“Off you go, and good luck.”
Innes opened the lower hatch and climbed up, Alves followed. The seaman passed the bug up to them and the hatch was sealed and wheeled shut. Two taps followed by two more was the signal. The rating opened a valve to let seawater into the chamber.
INNES AND ALVES SWITCHED on their helmet lights, the red light filling the chamber was washed out. They were already waist deep in seawater, and they held the bug vertical resting on the lower hatch. Equipment checks had already been carried out in the boat’s main companionway.
The chamber filled, the water level rose to cover their masks, then finally, it was full. Innes reached up and turned the wheel, then stepped up a couple of rungs and lifted the hatch. Outside was a black void. Innes swam out into it, Alves followed, and they pulled the bug out behind them. Alves turned the bug horizontal, reached into the bag, and opened an inflation valve until the bug reached neutral buoyancy. Innes took the left hand side and Alves took the right, and gripping the two handles, they took a bearing and kicked off. Their buoyancy was slightly negative so they drifted down the seabed. It wasn’t silty, there was the odd filter feeder and starfish. Some thin, kelp like green fronds waved to and fro. Innes checked the depth, 110 feet. The only sound was their breathing and the hiss and pop of the feed and return valves of the CIS Lunar rebreathers.
The rebreathers were a fully closed circuit and gave no bubbles off, it re-used their breath and removed carbon dioxide. Electronics made sure the divers always got the right mixture of gas for their depth; the required Oxygen level was lower when they went deeper.
Alves shouldered the rebreather. Inside the shell on the divers’ backs, was a large cylinder to the left and plastic tube of some powder substance with a smaller cylinder below it.
He checked the two cylinders carefully. In the larger tank was the diluent, Trimix. Helium, oxygen and nitrogen. The small tank held oxygen.
Alves remembered his training. A diluent was nothing exotic, a non-diver breathes a diluent: the nitrogen in the air.
Oxygen was added to the trimix when told to by the computer. As well as breathing, Alves knew the mix provides buoyancy gas to the bags on the diver’s chest. This gas is also breathed in and out. The powder scrubbed out the carbon dioxide.
Alves knew Innes and him were in their equipment’s hands. Rebreathers provided them with a much extended dive time and depth, and of course no bubbles; ideal for a covert Infil of an enemy’s harbour or other facilities.
He ran his hands over the tank on his chest. They each wore a seven litre bail out tank with its own breathing regulator. This was just in case the rebreather failed. It was filled with Nitrox thirty six; that is thirty six percent oxygen, sixty four percent nitrogen, so reducing the decompression time.
They finned towards datum one, a wall at the north side of the channel, if all went well they’d cross the cable.
Their whole world was just the five or so yards around them. Outside that was a black void. It was fin, fin, breath in, fin, fin, breath out. On and on into the void.
Innes suddenly stopped finning. No. Shit. Alves continued on regardless. Innes reached over and pulled him back. He could see Alves frowning through his mask.
Innes reached out in front of himself and indicated something and Alves moved forward to see. There it was, a nylon line about eight inches above the seabed. Innes knew this was a trip line. They could activate mortar fire from a nearby shoreline, unlikely in this case due to proximity to the cable. But it would alert the base’s security teams that a potential penetration was underway. They’d have to rise above it, taking care not to activate it with their fins. Innes had seen tricks like this before. He shone a torch upwards, carefully studying the water column. There was another, twelve feet above the first. Sneaky bastards. They were hoping if the bottom line was detected, the infiltrator would move up and activate the higher line. Innes pointed and waved his torch and Alves gave him the ok sign. They both added gas and moved higher and in between the two wires. They pressed on towards their sixty three degrees bearing. Once they swam by the line, they sank back down and finned on, keeping a careful watch. Alves spotted the next one. He stopped Innes and pointed. This one was at an angle to the seabed. Innes hadn’t seen that done before; it started low to the left and went high to the right. He raised his palms to Alves and shrugged. Alves pointed up the line, indicating curiosity as to what was up there.
Innes nodded. They moved up the line. As they ascended, they came across another line stretched from high left to low right. Innes wondered what the hell was it? They carried on up the diagonal line. Finally, a shape loomed out of the midwater blackness that sent a chill through both men’s stomachs.
Chapter 5
“YEAH, OK DAD THANKS. An iced tea and a dog. Onions, no mustard. And be quick, you know I hate the Cowboys, they’ll be back on soon.”
Stockhaisen climbed the steps and walked down into the concourse.
He walked once more towards Taco Bell. There, leaning against the wall, with a beer and another one for him, was Paul Wicks.
“Hi, you got anything for me?”
“Here’s a beer.”
“Thanks,” he took the beer. “Well?” he looked at his CIA contact with raised questioning eyebrows.
“I’ve got something I can let you read but not take away.” He handed Stockhaisen a copy of a document he’d photographed while Zhi Ruo was doing her face in the bathroom. The first part was in Chinese, and the second part was the translation.
He skimmed it. “Give it to me verbally.”
“The PLA are positioning a new weapon in the Paracels and the Spratlys. It’s a wing-in ground-effect cruise missile, capable of flying three feet over the sea’s surface with a 2,000 pound warhead. That’d give a carrier a very serious stomach ache. They’re low drag too, so 750 miles plus range. It rides a cushion of air at that altitude by staying so low throughout its flight, so this missile-drone is harder to detect than higher-flying missile systems, as it can hide from radar among the reflective clutter of the ocean's surface.”
“That’s all the fucking South China Sea?”
“Yeah, it’s worse than that,” said Paul, “all the way to Singapore, all of Taiwan and maybe the southern Islands of Japan. All from the Spratly Islands.”
“Your source?” Paul tapped the side of his nose.
“Humint.”
“Ok, I understand. I’ll be getting back.” He drank his beer and turned to leave.
“How are the FBI getting on with that MSS agent in DC?” asked Paul, trying to sound casual.
Stockhaisen turned. “They’re closing in. They don’t think it’ll be long now. Actually, they sent me a photo fit they’ve had done of her. I think I still have it on my phone.” He took out a cell phone and touched some parts of the screen. “Yeah this is it.” He held up the phone to Paul. “Bit of a looker isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Paul retained his composure somehow; but he was mortified. A strong likeness of Zhi Ruo stared out at him.
“Gotta go and watch the Cowboys get theirs. See ya, Paul.”
“See ya.”
Paul shook his head. This was getting real bad. He knew he had to think of something, he couldn’t just let her be just picked up by the Feds.
AS PAUL WAS DRIVING home, it hit him. He pulled over and called someone who owed him one.
“Vicky, it’s Paul Wicks. I’m good thanks. You too? Great. Look, I need a favour…”
SHE KNOCKED ON HIS door at seven.