by Ted Halstead
Lin looked uncertain, and for a moment, Yang feared he would refuse.
Then Lin sat back tiredly and nodded. "Meng, do as he recommends," he said.
"Yes, Mr. President," Meng said and hurried off to give the necessary orders.
An Army doctor appeared at the office door holding a black case. Yang waved him forward.
"Doctor, please examine the President immediately. He has been close enough to a bomb explosion to be forced to the ground by the blast. I am concerned that there may be internal injuries," Yang said in a voice he was sure was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the outer office.
The doctor nodded and said, "An ambulance is on its way with a military escort and should be here any minute. I will examine the President in the meantime."
Yang raised his voice even higher. "Meng, close the door and no interruptions while the President is being examined. Tell us as soon as the ambulance is here."
Meng had a phone pressed to his head but waved his understanding and closed the door.
The doctor said, "Mr. President, first I am going to take your blood pressure."
Lin nodded and sat still as the doctor placed the cuff on his arm and took the reading.
A look of concern appeared on the doctor's face, and he said. "Sir, your blood pressure is far too high. In your state, I don't want to risk an injection."
Then he reached in his black bag and pulled out a clear ampoule, a hermetically sealed small bulbous glass vessel. Next, he snapped off the top.
"This medication will reduce your blood pressure almost immediately. Please drink it, sir," the doctor said calmly.
Yang did his best to keep his composure. It probably helped, he thought, that worry about his plan's chances for success could be mistaken for concern about Lin's health.
Lin looked at the ampoule dubiously, and Yang held his breath. Would he refuse?
Then Lin said, "Well, I suppose it's better than a shot. I've always hated needles."
Lin reached for the ampoule and swallowed its contents.
The result was indeed almost immediate.
Lin's right hand reached for his throat while his left waved frantically.
Then Lin collapsed onto the floor, where he lay twitching on his side while Yang and the doctor watched.
In seconds, Lin was still.
The doctor rolled Lin onto his back and shined a small light into his eyes.
"Fixed and dilated," he said.
Then the doctor took Lin's pulse and quickly said, "No pulse."
Yang tapped his phone and said, "Have the ambulance arrive."
Then Yang walked to the office door and flung it open. The doctor behind him had begun to go through the motions of administering CPR, though he knew the untraceable poison he had handed Lin would make it futile.
"The President has had a heart attack!" Yang shouted. "Where is that ambulance?"
No sooner had he said the words than an ambulance pulled up to the building's entrance, followed by three military vehicles bristling with guns and soldiers.
Two men in medical uniforms ran from the ambulance carrying a stretcher. In just a few minutes, Lin was in the ambulance and on his way to 301 Military Hospital.
Or rather, his body was. Accompanied by two men who would make sure that in the unlikely event Lin revived, his recovery would be short-lived.
One hour later, Presidential chief of staff Meng was notified by a doctor at 301 Military Hospital that Lin had died of complications from internal injuries suffered in the bomb blast, which had provoked a heart attack.
Meng then notified Vice President Gu that he was to assume the duties of the Presidency. He also told Gu of Lin's last order placing responsibility for his security and the other members of the Central Military Commission in the hands of military police reporting to General Shi and opening a military investigation into the Ministry of State Security.
Gu told Meng he would proceed to the Presidential office immediately and confirmed Lin's last order.
Yang's plan had worked.
Gu held the title of President, and the Communist Party would still control China's economy and society.
But from now on, General Yang and General Shi would decide how China's military power should best be used.
Chapter Sixty-One
SS Sunny Day
En Route to Ensenada, Mexico
Anatoly Grishkov gripped the boat's railing tightly as it bobbed up and down on the Pacific Ocean. He thought his stomach was now completely empty but would stay here for a while, to be sure.
Grishkov had thought his seasickness was over earlier, only to be proved wrong.
Mikhail Vasilyev passed Grishkov a damp washcloth, which he accepted with a grateful grunt. After using it to clean his face, he felt better.
Then Grishkov looked at Vasilyev and shook his head. It wasn't fair. Neither he nor Alina appeared bothered in the least by the boat's endless rolling motion as it made its way south.
Craning his head, Grishkov could just see Alina at the back end of the boat. What was she doing back there?
"So, are you ready to undertake the next stage of our mission here on the Sunny Day?" Vasilyev asked gravely.
Keeping his right hand on the railing, Grishkov turned to see whether he could guess what Vasilyev meant.
The Sunny Day was a Navigator 400 boat built in 2008. About sixteen meters long, Alina had said the Sunny Day had a top speed of forty-five kilometers per hour, though she planned a more sedate cruising speed of thirty KPH.
Grishkov finally decided he could risk stepping away from the railing and took a few steps towards Alina. Now he could see what was in her hands.
A fishing pole.
No, there were actually three poles, side by side. Grishkov could see the rods were mounted on brackets of some sort from his new vantage point.
"Feeling better?" Alina asked with a wave.
Grishkov made his way unsteadily towards Alina, followed by Vasilyev. Once Grishkov was within a couple of meters, he answered.
"Now you see why I joined the Army rather than the Navy. This is only my second time on a boat, and I sincerely hope it will be the last."
Alina smiled and shook her head. "And yet you have parachuted from great heights and been on many helicopter rides, including one where the pilot was doing his best to outrun a nuclear blast."
Grishkov smiled back, though Alina noticed the smile was a bit shaky. "Yes, but none of those experiences included water. Now, are these poles just for show, or do you really expect me to try my hand at fishing?"
Alina shrugged. "Up to you. Normally I'd say if you don't fish, you don't eat, but I suspect that won't be much of an incentive for you at this point."
Grishkov shook his head. "Certainly not. After all the effort I've made to empty my stomach, I have no interest in repeating the exercise."
Then Grishkov noticed several red plastic tanks nearby and pointed at the closest one.
"Extra fuel?" he asked.
Alina nodded. "And by now, we've burned enough that we can empty these small tanks into the boat's main fuel reservoir. These should give us more than enough range to make it to Ensenada."
"Good," Grishkov said. "That's a task I can handle. Just point me towards the main fuel tank, and I'll take care of it."
Vasilyev cocked his head curiously. "Ordinarily, I would offer to help my ailing friend, but I'm guessing there is some purpose to fishing beyond recreation and our next meal."
"Correct," Alina replied. "These waters are regularly patrolled by the US Coast Guard. There is a good chance we will be boarded at some point, and if we are, I would like us to look as innocent as possible."
"Very well. As it happens, I've gone fishing several times, including once on the Caspian Sea with my father. So, I at least know the basics," Vasilyev said.
"Good. I've leave you to it, then, while I show Anatoly the way to the main fuel tank," Alina said as she turned towards Grishkov.
Then Alin
a added over her shoulder, "If you get a strike before I return, remember that there are sharks in these waters. Try not to pull up anything on deck capable of fighting back."
Vasilyev laughed and said, "Thanks for the reminder. Though the people who live on its shores insist otherwise, scientists say there are no sharks in the Caspian Sea. Certainly, I never caught one. I'll try to keep that record intact today."
There were high, cushioned stools bolted to the deck behind each pole. Vasilyev soon had a baited line in the water and a comfortable perch to see whether anything was interested.
A few minutes later, Alina returned alone. "We're refueled. I sent Grishkov below to get some sleep."
Then she nodded with approval at Vasilyev and said, "I can see you have indeed done this before."
Vasilyev shrugged. "This pole is a little bigger than what I'm used to, but I suppose the fish out here are a bit larger as well. The only really large fish in the Caspian Sea were sturgeons, but it was illegal to catch them."
Alina smiled. "I've heard that doesn't stop many people on both the Russian and Iranian sides from doing just that."
Vasilyev frowned. "Yes. As well as fishermen from Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan. My father Alexei was with me in a restaurant in Derbent when we overheard one of the customers ordering sturgeon made into sushi. An "off-menu" item, of course. Alexei was good friends with the police chief there, and so a quick text later, the customer and the owner were both in custody."
Alina laughed. "I hope you went elsewhere for your meal!"
Vasilyev grinned back. "Yes. I wouldn't have risked anything that came out of that kitchen."
Then Alina looked thoughtful. "Derbent. Why does that name sound familiar?"
Vasilyev nodded. "It should. Derbent claims with some justification to be the oldest city in what is today Russia, with documentation dating back eight centuries before Christ. It's also the most southern city in Russia."
Alina nodded. "Makes sense. Right on the coast, next to what used to be some of the best fishing in the world. And certainly warmer than Moscow!"
Then she pointed at his line. "I think you've got something!"
Moments later, a wriggling fish that Vasilyev guessed weighed about three kilos was in his net.
"What sort of fish is this?" Vasilyev asked. "Is it good to eat?"
"See these stripes? That's how you know you've caught a striped bass. And yes, they are very tasty. An excellent start!" Alina said.
Vasilyev smiled. "I think this fish will be enough dinner for both of us. I very much doubt Grishkov will be joining us at table."
"I'm sure you're right," Alina said with a laugh. "But keeping us fed isn't the main point, remember."
Vasilyev nodded. "Of course. The more fish we catch, the less suspicious we will seem."
Alina shrugged. "You may think my caution excessive. But I've always believed in taking every step possible. It's not as though we have anything else to do."
Vasilyev couldn't help then but think about his failure to assassinate Wade. The truth was, though, he had mixed feelings about the outcome.
Wade was no enemy of Russia. He understood the logic that had put Wade in his crosshairs. But that didn't mean he agreed with it.
Vasilyev had never failed to achieve a mission objective before. What did that mean for his future career in the FSB?
And would Neda's success with her mission be enough to shield her from the failure of her spouse?
Alina's voice cut through his dark thoughts. "I think you've got another customer," she said.
Vasilyev looked up, startled, to see that the pole next to him was bent forward. Then he realized that Alina had baited and cast the line while he was thinking about Wade and Neda.
Vasilyev could see from Alina's understanding smile that she had guessed his thoughts or at least some of them. He approved of her method of dealing with them.
Show sympathy, and keep the agent busy.
This time the fish put up more of a fight, and Vasilyev was surprised at its size. He guessed its weight at about fifteen kilos.
"Your father taught you well," Alina said. "You have caught a California halibut. In my opinion, it's even tastier than the bass, and that's saying something."
"California halibut," Vasilyev repeated. "That implies there are other types?"
"Correct," Alina said. "The female Pacific halibut can reach well over two hundred kilos."
Vasilyev's eyes widened. "Are these poles up to such a creature?"
Alina laughed. "Well, there's nothing to do but keep fishing and see!"
Then she frowned and looked to her right. "I think we're about to have company."
Vasilyev followed her gaze and nodded. "Yes, I see it too. A fairly large ship. Perhaps a hundred meters long?"
Alina looked through her binoculars and then said, "Yes," with a sigh. "With a crew of over a hundred. It is one of the first of the Coast Guard’s new Heritage class. Only a few have been built. It has a cannon, machine guns, and a helicopter."
Vasilyev shrugged. "So, it appears we will not be able to outfight or outrun them."
Alina looked at him sharply but then saw from the twinkle in Vasilyev’s eye that he was joking.
"Well, I was careful not to include weapons of any kind onboard. And I don't think we can beat its helicopter's top speed of over two hundred KPH. So yes, I think we should get ready to welcome our visitors. I will cut the engine. You can wake up Anatoly," Alina said.
A few minutes later, Vasilyev, Grishkov, and Alina were all on deck looking at the cutter as it came alongside.
"Let me do the talking," Alina said.
Vasilyev and Grishkov both nodded silently.
An officer holding a loudspeaker said, "Permission to come aboard" in a way that, while polite, made it clear it was not a request.
Alina waved her arm in a welcoming gesture and then stepped back from the boat's side facing the cutter. Vasilyev and Grishkov followed her lead.
In a low voice, Alina said, "Make sure your hands are visible at all times."
Moments later, four Coast Guard sailors were standing in front of them.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Lieutenant Foster, and we're here to conduct a safety inspection of your boat. Do you have any weapons on board?"
"No, Lieutenant, we don't. Please feel free to check anything on board. It's not a very big boat, so I hope it won't take long," Alina said.
Foster nodded to the three other sailors, who moved on to begin their inspection.
"It should be pretty quick. I don't see any violations yet, and overall your boat looks to be in excellent shape. Have you had her long?" Foster asked.
"Not long," Alina said. "In fact, we're headed down to Ensenada, where we plan to sell her on behalf of the Russian Consulate."
Foster nodded. "That's the one in San Francisco?"
"That's right," Alina replied.
Foster nodded again. "Do you all have any identification?"
"Of course," Alina said with a smile and pulled three Russian passports from a plain brown envelope.
Foster held up each one in turn, matching the photos to the three people in front of him. Then he took pictures of each data page and returned the passports to Alina.
"So, Mr. Vasilyev and Mr. Grishkov. Sorry, but I'm not sure how to pronounce your last name," Foster said to Alina.
"Please, just call me Alina," she said with a smile.
"Do your friends speak English?" Foster asked.
"They do, but not as well as I can. We agreed that it's best I alone speak to avoid any possible misunderstanding," Alina said.
Foster nodded. "Interesting that you're planning to sell this boat in Ensenada, by the way. It should get a good price there. But have you thought about how much you'll lose converting pesos to dollars?"
Alina smiled. "We have an Embassy in Mexico City with many expenses payable in pesos. There will be no need to convert currency."
Foster smiled back.
"Well, that makes sense."
Then he gestured to the open cooler where Alina had put the two fish Vasilyev had caught.
"I see you've been fishing. You've got some real beauties there. Do you happen to have California fishing licenses?" Foster asked.
Vasilyev and Grishkov both struggled to keep their expressions impassive. What nonsense was this? They were well outside the territorial waters claimed by the Americans.
"Certainly," Alina said, reaching inside the same brown envelope and handing three documents to Foster.
After glancing at them, Foster nodded and handed the fishing licenses back. "Well done. You'd be surprised how many Americans don't know that anyone on a boat leaving from a California port is required to have a California fishing license to put a line in the water. Now I'll be able to tell any American who complains about being reminded that if Russians know, they should too!"
The three other sailors now returned. Foster asked, "Any issues?"
One sailor handed Foster a flare gun and said, "Just this, sir."
Foster looked the flare gun over and nodded. Then he handed it to Alina.
"The cartridge in this flare gun expires next month. You may want to replace it before you make your sale. Have a good trip to Mexico, ma'am," Foster said.
"Thank you, officer," Alina said.
A few minutes later, Vasilyev, Grishkov, and Alina were alone again, watching the cutter as it rapidly resumed its patrol.
"So, was that true? Are you really selling this boat in Ensenada?" Vasilyev asked.
Alina nodded. "Yes. Well, not me personally. I'll be flying with you to Mexico City and from there back to Moscow. But we have an agent who will meet us in Ensenada and take charge of the sale."
Grishkov shook his head. "Seems like there should have been a simpler way to get us out of America. That didn't involve emptying my stomach into the Pacific."
"That's because you don't have the whole picture. Our operational funds in Mexico were recently depleted by the need to extract one of our agents. Think of this boat as a quick emergency replenishment. And as you heard me discuss with that Coast Guard officer, we should both make a profit on the sale and avoid paying a hefty currency conversion fee," Alina said.