Sometimes that approach was necessary, Jian knew, but he disliked being treated like a child. He would do his part, without question, but it helped to know that Yinbi would not be facing Yankee submarines alone.
Perhaps, he thought, the larger plan embraced the hope that one or more of the American attack subs would be caught and sunk as well. The Seawolf, reportedly, was fabulously expensive — more expensive even than the notorious Soviet "Golden Fish." If an American aircraft carrier and one of their Seawolfs or the new attack sub could be brought down…
Yes, it made sense. Faced with such a loss from "terrorists," America, known throughout the world for its cost-consciousness, would almost surely pull back from the western Pacific.
And that would give Beijing a free hand at last with the rebellious population of Taiwan.
He just wished that China's allies were a bit more reliable. He had no respect for these Muslim fanatics, and less trust.
Zaki, the tall Saudi, was sliding an envelope across the table to Han. "Here is the record of payment, as promised."
Jian watched as Han opened the envelope and read the slip of paper inside. It was a record of money — a very large sum of money — transferred from Riyadh to the Bank of Hong Kong. Evidently, American attempts to shut down al Qaeda's global financial network had been less than successful.
Perhaps that was the real reason Jian did not trust these foreigners. It wasn't just the fanaticism of their beliefs; it was the fact that they spent money like water. They'd bought a fair number of Pakistani military and government officials to get control of the Shuhadaa. Now they were paying Beijing for the right to use the Small Dragon base and for the assistance of the Yinbi. Such people, in Jian's experience, came to believe that they owned the people they'd paid.
And Jian belonged to no one and no thing but himself and the naval service.
"My orders," Han said, "are to await confirmation from the mainland."
"Of course."
"However, this all appears to be in order. I expect to receive the final orders to proceed no later than this evening."
"I would suggest the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen be under way tonight, then," ul Haq said. "The sooner we are at sea, the better."
"I agree," Zaki said. "With your permission, General, my associates and I will also leave tonight. We took precautions to distract the Americans and their satellites, but if they tracked us anyway, it will be safer for you if we are gone."
"So long as I have confirmation of the payment, you may leave when you wish," Han said with a shrug. "If the Americans did see you arrive, we can always tell them we ordered you in for violating our sovereign waters!"
Zaki chuckled. "That would be a difficult claim to maintain. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, nobody owns these islands."
"Nobody and everybody. We are asserting our historic claims to the Spratly Islands, however. Which is why Captain ul Haq here is going to help us with the Vietnamese problem."
"The Vietnamese will be the least of your problems, General," ul Haq said. He locked eyes with Jian.
"Your naval officers will have their hands full when the Americans respond with a carrier battle group."
"That, Captain, will be my worry," Jian said smoothly. "Not yours. If you carry out your part of this operation, we will take care of ours."
"I am gratified," ul Haq said, addressing Han, "that your people are so confident. I trust they will not be hampered by overconfidence."
"Captain Jian is one of the best submarine officers in the PLAN," Han said, surprising Jian with the overt compliment. Han was not known for being gracious or for bestowing praise. "This plan has been carefully and methodically developed, both by your people and by ours. There is little that can go wrong."
"One thing can go wrong, General," Jian said.
"Eh? What is that?"
He held ul Haq's eyes with his own, trying to judge the man's strength. "A failure of nerve, sir. By either party. But I trust that is not a serious possibility."
"It is not," ul Haq said, his voice steady. "Not for our part, at any rate."
"Nor is it for ours."
"Then," Han said, smiling, "perhaps we should toast our victory!"
Zaki scowled. "We cannot—"
"We know the restrictions of your religion." Han snapped his fingers, and an aide standing silently near the door vanished through it, to return an instant later with a silver platter bearing cups and tea. "You can join us in tea?"
The Muslims relaxed, and Zaki nodded. "Of course."
Jian, however, did not relax. It was entirely too soon, he thought, to be celebrating victory with any toast, no matter what the beverage.
He would be glad when they no longer needed to rely on foreigners.
The People's Republic of China could fight its own battles.
7
"Ocean floor is dropping fast, Captain," Jorgensen reported. "Somebody just yanked the deck out from under us."
"Very well," Garrett said. "Helm, steady as she goes."
"Steady as she goes, aye, Captain," the man at the helm station replied.
Garrett sat in the center seat, surveying his domain. Virginia's control center was unlike that of any submarine he'd ever served aboard.
The periscope was gone, first of all. Input from Virginia's Photonics mast was displayed on the big forward screen for all in the control room to see. Without the massive, gleaming column of a periscope mount in the middle of the control room, there was room for a seat for the captain, set on a swivel so he could see every console and station without moving from the spot.
In front of him and to his left was the seat for the diving officer, and ahead of that were the side-by-side seats for the enlisted men at the dive plane and helm stations, their consoles set against the left-forward half of the control room bulkhead, just beneath the forward screen. On previous U.S. attack subs, those two stations had been controlled by aircraft-style steering yokes. On the Virginia, the yokes had been replaced by touchscreens and grip-contoured joysticks, giving them the feel of a simulator game in some fantastic, ultramodern video arcade.
As on earlier U.S. submarines, along the left side of the control room were the navigational consoles and the NAVSTAR GPS board. Down the right side were weapons and fire-control panels — including the Command and Control System, or CCS-2, from which Tomahawk missiles could be programmed and fired — and the BSY-2 — "Busy-Two" — board, which could track dozens of sonar targets simultaneously. The sonar shack itself was in a long, narrow room through a door in the aft bulkhead. Forward, well marked by glaring security signs, was the communications center, or radio shack.
Behind Garrett's seat, also on the control room's aft bulkhead, was the big automated plot board, where Lieutenant DeKalb and the yeoman of the watch kept careful track of Virginia's position, course, and speed. Garrett swiveled his chair to check the screen. Virginia's current location was marked by a moving circle at the end of a long and slowly growing green line.
As the boat's exec had just reported, the bottom was dropping away as Virginia's northwesterly course carried her through the McClure Strait, past the shallows of Banks Island and out over the black depths of the Canada Basin. A moment before, the water depth had been 100 meters. Now, as the sub flew out over the edge of a submarine cliff, the bottom was at 280 meters — almost 900 feet — and still falling. The deepest point of the ice-locked Canada Basin still lay 600 miles due west — and 15,000 feet down.