by Greig Beck
“What have they said?” Chilton asked.
“Nothing plausible,” Harker replied.
“So …” Chilton’s eyes narrowed. “The Kunming is making its way down to the Southern Hemisphere, by itself. There are no joint war games planned, and there has been no official explanation.” Chilton looked up from under heavy brows. “Somehow they got access to that data. Hacked ours, or the Brits’. And you think they’re making a run for the sub.”
“It’s a possibility.” Harker shrugged. “It’s what we’d do if we were them. But maybe they didn’t have to hack anything. Their Antarctic base, the Xuě Lóng Base, is supposed to be a weather research station, but really it’s just cover for a rare earth minerals mining. We know they’ve been deep excavating for years. Maybe they went deep enough to pick up the signal themselves – just decided not to tell anyone.”
Chilton laughed softly. “Again, probably what we’d do.”
“So far, the Australians’ request for notification of intent has been met with silence from the Chinese,” Harker said. “But we’ve been picking up a lot of chatter between Beijing and their Antarctic base – or at least we did – it went offline a few days ago. Been nothing but silence since. That also could be the problem.”
“I don’t like it.” Chilton’s voice was basement deep. “And I don’t like where this could end. If that is our sub, I want it back … and I don’t mean handed back after the Chinese have pulled it to pieces.” Chilton leaned forward. “What do we have in proximity?”
“Not much. Most of the fleet is conducting exercises in the Arabian Sea or in port. We do have a fully armed Seawolf in the Southern Pacific, the USS Texas, that was coming in for some down time, and guess who’s onboard?” Harker raised an eyebrow. “Commander Eric Carmack.”
Chilton started to smile. “Good, and just what we need: a wise head and a steady hand. Divert them – priority order. I want the Texas down in the Southern Ocean, ASAP.” He seemed to think for a moment. “Also, alert McMurdo. Who’s down there now? Is it still Benson?”
Harker shook his head. “No, his tour finished last July. On deck now is Sergeant Bill Monroe. He’s currently got a squad of twenty soldiers, just regulars; engineers, comms. specialists and some medics.”
Chilton nodded. “I know ‘Wild’ Bill Monroe – good man. But if the Chinese have sent fast choppers, I’m betting they’ll be dropping some hard asses onto their base.” He sat, rubbing his chin for a moment.
“Get a secure line through to McMurdo. I think we better let Monroe know what’s going on.” Chilton leaned back. “Also get him to take a run over to the Chinese base and have a little look-see at what they’re up to. I think we, and Bill Monroe, need to be ready for anything.”
*
Xuě Lóng Base – Antarctic ice surface
The two sixty-foot Chinese transport helicopters landed heavily on the hard packed snow, sending any loose flakes into a furious cloud that swirled around the large craft.
They had +-+-ed the absolute end of the fuel distance having last tanked up in South Africa. From one craft, a crew of men and women disembarked – a dozen of them, and set to unloading equipment, and supplies. From the other, a very different set of human beings – twenty of them, all over six foot, broad, but moving smoothly and efficiently, in whiteout fatigues, and carrying packs. Over most shoulders were slung skeletal automatic rifles.
The group made their way to the entrance of the camp. It was a submarine portal-like door, with spinning lock wheel and combination pad. The entrance tunnel led to a connected set of reinforced boxes, amounting to about one hundred square feet above ground. They waited, the twelve-person science team, engineers, and machinists, all lining up at the entrance but all keeping clear … for one man.
Captain Wu Yang pushed his goggles up on his forehead and strode forward. He let his gaze travel over the assembled men and women, barely concealed contempt in his dark eyes. The PLA captain was tall, like all of his team, but even he was dwarfed by one of them – the massive soldier standing at Yang’s shoulder was another half a head taller. At around seven feet, the man’s oversized, broad features and diastemic space between his front teeth told of acromegaly, the trait that produced gigantism in humans. But the man, Li Mungoi, was not just a freak of nature, instead he was the first of the Hǔ Zhànshì – the tiger warriors – the enhanced combat soldiers produced by the secretive new warrior program run by the Ministry of Military Biological Research, and headed by Minister Chung Wanlin.
Mungoi’s intellect was little better than that of a child. But he was as strong as three men, utterly merciless, and loyal to Wu Yang without question.
Yang smirked at the look of fear on the civilians’ faces. The PLA captain could make grown men pale, but Mungoi made them sick from fear. He was the monster at Yang’s back.
Following Yang’s failed mission in America, this assignment would be different. He would determine the nature of the signal emanating from under the rock and ice. If it was the missing American submarine, he would take legitimate ownership on behalf of the People’s Republic of China under the Maritime Law rules of fair salvage.
Yang looked up at the giant. He had everything he needed, every advantage, and he had Mungoi. This time, there would be no distractions, no failure. Nothing else mattered – he turned to briefly face the science team – nothing.
Yang grunted his approval at the lit code pad. “Good. Power and heating intact.” He held up one finger to the scientists and then turned to his men, nodding to several. He keyed in the code and spun the door lock handle and tugged. It swung open with a hiss of escaping air. He drew his handgun, letting it hang casually at his side for a moment, and then he and half a dozen of his soldiers pushed in quickly.
CHAPTER 8
US Naval Pacific Command Headquarters – Honolulu, Hawaii, Island of Oahu
Five-star General Marcus Chilton entered the room with James Carter, the Secretary of Defense. They spoke softly for several seconds, and then Chilton shook the man’s hand before they broke apart and Carter took his seat. Chilton nodded to the other members already around the long table – General Walt O’Gorman’s bulldog expression didn’t flicker. He sat with other armed forces generals, chiefs of staff, and a smattering of other senior politicians.
His staff sergeant, Jim Harker, mouthed the word, ready, to him. Chilton nodded and placed a hand on the back of his chair and remained standing. “Ladies and gentlemen, a collision of events is occurring.”
The table quietened, all eyes on him. “Many of you remember the experimental submarine, code named Sea Shadow, that disappeared in the Southern Ocean, along the edge of the South Sandwich Trench in 2008. The miniaturized submarine had an innovative electric drive and high-energy reactor plant and was as close to invisible and soundless as a sub can get. Inexplicably, it was lost with all hands, and never found.”
He looked at the faces around the table, everyone was hanging onto his words. “Never found, perhaps until now. As long as the submarine is intact and has power, it will continue to call to us.” He looked at each person in the room again. Secretary of Defense James Carter nodded imperceptibly, and Chilton continued, “Well, we have recently detected what we believe to be our missing submarine calling to us.”
There were murmurs and then a round of applause. Chilton held up one large hand.
“That was the good news.” He smiled without mirth. “So, here’s where it gets messy. The signal was found buried among other old data, and it was detected coming from approximately 2.25 miles below the Antarctic ice and rock – from Area 24.”
Frowns, and then rushed voices. Chilton held up a hand again. “It sounds impossible, I know. All our submarines have a coded emergency beacon running on an undisclosed frequency. Its unique call signature is as identifiable as a fingerprint – and it’s ours all right.” He exhaled. “And how is it possible? Damned if I know. We have theories, none of them verifiable … from here.”
“Is a sal
vage mission being organized?” General Steve Warneke asked evenly.
“Yes, and it seems not just by us. At 0800 hours EST, the Chinese Luyang III class destroyer, the Kunming, entered the Southern Ocean. It is fully armed, and has refused to state what its purpose is, or to even respond to international hailing.”
He picked up a remote and clicked it once. It brought up the Chinese base on the edge of the Antarctic. “This is the Xuě Lóng Base. We expect it is the anticipated destination, and is situated only three miles from Area 24.”
“Oh shit, you think they’re making a run for the sub?” a senator asked, leaning forward in his chair. “They heard the signal as well?”
“I believe so,” Chilton said evenly and moved to the next image. The screen now showed a sea of white, with a few flat roofs poking up from the snow. The camp was in a basin valley, and there were a few small mountain shoulders crowded in behind it.
“Bill Monroe took a little trip over there a few hours back for a look-see. He reported a couple of helicopter loads of personnel arriving. He said the size and the way some of them moved made him think they were serious military. Interestingly, no people were rotated out.”
“How many does that base hold?”
“About two dozen … mostly engineers, science staff, and a few standard soldiers. Now there is easily that many packed in there. Way too many people to inhabit the base. Above ground, that is,” Chilton said, lifting the remote again.
He clicked and the next image shown was taken from a high altitude satellite. “We knew they were mining, but kinda makes you wonder what else they’ve been up to. Our Aussie friends had picked up quite a bit of chatter that abruptly shut down about a week ago – the radio and comm. sets were still functioning, and open, but nothing was being transmitted – they simply stopped talking. Beijing is understandably frustrated.” He shrugged. “If it was our base, and they went dark, I’d want to know what happened as well.”
“They all disappeared?” General Warneke’s brows raised.
Chilton tilted his large head. “From above ground anyway. So …”
He clicked again. This time the images were stratigraphic sonar images that peeled back the surface layers, one after the other – the snow, the ice, then the rock. “Now we can see what they were up to: serious mining.” The next image was a computer model of an interpretation of all the sonar readings represented as a 3D graphic. It showed tunnels leading out, and down, for many miles. “They’re digging – mining, or building deep fortifications. Whatever it is, their actions are expressly disallowed under the International Antarctic Treaty of ’59.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, but what does is, we believe they’ve detected the sub’s signal, determined what it is, and have decided to investigate.”
He tapped some more keys, increased the range and depth of the sonar mapping. Hundreds of miles of tunnels and cave systems were shown like dark threads, leading to the massive dark mass of an underground lake.
“Reaches all the way to the Area 24 quarantine zone. I think they broke into one of the natural caves. Had to, they were already close.” Chilton waved the image away and turned. “I don’t care if they have a birthday party down there, or a funeral.” He rolled massive shoulders and sat down. “But they’ve dropped soldiers onto the ice, and now they’re going to plant a warship down there.” He clasped his big fingers together. He turned to James Carter, waiting.
“Talk to them,” Carter said. “Get someone on the line right now. Before we bump chests, let’s see what they have to say.” The secretary of defense tapped his knuckles on the table. “Then we can decide on what comes next.”
“I’ve tried,” Chilton said.
“Then try again; I want to hear,” Carter responded quickly.
Chilton nodded and swung around to Jim Harker. “Jim, get me General Banguuo in at the Central Military Commission. Patch it through right here, right now. He’s a straight shooter, and someone who won’t hide behind protocol.”
Harker stood and called through on a small secure line. Chilton waited, looking up at the screen. It still showed the tunnel systems under the Chinese base that extended towards Area 24. In the center of the large table, a black disk with a speaker in the top crackled for a moment. There were some clicks, and then an educated, relaxed voice came through.
“General Chilton, this is a pleasure to talk to you again. How long has it been?” General Banguuo seemed to be barely holding the smile embedded in his words.
“Long time, General.” Chilton leaned forward. “The last summit was nearly three years ago now.”
Banguuo grunted. “Only three? Hmm, and now, here you are again.”
Chilton noticed that there was no surprise in the man’s tone. “General Banguuo, you’re a very busy man, so am I, so let’s get right to it.” Chilton stared straight ahead. “Why is the Kunming in the Southern Ocean?”
“Simply supporting our citizens.” The answer was too quick.
“You don’t need a Luyang III class destroyer for that, General. Or twenty Special Forces soldiers dropped onto the ice. We would be happy to extend our own resources from our base at McMurdo, if you feel you need more support. Just ask.”
“There is no Chinese Special Forces on the ice. And I think your base at McMurdo has done enough.” There was no warmth in the response.
Chilton frowned. “I caution you about placing your navy in that area. Maybe we should come and join you – lend support – make it an international effort. Make sure other people down in that region don’t see a warship as being … provocative.”
“Provocative?” Banguuo sounded like he growled. “What is in Area 24? What is so valuable that it is worth making our people disappear over? These are the things that are seen as provocative, General Chilton. These are the things that lead to … a dark place. We should all think very clearly.”
Chilton’s frown deepened. “Area 24 is a contamination zone, to be avoided. That warning is for everyone – us included.”
“But you enter it. And we now know that you have been intruding on our Antarctic bases territory. We also have sophisticated satellites, General. Following your intrusion, our people are missing, but you warn us to stay away from our own base.”
Chilton held up a hand to the secretary of defense, stopping him from interrupting. He knew Banguuo, and could sense the tension in his voice.
“General, believe me, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t know anything about your people. As for Area 24, it is off limits to everyone – because of contamination. Please stay out of that area, for your own good.”
“Now you threaten us? You overestimate your global authority.” Banguuo’s voice rose in pitch.
Chilton waited, feeling the tension in the air, like it was adding weight to the atmosphere. He wondered who else was in the room with the Chinese general.
“General Banguuo, we don’t – ”
“I suggest, General Chilton …” The strange new voice that had come onto the line was nasally and cutting. “If anyone should stay out of the Southern Ocean, for their own good, it is you.”
The line went dead. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
“Who the hell was that?” Chilton finally asked.
“That …” James Carter exhaled, “… was a damned nightmare, and why your man acted like he had a rod up his ass. It was Mr. Chung Wanlin, both the Minister of National Defense and Biological Research, and also a fervent nationalist.”
Chilton sat back slowly as General O’Gorman leaned forward, one fist clasped in the other. “Did he just threaten us?” He snorted. “Stay out of international waters?” He smiled to Chilton. “When it comes to those type of messages, I don’t hear too good. You, Marcus?”
Chilton smiled. “Well, kinda just makes me all the more interested. I’ve dispatched a Seawolf down for a little look-see. It’ll be there in a few days.”
“I’ll need to brief the president. He’s not going to like i
t,” Carter said.
“He’s going to like it less if we get pushed out of the Southern Pacific.” O’Gorman’s expression was flat. “Or if they get their hands on our leading edge submarine technology.”
“And what do we do if they fire on us?” Carter turned to him.
“Sink ’em – we’ve got the firepower to take ’em to school.” O’Gorman’s smile had little warmth.
“Or they sink us.” Chilton stood and paced for a moment. “As a kid I remember watching this great boxer called Jersey Joe Walcott – best boxer alive. He took on this flash new kid who was small, with a short reach, and had this funny way of moving around the ring. His name was Rocky Marciano. Walcott had the height, the reach, and the experience. Then Marciano stopped his funny way of moving, planted his legs, and caught Jersey Joe off guard with a big surprise uppercut – sank him – game over.” Chilton came around the table. “Either way, we sink them, or they sink us, it could mean all out war.” He paced again. The room was now silent, watching him. “We need to get in front of them. If they’ve got a path to our sub, then I want to use it – with or without an invitation.” He stopped moving. “I need more time and more options.” He turned, searching for one man, and finding him.
“That means you’re up, Jack.”
Colonel Jack Hammerson, who was seated at the back of the room, stood, saluted, and left without a word.
*
Jack “Hammer” Hammerson skimmed through the reports and images, stopping at the signal analysis of the buried pulse. Naval Comm-Sec had identified the unique frequency signature as that belonging to an experimental sub that vanished in 2008, and Naval Command wanted it back, or obliterated – either was fine with Hammerson. But first they wanted line-of-sight confirmation … and that’s where he came in.