The Faithful Spy

by Jeffrey Layton

“What’s the projected course, XO?” Bowman asked.

  Jenae Mauk met the CO’s eyes. “If Master One continues on this track and speed, it will enter the Luzon Strait in about four hours.”

  “Hmmm,” Bowman said, puzzled. “He’s been milling around northern Luzon for the past day. Why the speed run out of the South China Sea now?”

  “That is odd. Leaving the area while the Reagan is in their backyard.”

  The USS Ronald Reagan Strike Group was headed northward through the South China Sea, bound for its forward-deployed base in Japan. The fourteen-ship taskforce was a hundred miles off of Luzon Island’s western shore.

  “I smell a rat.” Bowman checked his wristwatch. “We’ll continue to shadow Master One for a couple of hours. If he remains on the same heading, we’ll call it in to COMSUBPAC.”

  * * * *

  Four hours had passed since the Heilong received its new orders. Captain Yang Yu and his executive officer, Zheng Qin, stood at the chart table near the aft end of the Heilong’s attack center. Yang propped himself against the waist-high platform. An electronic chart of the North Pacific Ocean filled the table.

  “What do you recommend?” Yang asked.

  Zheng stabbed the Plexiglas cover over the LCD display with the eraser end of a pencil. “This is our current position in the Luzon Strait. I recommend a course change to one-zero-eight degrees.” He reached to the side and entered a command with a keyboard. A red line stretched across the display from the north end of the Philippines to offshore of Oahu’s southern shoreline. “That’s the shortest route.”

  “ETA?”

  “Ten days at our current speed.”

  “What about seamounts?”

  “None, should be clear the entire route.”

  “Very well, proceed.”

  The course change was implemented and the Heilong proceeded west toward Hawaii at twenty knots. Several hours later, the Remora secretly anchored to the bottom of submarine’s hull woke up. It excreted one of the five remaining tennis ball-sized mini-buoys with a soundless squirt of the seawater. Thrust downward under the hull, the sub passed overhead as the buoy ascended. Once topside, its tiny wire antenna deployed and the encrypted broadcast commenced.

  * * * *

  Software uploaded to the constellation of Russian military satellites charged with monitoring the Pacific Ocean instructed the spacecraft to listen for a discreet radio transmission. To date, seven separate transmissions had been uploaded and relayed to Moscow.

  Red Star Forty-Four, orbiting 265 miles above the Philippines on a polar track, detected the latest broadcast from the Remora’s buoy transmitter. Within the hour, a record of the Heilong’s travels in the South China Sea over the past twenty-four hours would be transmitted to the Ministry of Defense in Moscow. Of particular interest to the naval analysts reviewing the data would be the Heilong’s projected destination.

  Chapter 68

  Day 35—Saturday

  The three men met at a forested compound forty miles north of Moscow. A dozen modern dachas, several support buildings, and a massive guest lodge with conference center were scattered across the 300-acre site. A lake near the center of the facility occupied a third of the compound’s area. Reserved for the Kremlin elite, the retreat was surrounded by a ten-foot-high security fence and guarded around the clock by a cadre of Army Special Forces. The facility was on par with America’s Camp David.

  The Russian leaders occupied the palatial library of the president’s residence. Staff were dismissed. The president’s wife remained in the couple’s Kremlin apartment. The men sat in plush chairs by the window wall, enjoying the view of the lake and the stand of birch trees on the far shore. It was early afternoon.

  The President of the Russian Federation raised his shot glass and proposed a toast, “Gentlemen, to the success of Operation Fall Harvest.”

  The president slammed down the chilled slug of Imperia Vodka. SVR Director Borya Smirnov and FSB General Ivan Golitsin followed his lead.

  President Pyotr Lebedev turned to face Golitsin. “The GRU reports the attack was more successful than expected. The men you recruited did well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m especially pleased that you were able to take out the carriers, too. That’s a real coup!”

  “We were lucky with the timing, Mr. President. Our cyber team was able to hack into their system and disable the software controlling the fuel pumps. It will be awhile before they can fix it.” Golitsin grinned. “We also left a few digital crumbs pointing back to the Americans.”

  “Excellent…just outstanding.”

  SVR director Smirnov addressed Golitsin. “The e-bomb used in the attack on Yulin—should we continue to expect that it will be traced back to the Americans, too?”

  “We believe so. It shouldn’t take long for China’s forensic people to recreate the attack. Based on the damage to their shipboard equipment and land facilities, their scientists will no doubt conclude a directed energy weapon was used. When they discover the detonation point, the gear left behind will implicate the Americans.”

  The president’s spine stiffened. “Just like what those bastards did to us at Sakhalin.” He referenced false evidence left behind by Chinese commandos during the sabotage of a colossal oil and gas export facility on a Russian island near Japan.

  “Yes, sir,” Golitsin said. “The equipment used to inflate the balloon, as well as the ground anchors, were manufactured in the United States. The weapon exploded about thirty meters above the ground. Residue from the explosion will litter the ground and vegetation. When the Chinese check, they will discover that the bomb’s electrical components were American-made and C-4 was used for the explosive—also manufactured in the U.S.”

  Lebedev grunted his satisfaction.

  SVR director Smirnov joined in. “We expect the Chinese will fall for the deception. The use of an EMP weapon solves the Americans’ immediate problem—revenge for the attacks in Alaska and an efficient way to throttle back the potential for conflict in the South China Sea. They inflict a costly blow to Beijing for its treachery. But since it was a measured response, war is avoided.”

  “Yes, that fits how the Americans do things—half-assed.”

  Smirnov raised a hand. “I know. That’s why we have the final element of Operation Fall Harvest.”

  “Are your people implementing the campaign?”

  “They are. I gave the order as soon as we had confirmation that the attack succeeded. Our operatives in Beijing, Shanghai, and Hong Kong are busy feeding gossip websites about the attack. The internet is flooded with rumors that the Americans attacked the Yulin base. Beijing is working overtime to shut down the sites but they won’t succeed.”

  “Excellent. What about the final phase?”

  Smirnov glanced Golitsin’s way. “The general has some new information.”

  Lebedev faced the FSB director. “Yes?”

  “Sir, as you know, we’ve been tracking one of China’s newest attack subs. We now have solid intelligence that within hours of the EMP attack, it was diverted from its patrol in the South China Sea to an apparent new mission. Based on a preliminary analysis, we now believe that submarine is heading toward the American Hawaiian Islands.”

  “To do what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just the fact that it’s heading that way offers us the opportunity to complete the operation in a dramatic fashion.”

  “I thought the plan was to target U.S. facilities in Japan.”

  SVR director Smirnov rejoined the conversation. “That option remains, Mr. President. But think of this opportunity.”

  “Can we move on this quickly?”

  “Yes, sir. All we need is your authorization to deploy assets into the area.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Smirnov turned toward General Golitsi
n. “Ivan, what’s the timing?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Very well, proceed—but with this caveat. Once the operation is ready, I must provide the final authorization.”

  “Yes, sir,” both intelligence chiefs replied.

  * * * *

  Two hours after the meeting at the president’s dacha concluded, the Novosibirsk received new orders. Commander Petrovich sat at a desk in his cabin working with a laptop computer. He was expecting orders to return to Petropavlovsk, but the new instructions directed him to proceed east to a set of specific coordinates located roughly fifty miles southwest of Oahu Island.

  Hawaii—what’s going on there? Accompanying Petrovich’s orders was an encrypted message for Lieutenant Shtyrov. Petrovich attempted to open the message, but his decryption key would not unlock it.

  What the devil?

  The latest rebuff from Fleet fueled Petrovich’s distrust of his guests. Damn Spetsnaz!

  Although Captain Petrovich outranked Shtyrov by several grades, the lieutenant and Chief Dobrynin were naval Spetsnaz. As such, they functioned as guests aboard the Novosibirsk and carried out their orders independent of the ship’s commanding officer. I’m nothing more than a bus driver!

  Petrovich was exasperated at the turn of events. And then a new thought developed.

  Kirov. There was no mention of him in my orders. And who does he really work for anyway?

  Petrovich inserted a blank thumb drive into a USB port on his laptop. He copied the encrypted file directed to Shtyrov and removed the drive. He stood and left the cabin.

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Mikhail Shtyrov and Chief Petty Officer Vladimir Dobrynin were alone aboard the P-815. Dobrynin brewed a pot of tea while Shtyrov worked with a laptop computer at the mess table, decoding the message given to him by Captain Petrovich. Dobrynin handed a mug to his boss.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Dobrynin took a seat on the opposite side of the table and waited.

  About a minute later, Shtyrov looked up from the laptop. “We have a new assignment.”

  “Zhanjiang?”

  “No. We’re done with China for now.”

  Dobrynin squinted.

  Shtyrov continued, “We’re heading west—to the Hawaiian Islands.”

  The chief petty officer guessed what was coming next. “Pearl Harbor?”

  “Yes, we’ve been ordered to install one of the specials in the fleet moorage area.”

  Dobrynin suppressed a gasp. He and Shtyrov, along with others in their elite group, had war-gamed missions directed against the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet Headquarters. But this was for real.

  “How long until we get there?”

  “At our current speed, about ten days.”

  “Does Petrovich know our mission?”

  “No. And our orders direct us not to reveal mission details to anyone aboard the Novosibirsk, including the captain.”

  “This must be linked to what we did in Yulin.”

  “No doubt.”

  Dobrynin scratched an ear. “What about Kirov? Can we use him? He knows what he’s doing and we might need his help. Pearl Harbor is going to be a bitch to penetrate.”

  “I know. He’s a good man but our orders direct that only you and I are to conduct the mission.” Shtyrov crossed his ankles. “Besides, Kirov’s GRU. He might be trouble if he knew the details.”

  “Same for Petrovich.”

  “Correct. Neither one is prepared for the consequences.”

  Dobrynin accepted the reality of the circumstances. “What intel did headquarters provide with the orders?”

  Shtyrov turned the laptop around so Dobrynin could view the screen. “Very thorough.” He clicked through a series of images. “Latest navigation chart of the harbor. Recent satellite aerial photos, locations of bottom sensors.”

  “Where did those come from?”

  Shtyrov zoomed in on the image of the naval base. Over a dozen icons were displayed within the three interior bays—lochs—and along the entrance from the ocean.

  “I don’t know,” Shtyrov said. “If I had to guess, probably someone we paid. You know how Americans are.”

  “I’d feel better if it were one of our undercovers—more reliable.”

  “I agree. Still, this helps.”

  “What else did Fleet provide?”

  Shtyrov continued the rundown, seeking input from his subordinate.

  They worked well as a team. To everyone aboard the Novosibirsk, the two special operators were naval Spetsnaz.

  That was true to a point. Both Shtyrov and Dobrynin were originally assigned to naval Spetsnaz units. However, each was subsequently recruited into an ultra-secret organization operated by the FSB, four years earlier for the chief and three for the lieutenant.

  Shtyrov and Dobrynin were members of OSNAZ, an abbreviation for osobovo naznacheniya—special purpose detachments. OSNAZ originated with the KGB during the Cold War. The principal mission of OSNAZ units was to conduct sabotage and covert action deep inside hostile territory. During the Cold War, OSNAZ was tasked with destroying key military and infrastructure facilities of NATO nations prior to full onset of a war. Within FSB OSNAZ, Shtyrov and Dobrynin were assigned to a Delfin or Dolphin combat diver incursion unit, operating from St. Petersburg. On par technically with the U.S. Navy’s Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU—aka SEAL Team 6), Delfin units operated worldwide with absolute stealth and lethality. Although designated military units, OSNAZ Delfins bypassed the normal Ministry of Defense chain of command. Delfin units report to the director of the FSB, who in turn, has a direct line to the president of the Russian Federation.

  Chapter 69

  Day 36—Sunday

  Yuri was inside Captain Petrovich’s cabin, seated at the compact table. On the other side, the Novosibirsk’s commanding officer vented.

  “I don’t know what the hell Fleet is up to, but I don’t care for it one iota.”

  “Why Hawaii, sir?”

  “I don’t know and Shtyrov remains tight lipped. ‘Orders,’ he claims.”

  “If I may ask, sir, what were your orders?”

  That question scratched a raw nerve. “Transport ’em—like a glorified bus driver.” Petrovich massaged his forehead. “And you know what? My orders directed me to follow specific requests from Shtyrov as needed to support his mission.” Petrovich sneered. “Can you believe that—a subordinate providing me my operational orders?” He took a gulp from a bottle of water.

  “Did Shtyrov confirm his mission is Pearl Harbor?”

  “No. Again, citing orders. But the specified coordinates are eighty kilometers offshore of the entrance to the naval base. Where else would they be going?”

  “Tumanov taking them in?”

  “I assume so. Shtyrov has complete operational control for his mission. I’m directed to provide him with whatever he needs.”

  “Anything about me in the orders, Captain?”

  “Nothing in mine. Has Shtyrov said anything to you?”

  “Not a word.”

  Petrovich clenched his fists. “Kirov, if you get a chance to talk with him and he reveals anything, I’d really appreciate a heads up. I don’t care for putting my boat in jeopardy without knowing what’s going on.”

  “I understand, sir. I’ll see what I can find—without being pushy about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  After leaving the CO’s stateroom, Yuri headed aft. He planned to recheck the P-815’s cargo compartment. A clue to the Spetsnaz operator’s mission might be contained in the special equipment they brought aboard from St. Petersburg.

  * * * *

  On the opposite side of the Pacific Ocean in the Salish Sea, the underwater survey was underway. It had commenced just after sunset the previous day. The morning sun would rise a
bove the Cascade Mountain range in half an hour. The 140-foot-long workboat plied the still waters of the Strait of Georgia south of Point Roberts, Washington.

  Trailing behind the Titan was a sidescan sonar towfish. The bullet-tipped cylinder was eight inches in diameter and five feet long. Submerged a hundred feet below the surface, the fish transmitted acoustic energy downward in a fan shape. Sound pulses reflected from the seabed back to the towfish and were transmitted by a fiber optic cable to a receiving unit inside the Titan’s main cabin. The receiver converted the reflected energy into digital form and displayed the output on a laptop computer sitting on the mess table. The result was a detailed image of the bottom.

  U.S. Navy Captain Robert Clark and CIA officer Steve Osberg sat at the galley table with the Dell laptop. Osberg propped his back in a corner of the booth. He had fallen asleep twenty minutes earlier, his head slumping forward. Captain Clark sat on the opposite side of the table, nursing his fifth cup of coffee for the night. He yawned and stretched his arms. He had the current watch. An electronics technician from the Keyport Naval Undersea Warfare Center near Seattle napped in the crew quarters; he operated the sidescan system. Clark’s eyes followed the monotonous bottom plot on the monitor as the Titan continued to execute a series of north-south transects—mowing the lawn.

  Clark had arranged for the barebones charter of the privately owned workboat. Other than Osberg, the seven-person crew was U.S. Navy including the Titan’s acting skipper. All personnel were in civilian clothes. A U.S. Navy vessel operating in these waters would have raised too many questions.

  Clark decided to conduct the survey at night to minimize interaction with the recreational boaters that plied the local waters. The San Juan Islands archipelago was due south. The Canadian Gulf Islands lay westward across the adjacent shipping lanes that separated Washington State from British Columbia. To the north beyond the Point Roberts Peninsula was megacity Vancouver. During daylight hours, hundreds of watercraft sailed in the Strait of Georgia.

  Clark eyed the sidescan display, fighting fatigue. It had been a decade since he pulled an all-nighter aboard a ship. He was bored. So far, the sidescan unit had revealed nothing significant. The seabed remained flat with an occasional blip suggesting debris dumped overboard by a passing ship. But that was about to change.