by Andrew Watts
Moments later, they had taken off, headed north.
Over the loud noise of the plane’s engine, Natesh spoke into Lena’s ear. “Can you please tell me where we are going now?”
Lena leaned over, her long black hair flowing down over Natesh’s arm and shoulder as she spoke. “Back to the United States.”
2
Han-class submarine
90 miles west of Panama
Captain Ning read the email for the third time, shaking his head. Ning had taken his submarine across the Pacific as fast as possible, per Admiral Song’s orders. Their original mission had been to support the other Chinese naval forces in the area.
But a lot could change during a journey across the Pacific.
A week ago, the Americans had sunk a Chinese submarine and destroyer and severely wounded three other Chinese warships in the Eastern Pacific. This was the naval group that Captain Ning was supposed to assist. Ning knew the men aboard the submarine that was lost. The captain’s wife was friends with his own. He clenched his fist, thinking about the loss.
The email was from the senior PLA Navy commander. It came as background information—an addendum to the submarine’s official orders. Their official orders were to stand down and cease all further hostile activity towards US Navy warships. There was no further explanation about what they were to do after that.
But the email from the admiral contained extra information. Ning was to continue into the Eastern Pacific and await further instructions. He wasn’t sure why this was but had hypothesized that it might be to escort the wounded Chinese navy vessels on their way into Panama. After discussing the matter with his XO, however, he had become convinced of an alternative reason. Ning had precious cargo on board his boat—highly trained naval commandos.
Captain Ning rose from his desk and headed to the bridge.
“Status report.”
“Sir, the American carrier group is to our north. We haven’t noticed any active sonar activity in the past day. One unknown submerged track is coming in and out of contact in the vicinity of the American carrier group. We believe this to be either a Los Angeles–class or a Virginia-class attack submarine.”
The captain nodded. “Keep working to identify who it is. We must be very careful here. We cannot afford to be detected.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The communications officer entered the bridge. “A message from the island, Captain.”
The island. Those two words were spoken with a hushed reverence now. Or was it worry in the young officer’s voice?
The captain nodded and followed him to the communications room, where he hunched over the computer and adjusted his reading glasses. He read over the message and sighed. “Please fetch the executive officer.”
“Right away, sir.” The young officer scurried off.
The captain wasn’t sure what was going on in Beijing now, but at least this message answered one of his questions. His XO had been right about using their special cargo.
Admiral Song had warned him that something like this might happen. The fog of war spreading into the hallways of government. Confusion and misinformation were byproducts of such a radical body of work. Jinshan’s operation must have been rejected by Chinese leadership.
Was a coup underway? But if Admiral Song was behind bars… would Ning be imprisoned when he returned to home port? Maybe there was still a way out of this conspiracy. He shook off the thought. Ning had already picked his side.
Admiral Song had chosen a dozen of his most trusted and capable commanders, and Ning was among them. Song had brought them into Jinshan’s inner circle and explained what would happen to China if they didn’t make war upon the United States.
The operations that they were to participate in would be classified at the highest level. Even members of the Politburo would not know the truth. The loyal and patriotic officers of the South Sea Fleet had pledged to do whatever needed to be done, and Admiral Song had begun deploying them in clandestine operations around the world, in preparation for Jinshan’s war.
Captain Ning’s boat had been training near the island, practicing with the elite naval commandos before traveling across the Pacific Ocean. While Captain Ning didn’t know Cheng Jinshan, he trusted Admiral Song implicitly. Admiral Song was a brilliant strategist, and an outstanding officer.
Still, he wondered how the charade was being kept up in Beijing. Were the political and military leaders there still so confused as not to know where their military units were, or what they were being told to do? If Song and Jinshan had been arrested, why was the island still sending them orders? Orders that appeared as if nothing had changed.
Could it be a test? To see if Ning was loyal to Beijing or the island?
Or maybe Jinshan and Admiral Song hadn’t really been arrested. Perhaps that was a ruse, too. But then why had Beijing sent out their message last week after the naval battles—the one that told all Chinese military forces to stand down and cease further hostilities?
He read the computer screen again, shaking his head. The island had just sent him orders that directly conflicted with the stand-down instruction. Now he would have to decide which instructions he would follow.
“Captain, you wanted to see me?”
The captain nodded toward the screen. “Read.”
His executive officer was the number two officer on the submarine. His subordinate, but also his closest and only confidant. Captain Ning thought highly of the man.
“What do you think?”
The XO looked him in the eye. “Very odd, after what the PLA Navy high command sent us last week.”
“My thoughts as well.”
The captain turned to the bulkhead, thinking. “Tell the conning officer to head us towards these coordinates. See if sonar is picking up anything that matches this description. If it’s there, we’ll follow these orders.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The executive officer left the communications room and began issuing orders to the different members of the crew.
The captain picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. The commander of the South Sea Fleet’s naval special operations detachment answered from his stateroom several spaces away.
“This is Lieutenant Ping.”
“Lieutenant, please have your men get ready for immediate deployment.”
A moment’s hesitation. After two months at sea, and the news of the last week, the young officer was as surprised as anyone. “Yes, sir, of course.”
“And come see me as soon as you are ready. I’ll provide instructions. We have received an urgent message from the island.”
Chinese special operations forces are very different from the United States’ own units. The PLA has almost two and a half million active-duty members, and an estimated thirty thousand special operations personnel. The United States active-duty military is about half that size, although its numbers of special operations personnel are comparable.
But while the Chinese special operators are high in quantity, they are low in experience. United States special operations forces have been sharpened by decades of war around the globe. Their units are made up of experienced veterans, and they are often integrated with organic specialized aviation units.
Chinese special operations forces, on the other hand, are comprised mostly of two-year conscripts and first-tour lieutenants. Chinese commandos are known for being extremely tough and capable, but young and inexperienced.
Lieutenant Ping was one of these young lieutenants. He was four years into his service as a naval officer. A graduate of the newly formed Special Operations Academy in Guangzhou, he was one of only fifty officers in the South Sea Fleet’s Special Operations Regiment, one of the few Chinese naval SOF units.
While his unit spent most of their time training, Chinese military leadership had recently stepped up SOF deployments. Lieutenant Ping’s regiment had sent teams to various parts of the world in order to better project power and protect Chinese interest
s. Ping and his group of peers had competed fiercely with one another in order to be selected for one of these coveted deployments. When Ping was chosen, he relished the opportunity to prove himself in a real-world situation.
Ping had been deployed aboard a PLA Navy destroyer and sent to the Middle East on a counterpiracy deployment in the Gulf of Aden. Their mission was to escort cargo ships transiting the Internationally Recommended Transit Corridor in between Somalia and Yemen. Merchant shipping companies had learned from the rash of pirate attacks over the past decade and often hired private security to escort their valuable ships. But acts of piracy still occurred.
Lieutenant Ping had led a team of naval commandos as they retook a Chinese-flagged merchant ship from a band of Somali criminals. Ping had received many accolades from his superiors and earned the respect of his enlisted men. Ping’s men appreciated his cool demeanor and quick decision making. But more than that, the young officer looked out for his troops and demanded from himself a level of performance that exceeded that of his men. He was always the hardest-working, the first one to meetings and the last one to leave the training areas.
But as Ping listened to his orders now, he had many questions. Some of them he would voice to the captain. Others he would keep to himself. In the PLA Navy, a few questions would show intelligence and preparation. Too many, and he might show a lack of comprehension, or worse…that he was questioning the wisdom of his orders.
“Terminate all personnel with extreme prejudice, it says.”
“You have read the orders accurately,” replied the submarine captain.
“Who are these men?”
“Criminals. Drug smugglers, from what the description says.”
Ping looked at his watch, then back at the orders on the screen. “We have two hours to prepare.”
“Correct.”
Ping read over the instructions once more. “May I use the wardroom to go over our mission brief with my men?”
“Of course. Just let me know what you need.”
“Very well. We will study this and spend the next hour planning. This will be an unusually quick reaction time, but we will be ready, Captain.”
“Excellent, Mr. Ping. I wish you good luck.” The captain extended his hand.
The young special operations lieutenant shook the captain’s hand, his eyes fierce.
Ping hurried to the different sections of the submarine where his men were located. Some were working out, others sleeping. Within five minutes of notification, they were all dressed and in the wardroom, looking over a chart. Planning took an hour. They looked at the type of vessel they would be assaulting, how many personnel were on board, expected armament and skill level of enemy forces, and optimal entry points.
Preparations for their underwater exit took another forty minutes.
They divided into four groups of two for the exit. They used the submarine’s two escape trunks, built just inside its hatches.
The outer doors were flush with the body of the submarine. The chamber just inside the outer hatch was the escape trunk. They could fit two people at a time. A submarine crewman operator stood just inside the inner hatch. His job was to make sure that the inner and outer doors were both locked, that the pressure was equalized with the ocean outside the door, and that the hatch was flooded with water and refilled with air at the appropriate times.
Moments later, all eight members were swimming outside the submarine, breathing with the help of their scuba system. Ping and his team swam over two hundred yards to the boat. They broke the surface once, about fifty yards away, to check their bearings.
The moon and starlight reflected glimmers of white off the ocean surface. The smugglers’ boat was a black shadow, pitching and rolling in the sea. The ship was dead in the water—engine off. Ping could hear the occasional sound of voices over the lapping of the waves.
His team was silent, swimming fast with their scuba gear and silenced submachine guns strapped to their wetsuits. Once they were underneath the vessel, Ping had a decision to make. They could use grappling hooks and rope, climbing about five feet above the waterline. But that might be noisy, and it would take a little longer than the alternative. The noise might give away their position as they climbed. The second entry possibility was a small ladder at the aft end of the ship. The problem with that was its proximity to where the boat’s crew was likely to be. They would have to climb up one man at a time. If the smugglers were armed and had numbers, it could end badly for Ping’s men.
Not to mention that there was a propeller right next to that ladder. The motor was off for now, but Ping wasn’t sure how long they would have until the cigarette speedboat arrived. The submarine captain had estimated one hour. Would they start moving once it was within radio range? Or would they stay quiet, afraid to draw the attention of coast guard and navy vessels patrolling the area?
Ping’s men would follow his lead. Sometimes it mattered less whether one made the best choice than whether one made it in a timely manner. He chose to go up the aft end of the ship and signaled his men. They began removing their weights and tanks, tying them off on the ladder.
Ping grabbed on to the metal ladder and pulled himself up, stepping and climbing fast. He was heavy, his tactical gear weighing him down as soon as he was out of the water. He threw himself over the stern of the ship and unstrapped his weapon. He then brought his mask down around his neck, looking and listening for any sign of opposition.
His team was only seconds behind. Each of them followed his movements, preparing their equipment and aiming their weapons forward, trying their best to be quiet in their bulky black wetsuits.
The lights were all off on the ship, and voices could be heard coming from the bridge. Ping and his men each removed a clip-on night vision goggle apparatus from a waterproof chest pocket and snapped it in place. A flick of the switch, and the unit powered up. Night became day, and his men broke into preplanned teams, each silently making their way throughout the vessel.
Ping walked along the port outer deck of the boat. There was a covered bridge ahead. Another team would be walking along the starboard side, and yet another would be heading down the ladder and into the berthing area. It wasn’t a large vessel. This would only take a few seconds.
He heard a shout and rapid Spanish ahead, then the familiar rattle of one of his men’s silenced submachine guns. Then there were many shouts.
Movement ahead. There.
A smuggler appeared in front of him. The man backed out of the bridge, his hands to his sides. Ping pressed his trigger and fired a burst from his machine gun. His target’s body convulsed and then fell to the deck.
“Clear,” said one of his men from the bridge.
More gunfire. This time from belowdecks. Bullet holes in front of him as the floor was peppered from below. Ping ran backwards to get out of the line of fire, his heart beating. More gunfire. Ping could see two of his commandos advancing down the stairs, their weapons glued to their shoulders, firing in short, controlled bursts. Then, silence.
“Clear belowdecks.”
Ping went to the bridge and checked the radio. He keyed the mike three times on the bridge-to-bridge frequency. The submarine, at periscope depth, would hear this and know that the first part of his mission had been a success.
He turned to his men. “Stow your diving gear and get ready. The speedboat should be here any moment now. When they arrive, we need to fill it up with gas. We will then board it and head inland. We must be ashore before dawn. Does everyone understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Nods from his men.
So far, so good. Ping wondered what the island would have in store for him once they reached the Americas.
She would know.
Lena Chou. Ping had heard of her—most of them had. Ping had even seen her once, when he had attended training on the island a month ago. But he had never spoken to her.
She was a shadow. An elite blend of intelligence operative and special forces warrior. One of Jinsh
an’s special spies. Rumor had it that she had been embedded with an American intelligence agency until recently. Her cover blown, she was now operating as Jinshan’s personal cleaner, fixing and improving their espionage and special operations capability at the tip of the spear.
“There it is, Lieutenant. The range finder says two thousand meters.” One of his men was looking through a night vision telescopic lens.
Ping checked his watch. “Excellent.”
When the long cigarette speedboat finally pulled up alongside, Ping’s men threw out bumpers and tied it up. They began pumping fuel from the mothership to the go-fast.
Lena Chou stepped across to the mothership. “Who is in charge?”
“I am Lieutenant Ping, Miss Chou. My men and I are now at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ping. We’ll need to get to shore before dawn. Once there, we’ll be able to get your men into civilian attire before we journey north. How much have they told you about this assignment?”
“I know that that we will be traveling through Mexico and into the United States. My men are prepared for anything.”
“I’m sure they are, Mr. Ping. This won’t be hard. But we’ll need to keep a low profile. How many of your men speak Spanish or English?”
“All of them speak English, ma’am. But some better than others. Two are fluent in Spanish.”
She nodded. “That will do.”
Ping noticed a dark figure in the speedboat, lying in a heap. He seemed to be groaning.
“Who is he?”
“He is with me.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Seasick.”
Ping smiled.
One of Ping’s men walked up to them, balancing himself on the rail as the waves rocked them back and forth. “We’re finished fueling, sir.”
Then Lena walked over to the radios on the bridge. She tuned up a frequency and began transmitting. She spoke several times, but nothing she said made any sense to Ping. It was gibberish. Or code.
“Miss Chou?” Ping knew that it was not smart of her to make any radio transmissions. The US military would be able to triangulate the transmission. The American intelligence collection agencies would be able to match her voice to their data. They would surely be looking for her voice…
