Maxwell rose. So did CAG Boyce and Sticks Stickney, the Reagan’s skipper. Already standing at the end of the conference table were the two civilians — Ashby, the NSA analyst, and a bespectacled CIA officer named Salada, who was the assistant station chief in Taipei.
A moment of awkward silence passed as the Americans and the Chinese sized each other up.
“The senior military attaché in Taipei arranged this meeting,” said Hightree. “He thought it was urgent enough that we have this group flown out to the Reagan.”
Each wore a dark-olive battle dress uniform. They still had their flotation vests from the ride in the Reagan’s COD. The senior officer, an unsmiling man with a lined, hard-eyed face, brought his heels together and said, “I am Colonel Chiu Yusheng, commander of the Special Operations Branch, Republic of China Army. This is my adjutant, Major Wei-jin, and this is—” he nodded toward the third person in his group— “Captain Chen Mai-ling, formerly of the Peoples Liberation Army.
Hightree and Boyce exchanged a quick glance. Boyce looked at the woman again. “Excuse me, but I believe I heard that you—”
“You heard correctly,” said the woman. “Mainland China. Fujian Province. I arrived in Taiwan two months ago.”
Boyce nodded, still confused.
“Captain Chen is a defector,” said Colonel Chiu in stilted English. “I brought her to this meeting because she has information that we think your government might wish to have.”
From the end of the conference table, Maxwell studied the visitors. The woman was tall for a Chinese, about five-six. Even in the ill-fitting utilities, her figure was hard to conceal. There was something about her — long hair flowing beneath the black head band, the way she stood with one hip thrust outward — that didn’t fit the mold of a military officer.
She caught him studying her. For an instant their gazes locked. Maxwell forced himself not to look at her.
Hightree motioned for them all to take seats at the conference table. “I’ll remind everyone that everything discussed here is classified. No cellular devices or recorders will be permitted.”
Colonel Chiu sat next to Boyce. Noting Boyce’s gnawed cigar, he produced a pack of cigarettes. Without asking permission, he proffered the pack around, then lit up.
Boyce raised his eyebrows and looked over at Hightree. The admiral just shrugged.
Chiu exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “Captain Chen claims that she was a technician on a secret PLA project at Chouzhou Air Base.”
“Not a technician,” the young woman said, drawing a scowl from Chiu. “Research scientist. And I’m no longer a captain in the PLA air force. That life is finished. For your information, I have a bachelor’s degree in thermodynamics, with graduate work in terahertz radiation.”
Maxwell studied the woman as she explained how she escaped China aboard one of the fishing junks that regularly ferried refugees from the mainland. Chiu interrupted her several times to explain that portions of her story could not be verified.
Maxwell watched them. It was obvious they didn’t hit off. Her English was nearly perfect, which made him curious. “Miss Chen,” he asked, “where did you do your graduate work?”
For a moment she gazed across the table at him. “In the United States. At Rensselaer Polytechnic, in Troy, New York. I studied there for two years.”
Maxwell nodded, keeping his face impassive. “Who was your professor?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “I had several. Dr. Ormsby, in photoelectric theory. Dr. Thornblad was my academic counselor. He lectured in the graduate physics department.”
“How about Professor Oglethorpe? Max Oglethorpe?”
“I don’t recall the name.”
“Where did you park your car when you entered Academy Hall?”
“Car?” Another quizzical look. “I didn’t have a car. Academy Hall was for undergraduates. I never went there.”
“How many columns are on the front of the Engineering Center?”
“Why are you asking these questions? Am I being interrogated?”
“Yes. How many columns?”
The almond eyes narrowed, watching him with wariness. “None. The Jonsson Engineering Center has a modern facade. No columns.”
“Good answer.”
“I take it you know something about Rensselaer,” she said.
“Something. I’m an alumnus.”
“Who is Professor Oglethorpe?”
“Nobody. I made him up.”
“To see if I was lying.”
“More like an authenticity check.”
“Does this mean I pass?” For another moment the eyes remained fixed on him.
“It means you went to Rensselaer. Or else you took the trouble to read a lot about the school.”
Colonel Chiu was watching them both with a sour expression. He crushed out his cigarette in a coffee saucer. “Let’s get to the reason we’re here. Captain Chen claims that a secret stealth aircraft is based at the PLA field at Chouzhou.”
“Not one,” she said. “Two, and by now perhaps more.”
“Have you seen these aircraft?” asked Boyce.
“Not in a finished state. I worked for two years on the development of the prototype. Six months ago, just as it was nearly ready to fly, I—”
“Defected,” said Chiu. He spat the word out as if it were something vile.
“Why did you defect?” Maxwell asked.
“Political reasons.” Again, the almond eyes. “My fiancé was a PLA air force major and a pilot. His name was Han Shaomin. He was arrested and accused of being a political dissident. He was sent to the Laogai—the PLA’s concentration camps. I was informed that he was later executed.”
“Was he a dissident?”
“He thought that the PLA was guilty of immoral conduct in suppressing the political minorities. If that made him a dissident, then I was one also.”
“For which she was willing to betray her country,” said Chiu. For a moment, the two exchanged another glowering look.
Boyce looked from one to the other. “It doesn’t matter to us why she’s here. What we want to know about is this stealth jet. If you will, Miss Chen, start from the beginning. Where did the technology come from?”
“Such information was not disclosed to me.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Of course. I presume it came from the United States.”
Boyce nodded. “And how do you think it came from the United States?”
“In the usual manner. Bought. Or stolen.”
“By whom?”
“That was never discussed. It was obvious that a great deal of secret information was flowing from the United States to China.”
“Jesus,” Boyce muttered and shook his head. “So tell us what you know about the — what do you call it?”
“Dong-jin. It translates roughly to something like Silent Wing.”
She went on, in considerable detail, about her work on the stealth project. She told them about the electrochromatic plasma technology that, when energized, rendered the Dong-jin’s shape nearly invisible in sunlight.
As she spoke, Maxwell followed her hands, watching her draw the invisible shape of the Dong-jin in the air. Again she caught him watching her. For a long moment the almond eyes locked on him.
When she was finished, a silence fell over the group. Maxwell looked around the table. He could sense each American thinking the same thing: an invisible killer — one they could neither see nor find — was hiding out there. And it belonged to China.
Finally Hightree pushed himself back from the table and stood. The other officers rose in unison. The meeting was over. The Americans shook hands with the Chinese, thanking them for the information.