China Star

by Maurice Medland

  “You say you are absolutely certain of this. Are we to believe the other things you say with equal certainty?” Han paused. “I regret to inform the commission that the American woman has escaped from the reform prison on Turtle Island. A warden and a female martial arts instructor have been murdered. Two other wardens have been brutally assaulted and are in critical condition. Five members of the PLAN marine corps, including a noncommissioned officer, are missing and presumed dead.”

  James froze. His father stared at him. The president of China stared at him. Even though he wasn’t responsible for the laogai, he was responsible for the security of his cousin. It had been his idea to put her in what he thought was an escape-proof prison that was at the same time minimum-security, to avoid criticism by the Americans. Son of a bitch. A contingent of marines placed aboard the American ship had failed, and his fail-safe on the island had failed. He glared at Han. Being blamed for the woman’s escape was the least of his problems. He’d just implemented Phase II of his plan. If the launch was delayed now, he’d be a dead man.

  James’s father spoke up. “I feel that under the circumstances, it would be prudent to delay this operation until-”

  “No,” James heard himself say. “I beg the indulgence of the committee. I have my own intelligence sources. Private sources. Give me twelve hours. I feel confident that I can recover the woman before any contact is made.”

  James’s father looked directly at him. “Don’t promise what you cannot deliver.”

  “I feel confident that I can.”

  “In that case,” Han said, grinning, “I think we should give the young comrade a chance.”

  President Xiang looked back and forth between the two men. “There is too much at stake here for uncertainty and petty rivalries. I will meet with Senior Colonel Lao, General Lao, and Director Han in my private quarters.” He slammed down his gavel. “This committee is adjourned until one o’clock.”

  James stood apart amidst the sound of scraping chairs, his humiliation overwhelmed by his abject fear. Han came to his feet, smirking. The others gathered their things and walked out, none of them looking at him. If he couldn’t recover his cousin, and do it quickly, he was as good as dead. Think. He knew things Han didn’t know. It had to be the American ship captain. Connor was his name. Beth was on that damn ship somewhere. They couldn’t have gotten far - the escape had just been discovered.

  He needed to contact Captain Chen of the destroyer Zhuhai. He’d diverted him from playing war games near the island to prevent this very thing from happening. His ship would still be nearby. Chen knew the American ship, had even led the boarding party of marines on James’s orders. Marines that were now missing and presumed dead. With state-of-the-art radar, Chen’s high-speed destroyer would be able to locate the American salvage ship quickly and blow it out of the water. Contacting Chen by cell phone would take time. James watched President Xiang, his father, and now Han walking toward the president’s private chamber.

  The meeting would have to wait. The only way to defeat Han was to keep the launch on schedule, and the only way to do that was to capture or kill his cousin as quickly as possible, by deploying assets Han didn’t know he had. He walked toward the door of the building, turned on his cell phone, and dialed Captain Chen on the Zhuhai.

  “Miss, you ‘wake?”

  In a distant corner of her mind, Elizabeth Grayson heard a high-pitched voice and the rattle of a door. Expecting Four Finger Tang to come barging into her cell, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her hands touched warm flesh. She was naked. With a shudder, she opened her eyes. Steel beams and electrical cables came into focus. A beam of sunlight swept across her face. She was aboard a ship. She’d stripped off her prison uniform, showered, and washed her only set of underclothes before drifting off into a coma-like sleep. She sat bolt upright, scrambling to cover herself with the blanket.

  “Who is it?”

  “It only me, Francisco.”

  The door opened and the funny little man who’d given her a cup of soup last night walked in. He had an armload of clothing in one hand, a stack of towels and a ditty bag in the other. He laid the clothes on the foot of the bunk, then stepped back and dipped his head.

  “I buy for daughter. Here, miss, you take.”

  Elizabeth looked at the clothes, a pair of stonewashed jeans embroidered with a colorful butterfly design, a yellow sweatshirt, and a pair of white canvas sneakers. She’d grown up with a closet full of designer clothing, but she couldn’t remember any as beautiful as these.

  “Oh, they’re gorgeous. I couldn’t.”

  “No, no. You take. Daughter have too many clothes.”

  Clutching the blanket around her neck, Elizabeth looked at her tattered prison uniform lying in a heap on the floor. Her eyes went back to the pile of new clothing. She reached out and touched the sweatshirt and jeans hesitantly, as though they might vanish.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Francisco sure.” He held out the ditty bag and a stack of towels. “Shampoo. Soap. Fresh towels. You get clean up, I bring you food.”

  Elizabeth felt like leaping out of bed and hugging the man, but she didn’t want to scare him to death. She smiled at him.

  “That’s so kind of you.”

  Francisco colored slightly and looked down. Not wanting to embarrass him, she looked away and saw the room for the first time.

  “Where am I? It was dark when they put me in here last night.”

  Francisco looked around as though he’d never seen the compartment before either.

  “Captain stateroom, miss.”

  She felt a warm glow. She had to admit, the captain had taken her breath away when he swept her up in his arms last night. Even with the blackened face, his good looks were obvious. Tall and lean, with an edge to his voice and an easy manner, he’d reminded her of a young Harrison Ford. He was the last thing she’d thought about before drifting off to sleep. She looked down. The thought that she was sleeping in his bed, naked, sent a shiver through her.

  “I’m sorry to put him out of his bed.”

  “Oh, Boss-man never use. Too far from bridge. He sleep in sea cabin.”

  “Boss-man?”

  Francisco flashed a grin. “No one else call him that but me. No one else get away with it.”

  Elizabeth grinned back, joining in the conspiracy. “Why does he let you do it?”

  “He like my food.”

  “You’re the cook?”

  “No cook. Chef. You get clean up, I bring you good food.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  As soon as Francisco pulled the door closed behind him, she got out of bed, stretched, and walked over to a porthole. Green and white waves rolled out from the ship in a V-shape. She moved closer and saw crewmen working on deck. She couldn't believe she was free of the gruesome prison camp.

  She stepped into the tiny bathroom and emptied the ditty bag on the counter by the sink. A comb, a pair of scissors, a cake of castile soap in a white wrapper, a little bottle of hotel shampoo, a packet of tissues, a small blow dryer, a new toothbrush, and a partly used tube of toothpaste. Even a disposable razor and a tube of shaving cream. Francisco had thought of everything but makeup. That was too much to expect on a ship with an all-male crew, but at least there was a blow dryer. Her hair was a mess, but with a dryer, she might be able to do something with it.

  She twisted the cap off the shampoo and stepped into the small stainless steel shower. She’d showered before going to bed, but she didn’t think she’d ever feel clean again after three months in the labor camp. She adjusted the temperature to as hot as she could stand it, drenched her hair, and lathered up furiously. She had to repeat the process three times before her hair felt clean.

  She lathered up with the soap, luxuriating in the hot water, getting reacquainted with her body. Her neck felt long and thin, her bones much too well-defined. Her breasts seemed smaller than ever but well-shaped and firm. Her abdomen was concave, her navel so tiny it
looked almost invisible. God, she must look like a scarecrow.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the captain. She could still feel his arms beneath her, strong and gentle at the same time. She still felt the heat of him on her face, still remembered what he smelled like. In the emotion of getting rescued, she’d wanted to bury her face in his neck and let him do whatever the hell he wanted, but hadn’t been able to take her eyes off his. Running her hands over her lean body, she felt her nipples harden. In the three months she’d endured as a prisoner, she couldn’t remember having had a single sexual thought. Now her sexuality came back with a vengeance. Because of the captain?

  Knock it off. She had some serious stuff to get stopped, and she’d need this guy’s help, whoever he was. Any physical attraction would only get in the way.

  She buffed herself dry, wrapped a towel around her head, and brushed her teeth. She checked on her underclothes, strung over a towel rack like dead fish drying in the sun. They were clean but so stiff and disgusting she hated to put them on. She decided to go without the bra but pulled the cotton underpants on. Standing before the mirror braless, she waved the blow dryer around her hair. After three months without shampooing, her hair blossomed under the heat. Even though it was short, it now looked soft and shiny, with the natural wave she’d inherited from her father.

  She picked up the scissors and comb, evened up the ragged edges, and looked at her face. It was the first time in three months she’d seen herself in a mirror. She still had a few bruises and cuts from her struggle sessions. A nice young guy everyone called Doc had dabbed some antiseptic on them last night and taped the largest cut above her left eyebrow. He’d thought the smaller ones were better left exposed to the air to heal naturally. She pulled the tape off and studied her face. The ruddy glow of her complexion partially masked the bruises. Even with the dings on her face and no makeup, she thought she could pass muster.

  She unzipped the jeans and pulled them on. Francisco’s daughter must be tiny. The jeans fit fine in the waist and hips but were too short by about six inches. She stood in front of a full-length mirror and appraised herself. Even though the jeans were too short, they looked good, like pedal pushers. Her calves had developed nicely from duck-walking down the rows of pepper plants and were nicely tanned. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and shook out her hair. The sleeves were also too short, but she pushed them up and thought they looked okay. Thank God the sweatshirt was cut full. With no bra on, she’d have looked like a boy. The canvas sneakers were a bit tight, but they’d stretch with use. She squeezed into them and laced them up. She checked out her new look: well-scrubbed, no makeup, tight jeans, loose sweatshirt, decent hair. Not bad, except she was way too thin.

  She heard a rap on the door, and before she could answer, Francisco walked in carrying a tray. It was obvious they weren’t used to having a woman aboard. He set the tray down on the table by the bunk and stared at her. A wide grin overtook his round face.

  “You look beautiful. Like daughter, only tall.”

  Elizabeth felt her face flush.

  “You’re very kind.”

  “You eat now, miss. Not too much. Just enough.”

  Francisco held her chair. Elizabeth sat down, and he scurried around and lifted the cover on the dish. A cloud of steam wafted upward, releasing the fragrance of tarragon and thyme. A plain omelet with a sprinkling of herbs sat glistening before her. Shredded carrots and zucchini sautéed in what smelled like real butter made a colorful side dish. Her salivary glands ached with anticipation.

  “Plain food more better for you.”

  Elizabeth resisted the temptation to bolt the food, rolling each bite over her tongue, savoring every morsel. Having grown up in a wealthy Washington family she knew good food, and this was amazing. Like the lentil soup he’d given her last night, the omelet melted in her mouth, triggering olfactory and taste senses she’d forgotten. She glanced up at Francisco with a new look of respect. It wasn’t just because she was starving. The man truly was a gifted chef. What on earth was he doing aboard a beat-up salvage ship?

  “This is just wonderful.”

  Francisco grinned like a schoolboy in love and poured steaming liquid into her cup. “Green tea fix you right up.”

  Elizabeth sipped the tea and looked at her watch. She’d tried to talk to the captain about Raptor after she’d come aboard, but he’d brushed her off, insisted that she get some sleep. She’d been too exhausted to argue, but today was the June 14. Time was running out. She needed to notify the U.S. authorities as quickly as possible. She heard a knock at the door. Was it the captain? She ran a hand through her hair.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Sam’s smiling face peered in. “Good morning, miss.” He blinked and looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Well. You look much better.”

  The expression on his face was all the confirmation she needed before she saw the captain. She smiled.

  “We have Francisco to thank for that.”

  “Skipper would like to talk to you when you’re up to it.”

  “Of course. Where is he?”

  “In the chart room on the bridge. But only if you’re up to it.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Don’t you want to finish your meal first?”

  “It doesn’t take much to fill me up these days. Could you take me to him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right this way.”

  “Excuse me just a minute, will you, Charlie?”

  Matt squinted over the CIA agent’s shoulder. Through the window of the chart room, he noticed a dark, cumulonimbus cloud in the eastern sky. An anvil-shaped thunderhead morphed out on top, indicating the squall line of a cold front. A cloud formation like that almost always brought thunder and lightning, rain, high wind, and heavy seas. Things that could kill you at sea. He opened the door to the pilothouse a crack.

  “You watching those storm clouds, Jason?”

  “Got ‘em, Skipper. They’re far enough east that we should miss them if we stay on our course for Kaohsiung.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  He glanced again at the clouds and did a double take. His bear-like first mate was ambling toward the bridge with a woman in tow. A beautiful woman. Wearing blue jeans, a yellow sweatshirt, and white sneakers, Elizabeth Grayson looked transformed. This was the same woman he’d picked up from the island eight hours ago? It wasn’t just him. The crewmen working on deck had stopped what they were doing and were staring at her.

  The door to the chart room opened, and she stepped in, followed by Sam. Matt caught himself staring at her face. Exotic brown eyes, sculptured cheekbones, windblown complexion, auburn hair that looked alive. In spite of her too-thin body and some slight bruises on her face, she looked great. Better than great. He dipped his head in a mock bow.

  “Good morning, Ms. Grayson.”

  She smiled, showing those white, even teeth. “Please call me Beth.”

  “Beth it is. Please call me Matt.”

  “I think I’ll call you Boss-man.”

  “I see you’ve been talking to Francisco. Bad influence.”

  “He’s my new best friend. He gives me food and clothing.”

  Matt motioned toward Charles Shen, wearing a borrowed blue chambray shirt and a pair of faded khakis.

  “I think you remember Charlie Shen. He was a little easier to outfit.”

  Beth smiled. “You said your name was Charlie Chan.”

  “That’s what everyone called me at Princeton.” He grinned. “I thought it might be easier to remember.”

  “I wouldn’t have forgotten your name, believe me.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I’ve been talking with Charlie about the reasons for your imprisonment,” Matt said. “He seems to think it was for reasons other than those stated by the Chinese.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you last night,” Beth said. “We have a problem.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The United State
s of America, maybe the free world, not to put too fine a point on it.”

  “That sounds dramatic.”

  “Let me give you a little background,” Beth said. “About ten years ago, the Chinese developed a piece of military hardware called the ZM-87 neodymium laser blinder. Not many people ever heard of it.”

  Matt nodded. “It was a laser device used against ground troops. Supposed to blind them in the field.”

  Beth gave him a curious look. No doubt she was wondering how the captain of an ocean-salvage ship would know about such an esoteric weapons system.

  “That’s right. The Chinese government offered it for sale at defense exhibits in Manila and Abu Dhabi about seven years ago.”

  Matt shrugged. “As I recall, it was full of bugs. A few countries tried it, but it never really got off the ground.”

  “Right again,” Beth said. “But the Chinese made some breakthroughs in the system, and as soon as they realized what they had, they stopped selling it. They’ve come a long way since then. The second generation had improved range and anti-sensor capabilities. The third generation incorporated automatic targeting and countermeasure resistance. That system evolved into shipboard laser weapons for air defense. Along the way, the Chinese developed a first-rate electro-optical industry that gave them the ability to create advanced optical systems. Those systems, in turn, gave them improved target acquisition and pointing and tracking. They’ve had the ability to target enemy satellites for years. All they were missing was a way to increase the power and intensity of the laser beam to a level that would destroy them.”

  “Let’s hope they never get it,” Charlie said.

  “That’s the problem,” Beth said. “They’ve got it.”

  Matt was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Are you telling me the Chinese have the capability to track and destroy U.S. satellites?”

  “I’m saying they have a space-based, laser anti-satellite system, code-named Raptor, that can track and destroy anybody’s satellites, in any orbit, at any altitude, and destroy them almost concurrently.”