âTHIS MISSION ISNâT OVER, NOT BY A LONG SHOT.â
Hal Brognola turned away from the screen, a great, painful weight pressing down on his chest. He had to remind himself to breathe.
Rosario Blancanalesâs death, if that is what had come to pass, was ultimately his responsibility. He was the man in charge. Circumstances beyond his control had forced him to make decisions based on fragmentary information, under incredible time constraints.
Under those conditions, unpleasant outcomes were to be expected. Friends, comrades lost in the bargain. But in the end, there was one simple, sustaining truth. Every member of Stony Man, Able Team and Phoenix Force was expendable if the fate of the nation hung in the balance. None of them had any reservations about dying for their country.
The grieving for the loss of their comrade in arms would have to wait. As the Bear had said, it wasnât over.
Port Angeles, Washington,
6:35 a.m. PDT
When day broke gray and chilly over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Chugash brothers were already fishing two miles off Ediz Hook, the long, narrow spit of land that guarded Port Angeles Bay. Their fifteen-foot open boat drifted with the current, rising and falling on the widely spaced swells. To the south, the mill town of Port Angeles was backdropped by the dark, heavily forested flanks of the Olympic Mountains. The snow-capped peaks were hidden in a ceiling of low clouds.
Stan Chugash sat on a seam-split life preserver cushion next to the forty-horsepower Evinrudeâs tiller; brother Bob sat amidships, facing him. They were âmoochingâ for spring chinook salmon. As the dead boat rode the incoming floodtide, they carefully reeled up and then lowered spinning, plug-cut herring. A salmonâs take on the fall of the bait was often almost imperceptible and required concentration and practice to recognize. The Chugash brothers had been mooching these waters for more than fifty years.
Stan flipped the dregs of cold, bitter black coffee from his insulated cup and transferred the sticky white crust of glazed doughnut from his fingertips to a knee of his green vinyl pants. Under the windproof rainsuit, he wore three layers of clothes. âWould you look at that yuppie asshole,â he remarked. âMiles of water to drive through, no other boats in sight, and heâs got to crowd us.â
The twenty-six-foot Alumaweld approached steadily from the west at four knots, dragging double downriggers behind. To Stan, it looked brand-new. A Furuno radar beacon swiveled endlessly on the enclosed cabinâs roof. In the hullâs forest-green side paint the name Fisher King was emblazoned in two-foot-high, silver-flecked, cursive letters. Mounted on the stern were twin, four-stroke Yamaha engines: more combined horsepower than Bobâs full-sized V-8 pickup truck. There was only one person in the boat.
âThink heâs drinking a gran-day lah-tay in there?â Bob asked as he glanced over his shoulder.
âYeah, while heâs surfinâ the Web.â
Both in their late sixties, the Chugash brothers had retired from the Port Angeles paper mill. They had been salmon-fishing junkies since they were old enough to pull-start an outboard.
The bow of the Alumaweld turned slightly, aiming right for them. It wasnât slowing down.