out of the building."
"Those video cameras," Ilse said. "The ones covering the lawn. That's new. This was a low-crime area."
"Okay," Jeffrey said.
"Six, Seven," another SEAL called.
"Go ahead, Seven," Clayton said.
"Ground-penetrating radar sweep is complete. Water and sewage go downhill, east, as expected. Gas comes in that way too. No PVC conduits or buried pipes on the other exposures."
"Seven, Four," Jeffrey said. "Are you sure? Have you confirmed all phone and power and data lines lead out above the ground?"
"Four, Seven, roger, Commander. Wires and high-baud optic lines go up the utility pole by the workshop."
"Six, Eight. Six, Eight."
"Eight, Six," Clayton said. "Go ahead, Eight."
"The box is in place," SEAL Eight said, "on the biggest palm tree that overlooks the outdoor amphitheater."
"Eight, Four," Jeffrey said, "is the main building roof covered?"