“The damn Americans spread their crap everywhere. I can’t even enjoy a smoke after a meal now.”
Commander Yang smiled. “Sometimes they have good ideas.”
“You watch. Before long they’re going to take away the smoking compartment on the boat.”
Yang laughed. “You’re probably right.”
* * * *
Commander Yang jogged along the park pathway. It was late afternoon. After lunch with Zheng, he had attended to a stack of digital paperwork aboard the Heilong before returning to his apartment in northeast Qingdao. He changed into running gear and set out on a ten-kilometer run. Situated on a hillside, the park provided scenic overviews of the sprawling city of nine million. He enjoyed his posting to Qingdao. The seaport city was a pleasing blend of modern building construction and traditional Chinese architecture. Tucked between the surrounding hills and broad reaches of Jiaozhou Bay, the coastal city lived up to its moniker as China’s Sailing City. The smog enveloping portions of the city was not nearly as awful as in Beijing and other thriving regions throughout China. The ocean breezes helped flush away the after-products of the region’s spectacular commercial growth.
Yang approached a lookout. He could see the peaks of elegant towers marking the navigable sections of the Jiaozhou Bay Bridge. With an overall aggregate length of nearly twenty-six miles, it ranked as the world’s longest overwater bridge.
Yang jogged in place at the overlook, now facing southwest. In the distance he could see the naval base. The towering superstructure of the aircraft carrier Liaoning was visible along with dozens of other warships. But his command sat too low in the water.
Soon, the Liaoning taskforce would set sail with the Heilong clearing the path ahead. Yang looked forward to the challenge but remained apprehensive. The Heilong and its crew were ready—that was not the concern. Nor was it the Americans and their powerful naval forces. The discussion with his mother the previous evening lingered.
Yang’s parents resided in his hometown of Langfang, located about thirty miles south of Beijing. He sensed trouble as soon as Ling called. Eventually, she confessed. Yang’s sixty-two-year-old father, Jin, had lost his job. After graduating with a mechanical engineering degree, Jin worked for nearly forty years at the same company—a state-owned enterprise that manufactured knockoff replacement parts for American-manufactured automobiles and trucks. He worked his way up the political hierarchy of the business from junior plant engineer to senior operations engineer to shift supervisor and, finally, to general manger. After years of losses resulting from political graft and deliberate inefficiency to maintain scores of unnecessary jobs, Beijing tired of propping up the company. The central government stopped its annual infusion of capital that had ensured the business’s solvency. The plant closed and all employees were let go, most without severance pay.
The folding of Jin Yang’s employer was not an isolated event. Dozens of state-owned enterprises throughout China collapsed each week. The PRC’s unholy fusion of capitalism and communism had run its course. Commander Yang’s father was fortunate compared to most of the fired employees. He received a modest severance package—six months’ salary. But it was not enough. Yang’s parents were careful with their money. They consistently saved at least twenty percent of Jin’s monthly pay, which was not unusual for China’s evolving middle class. Although the Yangs had amassed a sizeable nest egg, the Chinese government limited the interest banks could pay savers, and it prevented most citizens from moving their savings abroad for higher returns. That left just two alternatives: the wildly fluctuating Chinese stock market and real estate.
The Yangs opted for real estate. They poured most of their life savings into an upscale condominium apartment building in Lanzhou, purchasing two units on the twenty-fifth floor. They shelled out $300,000 in cash to the developer. The promise was twofold: appreciating unit value and high rents from lessees. For several years, the units appreciated but remained unrented. The Yangs were patient, knowing renters would eventually come knocking on their door.
After six years, the units remained vacant, as did the entire building along with neighboring towers throughout the development. The Ponzi scheme was in freefall. To spur growth and create jobs, the Chinese government purposely maintained low interest rates to encourage real estate developers and builders to reinvent China. It worked far better than the central planners had expected. With cheap loans, the builders went to work creating spectacular housing developments throughout China, erecting new modern cities on a vast scale. And with limited investment opportunities, the middle class climbed aboard. The result was a frenzy of building and buying.
There was one problem, though. The new residential developments catered to the middle and upper-class Chinese and were priced accordingly. Unfortunately for the investors, many of the new cities were constructed in regions where the populace could not afford to purchase, let alone rent, the apartments. The multitudes living near the boom cities were barely above peasant status. They were lucky to have enough left over each year to buy a new bicycle.
Yang’s mother cried when she revealed the awful truth. His parents’ retirement plan was in shambles. They might be lucky to receive twenty cents on the dollar—if they could ever find a purchaser.
Although it had not come up in their conversation, Yang sensed what was coming. They will want to come and live with me.
It was not unexpected but just sooner than he had planned.
I need to care for them.
Yang had a spacious apartment with a water view, which he cherished. And he was often away at sea for months at a time. Yes, it could work.
But there was a downside. His mother would surely restart her campaign about offspring.
He would counter with his usual mantra—he had not found the right woman. And besides, there were so few of them. China’s one child per family policy had decimated female birthrates for decades—parents always preferring a male to carry on the family name. Still, there was another hitch.
What about Tao?
Yang feared his parents would eventually discover the true reason for his aversion to marriage. He and Tao had a longstanding relationship. The married businessman who owned a thriving restaurant in the financial district of Qingdao hooked up regularly with Yang when he was in port.
As a senior military officer and the commander of one the People’s Republic of China’s most lethal weapons system, Yang was destined for flag rank. But his career would be in jeopardy if his sexual orientation were revealed.
Yang headed west along the pathway, picking up the pace. He would have to call Tao when he returned to the apartment.
Chapter 46
“Up periscope depth,” ordered Captain Petrovich.
The watch officer echoed the command and ten seconds later the mast rose eight feet above the surface of the Yellow Sea.
Petrovich and the entire attack center team viewed the dark waters and even darker night sky. Four-foot-high swells rolled in from the northeast. Like the American Virginia class, the Novosibirsk employed photonics instead of optics. The high-definition video camera mounted to the periscope mast transmitted crisp images to an outsized flatscreen panel display mounted to a forward bulkhead.
“Switch to night vision, Captain?” asked the executive officer.
“Not yet.” Petrovich used a joystick hand control connected to his pedestal-mounted captain’s chair to rotate the camera lens to the port. After it traveled about thirty degrees of arc, smudges of light appeared in the video image. He next worked the focus control until the shore lights sparkled in crystal clarity. Petrovich swiveled in his chair to face the two observers who stood on the starboard side of his command station. “Well, gentlemen, there’s your target.”
“How far out are we now, sir?” Yuri asked as he took in the lights of Qingdao.
“Twenty-two kilometers.”
“An
y chance we can come in a little closer?” Tumanov asked.
“No. We’ve been lucky so far—no submerged contacts and just routine commercial traffic on the surface.”
For the past six hours, Petrovich had followed an inbound container ship using the vessel’s noisy propeller to further mask the Novosibirsk’s miniscule sound print as it transited the shallow sea.
“The entire fleet must be docked by now,” Yuri said.
“That’s consistent with what Vladivostok reported.”
Yuri checked his wristwatch: 2157 hours. It was set to local time. “Sir, we should get underway now. We need all the dark we can get.”
“Agreed. You men head aft and prepare for separation at 2230 hours.”
Kirov and Tumanov left the attack center, heading aft with Tumanov in the lead.
When they entered a narrow passageway, Tumanov stopped and turned to face Yuri. “I sure wish he’d launch us closer in.”
“He’s being careful.”
“I know, but if we have problems inside the bay, twenty-two kilometers is a long way to get back here.”
“Yakov, just follow your training and you’ll be fine.”
“I understand, sir. But what really bothers me is our passengers.”
“What do you mean?”
Tumanov made a quick check of their surroundings. They were in a corridor that bypassed the reactor compartment. It was vacant. Most personnel chose not to linger in that section of the ship. “Have you noticed how guarded they are about their equipment?”
“It’s highly classified.”
“I know. But just the same, I find them standoffish. I think they’re hiding something.”
Yuri frowned. “They’re spooks—like me.”
Tumanov looked confused.
Yuri realized he used the English word. “They’re with the GRU. Spies, like me.”
Lieutenant Tumanov altered his stance. “Well, sir, with all due respect, I still believe they aren’t being upfront with either of us.” He reached into a pocket of his jumpsuit and produced a plastic item about the size of a credit card. Yuri recognized the dosimeter. Everyone aboard was required to carry one. It recorded radiation exposure. Both Yuri and Tumanov had similar cards clipped to the chest pockets of their jumpsuits. Russian nukes—even new ones like the Novosibirsk—were notorious for accidental radiation releases.
“I know this isn’t the best place to be showing this.” Tumanov removed a small electronic reader from another pocket and inserted the card. He then handed the device to Yuri.
“It’s been exposed,” Yuri said after he scanned the electronic readout.
“Yes, it’s low level but there shouldn’t be anything other than background on it.”
“What about your badge?”
“Clear.”
Yuri unclipped his dosimeter and inserted it into the reader. Thank God!
Yuri looked back at Tumanov. “Where did this exposed card come from?”
“The cargo compartment of the mini.”
“Why check there?”
“There’s one in every compartment on the mini. Standard operating procedure when we’re mated to a nuke.”
“Hmm, okay.” Yuri went on, “What about the other compartments?”
“All clear.”
“And the rest of your crew?”
“No exposure—just like our own cards.”
Yuri searched his brain for an explanation. “You think the radiation source is coming from the gear Shtyrov and Dobrynin brought aboard?”
“Their recorders were stored inside that compartment with the dosimeter. The rest of our equipment is clean.”
Yuri considered the facts until an explanation clicked. “I bet I know what’s going on. The recording units have a low-level radiation source for some kind of power backup system. They’re designed to sit on the bottom for months.”
“Have you used units like that before?”
“No, but I’ve read about the concept.”
“That must be it, sir.” Tumanov lowered his eyes. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Good job on letting me know.” He held up the exposed dosimeter. “I’d like to keep this. I need to let Shtyrov know he’s got some kind of leak.”
“Very good, sir.”
* * * *
Yuri and Tumanov relocated to the P-815. Tumanov manned the pilot’s console while the rest of his crew occupied their duty stations. Yuri entered the minisub’s storage compartment. Lieutenant Mikhail Shtyrov and Chief Petty Officer Vladimir Dobrynin were checking gear. They both knelt on the deck next to the recording device. The black cylinder was about eighteen inches in diameter and two feet long.
“Hello, sir,” greeted Shtyrov.
“We’re about to decouple from Novosibirsk. You guys set?”
“We are. Just running final diagnostics.”
Yuri squatted for a better look. “How are these units powered?”
“Lithium ion batteries.”
“How long are they good for?”
“At least a year.”
“Do you have any kind of backup system in case the primary battery goes out?”
“No, sir. It’s just battery operated.” Lieutenant Shtyrov’s brow furrowed. “Is there a problem?”
“The last recording unit I used also had lithium batteries but it failed—damn thing burned up after it was installed.” Yuri invented the storyline. “I hope your gear doesn’t have the same type of batteries.”
Chief Dobrynin joined in. “Ah, sir, these are new batteries, purchased from Israel. They’ve been thoroughly checked out.”
“Good to hear.” Yuri stood. “We’ll be getting underway soon.”
“Very good, sir,” Shtyrov said.
Yuri headed forward, uneasy with his conversation with the Spetsnaz operators. I gave them plenty of opportunity but they didn’t budge.
Maybe their recorders are just powered by batteries.
He almost confronted the pair about the exposed dosimeter but elected to postpone. All three were about to depart on a dangerous high-risk dive. The last thing he wanted to do was cast doubt. Something else must have exposed the dosimeter. Yuri decided to deal with the mystery later. He also made a metal note to tell Tumanov to keep his finding to himself.
Chapter 47
Day 26—Thursday
The P-815 crept into Jiaozhou Bay, hugging the bottom. It was half past midnight. Yuri stood behind Lieutenant Tumanov, who occupied the starboard pilot’s console. The P-815’s co-pilot, Junior Lieutenant Vassily Nevsky, sat in at the port control station. Of average height and build, Nevsky had blond hair, sapphire eyes, and a handsome face that had earned him the moniker of “Hollywood” at the naval academy in St. Petersburg. He was the youngest aboard, just twenty-three.
Both Tumanov and Nevsky wore virtual reality visors. Yuri donned a spare unit. Fiberoptic cables connected the goggles to the minisub’s supercomputer. Hull-mounted sensors fed a firehose stream of data to the CPU. The processer digested the chorus of underwater sounds that clamored throughout the bay. The racket ranged from propeller wash of 5,000-horsepower tractor tugs that assisted the docking of a three-football field-long container ship to the snap, crackle, and pop of mating shrimp. Acoustic reflections from low-powered pulses generated from the P-815’s navigation sonar were also processed. The frequency range and tonal pattern of the nav pulses simulated indigenous bottlenose dolphins. Software randomized the outbound sound waves to conceal the transmissions.
Short-range blue green laser scans of the approaching water column supplemented the acoustic data. The combined result produced three-dimensional images of the bottom terrain in the VR goggles.
“What’s that at two o’clock?” Yuri noticed something projecting out of the bottom.
“I�
��ll check.” Tumanov maneuvered the minisub until it was ten feet from the contact. “Switching to visual,” Tumanov said, parking the visor on his forehead.
Yuri tilted his visor up and stared at the video monitor mounted to the forward bulkhead. The screen flashed from background blue to a slightly gray-washed picture. The search light illuminated the bottom, providing enough light for the video camera to generate images. A cylinder half-buried in the silt was visible.
“Looks like debris,” Tumanov reported.
“Is that a barrel?” Yuri asked.
“Yes, sir. I expect the harbor is loaded with crap like this.”
“Good.”
Tumanov made eye contact with Yuri. “How is that good, sir?”
“We want our gear to blend in to the bottom.” Yuri turned to his left. “Right, Mikhail?”
“Absolutely, sir,” replied Lieutenant Shtyrov. The Spetsnaz officer stood beside Yuri. Like Yuri, he wore his dry suit with the hood folded behind his neck. Shtyrov moved forward for a better view of the video monitor. “The more junk on the bottom, the easier it will be for our recorder to fit in without raising suspicion.”
“Got it,” Tumanov said.
“How deep are we here?” asked Shtyrov.
“Sixteen meters. We’re still in the dredged channel.”
“Are the floodlights visible from the surface?”
“Not at this depth. Lots of sediment and plankton in the water column tonight. But as we get shallower, no lights allowed.”
“Let’s proceed as planned, Lieutenant,” Yuri said.
“Understood.”
Tumanov switched off the exterior lights and slipped his visor down.
Yuri faced Shtyrov. “We’re about ten minutes out. I’ll help you launch.”
“Very good, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later, Yuri stood outside the lockin-lockout chamber. Shtyrov was inside the pressure vessel, along with the underwater recorder. It was a tight fit. Dobrynin waited on the bottom. The P-815’s keel hovered ten feet above his position.
The Faithful Spy Page 19