“Where is Soong right now?” Brown asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Pardon me?”
“He’s in a laogi somewhere to the north, but I don’t know its location.”
“Then how are you in contact with him?”
“I’m sorry, the general was very specific. I can only give those details to the man he asked for … this Tanner person.”
Alarms went off in Brown’s head. “That’s unacceptable.”
“I know.” Bian hesitated, started to speak, then stopped. “I …”
“What?”
“He’ll be angry I gave you this information.”
“Why? What information?”
“He desperately wants to get his family out of China with him.”
“We assumed that,” Brown said. “I don’t understand—”
“That’s why he wants Tanner to come here. Soong trusts him.”
“So?”
“So, I may know a simpler way. You may be able to get him out without setting foot in China.”
If not for the added conditions, tonight’s exercise would have been a simple one, something Master Chief Robert Jurens and his team of three SEALs had done dozens of times. In this case, the “added conditions” involved a guided missile frigate lobbing three-inch shells onto the beach they were trying to reconnoiter.
Known to fellow operators as “Sconi” because of his proud Wisconsin upbringing (one of the only black dairy farming families in the state, he was fond of telling people), Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a goatee and an easy smile. Jurens had been on the teams for fourteen years, having gone from a lowly seaman during BUD/s training to one of the youngest master chiefs in the navy. Since navy SpecWar ran on the merit system, he was frequently put in command of platoons, often over the heads of commissioned officers. No one complained. Jurens knew his business and he knew how to lead.
Tonight’s swim-in had been taxing, largely because the currents surrounding San Clemente Island were ferocious. In wartime they would have come here to map the shoals for obstacles, dangerous gradients, bed consistency — anything that might impede an amphibious force.
Through the murky water Jurens could hear the muffled whoosh-crump of the three-inch shells pounding the beach ahead of them. Very close, he thought. He could feel the impacts rumbling through the sand beneath him. Hope the fire-control boys are on their game tonight.
He reached out and gave the buddy-line a double tug, signaling the team to advance. His belly scraped the sand. As each wave crashed over his head and then receded he caught glimpses of sloped beach and—
Crump! A geyser of sand and flame erupted on the beach, then another.
Suddenly he saw a flicker of blue light in the corner of his eye. He rolled onto his back and poked his mask out of the water. High above, a flare arced into the sky, followed a moment later by a yellow. It was the “abort exercise” signal.
The other team members had also seen it, and one by one they waded ashore. Before anyone could ask questions, they heard the thump of helicopter rotors. A few seconds later a pair of strobe lights materialized out of the darkness. The helicopter — a Seahawk from the frigate, Jurens guessed — stopped in a hover over the beach, then landed in a storm of sand. The cabin door opened. The crewman inside pointed to Jurens and waved him over.
Jurens jogged over. “What’s up?” he shouted.
“Orders for you, Master Chief!”
“Now? We’re kinda in the middle of something, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m just the messenger. They said now, so here we are.”
Jurens took the message and trotted away as the Seahawk lifted off behind him and disappeared into the night. He opened the message and started reading.
“Bad news, Skip?” asked Smitty.
“I guess that depends on how you feel about Alaska,” Sconi replied.
Three thousand miles to the east, a man to whom Sconi Bob Jurens would soon owe his life was also receiving a message. Commander Archie Kinsock, skipper of the USS Columbia, was standing in the sub’s Control Room when the radio-shack operator called on the intercom.
“Traffic for you, Skipper. Eyes only.”
“On my way.”
As Columbia was in port, only a skeleton crew remained aboard to perform housekeeping functions. Most of the crew was either on liberty or in one of Pearl’s BEQs, or Base Enlisted Quarters, whose rooms, though far from luxurious, certainly seemed so to submariners.
Kinsock walked forward, punched the cipher keypad on Radio’s door, and pushed through. “It’s on the printer, Skipper,” said the RM3.
“Thanks, Finn.” Kinsock tore off the sheet and read.
“Bad news, sir?”
“Huh?”
“You’re frowning.”
“First thing they taught us in CO school, Finn. Go grab yourself a cup of coffee, will ya?”
“Yes, sir.” Finn left.
Kinsock reached above his head, switched the intercom to the IMC, or the boat-wide public address, and keyed the handset. “XO to Radio.”
Jim McGregor, the boat’s executive officer, appeared a minute later. “What’s up, Skipper?”
“How many have we got ashore, Jim?”
“Eighty-two. Four on leave.”
“Get ’em all back here,” Kinsock said. “We’ve got a job.”
9
“We’ve had our first meeting with Soong’s contact,” Mason said, then recapped Brown’s report. “So far, Bian seems on the level. He’s frazzled, though, and that’s a worry. We don’t think he’s bait, but Brown said he stood out like a wooden leg at a beauty contest.”
“A white crow,” said Dutcher. “White Crow” was an old KGB term for an agent whose behavior tends to single him out in crowds.
Tanner asked, “Can Brown limit his contact with him?”
“Hopefully. If not, his risk goes up every time they meet.”
“Do we know anything about his motivation?” asked Oaken.
George Coates answered. “Ideology. Admiration, from the sound of it.”
Of the many reasons that spur agents to work for enemy services, personal motivation, or “feel goods,” is the rarest. Admiration — unless it stems from a deeply personal relationship — will carry an agent only so far. Once things get dicey, admiration is almost always overpowered by fear.
“He’s a Soong groupie, for lack of a better term. In the seventies and eighties Soong was a genuine hero. The people’s nickname for him was lie, which means both ‘grandfather’ and ‘hero,’ depending on the inflection. After Tiananmen, when Soong began speaking out, he made a lot of enemies in the government, but gained a real grassroots following.”
And that was his downfall, thought Tanner. Knowing this, and being torn between loyalty for his country and fear for his family, Soong contacted the CIA. In the end, Soong’s worst fears were realized.
“The good news is, we may have gotten a break. Soong is scheduled to leave the country.”
“What?” said Tanner. “Where?”
“Jakarta, as a member of the PRC’s delegation at the annual Asian Economic and Foreign Affairs Conference. If so, it’ll be the first time Soong has been seen in twelve years. Best guess is they plan to have him speak about human rights.”