by Larry Bond
Mentally shrugging, Chung said, “Hi, I’m Glenn. Did you report the acrid odor?” As he offered his hand, he turned to look at the unit. Randolph took his right hand in an unexpectedly firm grip, almost painful. Reflexively, Chung started to pull away, but Randolph wouldn’t let go. Before Chung could say something, another man came up from behind him and snapped a handcuff over his free wrist.
Confused, Chung felt a flash of panic. The hand with the cuff was still holding the toolbox, but he felt a sudden tug, and the box was sharply pulled from his grasp. Randolph then forcefully pushed the other wrist behind Chung’s back to his unseen assailant. The man grabbed the wrist and pulled it into position. The feel of cold steel and the sound of sharp clicks sent Chung’s heartbeat racing. Once his hands were secure, the other man quickly twisted him about. Still dazed, Chung soon found himself staring into Colonel Evans’s fiery eyes.
“Gotcha, you traitorous scumbag,” hissed Evans. He then shoved Chung toward Randolph and said, “He’s all yours, Special Agent Randolph.”
Spun around again, Chung found himself staring at the huge FBI agent. He had a large grin on his face. “Glenn Jing Chung, you are under arrest for violations of U.S. Code 2381, treason against the United States.” Randolph’s voice was flat, emotionless, but his expression clearly showed what he thought. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”
While Randolph gave Chung his Miranda warning, Evans and another agent searched him thoroughly. Randolph’s steel grip effectively pinned Chung’s arms behind him. His pockets were emptied and his belt removed.
It took a moment, but the word “treason” cleared away Chung’s confusion. The panic remained, and he worked to calm himself. This was always a possibility, no matter how careful he was. He remained passive and did not struggle or speak. He had nothing he could say to them.
He realized now it had been an ambush, a setup. How much did they know? Had they arrested his contact as well? They would search his trailer. He could only hope that they made a mistake when they examined his laptop.
They finished their search, putting his belongings in a pouch that Randolph sealed and tucked under his arm. Evans and the other FBI agent took firm hold of Chung’s arms, while Randolph retrieved his toolbox. Their grip made it clear that any attempt to resist would be unwise. Their expressions matched Randolph’s, and he realized he’d be seeing a lot of faces like that from now on.
Randolph pulled a radio from his belt and keyed the mike. “We’re ready. Execute.” He nodded to the other two, who silently nodded back.
A klaxon suddenly filled the building with harsh sound. It gave three short bursts, and then a recorded voice said, “THIS IS A DRILL. SECURITY ALERT, SECURITY ALERT. EXECUTE FACILITY-LOCKDOWN PROCEDURE. FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS OF SECURITY TEAM MEMBERS. THIS IS A DRILL.”
Chung knew the procedure. Colonel Evans insisted on holding emergency drills for fire, medical emergencies, or, in this case, terrorist attack. Everyone was supposed to stay in their offices or get into one, lock their doors, and not leave until the “all clear” was given.
A few moments after the alarm sounded, someone quietly rapped on the door, and Randolph opened it. Colonel Evans’s deputy, in body armor and carrying an automatic weapon, gestured silently to Randolph, who stepped quickly through the door. Evans and the FBI agent hustled Chung out of the room, then down the hall at a fast walk, almost a trot. A heavily armed pair of Marines led the way.
Additional security personnel were waiting at the stairwell, reporting “Clear” as the group approached. Chung was virtually carried down the stairs, with Evans now in the lead, after being relieved by a third agent.
They reached the bottom level, and a black van, side door already open, was only feet away from the stairwell exit.
Chung was wordlessly muscled into the van, the three FBI agents climbing in with him. Their hostile silence amplified the slam as the doors closed, cutting off all light except what came from the windshield and forward windows.
The van started moving, and while he was curious where they were going, Chung didn’t ask. They might not answer, and, besides, it didn’t matter. His fate was set, and nothing he said would change it.
* * *
“That’s it, then, he’s gone,” Evans reported with uncontained satisfaction. “I’ve briefed his supervisor. Josh will tell everyone that there was a sudden family emergency, and he’s not sure when he will be back. As far as I can tell, the FBI took him into custody and got him into the van without anyone seeing him.”
“Good,” Schultz replied, sounding just as pleased, and very relieved. “With any luck, the Chinese won’t know he’s been arrested for a week, maybe two if we’re lucky.”
Ray added, “And we avoid the distraction of a Chinese spy being discovered in our midst.”
“The distraction, and the publicity—the last thing we need is publicity,” Schultz agreed.
“Where will they take him?” Ray asked.
Evans shrugged. “Probably the supermax prison in Colorado. He’ll be held incommunicado there until after Defender’s launch.” The colonel held out a hand, forestalling questions. “Don’t worry, he’ll be arraigned, and charged, and probably assigned a government lawyer, once we can get one read into the program.”
“What if he wants his own lawyer?” Ray asked.
“That’s for the Justice Department to sort out with the DoD Judge Advocate General,” Evans answered. “It’s unlikely Chung will even ask. He hasn’t spoken a word since he was arrested.”
“Treason,” Ray said, testing the idea in his mind.
“I looked it up,” Evans explained. “‘Aid and comfort to the enemy,’ and that definitely includes espionage. If he’s convicted, he could get the needle.”
“I’d gladly shoot him myself,” Schultz added harshly. “He’s put the lives of people under my command in jeopardy.” He turned to face Evans. “I’m sure you’re doing your best to help the FBI and make sure there are no mistakes, but your highest priority is finding out what he told the Chinese.”
Evans straightened, almost coming to attention. “Yessir. I’ll make sure FBI forensic guys understand what’s at stake. Two of my people are with the FBI, searching his trailer right now, while his roommate’s at work. By the time he’s back, Chung’s stuff will all be gone.”
Ray said, “At some point, I’ll have to tell Biff and the flight crew about this, and the department heads, in case he’s done something that will affect the mission.”
“Let’s wait and see what the investigation finds out,” Evans cautioned. “It won’t take that long.”
The wicked grin suddenly popped up again on Evans’s face. “Don’t worry, Ray. I’ll make sure Jenny knows it wasn’t your idea to keep her in the dark. No champagne.”
“Does everybody know about that?”
19
Incidents
USS Santa Fe (SSN 763)
Yalong Bay
Hainan Island, China
November 30, 2017
“Ten seconds, Skipper.” The XO’s voice held a warning. Lieutenant Commander Jeff Kerry was the nervous type, but right now he felt it was an appropriate response.
“All right, down scope.” Commander Leigh Taylor, captain of Santa Fe, shook his head. “The coast to the north is littered with lights. Picking out any navaids, even when you know where to look, is virtually impossible.” He tapped the chart. “But I got a laser range and bearing to this pier on the eastern side of the harbor.”
“It’s good, Skipper,” Lieutenant Mark Larson, the navigator, reported. “The bearing’s consistent with our dead-reckoning position. We’re steady on course zero two zero, depth under the keel is twenty feet. Yeshu Island is eleven hundred forty yards to the northwest, bearing two nine two. Set and drift unchanged, just over one knot east with the flood tide.”
“Very well.” Taylor acknowledged the report.
“The intercom buzzed. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Third salvo is ready.
”
Taylor nodded, and the XO pressed the “talk” switch. “Torpedo Room, Conn. Understood. Good work on the fast reload. Stand by.”
The captain was already standing at the door to the sonar shack. “COB, what’s the closest contact?”
Master Chief Sonarman Patrick McCarthy was not only the senior sonar technician, he was chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. Taylor was sure Santa Fe had been given this assignment because of McCarthy’s skills. He was a small man, but his flaming red hair and Boston accent testified to his Southie upbringing.
“Sierra five two is now six hundred yards away, closing with a slight right bearing drift. She’s likely outbound for the western gap in the breakwater. The next closest is Sierra five seven at eight hundred yards, but she’s pointed south and away from us.”
Taylor nodded and hit the intercom switch. “Torpedo Room, Conn. Launch Slims seven through nine.” Raising his voice slightly, he announced, “As soon as they’re away, I’m going to take her as close to the bottom as I can and increase speed. We’ll get out from in front of Sierra five two.”
The fire-control technician called out the tube as the Slim was launched. With the third one, Taylor issued a quick reminder. “Diving Officer, keep a steady watch on the trim forward.”
“Aye, sir, watch the trim forward. I’m being very careful. I don’t even like Chinese food.” Chief Harris was using the weight of water in the sub’s trim tanks to keep her on an even keel. The sub had just lost a little over two tons out the torpedo tubes, almost seven tons overall. If the chief didn’t bring in the same weight in water, Santa Fe would be buoyant. This close to the surface, she might “broach,” or accidentally surface. Doing this in the middle of a hostile naval base, in fact right in front of an approaching patrol boat, would be a Bad Thing.
Taylor laughed with the rest at the chief’s quip. The navy called it a “Mark 67 Submarine Launched Mobile Mine.” But “Slim” was a lot easier to say. Santa Fe had just sent three of them into the Chinese base in Yalong Bay. Actually, it was the third set of three. The torpedo room was loading the last salvo now, making twelve altogether.
Based on the old Mark 37 torpedo, it would swim to a preset point, shut off its motor, and wait on the bottom for the right combination of pressure, sound, and magnetic field—for example, the kind made by a large Chinese warship or submarine.
The little Haiqing-class subchaser coming toward them wouldn’t be enough to set one off. She only displaced four hundred tons. A fifteen-hundred-ton frigate, or an even larger destroyer, though, would trigger an explosive charge big enough to break her in two.
“Sierra five two is at four hundred yards, bears zero eight six, speed six knots.”
“Make your depth eight five feet, increase speed to six knots.”
“Sir, the harbor shelves sharply ahead. We can hold this course and speed for just over a minute.”
“Understood, Mark.”
Santa Fe had been at three knots, bare steerageway, while she launched her mines. Doubling that speed was risky but would get the sub to one side of the patroller’s path.
“Sir, given the listed draft of a Haiqing-class, their keel should clear our sail. Barely. Maybe five feet.”
The navigator added, “That’s about all we have under us.” He didn’t sound happy.
Larson’s report was immediately followed by a rhythmic whoosh, whoosh that quickly grew in volume and then faded just as quickly.
“Make your depth seven zero feet, make turns for three knots.”
The helmsman acknowledged the order. Larson didn’t say anything but looked relieved. The acoustic intercept receiver chirped madly in the background, diligently warning Santa Fe’s crew of all the active sonars in the area.
Taylor asked, “Sonar, Conn, was Sierra five two still using a search ping interval?”
McCarthy nodded emphatically. “Conn, Sonar. Yes, sir. No change in the ping interval. She sailed on by and is continuing on course. No indication they detected us, although we were in the main lobe for a few pings.”
“With luck, our return blended in with the bottom,” Taylor remarked.
“That or the sonar operator didn’t know what he was looking at.” Kerry grinned. “The return was probably pretty mushy. Our hull coating is particularly effective against those high-frequency sets.”
“What’s he doing now, XO?”
“He’s in our baffles, Skipper.” Kerry shrugged helplessly. The noise from a ship or sub’s engines would blind a sonar if it tried to look aft. It was called “the baffles” because the builder actually installed a noise-absorbing baffle in the sonar dome to block any sound from that direction. Sonar would be of no help.
Nodding his understanding, Taylor stepped up to the number-two scope, raised it, and brought it around to face aft.
They all watched the television repeater that showed the periscope’s view. Low waves lapped over the lens as it emerged, just inches above the water. The captain panned the scope to the left a short distance, then right. “There,” he announced. The green-black low-light image showed the patrol craft’s starboard quarter. “Still headed for the western exit,” Taylor concluded.
Kerry said, “If he was curious, he’d have turned by now.”
Taylor ordered, “Down scope,” and pressed the intercom switch again. “Torpedo Room, Conn. How much longer on the fourth salvo?”
“Conn, Torpedo Room. Two down and one to go. The third Slim is going in now, sir. Another minute, tops.”
“Understood.”
“Captain, that increased speed for a moment moved us a little farther north than planned for the last salvo, but we’re still within margins.”
“Conn, Torpedo Room. Reloading complete. We’re ready down here, sir.”
Taylor looked over at Kerry, who nodded. “We’re clear, sir.”
“Then launch Slims ten through twelve,” Taylor ordered. “And good riddance. When I shoot something, I like to hear a ‘boom’ right away.”
Taylor waited for the report from the torpedo room before changing course. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Mines away, reloading with Mark 48 torpedoes.”
“Torpedo Room, Conn. Understood. Stand by.” Taylor glanced at the chart. Larson pointed at the sub’s track. “Planned course of one six zero is still good, sir. It’s fifteen hundred yards to the firing point. That’s fifteen minutes at current speed. The tunnel entrance will bear zero five five at sixteen hundred yards.”
“Very well. Helm: Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one six zero.” The new course would not only take them to their next waypoint inside the harbor but also closer to the southern exit, a three-hundred-yard opening in the breakwater on that side of the harbor.
“I think Mr. Larson and I will both feel better if I take a fix.” Checking the chart, the captain said, “I’ll take a range and bearing to the south corner of the main pier. After that, I’ll increase speed to five knots. That will still give the torpedo room enough time to finish reloading.”
“Bearing to the south corner of the main pier should be zero nine five, Skipper.” Larson reported.
The XO took up position, watching the television monitor that would display the scope’s image, and the clock, while Taylor turned the periscope, still down, to the eastern bearing. “Raising numbertwo scope.”
On the television screen, the black-green image of the main pier was part of a confused muddle of lights; then Taylor upped the magnification, and the rectangular shape was clearly visible. He aligned the crosshairs squarely on the south corner and pressed the button under his thumb. “Bearing, mark. Range, mark.”
“Bearing one five one, range two seven double-oh yards,” Larson reported.
They waited for the captain to lower the scope. After a moment, the XO said, “Ten seconds, Skipper.”
“Stand by,” Taylor answered, and swung a little to the left. The image shifted on the screen and then flashed from green-black to natural light. Kerry tried to inter
pret the image, but the captain ordered “Down scope” sharply and snapped the hoist control ring to the down position.
The XO was already rewinding the video, then stepping through it in slow motion. The changing magnification made it more a succession of still images than a video, but after a few moments, he stopped the image on the main pier.
“Yes, that’s when I saw it,” Taylor commented. “What do you see moored at the pier?”
Kerry answered, “A sub, and a lot of activity on the pier.” There were what looked like cranes, as well as lights that looked bright green in the false-color image.
Taylor ordered, “Step forward a beat.”
Now the image was centered, and larger. “That’s too long to be a diesel, or even a nuke attack boat,” the XO commented.
“I concur. Step forward some more.”
This was where the captain had shifted to natural light. Now the image was bathed in white light, and while the scene was darker, it was somehow easier for the eye to interpret. Bright lights bathed a long jet-black hull while cranes worked aft of the sail. “That is a Type 094 Jin-class ballistic missile submarine,” Kerry said, almost reverently.
“At the main pier. In the open,” Taylor added quietly. “And it looks like she’s loading missiles.” He paused only for a moment. “Helmsman, come left to one seven zero. Make turns for five knots. Observation, stationary target, main pier. Stand by for bearing and range.”
Even while the scope was going up, the XO said, “Skipper, our orders are to torpedo the tunnel door, trapping the boomer inside.”
Taylor steadied the scope and called out, “Bearing, mark! Range, mark! Down scope!” As the scope was sliding back down, the captain replied, “But remember our briefing? The intel weenies said they couldn’t guarantee it would be inside. This removes any doubt. Where’s Sierra five seven?”
“Still heading slowly south, probably for the same exit we are, range is twenty-one hundred yards.” Sierra five seven was also an escort vessel, one of the new Type 056 corvettes, larger and with better weapons and sensors than the older Haiqing patrol craft.
