Fang Zhi was assumably one of the Spring Tiger Group's cronies, a guard or security chief who meant nothing in the grand scheme. His name was not even worth mentioning to the Special Forces team coming ashore, and while Buddha had promised to kill him, that was only to satisfy Huang.
Buddha regarded his partner, then tipped his head toward the path. "Back to the car, little one."
Boy Scout's eyes widened. "You will not say that again."
"I see your parents have been neglectful, and the Americans have poisoned away what was left of your respect. But that is okay. You will do as I say, or I will strangle you until you are blue then white then dead. And then I will communicate the unfortunate accident to Langley." Buddha narrowed his fiery gaze, and Boy Scout withered where he stood.
Then, abruptly, Buddha threw his arm around the kid and chuckled. "We're going to have a lot of fun in the next couple of days. Let me ask you something. Other than in training, have you ever been shot at?"
"No."
"That's not good."
"Why should I be worried? This is an assassination, nice and quiet."
Buddha chuckled again. "My dear boy, when the Americans are involved, nothing is ever quiet."
TWENTY-TWO
PIER 3E
SUBIC BAY FREEPORT ZONE
PHILIPPINES
APRIL 2012
Captain Scott Mitchell drove one of the team's two SUVs around some cargo pallets, then he and Ramirez, who was at the wheel of the other truck, slipped beneath a row of six-inch-thick hawsers secured to the bollards of a supertanker on the opposite end of the pier. They drove farther out, then finally parked alongside the submarine, whose hull glistened like the black skin of a killer whale in the moonlight.
Their weapons and other gear were packed in more than a dozen heavy load-out bags and stowed in the cargo areas of each truck. Jenkins and Smith began unloading, but Mitchell told them to hold off until they talked to the crew.
"Captain Mitchell," called a tall, broad-shouldered man coming forward.
"That'd be me, sir."
"I'm Lieutenant Commander Sands, the XO, and this is Master Chief Suallo, chief of the boat. We call him COB."
After shaking the XO's hand, Mitchell turned to the shorter, stouter man with the forced grin and did likewise. "Master Chief."
"Captain."
"Glad to have you aboard, Captain," added Sands.
Mitchell gave a little snort. "I appreciate that, sir, but you'll be happier once we're off your boat."
The XO chuckled then raised his voice to address the entire team. "Okay, listen up. Welcome aboard Montana . Master Chief Suallo will issue each of you a thermoluminescent dosimeter, like the ones he and I are wearing." Sands reached down to his belt and gestured to a device slightly smaller than a deck of cards. "The dosimeter records your total radiation dosage while on board, and it must be worn at all times. Once COB assigns you one, you'll be escorted down this after hatch, through the lock-out trunk, and into the galley on the upper level."
"Damn, we get to eat first thing," Ramirez whispered in Mitchell's ear.
"I doubt it."
"Question, Captain Mitchell?" asked Sands.
"No, sir."
"Good. You'll be briefed about spaces that are off-limits, certain ship routines called rigs, and most importantly, how to flush the commode."
Mitchell and his Ghosts chuckled.
But Sands wasn't kidding. "While that's happening, a working party will finish unloading your gear and move it below. It'll be waiting for you in the torpedo room."
Turning to Mitchell, Sands added, "Captain Gummerson would like to see you in his stateroom at your convenience."
"I'm at the captain's disposal," replied Mitchell. "Lead the way. But I guess I'll grab one of those Geiger counters first."
After yelling, "Down ladder," as instructed, marksman Alicia Diaz studied the twenty-five-inch-wide black hole, grasped the hatch knife edge, and lowered herself down, rung by rung, right behind Master Chief Suallo.
She, along with Smith, Hume, and Suallo, gathered outside the hatch at the bottom, waiting for the others.
"What's that smell?" asked Hume.
"It's Smith," said Diaz with a laugh. "He tries to cover up that body odor with cologne, but he smells even worse."
Smith drew his brows together in mock seriousness. "You kidding? That's my natural musky odor, and it drives women wild. You must have a cold, Alicia."
COB rolled his eyes and recited an explanation he had obviously provided before. "What you're smelling is a mixture of high-voltage ozone, diesel and lube oil, and a derivative of ammonia called amines from our atmospheric system. You'll get used to it."
"What's that ringing in my ears?" asked Smith.
The chief grinned. "That's the 400-hertz electronic buzz that turns us into wonder sub. All our computer systems are processed using 400-cycle power instead of 60-cycle. That higher frequency means everything is smaller, lighter, more accurate, and runs a whole lot cooler. Don't worry. The buzz will go away, too." He glanced to one of the mess tables. "Why don't you folks grab a seat while we wait for the others."
Diaz complied, and Hume, who dropped beside her, leaned over and said, "You're the only woman on this entire sub. You know that, right?"
"So what?"
"It's just . . . we'll keep an eye out for you."
"Gee, thanks, Johnny." She showed him her ugliest face.
"I'm just saying--"
"Too much," she finished.
Mitchell entered the captain's stateroom, which was much smaller than he had imagined. In one corner stood a tiny fold-down desk, but the bulkheads were barren, along with the rest of the quarters.
Captain Gummerson came forward, beaming, his graying hair as mottled as granite, his voice deep and resonant. "Evening, Captain. Ken Gummerson, welcome aboard."
"Thank you, sir. Please call me Scott." Mitchell offered a firm handshake.
"Forgive the empty room. I'm all packed up. We were on our way to Japan to pick up my replacement when we got the call. This may be my last operation on Montana ."
"Well, I'm hoping you don't go out with a bang, sir."
"Me, too."
"And I have to say, I've been around, sir, but this is my first time aboard a Virginia-class sub. Pretty amazing."
Gummerson grinned and nodded. "I've been riding boats for thirty years, but Montana still makes me a little bug-eyed." The captain motioned to a seat near his bed. "Relax a minute. I need to run through a few things, and I need to get radio to bring in your message board. You have some update traffic from your boss. Once submerged, the radio messenger will come to you with that message board whenever you have incoming traffic."
"Okay, sir."
"Scott, right now we're situated on the midlevel deck. I call it Main Street. Forward of my stateroom is the control and attack center. Aft of this space is a head that I share with the XO, the XO's stateroom, and aft of him is the VIP stateroom. Aft of that is a bulkhead with a hatch accessing the reactor compartment tunnel. From that hatch aft is off-limits to all but engineering personnel." Gummerson paused.
"Uh, understood, sir."
The captain grinned. "Don't lie. Even I don't remember what I just said. But you'll be taken on a tour."
Mitchell returned the grin. "Good idea."
"I've kicked the ops officer out of the VIP stateroom to turn it over to Sergeant Diaz."
"No need for that," Mitchell assured him. "Sergeant Diaz digs her own latrine just like the rest of us. We never offer her special treatment."
"I appreciate that, but Montana is a twenty-first-century machine crewed by stubborn geeks following the old naval traditions. Hell, until these guys got to sub school in New London, they never heard of Rick-over. They thought Jules Verne was the father of the atomic submarine. You don't think Verne was the father, do you?"
Wearing a grin, Mitchell shook his head.
"Whew. Now, once we're under way, we don't adhere to
any specific dress code, meaning we're pretty lax on what we wear--and don't wear--especially in the berthing compartment area. Diaz will share the head with the XO and me. We'll work out a schedule for the three of us."
"I understand, sir. If we can address this issue as subtly as possible, I'd appreciate it."
"No problem." Gummerson glanced at his notepad before continuing. "The lock-out trunk has a nine-man capacity, which means you and your team can lock out in one evolution, but you'll need training and help from my SEALs, as I indicated to General Keating."
"No arguments here, sir."
"You'll get with SEAL Chiefs Tanner and Phillips between here and China. We'll work in two drills, once with lights, once in total darkness."
Gummerson was about to go on when the radio messenger knocked and entered with two message boards. "A good place to stop," he said. "Let's step back to the wardroom, get some coffee, introduce you to the other officers, and plow through some of this latest traffic."
"Sounds good." Mitchell rose. "And, sir, is it true you guys have the best food in the navy?"
"Oh, don't worry, Captain, you'll find out for yourself."
Damn Ramirez. He had Mitchell thinking about chow.
Once he'd met the other officers, Mitchell retired in privacy to a computer terminal. He accessed a prerecorded video message from General Keating, who confirmed that their satellite surveillance of the Hakka castle was now in place and that their two CIA agents had already been observed meeting with their inside man earlier in the day.
The general also indicated that there was a lot of activity in and around missile sites located within the Nanjing Military Region and that the situation in Taiwan was growing far worse. The declaration of martial law had resulted in numerous cases of human rights violations by Taiwan's military and police, and demonstrators were still picketing and being arrested in front of the presidential building. Images of bludgeoned and bleeding civilians flashed across the screen.
Of course, Mitchell could have bet a year's pay that the general would repeat that it was up to him, that everything came down to the Ghosts stopping the Spring Tigers from initiating their plan. Mitchell finished watching the transmission and growled, "Yeah, I know. It' all up to me."
A second message from the Red Cross caught him by surprise. Bo Jenkins's father had passed away. Last report was that he'd been stable, but he'd taken a sharp turn for the worse. Part of Mitchell wanted to hold off telling Bo so that the man's head would be in the mission. The other part said that wasn't fair and that Bo deserved to know immediately.
Then again, given what was at stake, Mitchell needed every Ghost operating at peak performance.
He sat there a few moments more, putting himself in Bo's place.
And that got him thinking about his own father, who was probably back home, using his router to round off the corners of his casket.
A young lieutenant with what Sergeant Alicia Diaz called a Cocoa Beach crew cut--bleached blond with highlights--watched her leave the VIP stateroom opposite the wardroom. She smiled perfunctorily, noting the gold wings above the lieutenant's left breast pocket. He was cute, so she asked, "Are you a pilot?"
"I'm a naval aviator. There's a difference." He offered his hand. "Jeff Moch."
She took it. "Mach, as in Mach Five?"
"No, it's spelled with an O."
"Be cooler with an A, as in my name: Alicia Diaz."
"That's pretty smooth. I heard something about you guys trying to defect to the navy."
"Vicious rumors." She hesitated, unsure of what to add, then suddenly blurted out, "So, Lieutenant, what is the difference between a pilot and a naval aviator?"
He snickered. "Naval aviators get shot off the front end of aircraft carriers. We use tail hooks and arresting wires to land. Pilots just kind of float in."
"Okay . . ."
"Naval aviators have to figure out where their landing field went after they fly away. Or worse, if it sank. Pilots know their landing field's right where they left it."
"Not a big fan of the air force, then, huh?"
"I didn't say that. But I've never met an air force pilot who could stop a train without using guns or bombs."
"Stop a train? What do you mean?"
"You got time for a story?"
Diaz looked around. "I'm stuck here for twenty-something hours till we reach the strait."
"Right. Okay, so once you solo at Pensacola, the unwritten rule is you got three days to stop a train. You can't do it before you solo because it ain't legal, and up till then you always had some hard-ass instructor riding along."
"So how exactly do you do this?"
"Well, if you never noticed, Florida's flat, so it's easy to find a nice twenty- to twenty-five-mile stretch of railroad track to watch. And here he comes, Seaboard Coast Line's seven ten P.M., running late."
"But you're right on time," she said with a smirk.
"You bet. Now I have to come in high to clear the pines. At the last minute I slip down, opposite rudder to aileron--drops my bird like a rock--and I turn off my navigation lights, bleed off speed to just 120 knots--flap speed--and swoop in twenty feet over the track."
"Is this where I go, whoa . . . ?"
"Let me finish. Then, and only then, I turn on my landing light. Now it's just me and that train, two lights coming right at each other."
"You really did this?"
He nodded. "The engineer sees that single light coming at him and he's wondering, Did the traffic coordinator screw up? Switchman error? Is it another one of those crazy kids from Pensacola? He hits the brakes, can't take the chance. As he's listening to his whole train rumble and screech, I thunder right over his head, gone, UFO style, beam me up, Scotty."
Moch was only half as cute now. It was hard to see his eyes within that swollen head. "There's no way you guys get away with that."
"You're right. I got a letter of reprimand, which got pulled when I graduated, because the navy saw I was crazy enough to get shot off an aircraft carrier."
"So as a reward they put you on a sub. Yeah, they really like you." She wiggled her brows.
"No, I'm here because of you. Lieutenant Schumaker and I are flying the Predator. I'm telling you, she's one badass little bird."
Diaz had worked with all sorts of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) in her career, and none were what she'd describe as badass. That was a phrase she reserved for people, not machines. She shrugged and said, "Uh, we've packed our own UAVs. As a matter of fact, the captain's going to field a brand-new drone on this mission."
"I heard that, but our Predator still has greater speed and range than your drones. We launch right from the vertical tube. Subs rigged like this have ten-thousand-foot periscopes, so to speak. Trust me, you'll be glad we're up there. Now what's your story?"
Diaz adopted a singsong tone, deciding she would have a little fun with this jock. "Well, sir, I certainly don't have the talent to be a naval aviator, but I like playing around with ranges, working numbers in my head for projectile drop and wind compensation. I like slowing my heart rate, taking a deep breath, letting half out, and squeezing off the round between beats. I like listening to old Bee Gees songs and watching some bad guy's brains splatter over a fifty-foot area from the kinetic energy imparted on impact. I call that a woman's touch."
Moch blinked hard. "Alicia, why don't you step into the wardroom, fill a chair, and let me buy you a cup of our fine navy coffee?"
She chuckled under her breath. "You don't have any bourbon?"
Mitchell found Jenkins in the torpedo room, along with Beasley, Hume, and Smith. The men were doing another inventory of the gear and double-checking batteries.
"Bo, can I speak with you?"
"Yes, sir."
They crossed over to one corner of the room, where Mitchell leaned on the bulkhead and said, "So it's the future, and you're captain of your own Ghost Team."
Initially, Jenkins was confused, but finally his brain caught up to the moment. "Oka
y, sir, but, uh, I made it through college?"
"Yeah."
"Damn, that's good."
"Play along. So you're captain, and it's the day before a huge operation. You know that you need every guy with a clear head. You know you can't afford any distractions. But you also know that there's news from home that will affect several members of your team. What do you do? Do you give them the news? Or do you wait until after the mission?"