S.A.S.
Jack said.
Fish snorted. “Right. Night vision?”
“Blue lights,” Jack said. “They scramble NV.”
Fish paused, impressed despite himself. “You’ve grown interesting friends.”
“Not by choice.”
Fish stopped at a rack of gear and began to select with a butcher’s efficiency. “We’ll take the Phantom,” he said. “Noisemaker’s soft, draft is nothing, paint matches God. Two scooters, drysuits, closed-circuit. I’ll pick the route. You pick the fight.”
Bab Populer