Shtyrov stood beside Tumanov, who remained at the controls of the P-815. Shtyrov and Dobrynin had climbed out of the lockin-lockout chamber ten minutes earlier. The minisub hovered at the rendezvous coordinates, ten feet above the bottom.
“Are you still transmitting the signal?” Shtyrov asked.
“Yes, the system is working flawlessly.”
“Maybe he was discovered.”
“Maybe—but I haven’t detected any hostile response. The base remains quiet. Just routine patrol craft activity.”
“How long can we wait?”
The Novosibirsk waited twelve miles offshore of Qingdao. The P-815 should have already departed to remain on schedule. If the mini failed to rendezvous within an hour of the scheduled time, the Novosibirsk would retreat to deeper waters in the Yellow Sea and wait until the following evening. If the P-815 failed to make the second hookup, the Novosibirsk would end the mission and return to Russia.
“We’ll wait ten more minutes,” Tumanov said.
* * * *
Yuri remained just above the bottom, heading southwest. Eight percent of the DPV’s battery power remained. The tide had turned. The ebb current pushed him eastward. He attempted to compensate but could only guess. Sensing he was off course, Yuri pulled back on the DPV’s hand grip and headed topside. Yuri’s head emerged from the murk. He faced north. He could see the Jiaozhou Bridge in the distance, floodlights illuminating the 500-feet-high towers. He kicked his fins, pirouetting in place. The city lights of Qingdao glowed to the east.
Yuri raised his right arm about a foot out of the water. As Shtyrov had earlier, Yuri manipulated the GPS unit, allowing it to compute a satellite fix on his position. It was a dangerous maneuver. With the bay waters as flat as a billiards table, radar could possibly detect his exposed form. More likely, however, infrared surveillance cameras might pick up his heat image. Although encased in a dry suit, he remained warmer than the surrounding waters.
It took nearly two minutes before his real-world coordinates were displayed on the GPS unit. A flashing red dot marked his position on a tiny map of Jiaozhou Bay. A red X identified the rendezvous location. He was about half a mile away. Yuri checked the DPV’s compass readout and mentally set a new course. He dropped below the surface and gunned the underwater machine.
* * * *
The unmanned patrol craft drifted with the outgoing current, its twin inboard diesels idling. Thirty-three feet in length, the cabinless hull sported a fourteen-foot-high mast packed with sensors that included radar, GPS, and comms. Also attached to the spire was an experimental 3-D laser scanner adapted for security purposes. The rotating scanner head emitted invisible light beams that measured the distance to objects within its path. Adapted to detect low-profile objects projecting above the water surface, the instrument’s principal purpose was to detect small craft invisible to radar, such as rubber rafts and rigid-hulled inflatables. The onboard computer controlling the autonomous surface vessel monitored the laser scanner and radar along with a dozen other sensors. The scanner generated up to half a million data points per second. Since the ASV was offshore, the only surface available to generate return reflections from the laser beam was the bay itself.
Near the extreme limit of the scanner’s range of half a mile, it detected a disturbance on the surface. The reflected signal did not match images of likely target craft stored in the CPU’s memory. Instead, it classified the target as a biologic, likely a porpoise or a seal surfacing for a breath of air. A report of the biologic sighting was transmitted by the ASV’s encrypted VHF radio to the security center at the Qingdao naval base.
* * * *
Tumanov remained seated at the P-815’s control station. He was alone; Shtyrov had retreated to the galley to join Chief Dobrynin for a hot cup of tea. Co-pilot Nevsky was in the engine room, running a systems check with the engineer. Tumanov stared at the clock on the command console. His self-imposed ten-minute limit had ninety seconds to go.
Dammit! I don’t want to leave him. He’s a good man.
The minute and half passed.
I’ll give him two more minutes but that’s it!
Tumanov triggered a master switch on the panel.
Maybe this will help.
Tumanov activated the P-815’s main floodlight system, illuminating the waters over the minisub’s bow—a procedure that violated security protocols. With just twenty feet of water overhead, the luminous glow might be visible from the air or a nearby ship. Tumanov activated the forward underwater camera. The cockpit screen displayed the mini’s submerged bow. Debris in the water column reflected light, creating a snow-like blizzard on a bed of black.
Come on Kirov, where are you?
Yuri swam into view forty seconds later.
Chapter 49
The Novosibirsk was underway with the P-815 once again piggybacking. The submarine headed southward just above the bottom following the fifty-meter contour. Yuri and Shtyrov sat at the mess table in the officer’s wardroom with Captain Petrovich. The briefing had started five minutes earlier. Shtyrov provided an accounting of the installation of the recording device.
“The only real problem we had was burying the unit,” Shtyrov reported. “There was a layer of soft silt on top. Below was a hard-packed layer—dense material. That took a lot of effort to dig out.”
“But you did manage to bury it—correct?” Petrovich asked.
“Yes, sir. It was covered as required. You can’t tell that we were there.”
“Good. The Chinese routinely scan the harbor bottom of their naval bases looking for foreign plants.”
Shtyrov neglected to reveal that the recorder was not installed at the naval base but instead was delivered to the commercial harbor located south of the base. Neither Petrovich nor Kirov was cleared for that information.
Captain Petrovich turned to Yuri. “Okay, your turn.”
“Overall, it went well. I was able to deploy the Remora as planned.”
“How far into the sub base did you penetrate?”
“All the way. I released the Remora under a Zero-Nine-Five.”
That grabbed Petrovich’s attention. “No one’s done that before. What did you see?”
Yuri reached forward and keyed the laptop sitting on the table. He had already inserted the SIM card from the underwater camera into the computer. He rotated the computer toward Petrovich. “After verifying that the Remora buried itself in the bottom, I took photos of the submerged hull—the camera had an infrared flash.”
Both Petrovich and Shtyrov eyed the display.
“It has a ducted prop,” Captain Petrovich said. “Looks like what the Americans use.”
“Yes, it appeared similar to the newer Virginia-class boats.”
“Probably a copy,” Shtyrov commented.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Petrovich settled back into his chair. “They’re very good at reverse engineering.”
Yuri advanced to a new photo taken near the stern. “This appears to be a housing for a towed array.”
“Reel inside the ballast tank?” Petrovich asked.
“Probably.”
Yuri called up another photograph. “Outer doors. Eight tubes total, four on each side.”
The three officers spent several minutes examining the photographs. Petrovich summed up, “Nice work, Kirov. Fleet will be pleased. I want to send these home ASAP.”
“I’ll take them to comms and have them encrypted and transmitted to Vladivostok.”
“Good. Let’s move on.”
Yuri interlocked his fingers. “I made a quick topside observation in the harbor. Besides the Zero-Nine-Five, I spotted a couple of diesel boats moored nearby—Type Zero-Four-Ones.”
“Any other nukes?”
“No sir, just the Zero-Nine-Five. But there was a carrier moored to a pier on the opposite side of the
harbor from the sub base.”
“Must be the Liaoning,” Shtyrov said.
Petrovich agreed. “Probably—that’s what Fleet indicated.”
Yuri continued his briefing. “After completing my work in the harbor, I headed back to rendezvous with the mini.” He smiled thinly. “That certainly turned out be the most challenging part of the mission.”
Captain Petrovich arched an eyebrow; Lieutenant Shtyrov tried to suppress a grin. “I had an encounter with a sea lion—a very big fellow.”
“Really,” Petrovich said.
Yuri unzipped the top section of his jumpsuit and exposed the right shoulder. He pulled back the sleeve of the T-shirt he wore underneath, revealing an ugly reddish-purple bruise about the size of an orange. “That guy starting playing tag with me. Hit me so hard that he knocked me around like a rag doll.”
Dumbfounded, Petrovich said, “Was it a sentry?”
“I don’t think so. I was in the bay when it happened, not at the base.”
“What was going on?”
Shtyrov jumped in. “I think that critter was in love with Captain-Lieutenant Kirov, sir.”
All three laughed.
“I don’t know what he wanted. Maybe I was intruding on his territory. Anyway, that sure wasn’t a gentle love tap he gave me, more like a challenge.”
“That must have been unnerving,” Petrovich offered.
“It was. Just imagine a 200-kilo blubber missile coming at you out of the murk.” Yuri shuddered. “About the scariest thing I’ve encountered underwater.”
“No doubt.”
Yuri described how he evaded the annoying marine mammal and made his way back to the P-815.
“Well gentlemen, congratulations on completing your individual tasks. I’m quite pleased with your efforts.”
Yuri and Shtyrov signaled their thanks.
“Sir, how long before we arrive at Ningbo?” Yuri asked.
“Thirty-six hours or so. Too shallow here to make a speed run.”
“Good. We can use the downtime.”
* * * *
As the Novosibirsk proceeded southward in international waters offshore of Shandong Province, Commander Yang Yu arrived at the security office in the headquarters building for the North Sea Fleet. His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Zheng Qin, was waiting in the conference room. He sat in a chair at large oval table. Another officer sat beside the XO.
“Good morning, Captain,” Zheng said as he stood.
His companion also pushed her chair away from the table.
“As you were,” ordered Yang.
Yang took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Tea, captain?” asked Zheng, gesturing to the steaming pot sitting on the nearby counter.
“Please.”
After filling a mug and handing it his boss, Zheng returned to his seat and turned to the female sitting to his right. “Captain, this is Lieutenant Gao Le. She’s the security officer for the base. She has something interesting to tell you.”
Gao was in her late twenties, petite, with military length black hair. She wore a crisp uniform, subtle makeup, and no jewelry. “Captain, I believe the base may have been targeted by at least one diver earlier this morning.”
“What evidence do you have?” Yang asked.
Gao keyed the remote to the slide projector. An aerial image of Jiaozhou Bay filled the screen on a wall next to Yang’s side. “Sir, one of the autonomous sentries detected a surface disturbance early this morning.” She aimed a pointer at the image; a bright red dot danced on the screen near the entrance to naval base. “The ASV was in this approximate location when its laser scanner detected the disturbance.”
Gao advanced to a new PowerPoint slide. “The digital image projecting above the water surface was blurred and nondescript. The ASV interpreted the contact to be a marine mammal.”
“So, there was no alarm?”
“That’s correct. It transmitted the contact to base but did not register it as a threat. When the unit returned to its mooring, the entire patrol’s recorded database was uploaded to our security office. As part of my duties, I review all ASV activity for the previous evening and morning. I noted the subject observation in the bay was classified as a biologic. However, since it was close to the base, I asked our photo recon section to enhance the laser scan image. This is the result.”
The image filling the screen startled Captain Yang. “That’s a diver!”
“Yes, sir. That’s my reading, too.”
“What’s with the arm projecting up like that?”
“I’m not sure,” Gao said. “But it’s possible the diver was attempting to either communicate with others or make a GPS fix.”
“Did he get inside the harbor?”
“Unknown. None of the bottom sensors detected any threats.”
Zheng rejoined the conversation. “Captain, the Heilong is the first boat a diver would have encountered after passing through the harbor entrance.”
Wang grimaced. “It’s the damn Americans again.”
Chapter 50
The Ministry of State Security agent drove into the subterranean parking garage in downtown Bellevue, Washington. The driver bypassed the guest parking zone and headed deeper into the basement to the reserved stalls. It was late Thursday afternoon; tenants in the high-rise tower were already leaving the garage.
The Chinese agent drove down the ramp to level two, where he spotted his companion standing in the shadows next to the elevator. The lookout opened the passenger door and climbed inside.
“Is it still there?” asked the driver in Mandarin.
“Yes, one level down. There are open stalls nearby where we can park.”
“Good.”
The agents descended to the next level, driving past a silver BMW Seven Series that was parked half a dozen stalls from the elevator landing. They parked four stalls away from the vehicle on the opposite aisle, with their Ford Explorer backed into the stall. The passenger removed a smartphone from his jacket and queued up the cell’s photo album. He studied half a dozen images of his prey.
The MSS officers had elected to lie low after the aborted assault at Laura Newman’s home. The rapid response by local authorities suggested Newman’s security system had been upgraded substantially since a previous operation earlier in the year. After leaving the Newman premises, the agents switched to Plan B. They dumped their rented Toyota in a local Park and Ride lot. A deep undercover operative living in Seattle provided quarters and a clean vehicle.
Earlier this morning the senior agent had waited in the office building’s lobby by the elevators. Dressed in a suit and carrying a black leather briefcase, he sat in a chair thumbing through the latest edition of the Wall Street Journal. After walking out of the garage elevator, Laura Newman stepped past him at 8:55 A.M., her three-inch heels click-clacking on the tile floor. She wore a tweed suit jacket with matching skirt cut an inch above her knees. While Laura waited for an elevator to ride to the twenty-fifth floor, the MSS officer surreptitiously took half a dozen photos of her with his Samsung.
“She’s pretty,” commented the driver as he also eyed the images on his boss’s cell.
“Yes, and rich too.”
“I wonder what she did.”
“Doesn’t matter. We have our orders.”
“I know. Still, it seems like a waste.”
“Stop thinking about it.”
The driver reached into his pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He offered a Camel to his partner, who took one. They lit up, both rolling down their car windows.
The MSS operatives were halfway through their smokes when one of the garage elevator doors opened. A tall man wearing a blue blazer jacket and gray trousers stepped out, followed by a female in a tweed ensemble.
“That’s her!” The passe
nger crushed the butt in the ashtray and reached into his coat pocket. He removed the Colt .45 semiautomatic; the suppressor was already attached.
“What about the guy?” the driver asked.
“Collateral damage.”
The passenger cracked open the door and started to step out when both targets retreated to the still open elevator.
Surprised, the assassin remained beside the open car door, his pistol at the ready.
“FBI. DROP YOUR WEAPON NOW!”
Startled, the gunman turned to his right, homing in on the female voice. She was two vacant stalls away, crouched down behind the hood of a Chevrolet Suburban. Her nine-millimeter pistol targeted his chest.
The rear door of a van parked on the opposite side of the lane from the Suburban burst open. Four black-clad FBI Hostage Rescue Team agents emerged, each carrying a submachine gun.
The gunman’s orders directed that neither he nor his partner could be captured. He ducked down and peered into the open doorway of the Ford. The driver sat rigid in his seat staring at his partner.
The gunman met his partner’s eyes. “Sorry, Jin.”
An instant later, he fired a single round into the driver’s forehead. Without hesitation, the gunman bolted upright and raised his .45 toward the approaching HRT assault team. He was cut down by a hail of gunfire.
* * * *
Michaela Taylor approached the Ford Explorer with both hands still gripping her smoking pistol. One perp lay prostrate on the concrete deck, riddled with nearly twenty rounds. The other man remained in the driver’s seat, slumped over the steering wheel.
As the HRT agents circled the hood, each SMG trained on the driver, Taylor advanced to the driver’s door. She pulled it open. That’s when she spotted the driver’s exit wound—a lethal puncture two inches in diameter.
She placed two fingers onto the man’s neck, knowing there would be no pulse.
“Clear,” she called out.
* * * *
“What’s going on?” Laura Newman asked as she arose from her chair.
The Faithful Spy Page 21
