However, what did not follow the norm for China’s state-owned port and harbor facility—one of the busiest in the world—was the disposal of the dredged materials from the commercial waterway. Instead of dumping the spoils offshore in deep water or reusing the sediments as fill to create new dry land, the one hundred and fifty thousand cubic yards of bottom muck was allocated for an environmental mitigation project. Mimicking projects sponsored by public ports in the United States and Western Europe, China’s Ministry of Environmental Protection funded the Port of Qingdao’s “Project Seagrass.” Dredged material from the Port’s commercial waterway formed the core of a new intertidal island located in nearby Jiaozhou Bay. When filling operations ended with a cap of clean sand, the artificial atoll would cover the area of six soccer fields. Later in the year, the mound was scheduled to be planted with patches of eelgrass—Zostera marina—transplanted from donor sites. Over several years, project scientists expected the seagrass to propagate, eventually covering most shallow sections of the knoll. By providing protection for fin fish and shellfish and offering a host of nutrients and microorganisms, the underwater eelgrass forest would offer an oasis for marine life within the otherwise degraded industrial harbor.
After digesting the web article, the two men considered their options.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” said Yusup as he sucked on another cigarette. “We should just head back to the marina.”
“My orders were explicit—recover the recording device at all costs.” Ismail remained at the helm, a hand hanging onto the steering wheel.
“Talgat should have known about the dredging project.”
“I agree. But still it’s my—our problem.”
Yusup took a deep drag on the Furongwang. His religion frowned on smoking, but the habit provided good cover for his work.
“So,” he said, “what do you want to do?”
Ismail stepped to the navigation table. He pushed the laptop aside to view the nautical chart of Jiaozhou Bay.
“The website said the disposal site is in this area.” He pointed with a finger.
“You think we might be able to recover it there?”
“Unlikely. That dredge bucket probably destroyed the recorder. But at least we can make the effort—run a couple of transects with the hydrophone broadcasting the recall signal.” Ismail faced his companion. “By checking the dump site, we can make sure that Talgat won’t be able to blame us for not completing the mission.”
“Good plan. Let’s go.”
* * * *
After a thirty-minute run across the bay, the workboat slowed to a crawl. Hundreds of rice paddies lined the muddy shore to the north. Southward, a sleek modern bridge dominated the skyline. The world’s longest bridge over open water, the Jiaozhou Bay Bridge spanned a distance greater than the width of the English Channel between Dover and Calais. Ismail and Yusup eyed the depth sounder. Built into the instrument panel, the device displayed a profile of the bottom depth.
“This must be the right area,” Ismail said. “It’s definitely shallower here.”
“Only two meters deep, probably exposed at low tides.”
“Drop the hydrophone overboard and let’s see if we get a response.”
“Okay.”
The workboat idled, drifting westward with the quarter-knot current. Both men scanned the water around the boat, each hoping the lost recorder would magically pop up to the surface.
“I don’t see anything,” Yusup announced.
“Neither do I.”
“Are we done?”
“Let’s make one more run across the site. Then we’ll head back.”
“All right.”
It was a fateful decision. Had the two spies recruited from China’s Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region started their return trip after the initial run, they would have survived. But their lifespan was now limited to seconds.
The object the boat crew searched for was buried in bottom sediments about a hundred yards away. The Uyghur dissidents believed they were searching for an acoustic recording device used to spy on the Qingdao Naval Base, located just north of the Port of Qingdao’s commercial waterway. It was a lie fed to them by their Russian handler, cover name Talgat. Unknown to Ismail and Yusup, their hydrophone was actually signaling a bomb.
Designed to resist hydrostatic seawater pressure to a depth of over three thousand feet and survive subzero freezing conditions as well as function in temperatures exceeding the boiling point of water, the weapon survived dredging. It lay in wait at the bottom of the bay.
Entombed within the excavated sediment, the audio receiver inside the warhead compartment listened for the command signal. The five feet of mud over the cylindrical steel casing degraded reception significantly. But as the workboat approached, the digital signal from the hydrophone penetrated the muck. Recognizing the acoustic command, the bomb’s electrical firing circuit triggered the detonators embedded in the concentric lenses of plastic explosive that surrounded the core. The semtex charges exploded, compressing the tennis ball-sized hollow sphere of uranium-235 to the size of a grape. A microsecond later, the nuclear weapon detonated.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Cody Hulsey for helping me navigate as an author through the “uncharted waters” of social media. Cody’s insights and suggestions are greatly appreciated.
I wish to express my deepest appreciation to Michaela Hamilton, executive editor at Kensington Books, for her critical review of The Faithful Spy. Michaela is an extraordinary editor who worked with me to advance the story, just as she did for The Good Spy and The Forever Spy. Michaela and her talented team at Kensington are a pleasure to work with.
Lastly, I’d like to thank my family, friends, and fans for continuing to encourage me with my writing career.
About the Author
Photo by Michael D. McCarter
Jeffrey Layton launched his Yuri Kirov spy thriller series with The Good Spy and continued it with The Forever Spy. He is also the author of the acclaimed novels Vortex One, Warhead, and Blowout. Jeff is a professional engineer who specializes in coastal engineering. He uses his knowledge of diving, yachting, offshore engineering, and underwater warfare in the novels he writes. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.
Please visit him at www.jeffreylayton.com.
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