A moment later, a shape resolved itself out of the blur of green light, a sharply curving prow, a high superstructure with an elevated flying bridge, two decks' worth of portholes above the main deck.
"Rich man's yacht," Jorgensen said, eyebrows rising. "Is that Al Qahir?"
"That's her," Stevens said. "We've just lucked out."
"Mr. Jorgensen," Garrett said, "alert the SEALs. We have a target for them."
"Aye aye, sir."
Al Qahir first… and then the Chinese base.
The rain had stopped some time ago, but visibility was still poor — blessedly so, since Zaki wanted to be far from Small Dragon Island by the time the clouds lifted and the ocean surface was again visible to the prying eye of American spy satellites. He walked over to the circular screen of the yacht's radar display and studied the empty green sweep of the rotating cursor for a moment. Al Qahir was alone, for the moment, on a wide empty ocean.
Which didn't necessarily mean safety, of course. Turning, he walked toward the rear of the bridge area, to the console where a young Saudi sonar technician seemed to be puzzled about something he was hearing.
Though she looked like a typical wealthy man's yacht, Al Qahir had some very special appointments indeed — not the least of which was a highly advanced sonar system, a Russian-built Tamir high-frequency system capable of picking out the approach of submarines or underwater commandos from the background noise of the ocean deeps.
Zaki was extremely aware that American submarines could be operating in the area.
"What is it?" he asked.
The sonar man shook his head, then removed his earphones and handed them to Zaki. "At first I wasn't sure, sir. I was picking up a strange noise of some sort. But listen." He grinned.
Zaki held one of the earphones to his ear and listened. The far-off, eerie cry, echoing through the deeps, was at once familiar and hauntingly alien.
"Whalesong," he said.
"Yes, sir. A whale love song."
"Then perhaps we can relax," Zaki said, smiling as he handed the headphones back. "If whales are making love beneath us, that means there is nothing about to disturb them… like American submarines!"
"Exactly what I was thinking, sir."
Zaki returned to his usual spot behind the bridge windscreen to the right of the Saudi pilot, staring out into the empty night, giving thanks to Allah for the darkness, the clouds, and the solitude.
He would be glad when this mission was over. Al Qahir would remain in the area only for another five days, coordinating the activities of Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen. After that, with the American fleet entering the Spratly group and — in all likelihood — engaging the Chinese, they would round the western coast of Borneo and make for Jakarta. The Maktum cell in Indonesia would provide him with the papers and identity necessary to smuggle him back into Europe. He would also turn the two women over to the Maktum people in Jakarta. Let them worry about ransom, about keeping them safe from the sexual appetites of their guards… or about the possible repercussions that might descend out of the night sky.
Lieutenant Mark Halstead leaned forward in the number-two pilot's seat of the ASDS, watching the blip representing the target grow slowly closer. "Range four hundred," he said softly. "Relative bearing still zero-zero-zero, closing at eighteen knots."
So far, so good, he thought. They were only going to get one shot at this, and it had to go down perfectly.
Once Al Qahir had been positively identified emerging from the sheltered base at Small Dragon Island and her westward course confirmed, Virginia had swung around to the southwest, putting herself directly in Al Qahir's path. The SEAL detachment had climbed up the escape trunk ladder and into the ASDS. When they were a mile from the approaching Al Qahir, the SEAL minisub had cast off from its larger consort, heading due east, bow-on to the yacht.
The ASDS had a sixty-seven-horsepower motor that could propel the fifty-five-ton minisub at a top speed of eight knots. Al Qahir was currently moving at ten knots which, combined with the ASDS's speed of eight, meant the two were approaching each other at eighteen knots — about twenty miles per hour. Four hundred yards at eighteen knots… about forty seconds more to contact. If the yacht veered off to right or left, the ASDS would be hard pressed to match the maneuver; if they missed on their first pass, the minisub would not be able to catch up in a stern chase. Virginia would have to disable the yacht instead, and that would be both messy and dangerous.
The idea was to take the yacht down as swiftly and as quietly as possible, both to prevent those on board from putting out a distress call and alerting the defenders of Small Dragon Island, and just in case there were hostages on board. The passengers and crew of the Sea Breeze were still unaccounted for, so the SEALs would be treating this as a hostage rescue.
First, though, they needed to stop the yacht, and they needed to stop it without alerting its crew.
He checked the sonar screen once more. One hundred fifty yards. Whalesong chirped and clicked and moaned, startlingly loud in the tiny control compartment.
The ASDS was using active sonar — they had to in order to get precise range and target data. But they were trying a new twist; irregular sonar pulses were masked behind a computer recording of a couple of mating humpback whales. The ASDS computer could mask out the recording in order to receive clearly the echoed sonar returns. Anyone listening on board the target, however, would hear only the whales — unless they were very good, or had extraordinarily sophisticated equipment.
Or unless whoever was listening on board the target happened to know that humpback whales didn't frequent these seas, or mate at this time of year.
A calculated risk.
As was this head-on approach. The ASDS didn't mount torpedoes or other weapons. In order to stop the yacht, they would have to use the minisub itself as a blunt-nosed torpedo.
One hundred yards, end zone to end zone on a football field.
Like Virginia, the ASDS possessed a Photonics mast. Its sensor suite included a camera that relayed the view to a large-screen monitor in the control compartment. Right now, all that Halstead and Michaels could see on the screen was the dark gray nose of the ASDS below, and above the diffuse glow of hull lights reflected from tiny particles of muck adrift in the water. Going in with the forward hull lights on was another calculated risk; the Al Qahir's pilot might see the light in his path — a light that might be mistaken for natural phosphorescence, but which also might give the game away seconds too early.
The ASDS was traveling at a depth of fifty feet, too deep for the light to show on the surface. Michaels, at the controls, was going to have to do some fancy flying in the next few moments to avoid having the lights visible on the roof while still hitting the target.
Fifty yards….
"I'm starting to bring her up," Michaels said.
"Right." Halstead picked up the intercom mike. "Listen up back there! We're on our final approach. Brace for collision!" He checked his own seat belt. He didn't know how rough the impact was going to be. The ASDS was ruggedly built. She should survive the collision… he hoped….