"Write it down for me, and keep checking."

"Maybe I can check it out myself?"

"You do and I'll personally put you over my knee and spank the living s.h.i.t out of you," said Trace.

Junior opened his mouth to say something, saw from Trace's expression that she wasn't kidding, then reached for a piece of paper.

COLONEL SETROVICH MET Trace and me at the airport in Khabarousk, Russia, late that evening. An elaborate a.s.sault plan had been worked out-two Russian Hind Mi-24P helicopters carrying a dozen Russian marines would be escorted by two Mi-28 Havoc gunships; the marines-and we-would board the trawler while the gunships provided cover. Two destroyers were steaming toward the trawler and would be about ten miles away when the a.s.sault began-close enough to get there quickly if there was trouble, but far enough away that they couldn't take the credit if things went smoothly. It was a cla.s.sic FSB maneuver.

Two U.S. Navy surface ships, along with a submarine carrying the aforementioned SEALs, were also in the vicinity, though a little farther away. Setrovich didn't ask, and I didn't tell.

The "P" in Mi-24P stands for pushka, a Russian word for cannon, and refers to the double-barreled 30mm cannon in the Hind's nose, an upgrade over the not-all-that puny-in-itself four-barreled machine gun carried in the other versions. The pushka makes a very low thud-thump sound as it fires, and in the dark the flash from the muzzle is impressive, even when the gun is aimed harmlessly at the water.

"Just to let them know we mean business," Setrovich yelled over the whine of the helicopter's rotors. He put his hand to his ear, listening to something from the pilot attempting to communicate with the captain of the trawler. I turned around to the window, watching the floodlight beneath one of the gunships illuminate the forward deck of the trawler. The helicopter was hovering about twenty feet above the trawler. I couldn't see anyone aboard.

Nor could I see anything that looked remotely like it might be a missile.

The marines rose and lined up near the door, ready to fast rope down. Trace got up and moved to the head of the line, her MP5 cradled beneath her arm. I slipped in behind her.

"Nazdarovye!" yelled the team's jumpmaster, and off we went. I grabbed the line and shot downward as if speeding down a fireman's pole. The ship looked like a sore p.r.i.c.k in the night, easy to see, but the twenty or so feet between me and the forward deck was a long twenty feet, the chopper bucking with the wind and trawler rolling hard starboard as I hit the deck. I managed to land with the roll, keeping my balance as the trawler pitched back to port. I ran forward to the cargo hatch, then tucked around a winch a.s.sembly for one of the shipboard cranes. Working my way up the ship's starboard side, I reached a railing that separated a ladder off the deck to the superstructure; glancing behind me to make sure the marines were with me-they were-I jumped up and over, securing the catwalk as the rest of the small team followed.

To this point, there had been no sign of resistance aboard the ship-in fact, there was no sign that it was occupied at all. But that changed quickly: light flashed on the port side of the deck. A boom and a crash followed, topped off by a serenade of automatic rifle fire. I threw myself against the side of the catwalk, watching as a pair of Russians near the bow fired at a lifeboat, their tracers blazing across the night.

There was no answering fire. My guess is that the boarding party had used flash-bang grenades to enter the ship, and someone outside got a case of jitters. Once the genie's out of the bottle it can take quite a while to restore order, and gunfire erupted from several quarters at once. With adrenaline flowing like beer at Oktoberfest, the NCOs had a h.e.l.l of a time calming things down. Curses and pleas to stop firing overran the radio circuit.

Just as the gunfire stopped, a figure climbed out of the forward cargo hatchway and made a beeline toward the ladder to my right. Realizing he'd be much more valuable alive than dead, I jumped up and ran for him, tackling him just as he reached the catwalk. Unfortunately, in the confusion it probably wasn't clear whose side I was on; bullets started whizzing overhead.

Trace's voice cut through the chaos over the radio.

"Stop shooting or I'm going to kick each one of you in the b.a.l.l.s!"

Either the marines understood English or they'd run out of ammunition, because to a man they stopped firing.

I pulled the man I'd flattened up. In the dim light he didn't look like much of a mafioso, Russian or otherwise. And he wasn't Yong Shin Jong, either. He looked all of seventeen, weighed two pounds less than your average house cat, and spoke Vietnamese.

Very scared Vietnamese.

He jabbered something about being a seaman and papers lost at sea. One of the Russians who'd come up the catwalk behind me escorted us as I brought the kid to Setrovich's command post near the bow. My Viet namese was a little rusty, but as near as I could tell the kid claimed the only cargo were tins of fish. He said that they were going to South Korea, not North. And he didn't know anything about missiles or pa.s.sengers. He claimed all of the crewmen were Vietnamese, and had been hired within the last three weeks, during the ship's last visit to Haiphong, the North Vietnamese port not far from Hanoi.

Setrovich didn't believe him, and called him a liar in Russian. While the seaman didn't understand the words, he got the implied threat and began shaking, but stuck to his story. Personally, I didn't see much reason for him to lie, outside of the obvious fib about having lost nonexis-tent ident.i.ty or work papers. Neither his nationality nor the cargo would be unusual.

The general outlines of his story were confirmed ten minutes later by the trawler's captain, a Russian who looked like Santa Claus with a black beard and smelled of sweat and stale vodka. Setrovich, frowning in my direction, ordered the marines to conduct a full inspection of the ship.

Trace and I conducted our own search. There were plenty of crates of canned fish in the hold, along with several stamped "bicycle parts" in Russian. These turned out to contain . . . bicycle parts.

Setrovich was looking cross when I found him on the bridge. He didn't blame me as much as give Polorski and company credit for outwitting us.

"He is always two steps ahead. Even of the great Rogue Warrior."

"More likely he's behind us," I said. "This ship was probably a decoy. He's probably still in Russia somewhere."

"Ah. First you tell me he is in Beijing, then you say Russia. You must be working with American CIA-always backward a.s.s."

"a.s.s backward."

"Yes. I will call the helicopters for pickup."

"Why don't we look for him in Kamenka? If he sent the ship out as a decoy, he may still have the missile there."

"His hideout is not in the city."

"You're sure?"

Setrovich shrugged. "Where it is, who knows?"

"Let's look here." I gave him the address that Junior had found. A light seemed to go off in Setrovich's head-a dim one, but a light nonetheless.

"Yes. Yes. This might be useful," said the colonel. "Tomorrow morning, we will visit."

"Let's do it now," I told him. "This way no one can tip him off. The helicopters have to go back there anyway."

Setrovich frowned, which I expected. But then he nodded, which I hadn't.

"Rogue Warrior lives up to his expectations," he said, clapping me hard on the back. "Always thinking."

THE ADDRESS BELONGED to a building that was part of a storage depot near the port, with a rail spur and several warehouses, along with a good-sized yard. a.s.saulting a facility of that size usually calls for a lot of careful planning and, if possible, a rehearsal or two. It's also not the sort of thing you want to undertake with a unit that's just coming off another mission, especially a nighttime operation in the middle of the ocean. But if we were really going to surprise Polorski and his group, any raid against them had to be completely spontaneous. Someone was tipping these guys off, and the only way to get them was to hit them when they thought we were elsewhere.

Setrovich told the helicopter pilots that they were going on a second mission, and then instead of telling them where it was, ordered them to simply follow his craft. He decreed complete radio silence, saying that anyone caught making a transmission would be thrown from the helicopter without a parachute. That's my kind of punishment.

Setrovich's a.s.sistant had a good set of satellite maps with him that showed the port area of Kamenka where the Shchi had docked; the maps happened to include enough of the nearby area for us to spot Polorski's yard and the surroundings. It covered about two acres right along the water, separated from a long wharf by a set of train tracks. (The Shchi had sailed from a wharf about a half mile away, closer to the center of the port.) Two large steel buildings sat at the north end of the yard; there were two tractor-trailers, a pair of small tractors, and enough rusted steel drums to keep a calypso band in business for years. Setrovich and I worked out a plan with the captain of the marine detachment. We'd drop half a helo's worth of marines at the south end of the yard, near the gated entrance to the port's road network, sealing off access. The rest of the force would be divided up for a.s.saults on the buildings. The gunships would make sure no one left via the water-there were two small speedboats tied up near the wharf-and provide whatever additional muscle was necessary.

My group consisted of six marines who could speak good enough English-they knew enough to nod if I said "listen up." We'd come in at the eastern side of the buildings, fast roping down and heading directly to the building. We'd go in with the help of flash-bangs and as many submachine-gun bullets as necessary.

Trace was in another group tasked to land on the other side of the buildings. She and her marines would move to the fence separating the yard from the railroad tracks and approach the buildings from there, positioning themselves to cut off anyone trying to escape us.

The sun had just come up, but there didn't seem to be any activity as the helos came in. We hit the ground in good shape, fanning out for our a.s.signments.

The Russian marines were well trained, and used techniques for entering buildings that were very similar to what a U.S. force would have done. A runty-looking sergeant named Mikhail stepped up to the door with a shotgun loaded with special steel slugs, then waited as a companion threw a flash-bang grenade through the nearby window.

Whap! Crash-ka-boom!

Lock obliterated, the door flew open. The team barreled inside, weapons ready. We were in a small room, maybe ten by ten, completely empty except for a wooden bench against the northern wall. There was an open interior doorway in the wall facing us as we came in, offset by a few feet. The marines and I took up positions at the side of the door, and we did the flash-bang routine once again.

Bounce-bounce-ka-boom!

K-k-k-BOOOOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOO-OOM!!!

The sound was a lot worse in person than it looks in print. The grenade had set something in the other room off, and the booms quickly crescendoed as secondary explosion begat secondary explosion. They may not have been the loudest explosions I've ever heard, nor the most powerful, but they were among the most inconvenient.

"Out!" I yelled. "Get the h.e.l.l out of the building! Go!"

The marines ducked and ran past me as I waved them out. Tapped by the last man, I pitched myself toward daylight. I hit the dirt about twenty feet beyond where I'd been aiming, my flight a.s.sisted by a fresh round of explosions, which not so coincidentally pulverized a good portion of the building.

I didn't have time to check for injuries. The fire we'd inadvertently started with our grenade sent a ball of flame surging upward. Spitting dirt out of my mouth, I managed to scramble to my feet and yell to the rest of the squad to retreat. They were already two steps ahead of me; a few of them three. We regrouped behind some oil drums about fifty feet from the building as fire completely engulfed it. A second group of marines tasked to watch the front of the building retreated and hooked up with us. One of the men had been hit by shrapnel that had cut his arm below his bulletproof vest; otherwise, we had no casualties.

I know what you're thinking: d.i.c.k, you just found the missile. But I'm something of a connoisseur of explosions, and even as I crouched behind the barrels I realized they weren't coming from a rocket on fire. They were more like what you would expect if you threw a match into a room filled with kerosene fumes and large barrels filled with the fuel, with maybe a few grenades cooking off for good measure.

We weren't the only ones having fun. One of the gun-ships whirled above and began firing rockets into the southeast corner of the yard. And there was heavy gunfire near the second building. With our objective now covered in flames, I decided to put my Russians to work backing up the unit taking the second building. We circled back around a cl.u.s.ter of barrels to get a look at what was going on. As we did, we came under machine-gun fire from the northwestern corner of the yard. Mikhail and two other marines were pinned down.

"Cover me!" I yelled, turning and heading back in the direction I'd come in.

I planned to crawl up along the fence line and surprise the machine gunner from the flank. The plan wouldn't have been a bad one, either, except that the way was blocked off by a wall of barrels. There were two alternatives: frontal a.s.sault into the teeth of the machine-gun nest, or a sweeping attack from the flank. The latter meant I'd have to run to the back of the building we'd just set on fire, go up and over the fence, then sneak around behind the machine gunner's back.

I enjoy frontal a.s.saults as much as anyone-which means not at all. Opting to climb the fence, I did my best wind sprint to the back of the building, gritting my teeth as a fresh round of explosions shook the ground. The flames were a good incentive to hit the fence, sending me up the chain links in four short pulls. Strung across the top were three rows of old-fashioned barbed wire, more a pain in the neck than a real hindrance-I pushed the rows down with my gloved hands and did a forward somersault over the top, spinning around and grabbing the fence with one hand as I started to fall.

Well, almost.

Mr. Murphy pushed one of the barbs up as I went over, grabbing my shirtsleeve and ruining my flip. My left hand slipped from the fence, and I slipped more or less straight down. I was lucky to hit the ground feetfirst, though I was so off-kilter I shot face-first into the weeds and rocks behind the yard. Dazed, I had to rest for a minute before getting up. I grabbed the AK7419 Setrovich had loaned me and ran toward the back of the machine-gun nest, which was still firing in the direction of my men.

The machine gun was a real machine gun, a DshKM M1938/46 12.7mm weapon dating back to the time when bullets were bullets and machine guns were machine guns. There'll always be a special place in my heart for the "Ma Duce"-the Browning M2 heaving machine gun that first began supporting American troops in the 1930s-but the Russian "Dushka" is nearly as good a weapon. You really can't say you've come under heavy machine-gun fire until you've had the Dushka's half-inch bullets whizzing a few inches from your f.a.n.n.y. It's a feeling you'll never forget, though you'll probably wish you could.

I know I certainly wished I could as the barrel of the gun swung in my direction and lead started buzzing like a hive of angry bees around my head. I squeezed off a burst from my own weapon just for form's sake as I hit the dirt, burrowing into the scant cover behind the gun emplacement.

Scant as in nonexistent. The only thing that saved my b.u.t.t from being perforated was the fact that I was so close to the gunner that he couldn't lower his weapon far enough to actually hit me. I could have waited until he went through his 250-bullet belt, but being the naturally rambunctious sort-and not trusting that he wouldn't take out a handgun-I rolled onto my back and took one of the flash-bangs from my vest. I tossed it over my head in the direction of the gunner. As the grenade went off, I rolled over and began firing, emptying the gun's magazine. Half my bullets found the sandbags they'd used to protect the rear of their position. The other half found the head of the son of a b.i.t.c.h who'd been firing at me.

Ugly. But a very pretty ugly.

I slammed a new box into the gun and jumped up, making sure there was no one else with the machine gun. Then I ran back to the spot where I'd come over the fence, not wanting to take the chance that one of the Russian marines might mistake me for a bad guy moving to take over the gun.

I was just about to put my hand onto the fence to climb up when I heard Trace yelling something along the lines of "Stop that son of a b.i.t.c.h!" I looked toward the railroad tracks and saw not one but two sons of a b.i.t.c.h running down the wharf.

Trace and her marines had been covering the side of the building near the water, waiting to grab anyone trying to get away from us. When the building first caught fire, she backed up a bit, still watching to make sure no one was inside. As the building continued to burn, she left two marines to hold the position and went back to the other building, intending to join the team clearing that building. Three men jumped from a window at the back around the time Trace arrived; one fired at her, slowing her down enough for the other two to jump the fence and run off.

Which is where I came in.

I started running after them, angling out in the direction they were going in an attempt to head them off. The field I was in was overgrown with gra.s.s, which partially hid a spiderweb of railroad tracks that made it hard to run through. There were dozens and dozens of empty vodka bottles, some intact, most shattered into large but sharp pieces. By the time I got past the tracks and other obstacles, the two men had disappeared somewhere along the wharf.

As I was trying to figure out where they'd gone, I heard the loud blast of a horn behind me. I whirled around and saw a small diesel engine chugging on the track to my right, pulling a row of flatcars behind it. The train was moving at a good clip, and I wasn't-it pa.s.sed in front of me, cutting me off from the wharf.

It was a long train, and I wasn't in a patient mood, so I did what any normal red-blooded American would do when faced with an interminable wait-I cut in front of the line.

Or more precisely, I started jogging alongside the train car, then grabbed the small ladder at the end of the car as it came by. Flatcars are among the easiest train cars to hop, though easy or not I still had a tough time pulling myself against the ladder. I managed to get my right knee onto the rung and pushed upward, slapping my left foot onto the ladder and then sprawling across the deck of the flatcar. I got up and did a stutter-step toward the side, losing my balance and jumping before I was really ready to. I twisted in midair, flipping over like a bag of mail but at least clearing the tracks. I landed on my shoulder and lost my gun. By now my clothes were soaked with sweat; my left ankle hurt and my right knee was pulsing with a beat that would have made a salsa band jealous. It occurred to me that I might be getting too old for this sort of thing, but I did what I always do when that thought pops into my head: I grit my teeth and keep going.

As I made it to the wharf, I realized where the two men had disappeared to. There was a small dock below; they'd grabbed a small boat and were now sailing northward out of the harbor. Out of frustration, I fired a few rounds from the AK74, cursing and looking for the helicopter gunships that were supposed to be guarding against just this kind of escape. I was about halfway through my list of Russian curses when I noticed another speedboat coming up alongside the wharf. I turned, ready to fire, then realized Trace was at the wheel.

"d.i.c.k! Jump down!" she shouted.

I hung over the edge of the wharf, waiting until she was below. I jumped, hit the deck-and she hit the gas. By the time I managed to get back upright, she had pulled the boat to within two or three hundred yards of the escaping Russians.

"Careful!" she yelled as I raised my gun. "Setrovich wants them alive. They'll know where the missile launcher and Yong Shin Jong are."

Maybe they would and maybe they wouldn't, but trying to find out was a good idea. Especially since we were steadily catching up to them. I lowered my aim, sighting the outboard at the stern of their boat. Just as I started to push on the trigger, our boat abruptly slowed. Now I realized why the bad guys had left us the faster boat-we were out of fuel.

My shots at the outboard on the other boat missed, and as it rapidly pulled away I once more began exhausting my knowledge of curse words, this time in English as well as Russian. I got through only a small portion before Trace pointed skyward.

"The helicopter!"

"What?"

"Helicopter!"

The gunships had finally broken away from the firefight in the compound and were coming to see what was going on. But as the cannon beneath the closest helo rotated in our direction, we realized this wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"We're on your stinking side!" yelled Trace.

She still had her radio-I'd lost mine somewhere along the way-but they either didn't understand her English or weren't tuned to the right frequency. The helo did a slow turn above, then came back at us, cannon blasting.

"Out!" I yelled, jumping into the water about five seconds before the boat was demolished by cannon fire.

I swam away underwater as fast as I could, holding my breath for about a minute and a half before coming up for air. Trace popped up about ten yards away. Chewed-up fibergla.s.s and boat parts filled the water where the boat had been. I'd taken about two strokes toward sh.o.r.e when I heard the sound of a helo approaching hot and heavy behind us.

"Duck!" I yelled, thinking it was the attack chopper, back for more. But when I surfaced, I saw it was the Hind, low to the waves and dangling a sling for us.

Trace went up first. I treaded water, fighting the wash of the propellers as the helo hovered directly overhead. Finally it was my turn: I grabbed on to the sling and hung on as it yanked my arm practically out of its socket, spinning me through the twelve or fifteen feet to the chopper's cabin.

"Very sorry about the boat," shouted Setrovich, who helped pull me in. "Mistake. Sorry."

Trace was standing in the corner with a blanket wrapped around her. She didn't say anything, but I knew what she was thinking-"sorry" didn't begin to cover it.

The helicopter spun around and headed out to sea, following the two gunships. The Havocs were crisscrossing ahead, buzzing the other boat like a pair of angry bees. The boat had stopped, apparently convinced that the gunships would blow it out of the water if it didn't.

Inside our chopper, two of the men had stripped to their shorts and were pulling on wet suits.

"We will take over the boat, take these men as prisoners," said Setrovich. "They will give us information."

"Did you find the missile at the yard?" I asked.

"Not yet," said Setrovich.

Since I was already wet, I volunteered to go with the marines who were jumping to take the boat.

"Not enough for one day?" Setrovich smiled, but put up his hand as if to restrain me. "No, no, these men will take care of the situation. You have time to rest. Then we have drinks, no? Vodka, not seawater."

Setrovich picked up a microphone as the helicopter reached the boat and began broadcasting a message, telling the men inside it they were under arrest and the only way out would be to surrender. He promised leniency if they gave themselves up.

The offer appealed to them so much they answered by peppering the side of the Hind with rifle fire. The helicopter jerked away, but not before a handful of bullets smacked through the open side door. One ricocheted off the pipe of the bench where I was sitting, missing me by a few inches. Another broke the top of a fire extinguisher strapped to the bulkhead, sending white spray through the cabin.

The Hind answered with cannon fire, turning the boat and its occupants into fish food-little fish food, the kind goldfish eat.