by Marc Cameron
The clerk glanced at the bulldog, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Would your friends pay in cash?” she asked.
“Of course,” Yao said.
This brought nods from the bulldog and the whippet. The desk clerk took the passports again and made copies for her records. She’d saved face and Yao was able to secure the exact same rooms he’d originally reserved for a mere doubling of the cost. It was a small price to pay.
Yao moved to retrieve the passports again, but the whippet policeman walked over and put his hand on top of the stack. He looked them over one by one, examining each photo, comparing it to its owner.
“Finland?” he said to Adara in Mandarin. “I have seen photographs on the Internet. Forests and lakes like here, no?”
Of all the Campus operatives, Adara spoke the best Chinese. There was no need for them to know that, so Yao translated.
Adara smiled and unleashed her baby blues. Nodding enthusiastically, she said, “Yes, yes.”
“Okay,” Whippet said, and stuffed the passports into his pocket.
Yao protested. “They need those.”
“I have to make a report at my office,” Whippet said, pointing at the double doors with a slender chin. “One of you may retrieve them in . . .” He whispered to Bulldog, who thought for a moment and then grumbled something back.
“After dinner,” Whippet said. “And you must get them tonight. You will be unable to eat at a restaurant, take a boat or horse tour, or any of the other park concessions without your passports.”
“But—”
“Retrieve them after dinner,” he said again, nodding his skinny face once to show that the matter was closed.
42
Seated to Ryan’s right beside Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Talbot, near the head of the polished Situation Room table, Secretary of Defense Bob Burgess got straight to the point, as he always did. He was brash, outspoken, sometimes downright combative, but, as Lincoln had said describing General Grant: “Where he is, things move.” Ryan didn’t often yield to Burgess’s hawkish nature, but it was good to have a plan. As Ryan’s dad had told him: Decide what you’re going to fight for, and how you plan to do it, then, when the time comes, you don’t have to waste any time making those decisions.
Bob Burgess provided Ryan with the military options, so he didn’t have to search for them himself.
The Situation Room, not exceptionally large to begin with, was packed to the gunnels. Arnie van Damm was there, along with Foley, Forestall, Commander Carter with the Coast Guard, and a dozen other military men and women—and their aides.
Commander Carter had completed his brief regarding the Healy’s recently acquired new passenger—and the fact that the Chinese icebreaker Xue Long’s Z-9 helicopter was already buzzing dangerously close to the Healy, while she closed the distance at a steady six knots.
Carter stood to leave, but Ryan asked him to stay, stating his desire to have all the smart nautical brains the room could hold.
“Mr. President,” Burgess said. “We believe the 880 is the Long March 880, the Chinese Type 094 Jin-class nuclear ballistic missile submarine that took part in the Snow Dragon war games. Last year, President Zhao gave an address to the Central Committee where he noted a ‘revolutionary’ propulsion system for their submarines that would render them as quiet as any in the United States’ arsenal. It was, Zhao said, a new dawn for the PLA-Navy that would take them out of littoral waters and into the blue—an ‘underwater Great Wall’ of weapons that could protect Chinese interests from anywhere, and remain undetected.”
Burgess nodded to an aide against the wall on the other side of the room. A moment later, the two images appeared side by side on the screen at the end of the table and Admiral Talbot took over.
“These are both satellite images of a submarine believed to be Long March 880.”
“The sub on the left is shorter,” Ryan noted. “By at least . . .”
“Twelve feet,” Talbot said. “We believe this indicates the addition of their new propulsion system, similar to our gearless pump jets. To the consternation of his admirals, President Zhao even called the new device by name—Hai shi shen lou—Mirage.”
Ryan nodded to Commander Carter. “The man the Healy plucked from the ice used this same term.”
“He did, Mr. President.”
“Any chance the Chinese know we have Commander Wan?” Ryan asked.
Carter shook his head. “Very slim. Captain Rapoza was closer. His Dolphin picked up the commander a good twenty minutes before the Xue Long’s chopper overflew the scene. Rapoza sent the bird back out again to recon, so for all the Chinese know, we are trying to figure out what happened as much as they are.”
“This guy, Wan, mentioned a professor as well,” van Damm said. “The missing Professor Liu?”
“Just so,” Burgess said. “He’s one of their top propulsion engineers. It’s not a great leap forward to think that Liu is on the DISSUB. Whoever it was sounds like he had a heart attack or some other debilitating injury. Commander Wan is much more taciturn now that he’s warmed up.”
“Nice work by Captain Rapoza, by the way,” Ryan said. “Engaging him while he was still hypothermic.” He leaned back in his chair. “In any case, if Liu is on board and badly injured, there may not be any way to make repairs to the 880.”
“Heck of a lucky stroke,” Arnie said. “The rest of the submariners are fortunate that the Healy picked up their guy since their rescue party is looking in the wrong place.”
Burgess, Talbot, and Ryan looked at one another, and then at van Damm.
“What?” the chief of staff said, in the crosshairs.
“Arnie,” Ryan said. “Those subs are coming to make sure we don’t get our hands on it, even if they have to destroy it—”
Van Damm cut him off. “I guess this rules out your Fairbanks trip. A ballistic missile sub off the coast of Alaska . . . that’s the last place you need to be.”
“The icebreaker Xue Long will be on station with the Healy in . . .” Ryan looked up at Carter.
“Six hours, sir,” Carter said.
“There you go,” Ryan said. “And their Yuan submarine three times faster than that. A few hours and this is all going to be over, one way or another.” Ryan turned to the SecDef. “Bob, I don’t want to escalate this any more than we need to, but with the Xue Long’s chopper harassing Healy, let’s get a couple of F-35s from Eielson to let Captain Rapoza know he’s not alone on the ice.”
43
That, my friend,” Ding Chavez said, “is one of the worst plans in the known history of plans.”
White vapor blossomed around his face as he spoke, the sight of which made this kid from East L.A. tug the wool hat down over his ears.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the pungent odor of fir trees and a hint of woodsmoke. Gone was the cloying odor of cigarette smoke, gasoline, and garbage that went hand in glove with urban China. The breeze blowing off the pristine lake nestled between tree-covered mountains was clear and clean and cold enough to hurt his face. He could have been someplace in Colorado or Montana.
The sun was low, about to dip behind the frosted mountains to the west, giving the area a pink evening alpenglow to accent the cobalt-blue water. All of them had zipped up their coats and put on hats as soon as they’d gotten out of the van.
Behind a pair of binoculars, Yao tried again with his pitch. “I’m just saying it’s the only—”
“Bad idea,” Chavez said. “We’ll think of something else.”
Adara Sherman lowered her own binoculars a hair and narrowed an eye at Yao. A tear, brought on by the chilly wind, ran down a rosy cheek. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Ding.”
“Okay . . .”
More than a dozen tour boats bobbed against their moorings on a long wooden float that ran parallel to the shore. Thr
ee piers, continuations of the boardwalks that ran from the hotel parking lot, led to the boats. Three of the boats, including the one that issued tickets identical to the stubs Yao had gotten from the Kazakh, were just returning from a day on the water. Tourist season was still weeks away, but each had a handful of tourists and their local crews.
They were focused on a boat called the Xiantao, which Yao translated as Eternal Peach. Chavez estimated it to be a fifty-five-footer. It had an enclosed cabin with large windows for when the weather was bad, and a long aft viewing deck for when it was clear.
“Interesting name.” Ryan tipped his binoculars at the tour boat.
“Typical for China,” Yao said. “The Jade Emperor’s wife, Queen Mother of the West, looks after the Xiantao—the Peaches of Immortality. Eating them is said to give the gods their long lives.”
“I could use a peach,” Adara mumbled to herself.
“I could use a coffee,” Ryan said.
Chavez stamped his feet to get the circulation going and snugged down the wool watch cap. Not that there was much call for it in Southern Cali, but his aunt had always told him, “Feet cold—put on a hat.” Right now he needed a bigger hat.
There was still snow at the higher elevations. Ice had gone off the lake only in the past couple weeks and tourists were just beginning to migrate from skiing—Xinjiang-style, with a single guide pole—to boat tours in search of the famed Kanas Lake Monster—thought by most to be a giant, landlocked Siberian salmon called a hucho taimen. The Chinese government designated Kanas a Five A park, top of the line. A considerable amount of advertising dollars went toward making people aware of this hidden gem that had much more in common with the Russian taiga than it did with China.
Binoculars and cameras were expected here, making at least the logistics of surveillance straightforward. The problem was, they had no idea what any member of the Wuming might look like. The only photo of Medina Tohti was so old and grainy they could have easily been looking at surveillance footage of Zoe Saldana in a headscarf.
Adara spoke into her fists as she played the binoculars slowly back and forth across the lake. “Let’s talk this through, then,” she said. “We think these people work on Eternal Peach, but they could be on any of the other boats as well . . . We don’t know what they look like, or how many there are . . .”
Yao chuckled, blowing out more vapor. “Hence my aforementioned plan.”
Adara ignored him. “I say we watch Eternal Peach and see who looks like a terrorist.”
“Freedom fighter,” Yao said.
“Right,” Ryan said. “So, the Wuming whack some XPCC troops and spring the Uyghurs and Kazakhs to keep them out of the camps. One of them who works on Eternal Peach is a kindhearted fellow and gives one of the poor refugees his coat—forgetting to take the stubs out of the pocket . . .”
They’d been over this before, but it never hurt to hash out the details a few times.
“It really does make sense,” Ryan continued. “The concessions would make a great cover. From what I’ve seen, there are as many Uyghur working here as there are Han Chinese. It’s like the surveillance state hasn’t quite made it out here yet.”
Adara kept the binos to her eyes, but gave a slight sideways nod toward the light pole on her right and the nearest pier. “Oh, Big Brother still has his eye on everyone,” she said. “Make no mistake about that.”
Lisanne turned a slow 360, taking in the scenery. “Maybe a kind of a Potemkin village when you consider the atrocities going on in other parts of Xinjiang, but it’s still beautiful. It’s like terrorism hasn’t made it here.”
Yao half turned, binoculars still up and trained on the second boat over. “Freedom fighters,” he said again. “Not terrorists.”
“Tomato, tomahto,” Chavez said. “The mujahideen were freedom fighters when we were helping them fight the Russians in Afghanistan. Then they were terrorists when they linked up with al-Qaeda and the Taliban to fight us. Same guys, doing the same thing, just to different people.”
“Preach on, brother,” Yao said. “And right now, we’re dealing with freedom fighters. So far, the Wuming haven’t hit a single civilian target, only military and government targets we would dub as enemy combatants, were we at war with China.”
“But we’re not,” Chavez said.
“Depends on how well we behave ourselves,” Yao said. “Anyway, the fact that there’s no freedom-fighting going on around here is another indicator that our guys could be using this as a home base. Bigwigs from the Central Committee, the XPCC, and even the military love to come here and play. Judging from the people who’ve been on the Wuming hit list, this would be an extremely target-rich environment. Not a single hit has occurred within three hundred miles. That tells me they’re not shitting in their own backyard.”
“It was enough to get us here,” Chavez said. “But it’s still too thin to get my hopes up. We can separate and go for a couple of tours tomorrow. Compare the ticket stubs to the ones you got from your Kazakh friend. That will narrow down the boat. Looks like five or six crew members on each vessel. That gives us a lot of people to follow in a small resort with just a few of us. We’ll get burned in a matter of minutes.”
“Right,” Yao said. “That’s what I’m saying. You guys start to spread the word that my family is big in Beijing politics. Make me out to be a nationalist, anti-Uyghur prick, too big a target for them to pass up—”
“We’re not using you as bait, Adam,” Chavez said. “That. Is. All.”
“It could take weeks,” Yao said. “And I don’t feel like getting to be buds with those two cops from the hotel.”
Lisanne Robertson cleared her throat. She was humble, polite, and generally soft-spoken, but as a former Marine and police officer, she had no problem with speaking up.
“Can the newbie make a suggestion?”
“Go for it,” Chavez said.
“Okay,” she said. “There are cameras at the end of the docks and at various points in the parking lot and lakeshore. I’ve counted and, like you said, Jack, surveillance is spotty here. There are quite a few blind spots.”
Chavez made a nonchalant pass along the shoreline with his binoculars. “And that benefits us how?”
“I’m willing to bet,” Lisanne said, “that members of any organization as secretive as the Wuming will have each and every camera mapped and tagged. They will want to avoid as much notoriety as possible.”
She nodded to the last gaggle of tourists that were, at that moment, stepping off the wooden piers and returning to hotels and tour buses. “See how they walk in straight lines? They couldn’t care less about security cameras. The boat crews will get off work in the next few minutes. All we have to do is figure out where the lapses in security coverage are, and then wait and see who takes a more varied route in order to avoid cameras.” She shrugged, looking at Adara. “I mean, I do the same thing at work. Don’t you?”
Ryan dabbed away a mock tear. “Look at how she’s all grown up.”
“That might actually work,” Chavez said. He checked his watch. It had taken them just under twenty minutes to get there from the hotel in Jiadengyu. They’d grabbed a bite and scouted the area, burning another two hours. “Let’s spread out a little and focus on the people getting off Eternal Peach for the time being. We should start seeing movement off the boats anytime.”
Lisanne tucked her chin deeper into her jacket, shivering. She nodded to a line of taxis, waiting to pick up the last few tourists. “Somebody has to go get our passports from the Keystone Kops. Gonna be harder to get a cab all the way out here by the lake after all the boats are empty. Should be easy to find one in town, though. I can be back in less than an hour.”
“We can all go back in the van,” Chavez said. “When it’s time.”
“He’s right,” Jack said. “Not a good idea for any of us to go off on our own.”
“The kid’s right,” Adara said. “Somebody has to do the grunt work. We can’t all have the exhilarating task of shivering our asses off in the cold and staring at the end of a pier for two hours.”
“I still don’t like it,” Ryan said. He treated Lisanne like she was his kid sister most of the time. It had been clear to everyone on the team for some time that he harbored some unresolved feelings.
Chavez hooked a thumb toward the taxis. “Go,” he said. “But be back in an hour. And keep your phone on.”
“I should go with her,” Ryan said.
Adara put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re with me, Jackie boy. Let’s go check out the other end of the pier before you embarrass yourself.”
Lisanne mouthed Thanks to Adara after Ryan’s back was turned, and then started for the cabs. “Just a quick trip to town,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
44
Fu Bohai took five men on Admiral Zheng’s “company” Cessna Citation CJ3 from Tirana, Albania, to Burqin/Kanas Airport. With a maximum cruise speed of over seven hundred kilometers per hour, the pilots made the trip in just over eight hours, including a lightning-fast fuel stop in Baku, Azerbaijan, that would have put a Le Mans pit crew to shame. It did not hurt that everyone on board had seen Fu Bohai at work and endeavored to do everything in their power to be certain they never had cause to see him take out his knife with them in mind.
Pretty Leigh Murphy, the CIA officer with the fierce eyes, had proven more difficult to break than he’d imagined. Oh, he knew from the outset that she would be tough. Women customarily held out much longer than their male counterparts. One of his men once suggested that their resilience under torture was because of their threshold for pain. Fu suspected it had more to do with the sheer stubbornness it took to push a child from one’s body. Pain had little to do with the process, in any case. Anticipation of pain was what turned the tide, caused people to give him the information he needed to know.