Net Force--Threat Point by Jerome Preisler

Author:Jerome Preisler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Published: 2021-10-05T18:30:02+00:00

Hawaii

Five thousand miles and three time zones west of midtown Manhattan, Jochi and three of his men were hiking down a stony, unmarked trail in the granular darkness. It was four o’clock here, two hours before sunrise, and the island of Oahu was still under the pale gray glow of the waning moon.

Silent but for the scuff and crunch of their footsteps, the men could hear the tide receding from the cove below with a sound like slow, rhythmical sighs. They all wore black windbreakers, cargo pants, backpacks and waterproof boots. All wore LED headlamps to light the trail.

They descended from the top of the ridge in pairs, single file. Each team of two was carrying a pontoon raft between them. Sturdy and maneuverable, the inflatables had rigid rubber hulls and narrow upturned noses for gliding over or through high, rough waves. One of the rafts had a plywood launch ramp inside it.

The big Chevrolet Traverse the men had driven from Honolulu was parked on an overlook above and behind them. They had taken the H-1 east to where it turned into 72 and ran along Hanauma Bay, then made the sharp right off the main road for the cove.

Though only fifteen miles from the harbor, they seemed a world away. Pocketed between steep volcanic walls, the little sand beach could not be seen from the road. The trail itself had no markers or guardrails and did not appear on any hiking maps. Two hand-painted old wooden signs—washed-out white lettering over cracked and peeling green backgrounds—leaned on crooked posts a hundred feet below the trailhead. One warned WALK AT YOUR OWN RISK. The other said NO PUBLIC ACCESS, NO SWIMMING, DANGEROUS CURRENTS.

The men were already well past the signs and nearing the bottom of the trail. A careful turn with the rafts hoisted between them, another, and their feet settled down on soft, flat sand.

As they dropped the rafts and formed up around them, Jochi realized the beach was even smaller than his photo intel had indicated. It was twenty yards long and barely a third as wide, a half circle, its diameter defined by the shoreline, its inland curve enclosed by the ridge walls. When the ocean roared in at high tide it would have nowhere to go but up against them. It would slam them with waves and flood every inch of the beach. Anyone on it would be smashed to a pulp against the unyielding rocks and then sucked away by the undertow.

Jochi had coordinated the recon with the tidal ebb and flow. The water would be lowest in an hour and then gradually begin to rise. He wanted to ride the current out as it receded, then ride it back to shore with the incoming tide. But the timing had to be just right. They needed to return here before the ocean came crashing up hard against the sea cliff. At that point, attempting it would be a death wish.

He looked at the men. “Let’s go.”

The

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