Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (32 page)

“A full report on the escape of Colonel Smith will be in your hands
tomorrow,” Niu promised.

“And their frigate shadowing our cargo ship?” The secretary glanced down
at the papers before him on the long table. “The Dowager Empress, is
it?”

Niu nodded. “That’s her name. She’s owned by Flying Dragon Enterprises.”

He cast a swift glance toward Wei Gaofan, because the son-in-law of one
of his closest proteges was the president of Flying Dragon. Still, Wei
showed no particular interest–or even a reaction–to Niu’s statement.

Niu continued, “She’s registered in Hong Kong. I have completed an
investigation of Flying Dragon and learned it’s operated by one Yu
Yongfu in Shanghai, and that the Empress is en route to Basra, Iraq.”

There was still no reaction from Wei. At the least, he should be
offering his observations if not the information that he knew Yu Yongfu.

“Iraq?” questioned Pao Peng, the secretary’s old Shanghai partner,
suddenly becoming alert.

“What is its cargo?” Han Mengsu, another of the younger men, demanded.

“The actual cargo seems to be in dispute,” Niu said. He explained the
possible connection of Lieutenant Colonel Smith to the Empress. “Smith
came to Shanghai looking for something.”

“What does the manifest say the cargo is?” Wei Gaofan questioned.

Niu recounted the innocent cargo listed on the official manifest.

“Well, there you are,” Wei Gaofan said angrily. “As usual, the American
bullies are throwing their weight around to impress their own people, as
well as Europe and the weaker nations. It damn well is another Yinhe,
and this time we absolutely can’t permit them to board. We’re a strong,
independent nation, far larger than the United States, and we must put a
stop to their warmonger politics.”

“This time,” Niu insisted, “there really could be contraband material
aboard the Empress. Do we want such material to reach Iraq, especially
without our knowledge or permission?” From the corners of his eyes, he
continued to carefully observe Wei, not wanting him to become suspicious
that he knew about Wei’s connection to Flying Dragon. The information
would prove useful at some point. But not yet. As far as the Owl was
concerned, patience and knowing when to act were the keys to success in
all things.

“On what is that conjecture based?” Shi Jingnu demanded, his unctuous
tone uncharacteristically absent.

“Colonel Dr. Smith is an unusual man to send as an agent. The only
reason I can think is that he was in Taiwan and was that rare American
who could get into China immediately by invitation. Whatever he actually
came for had to be vital and time urgent.”

The general secretary pondered. “And you suggest that his mission could
be to discover the truth about the Empress’s cargo?”

“That would qualify.”

“Which,” Wei Gaofan declared, “makes it all the more imperative the
Americans are not allowed to interfere with it. If the charges are true,
we would be exposed to the world.”

“Even if we had no knowledge and were innocent?” Niu asked.

Shi Jingnu said, “Who would believe that of China? And if they did,
would we not appear weak and vulnerable? Not able to control our own
people and in need of American oversight?”

Song Riuyu looked grave. “We may have to show our power this time,
Secretary.”

Pao Peng nodded, one eye directed at the general secretary. “At least,
we should plan to match them threat for threat.”

“A standoff?” the secretary mused. “You may be right. Who agrees?”

From behind his half-closed eyes, Niu Jianxing counted the hands. Seven.

Two were raised a little lower and less certain than those of Wei
Gaofan, Shi Jingnu, and Pao Peng. The secretary did not raise his hand,
but that was irrelevant. He would not have called for a vote had he been
opposed.

Niu had a formidable task ahead if he were to save the human-rights
accord. He did not like to think what else might need to be saved, if,
during the standoff, someone pulled a trigger.

The Arabian Sea.

In the clear air of late morning in the southern Arabian Sea, the day’s
heat was beginning to build as Lieutenant (jg) Moses Canfield leaned on
the aft rail enjoying the fresh air before he went below for his watch
in the communications-and-control nerve center of the John Crowe. The
Empress, which they had been shadowing for close to twenty-four hours,
was hull up on the horizon, still making a steady course for Basra. Only
the officers knew where the Empress was heading and what she was
supposed to be carrying, and they had been ordered to tell no one. The
secrecy somehow made Can-field’s nerves worse. He had found it difficult
to sleep last night.

Now he was reluctant to go below. He had always been a little
claustrophobic, which had prevented him from considering the submarine
service, and his imagination was working overtime. He imagined himself
trapped belowdecks as the Crowe absorbed a direct missile hit and
plunged to the bottom within seconds, taking everyone with it. He
shivered in the day’s growing heat and told himself to get a grip.

His nervousness had not been helped by the firm lecture from Commander
Chervenko about waiting patiently and alertly when shadowing a ship
until one was sure it was really changing course and not simply going on
a brief side venture.

“Never jump to conclusions about the actions of the enemy, Lieutenant,”
Chervenko had told him. “Get information before committing your ship.

Put yourself in the other man’s position and consider what he would do.

Finally, always be sure of your identifications.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Canfield had answered. He was mortified and a shade
angry at the commander.

The touch of anger, as it so often did, refocused Canfield’s mind and,
at least temporarily, chased away his claustrophobia as he looked at his
watch, turned from the rail, and hurried below to his post in the
cramped communications-and-control center.

Radar man OS2 Fred Baum was leaning back in his chair, drinking a Diet
Coke. There had been nothing on the screen except the Empress since late
yesterday. The Crowe was in action, and the excitement of pursuit, which
had sustained Canfield’s people for most of the last twenty-four hours,
was exhausted. Now they faced another day with only a blip on the radar
or, when on deck, a distant silhouette. Boredom was becoming a danger.

Canfield decided to give them a version of the captain’s lecture. “All
right, people, let’s shape it up. The Empress skipper could make a move
any damn time. Don’t jump to conclusions about the actions of another
ship. It all may look routine, but she can turn on you in a second. We
can’t be sure what the Chinese have aboard or what they have in mind.

They might have a big gun or missiles, too. Always think every second
about what could be in the mind of the enemy skipper.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. You’re right.”

“Wish they’d do some damn thing.”

“You can say that again.”

“I mean–”

“Hold it!”

The shout came from OS2 Baum at his radar monitor. For a long moment, no
one reacted. At first, the warning seemed nothing more than another
comment in the stream of weary complaints about inaction.

Almost in unison, they turned to look.

“Report, Petty Officer!” Canfield snapped.

“I’ve got something!” Too excited to remember to say sir when talking to
Canfield. “I think it’s a new bogey!”

“Take it easy, Baum.” Canfield leaned over his shoulder. “You think?”

Baum pointed to a tiny dot that appeared and then disappeared at the
edge of the screen, astern of the Crowe. “It’s damn low in the water,
Lieutenant. A real small profile.”

“Where?”

“Dead astern.”

“How far?”

“Maybe fifteen miles.”

Canfield turned his head. “Radio?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Canfield bent again. The blip had vanished. “Where’s it gone?” “It’s
still there, Lieutenant. Like I said, it’s low, so it gets obscured by
the running sea. Trust me, it’s there and coming closer.”

Canfield was having difficulty spotting it as the radar arm swept
around. “You sure it’s not some weather anomaly? Maybe a surface
disturbance?”

“Yessir, I’m sure.” Still, Baum craned, not quite as certain as he
claimed. “It’s just damn small.”

“But coming closer?”

“Yessir. I mean, we’re hanging back, matching that tub up ahead.”

Canfield knew the Empress could do only fifteen knots at top speed, and
that was pushing it.

“Damn!” Baum peered at the sweeping screen. “Now it’s out of sight
again.” He looked up at Lieutenant Canfield. “But I know I saw it, sir.

It was there, and moving–”

“Lieutenant!” Sonar Technician First Class Matthew Hastings bellowed.

“What, Hastings?”

“I’ve got it, too. Dead astern!” Hastings held up earphones.

Canfield clapped one phone to his ear. “How far astern?”

“Right where Freddy’s bogey was.”

Canfield turned his head. “Baum?”

“Still nothing on radar yet, sir.”

Canfield glared at Hastings. “How fast?”

“Twenty knots, maybe twenty-two.”

“Whale?” It was a possibility. A big whale, logging on the surface.

Hastings shrugged. “Could be, but they don’t usually swim so fast unless
they’re scared. Wait!” The sonar technician cocked his head as if the
motion could make him hear more clearly. “Propellers, sir. It’s got an
engine.”

Canfield’s voice rose. “You’re sure?”

“Shit, Lieutenant. It’s a sub. Closing in on us!”

All talk was cut off as if someone had pressed the mute on a TV remote.

Silence enveloped communications-and-control like a cocoon. Canfield
hesitated. It had to be the same bogey as the one Baum had spotted on
the radar–a sub running with only its conning tower above the surface.

Now it had dropped off the radar screen because it had submerged. Would
it have dived if it did not intend to attack? Commander Chervenko’s
words reverberated inside his head–be sure before you act, be very
sure.

“Can you identify the sub, Petty Officer?”

“No, sir.” ST1 Hastings sounded uneasy. “Single screw, I’m sure of that.

The engine’s quiet, but kind of ragged. I’m getting a resistance
signature I never heard before.” He listened for a time. “It’s not ours.

I can guarantee that.”

“Conventional or nuclear?”

“Nuclear for sure, but not Soviet. I mean, not Russian. I know what
those suckers sound like. A small sub, attack type, nuclear.”

“British, maybe?”

Hastings shook his head. “Too small. Doesn’t sound right for that.” He
glanced up at the lieutenant again. “If I had to guess, from what I
learned in training, I’d say it’s an old Chinese Han class. They got new
ones in the works, but I ain’t heard they launched any. Besides, it’s
got the burred sound of an old design.”

The silence hung heavier as Hastings continued to listen. “It’s closing
in, Lieutenant.”

“How far.”

“Ten miles.”

Canfield nodded. His lungs felt squeezed. Still, he shouted, “Sparks?

Call the bridge! Pronto!”

On the bridge, Commander Chervenko said quietly to It. Commander Bienas,
“You have the bridge, Frank. Better clear for action. Everyone their
posts. I’m going below.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Chervenko slid down the gangway, entered communications-and-control, and
nodded to Lieutenant Canfield. “Tell me, Mose.”

Canfield filled him in on everything that had happened from the moment
OS2 Baum had spotted the small blip on his radar.

“All right. Are we sure it’s Chinese?”

“Hastings can’t identify it as anything else so far.”

“I’ve had some experience with a Han class, maybe–”

ST1 Hastings looked up. “Captain! She’s slowing down!”

Commander Chervenko moved in to stand behind the sonar technician. “How
far back, Hastings?”

“Five, six miles, sir.” The first-class petty officer’s eyes stared into
some empty, distant place as he concentrated all his senses on his
hearing. “Yeah, definitely slowing, sir.”

“You hear any activity?”

Hastings concentrated. “No, sir. Just the screw. It’s at a way lower
speed.”

“Matching us?” He looked up, impressed by the commander’s accurate
prediction. “Yessir, I’d say that’s exactly what she’s doing.”

Chervenko nodded. “Shadowing the shadower.”

The technicians glanced uneasily at one another.

Chervenko turned to Canfield. “Keep on top of it here, Mose. Report any
change, no matter how small. I want to know if they hiccough back
there.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“I’ll be in my quarters. Tell Frank on the bridge.”

Chervenko left the electronics-crammed center and hurried to his cabin.

He dialed his secure phone again.

The big voice on the far end of the line boomed, “Brose.”

“This is Commander Chervenko on the Crowe, Admiral. We’ve got some
company out here. You’re not going to like it.”

Hong Kong.

When Jon thought back over the past few years to how much his
life had changed since the Hades virus had killed his fiancee and had
been on the verge of a world pandemic, one of his few pleasant constants
had been her sister, Randi Russell. Although he seldom saw Randi, since
she was usually in the field, they sometimes found themselves in the
Washington area at the same time. They had a standing arrangement to
leave a message on the other’s answering machine. When they connected,
they would have drinks, dinner, and dancing–but their dancing was
almost entirely verbal, because neither could divulge their espionage
activities.

Covert-One was such a highly secret organization that he could not
mention its name, much less that it existed. At the same time, she
usually could say nothing about her Langley missions, which took her
around the world. Occasionally, they found themselves involved in
similar assignments, such as when Jon had convinced her, Peter Howell,
and Marty Zellerbach to help him stop the terrifying geopolitical threat
caused by Emil Chambord’s futuristic DNA computer.