Julian’s boots hit the lower pontoon with a dull thud.
The salt-slicked steel curved under his feet, dripping with black kelp and clusters of wet mussels. Ten feet below the pontoon, the exposed granite shoals of the ocean floor lay bare in the red emergency light of the rig.
Beside him, Mac Cole dropped from the bottom rungs of the Jacob’s ladder, his heavy boots finding purchase on the non-skid plate. Lin Mei and Dr. Corvo were already huddled against the structural brace of Leg D4, their coat collars turned up against the freezing Atlantic gale.
“Keep your heads down,” Mac said, scanning the dark water to the west. “Those patrol boats have twin four-hundred-horsepower Caterpillars. They’ll be on the shoals in four minutes if they find the dredged channel in this fog.”
Julian didn’t look at the boats. He unclipped the waterproof Icom transceiver from his collar, his thumb jamming down on the squelch dial.
A harsh fifty-eight-hertz sawtooth whine screeched from the tiny speaker.
The Syndicate jamming barge had positioned itself right in the harbor channel between Pier Two and the outer breakwater. Its heavy diesel generators were pumping raw, synthetic carrier noise across the municipal marine band, chewing into Sub-Channel Sixteen-B like a band saw cutting through tin.
