Warriors (22 page)

“None, sir. I think what happened is he lost her, finally regained control while we were aboard, and was simply taking her deep, down to her hidey-hole on the bottom. Zero knowledge that U.S. Navy personnel were on board when he initiated that crash dive.”

“You saw no evidence of security cameras aboard?”

“Not one, sir. What would be the point? These things are designed to sit on the bottom for a lifetime without being observed.”

“Good. Let’s start with the vessel itself, Moose. Tell me the—what did you name that thing again? They tell me you came up with it yourself.”

“USV, sir. Unmanned submersible vessel.”

“Right. USV. Good for you. Your own personal acronym. You found a manufacturer’s plate screwed into a bulkhead in the control room. Had it translated from the Chinese by one of your detail. Is that correct?”

“I did.”

“
Gaius Augustus
. Quite an odd name for a Chinese naval vessel, wouldn’t you agree, son?”

“Yes, sir. We all thought it was strange.”

“You know I’m a bit of a history buff, like your dad. He was Civil War. I’m Ancient Rome.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gaius Augustus was a centurion of Rome. Some time during the reign of Caesar, 44
B
.
C
. to
A
.
D
. 19. Gaius Julius Caesar chose his legion commanders, the centurions, for their intelligence but primarily for bravery in battle. First over the wall, first through the breach was the centurion credo. Safe to say those guys were what your generation commonly refers to these days as ‘badass.’ Caesar’s SEALs, to coin a phrase.”

Taylor had to laugh. “Right, Caesar’s SEALs, good one, sir.”

“So. I’ve been thinking about that, Moose. A lot. Even got out my dog-eared Plutarch and did a little research. Interesting. I’ll tell you about that in a minute. Let me ask you, how the hell do you think that sea monster came by her name? Something just a little out of focus there, right?”

“I’ve pondered that myself. I can honestly tell you that I have no earthly idea. It just doesn’t jibe with anything I know about the Chinese naval tradition, sir.”

“Right. It doesn’t. But somebody named it. In our own navy, as you well know, the chief of naval operations suggests names based on various traditions, for carriers, destroyers, submarines. Then the secretary of the navy makes the final call. That’s how we do it. But how does the People’s Liberation Army Navy do it? Call themselves the Chinese Navy now, but I still like the old name. Like to think about their annual Army-Navy game, y’know. I guess they play themselves?”

Taylor smiled. “Yes, sir, I suppose they do. Go, Army Navy! Beat Army Navy!”

The president laughed out loud and looked at the young lieutenant fondly, seeing his old friend at that tender age.

“Well, I can tell you this much, Moose. The Chinese have got a new guided missile destroyer they named the
Luyang I
. And a frigate called the
Jiangkai II
. Now that’s what I think the name of a CN ship ought to sound like. But
Gaius Augustus
? Tell me. How weird is that, son?”

“
Twilight Zone
weird, Dad would call it. Sir, one thing I think was missed in the reports—”

“Yes? What?”

“Once we cut our way inside I went aft. I sent Ensign Pullman forward to inspect the missile silos I’d seen topside . . .”

“Forty of them.”

“No, sir. One of Pullman’s detail contacted me after I filed my report. Just recently in fact, here in Washington. He said something had been bothering him . . . finally put his finger on it. He said there were twenty tubes to starboard but . . . only nineteen to port.”

“Meaning?”

“The forward-most starboard tube was different. The sailor, Ensign Rick Hynson, told me there was no hatch cover over it. Whatever weapon was inside that tube was never meant to leave the boat.”

“What do you make of that?”

“I think it was a fail-safe system.”

“Destroy the sub in the event of a malfunction. Or if one fell into enemy hands.”

“That was my thought, sir.”

“I’ll pass that along to the secretary. Good information.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen. I’ve got an assignment for you. Highest sensitivity, obviously, so I’m giving you top-secret clearance. I’ve screwed this entire episode down as tight as I can. Since only you, I, and a very small number of our people know anything about this new weapon, I’m asking you to look into something for me. Director Brick Kelly at CIA will provide you with a temporary office at Langley. On his floor. Look at the Chinese Navy’s central command structure. Get bios on anyone high ranking enough to suggest names for newly constructed vessels. Find out their naming process. Maybe fleet admirals suggest names. Get bios on them, too. Or maybe it’s political; look at President Xi Jinping and then down the totem pole from there. You’re looking for someone in their system with a thing for Roman history. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Consider it done.”

“This remains strictly between you and me. If news of this goddamn death machine leaked? Catastrophic. Panic. You know what I mean? These things are being constructed in a secret location. I need to identify that location so I can take it out.”

“Yes, I certainly do understand, Mr. President.”

“Well. Good. See what you come up with. Anything even remotely smells promising, you call my private number. You still have it? The one your dad used?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before you go. I mentioned Plutarch earlier. Well, here’s the thing, Lieutenant. Caesar created only a handful of his officers centurion during his lifetime. Six, to be exact.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gaius Augustus? He was the fifth centurion Caesar named. You draw any conclusions from that fact? As it relates to the sub you found?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Five is not a random number. There may be more than one of those things still out there. Unmanned missile platforms. Lying inert on the bottom in the deepest parts of the world’s oceans. Each one with forty live ICBMs ready to launch. No thermal signatures. No screw signatures, no radio activity. Incommunicado. Utterly and completely undetectable.”

“Exactly. We don’t have a whole lot of time to figure this all out, Moose. Hell, it may already be too late.”

“I hope not, Mr. President. I pray not.”

“Here’s my problem, son. Boys in the Pentagon? The Joint Chiefs? Langley? NSA? They all sit right where you’re sitting and tell me we don’t even have to even start worrying about the Chinese military capability until well into the next decade. That’s the mind-set here in Washington. The White House, on the Hill, wherever. Hear that garbled sound? That’s our best current military thinking talking through their hats you hear.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“We need to find out who built that USV monstrosity, Moose. And we need to find out how many they built. And we need to find out where the hell the rest of them are. When I say ‘we,’ I’m referring, of course, to you. I appreciate your help. Now get to work, sailor. Dismissed.”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

C
H A P T E R
  2 8

C
hief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard had a recurring dream. Had had the reverie since early childhood; since St. Albans, as a matter of fact, when he was but a timid, mildly overweight day boy who never seemed to fit in with the lads. Of course, this was in those dark playground days when he’d not yet learned to use his size to his advantage.

When he did that, he was a holy terror.

Ambrose never did quite grasp the significance of this recurring dream of his, but since it was such an obvious founding pillar of his psyche, he never relegated it to the mere piffle drifting about in some of the more remote and convoluted corners in the formidable chambers of his brain . . .

In the dream, he would fall sound asleep. Dead to the world, the bedside windows of his mind opened onto some frosty midwinter’s night. And then . . . whammo! Abruptly . . . white gave way to green . . . and it became full summer! The last wintry gale had finally blown itself inside out!

It was if someone (was it him?) had come creeping along his winding lane that night, inflated all the trees and bushes like so many green balloons, scattered bulbs, blossoms, and shrubs about like confetti, opened up a cage full of plump red-breasted robins, and, then, after a quick look round, signaled up the curtain upon a brand-new backdrop of liquid blue summer sky.

That, at any rate, was his dream, his favorite dream. Some kind of awakening, he imagined.

And such were his thoughts as he fired up his stalwart motorcar. Because at the moment he was, to put it delicately, freezing his bloody arse off. It was chilly. It was a crisp cold morning with spiny frost shooting along the grasses in every which way.

Snow?

In May?
Ah, right. Global warming,
Ambrose thought, wrapping his muffler more tightly round his neck. That was the answer. The more the globe warmed, the more the center of England cooled. Q.E.D., and all that stuff. To hell with it. The Morgan’s long yellow louvered bonnet stretched out ahead of the windscreen and, save for the inclement icy climes of England in springtime, all was right with his world.

He depressed the starter button . . . wait for it . . .

Glorious.

He took a deep breath of the bracing air, engaged first, then shifted up to second for the upcoming right-hander, and steered the old girl through the turn with what he felt was a good deal of finesse considering the ice and snow on the roadways.

How he did love motoring about the countryside, even in this iffish weather. Besides, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion, was it? No. He was wearing, beneath his heavy grey woolen overcoat and purple cashmere scarf, a three-piece suit from Gieves & Hawkes, bespoke tailors in Savile Row. The suit had been done up for him in a rather sprightly young check rendered in shades of green, brown, and tan.

His feet were shod in cable-stitched purple socks inside an old and much-loved pair of spit-polished leather wing-tipped loafers courtesy of Lobb & Co., St. James. He had three identical pairs in his closet. His friend Hawke had teased him about it. Why on earth would a man want four pairs of the same shoe?

“Because,” he replied in a huff, “to do otherwise simply isn’t fair to the shoe.”

Bidding adieu to her fiancé in the forecourt that morning, Lady Diana Mars had observed that he “looked like some character from a bygone, vanished era.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“More’s the pity,” he sniffed, and roared off. His views on fashion were as immutable as the phases of the moon, the very tides, the . . . whatever.

The Taplow Common Road was empty, and he gave the old girl the juice. He wished he’d remembered his bloody gloves, he thought, barely holding the flat cap down on his head with one frozen hand, the other on the frozen wheel.

As usual, he was driving “alfresco,” and the frigid air was biting and snapping at him like some arctic hurricane. He glanced at the speedo. He was going like sixty, as the old expression had it. A bit quick for the icy country roads, but then he was running a bit late after that postbreakfast spat with his fiancée. Something or other about his memory, he thought, but wasn’t quite sure. Couldn’t remember, really. Maybe it was that he “didn’t listen.” That was it.

His ancient Morgan roadster had been dubbed the “Yellow Peril” by his oldest and closest friend, Alex Hawke. This moniker didn’t sit at all well with the former chief inspector of Scotland Yard. No, not at all. True, the splendid conveyance was a lovely, buttery shade of yellow. But it was not, by any stretch, even remotely perilous.

He was new to this magical world of automobiles, having only bought and learned to drive his beloved forty-year-old wheezer a scant five years earlier. But he’d been smitten from the start. He now drove it anywhere and everywhere, rain or shine, snow or—bloody hell!

He swung the wheel hard to port, then swerved wildly to the right to avoid the looming and unseen snowbank that had loomed up on the far side of a sweeping curve and now barreled straight at him.

The Morgan’s rear end suddenly swapped places with the nose, more than a few times, and he found himself spinning and skidding with a carnival-like air, a gay and colorful carousel whirling about along the icy lane. He was progressing thus down a gently curving slope until at long last he plowed into another snowbank some hundred meters or so on, finally bringing the entire matter to a gentle, if ignominious conclusion.

Dizzy, he peered through his snow-spattered windscreen. The long-louvered bonnet he so dearly loved was partially hidden in the fluffy white stuff. He extricated himself from the chariot and walked round the vehicle, inspecting the working bits, tyres, et cetera, for damage. None. None that he could see, at any rate. The innermost workings of the thing were a secret he’d rather not learn.

Still, it irked.

What the devil were these motorway crews doing if not keeping the roads safe for sporting motorists such as himself?

He jumped back into the old girl, grabbed reverse, and gave her just enough throttle to back out of the embankment without spinning her wheels. Pointing her at last in the right direction, taking control of the curves with gentle downshifts and cautious braking, he resumed his onward journey.

Ambrose was en route to Hawkesmoor, the family seat of Lord Alexander Hawke and his ancestors since the early seventeenth century.

Alex had rung up first thing and summoned him. Said it was rather important. Something or other to do with Cambridge, apparently. There was a steely urgency in Hawke’s voice Congreve had heard many times over the years. It could mean only one thing. It meant, as his hero the incandescent Sherlock Holmes was wont to say, “The game is afoot.”

AFOOT IT CERTAINLY WAS. ARRIVING
red-cheeked with an inch or so of permafrost coating his entire body, his face flushed with cold, Congreve stood on the wide doorstep at the south portico of Hawkesmoor. He was soon greeted by Pelham Grenville, Hawke’s octogenarian gentleman’s gentleman and general factotum. He of the snowy white hair, pale blue eyes lit by an inner twinkle, and the utterly unflappable demeanor.