At this Max Collins smiled. “As I recall, Sam, playing it by ear is what you do best.”
Fisher went silent for ten seconds, absorbing the details. “How long to the insertion point, Max?”
“We’ve only got about sixty miles to go, but there are a couple Ninety-threes in the area.”
Collins was referring to Chinese Type 093 nuclear hunter-killer subs. Almost as quiet as the LA class, 093s boasted a sophisticated sonar package, including bow, flank, and towed passive arrays. Worse still, rumors had been floating around that Moscow had provided Beijing with enough core technology to copy the Russian Skval torpedo, which was said to travel at 200 to 230 miles per hour.
“It may take a little time to pick our way around them,” Collins said.
The growler phone on the bulkhead chirped and Collins picked it up. He listened for a moment, then hung up. “We’ve got ELF traffic.”
ELFstood for Extremely Low Frequency, a band used to signal submerged submarines. Fisher followed Collins and Smith to the Control Center, where the OOD, or officer of the deck, handed Collins a sheaf of paper. “Surface for signal, sir.”
Collins scanned the message, then handed it to Fisher. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”
Not good news,Fisher thought.
“Officer of the Deck, let’s poke the wire.”
“Poke the wire, aye, sir.”
The Control Center went into action as the crew brought the Houstonup to antenna depth. It took six minutes. “Antenna depth, Captain.”
“Very well.” To Fisher: “This way.”
Fisher followed Collins to the radio room, where a senior chief radioman was waiting. “Link established, encrytion running. Call sign Xerxes.”
“Thanks, Chief. Give us the room.”
The senior chief ushered the other radiomen outside and closed the door behind him. Fisher donned the headset and keyed the microphone. “Go ahead, Xerxes.”
“Sam, we’ve got a problem. Two hours ago there was an incident with a BARCAP,” Lambert said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol. Whenever a U.S. Navy carrier was on patrol, it was guarded by a ring of fleet-defense fighters, either F-14 Tomcats or F/A-18 Hornets.
“The Iranians claim we were in their airspace. They sent up a flight of F-16s. There was furball, some missile lock-ons, and then a midair bump—one of their Falcons and one of our Hornets. Both pilots had to bail out.”
“Good Christ,” Fisher said. Back when the U.S. was on speaking terms with Iran, the Pentagon had sold the IAF hundreds of F-16 Falcons and Tomcats. “Escalation?”
“Nothing yet. Both pilots were recovered, which helps, but this is just the start. Next time it won’t be a bump. Next time it’ll be missiles.”
And once that happens, we’re effectively at war,Fisher thought.
“If there’s anything on Shek’s island that can point us in another direction, we need it.”
40
WITHa gentle kick of his fins, Fisher eased forward until he felt his belly scrape the soft sand of the beach. He felt a wave wash over his back and his vision was momentarily obscured by froth. As the wave receded, he lifted his head until his face mask broke the surface. Ahead, he could see the line of white beach that followed the base of the cliff, itself a vertical wall of mottled gray rock.
He’d timed his approach to coincide with high tide for two reasons: One, the breakers would be easier to manage, allowing him to crawl into the shoals while remaining partially awash. And two, the higher the tide, the less beach he would have to cross to reach the base of the cliff, decreasing his chance of being spotted.
True to to his reputation, Collins had expertly guided the Houstonnorthward into the heart of the East China Sea, past the Chinese 093s, and finally to the mouth of Hangzhou Bay and the Zhoushan Archipelago. For a standard special ops insertion, the Houston’s forward deck would have been fitted with a clamshell dry dock shelter and an SDV, or Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, but the accelerated nature of Fisher’s mission had made this impossible, so he’d simply exited the sub’s forward escape trunk and swum the half mile to the island.
So far the weather was partially cooperating with his plan. The sky was clear, with an occasional scud of clouds passing before the moon. According to Collins’s weather officer, a tropical storm was working its way up from the South China Sea, pushing a line of rain squalls before it.
Fisher reached back and plucked his binoculars off his harness. He scanned the top of the cliff, looking for movement or headlights. He saw nothing. He replaced the binoculars and moved his left arm forward until his could see the OPSAT’s screen. He punched a button and a map of Cezi Maji appeared in the green glow.
Grimsdottir had done her usual thorough job, having divided the map into three views: standard topographical with geographical features, EM, and infrared, each of which was labeled according to Smith’s brief: cliff road; outer rain forest; inner cutback zone; and the estate proper. A variety of multicolored symbols marked known locations of cameras, sensors, sentry zones, and fences.
Looking at the fortress that was Bai Kang Shek’s island, Fisher felt a momentary tingle of apprehension, but he shook it off. Break it down, Sam,he commanded himself. One step at a time. One camera, one sensor, one sentry.
He lowered his face mask back into the water and started inching forward.
TENminutes later, he was across the beach and hidden amid the rocks at the base of the cliff. Behind him, waves hissed over the sand and retreated, leaving a cream of froth. He picked his way along the cliff until he had a clear view of the top, then waited.
His wait was short. Eight minutes later, he saw a pair of headlights moving through the foliage. They stopped and went dark. A few seconds later, a flashlight blinked on. In the moonlight Fisher could see a figure standing at the edge of the cliff. The guard played the flashlight over the rock face, then down and over the sand.
The flashlight blinked out. The headlights glowed to life and started moving away.
Fisher tapped the button of the OPSAT’s screen labeled LOCKand the red diamond symbol on the cliff road started flashing. LOCK ENABLED. With the jeep patrols on a predictable schedule, all Fisher had to do was lock in the appearance of one them to track the rest. One by one, the remaining five jeep patrols popped onto the screen at various points along the cliff road.
A set of scrolling numbers next to each diamond showed the time remaining until it reached Fisher’s position. He had six minutes until the next. He punched up the OPSAT’s comm screen and tapped out a message— FEET DRY—and hit send. Given the inordinately high level of the island’s security, he and Lambert had agreed to forgo normal check-in procedures and keep transmissions to a minimum.
He trotted back to the spot he’d chosen earlier and started climbing.
THEcliff was at once a climber’s dream and nightmare, a mix of granite, with plenty of lateral cleaves that made for good handholds, and volcanic basalt that was in some places worn smooth by millennia of weather, but in others, jagged, frangible, and as abrasive as steel wool.
By switching between NV and standard view, he was able to slowly pick his way upward, zigzagging from one granite run to the other until he was halfway to the top. His OPSAT vibrated once on his wrist, then again. He locked his right hand into a crevice and lifted the OPSAT to his face.
On the screen one of the red diamonds was moving down the cliff road, nearing his postion. The time display wound down past sixty seconds . . . fifty-five. . . .