“Ah, the cowboys and Indians of Hollywood. I see.”
Volkov continued, “For the blood sample in question, sixty-five percent of the autosomal marker was identified as Native American.”
“So we’ve got them!”
“Maybe. The results certainly suggest that the individual is of Native American origin. But the sample also contained thirty percent European and the rest African.”
“But sixty-five percent—that’s significant.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Can you refine the analysis any further?”
“It’s unlikely. The wounded individual was probably a member of either the U.S. Navy SEALs or the Army’s Delta Force. We suspect Native Americans are members of both units but have no way of verifying demographics. The U.S. keeps all personnel matters regarding their Special Operations Forces secret.”
The president leaned back in his chair. “I want to keep this to ourselves for now. Continue with the storyline that Chechen terrorists attacked the Sakhalin plant. That will help us on the home front because the people will believe it, which will allow us to continue with our crackdown on those bastards.” He rubbed his chin. “What I do not want to happen is for the Americans to figure out that we know they destroyed our plant.”
“To keep them off guard?”
“Correct. I want to maintain the element of surprise for your operation.”
“I understand.”
“When will you be ready?”
“It will be under way soon.”
“Excellent. Keep me posted on your progress.”
“I will, Mr. President.”
CHAPTER 65
DAY 30—TUESDAY
The Yangzi slowed as it approached the bottom coordinates, both Caterpillars dialed back to match the waning flood current. It was 12:25 A.M. Other than a southbound tugboat that passed to the port ten minutes earlier, the superyacht had the north end of Admiralty Inlet to itself.
Kwan Chi and Lieutenant Commander Wang Park relocated to the lower deck garage near the stern. Wang opened the thirty-foot-long port-side retractable tender door. With its top edge hinged to the hull nine feet above the waterline, the door extended perpendicular to the water surface. From the south came a whisper of a breeze, which barely ruffled the sea surface. Rippling wavelets splashed against the hull a foot below the open door. Overall, launching conditions were ideal.
“What’s next?” asked Kwan. He stood beside the PLAN officer and the Mark 12 Viper. Three other crewmen hovered nearby, ready to respond to Wang’s orders.
“We’ll use the overhead gantry for the launch.”
“What about the anchor?”
“After the unit’s in the water, we’ll deploy it.”
Wang issued directions to his men. They connected nylon straps wrapped around the fore and aft ends of the thirty-inch-diameter steel casing to the lifting hooks of the overhead gantry crane. Twin, heavy steel box beams on roller rails set twenty feet apart made up the gantry system. Wang used a wireless control device to activate the crane system’s hydraulic drives. In unison, the dual motors elevated the twenty-three-foot-long Mark 12 about a foot above its cradle.
After Wang verified the weapon was free of its crib, he again activated the control device. Another hydraulic drive system extended the twin steel beams through the open garage door, suspending the Mark 12 over the water surface. After another check, Wang lowered the casing into the water. Although it weighed nearly three tons, its cylindrical volume displaced sufficient seawater to remain buoyant. About one foot of the casing projected above the water surface.
Kwan issued new orders and two crewmen relocated to the opposite side of the garage. At the starboard door a twenty-foot-long rigid-hulled inflatable boat, tethered with a line, bobbed next to the hull. The men climbed into the RIB, started the outboard, and departed. They were alongside the Mark 12 within a minute. They attached a Dacron line to the eye ring welded to the casing’s forward end and disconnected the lifting straps.
Wang reeled in the straps and instructed the men, “Head out slowly. Watch the towline and don’t foul your propeller.”
The boat motored away with the Mark 12 trailing about twenty feet behind. As the weapon moved farther away from the Yangzi, another line paid out from the garage deck. The 3/8-inch-diameter galvanized steel cable connected to the aft end of the steel casing with a shackle assembly. The other end of the cable connected to a concrete block resting on the deck near the open garage door. Three feet long on each axis, the cube had a steel eyebolt in the center of its top surface. Another steel shackle linked the cable to the anchor block.
Kwan Chi continued to observe but remained silent.
The cable tightened. The RIB, still under power and over sixty feet away, was going nowhere.
Wang keyed a portable handheld radio. The RIB crew had a companion unit. “That’s good,” he said. “Get ready to cut power and release the line on my command.”
One of the men acknowledged the order.
Wang knelt next to the concrete block and inserted the hook end of another steel cable into the block’s eyebolt. The opposite end of the four-foot-long cable connected to the aft gantry’s hoist hook. He activated the crane, raising the block two feet above the deck. He triggered a different control and the aft gantry transported the block through the opening until it was clear of the hull.
Wang keyed the radio. “Disconnect the towline.”
Kwan joined Wang, standing at his side. They watched as a RIB crewman executed the order. The boat powered away.
“Are you set now?” asked Kwan.
“Yes, sir. All I need to do is trip the release.”
Wang stepped to the edge of the opening and reached outward where he removed the safety pin from the quick release clamp and grabbed the clamp’s trailing tag line. He stepped back into the garage. “Releasing now,” he said. Wang tugged on the tag line, a solid jerk.
Nothing happened.
Wang repeated the effort.
Still nothing.
Wang tried a third pull, yanking the quarter-inch line with all his might. He cursed.
“What’s wrong?” Kwan asked.
Wang’s brow puckered. “The quick release clamp failed—it won’t open.”
Kwan Chi checked his watch. “We’re almost out of time. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know . . . let me think.”
The Mark 12 drifted to within a few feet of the yacht before the RIB crew towed it away from the Yangzi.
The concrete block was back inside the garage. A crew member removed the defective hook clamp and replaced it with a short section of rope. He secured the line to the cube’s eyebolt and the aft gantry’s lifting hook.
“Are you ready now, Wang?” Kwan Chi said, agitated.
“Almost, sir.”
Commander Wang activated the aft gantry, lifting the two-ton concrete cube. About a foot and a half off the deck, the hastily tied double-half-hitch knot connecting the line to the hoist hook slipped. The block crashed onto the steel deck with a sickening thud. The impact sent a tremor the full length of the hull.
Wang swore at the sailor who’d made the connection. He retied the knots himself, using bowlines at each end.
Kwan Chi chose not to comment.
Wang reactivated the aft gantry, lifting the cube. The line held. He extended the gantry’s support beam through the hull opening. The concrete anchor dangled three feet above the water.
“Release it!” Wang ordered, addressing the RIB crew who held the Mark 12 at bay. The men again disconnected the towline and powered away.
Wang extracted a knife from his pants pocket and pulled open its four-inch blade. He again leaned through the hull opening and attacked the one-inch-diameter line. The laser-sharp blade sawed through the synthetic fibers. With less than a quarter inch remaining, the line snapped with a sharp clack. The concrete anchor plunged into the sea, dragging the Mark 12 Viper with it.
Wang pull
ed himself back inside the compartment. “It’s on the bottom now.”
Kwan Chi consulted his watch. “We’re over the limit now. Is that going to be a problem?”
“We should be okay.”
Before long, the RIB was home and the Yangzi remained over the drop site. Wang and Kwan relocated to the wheelhouse. The ship’s master reported that the extended loitering had not yet triggered any radio inquiries, likely due to the lack of vessel traffic. The captain also noted that a sweep of the bottom with the ship’s high-energy sonar did not detect the Mark 12. As designed, its rubberized anechoic coating absorbed sound energy.
Wang and Kwan both leaned over the main instrument console, studying a digital display. Wang was conducting a new test. The Mark 12 had just responded to a coded underwater acoustic pulse broadcast from a hydrophone mounted to the underside of the superyacht’s hull. The torpedo mine’s encrypted return signal revealed its location and operational status.
“How does it look?” Kwan asked.
“It’s armed. Not quite as deep as I planned—sixty-three meters. We drifted over the target depression but it will work where it is.”
“Very good, Commander.”
Kwan turned to face the ship’s master. “Captain, you may now proceed to Vancouver at normal cruising speed.”
CHAPTER 66
After checking into a mid-range hotel near downtown Vancouver, Yuri and Nick retreated to their individual rooms. Nick captured five solid hours of sleep. Yuri struggled, winning at best two.
They met for breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant at half past six and then drove to nearby Stanley Park. Yuri parked the Jeep in a lot near the north end of the park, where they followed a trail to the bridge.
The Yangzi was just half a mile away.
Nick eyed his wristwatch: 8:10 A.M. “It’s on schedule.”
“Where do you think they’ll dock it?” Yuri asked.
“It’s a big sucker. There aren’t many marinas around that can handle it. Maybe it’ll end up anchoring.”
The superyacht was now just two football-field lengths from the bridge.
Yuri said, “I wonder if they can see us.”
“Doubt it, but maybe with binoculars.”
The Yangzi passed under Vancouver’s Lion’s Gate Bridge, heading eastward in Burrard Inlet. Yuri and Nick needed to find a new vantage point to continue spying. They walked briskly back to the car.
* * *
“Wow,” muttered Nick.
“It’s impressive all right,” Yuri said.
Both men stood on the public boardwalk next to a large marina. The stunning boat harbor was first class in all respects, but what overwhelmed Nick and Yuri was the spectacular mountain range of mid- and high-rise condominium and office towers bordering the moorage basin. The architectural wonders jutted skyward in a maze of slender columns that conveyed affluence and splendor.
Yuri turned toward the water. The Yangzi dominated the other 250 boats berthed in the Coal Harbour Marina. Moored at the seaward end of a dock, the superyacht occupied most of the guest pier.
Nick and Yuri leaned against the boardwalk railing while eyeing the ship’s starboard flank.
Nick said, “It looks like we have the same problem here as in Seattle. The marina has excellent security. Getting out to the dock may be a problem.”
“I agree. Let’s get a better look.” He pointed to his right.
“Okay.”
They walked several hundred feet farther along the boardwalk, stopping near a waterfront park. The new venue provided an improved view of the Yangzi. Moored to the floating pier along its starboard side, the superyacht pointed its sleek bow east toward Yuri and Nick.
Nick noticed first. “See that guy standing by the boarding ramp?”
“Yeah.”
“I bet you he’s some kind of a guard or sentry. He’s just hanging out there.”
“To do what? It’s broad daylight.”
“Discourage other marina tenants from getting too curious about the boat and his boss—the billionaire Chinaman.”
“You’re probably right.”
“If there’s one on display like that guy, you can be certain there are others aboard that we don’t see. Hell, they could have glasses on us right now.”
That got Yuri’s attention. “Right. Let’s keep walking.”
They walked into Harbour Green Park, out of direct line of sight to the Yangzi.
“My plan is not going to work,” Yuri acknowledged.
“I agree. They’ll be on us before we get halfway down the dock. There’s got to be another way.”
Yuri said, “Are your men still in town?”
“Yes—in a hotel someplace around here, still sleeping, I expect.”
“Wake them up.”
* * *
Summoned by Kwan Chi, Commander Wang Park walked into the lounge on the Yangzi’s upper deck. Kwan waited, sitting in a chair beside a coffee table. His steward had just delivered a serving of tea. It was 9:25 A.M.
Kwan gestured for Wang to join him.
As Wang sat in a chair, Kwan asked, “Any issues with the Canadians?”
“No, sir. Routine review of passports and visas. Inspection of the bridge and safety equipment. That was it.”
“Good.”
Kwan Chi and the Yangzi were frequent visitors to Vancouver, but it was Commander Wang’s first. He was awed at the city’s beauty and its palpable riches.
“Tea?” asked Kwan.
“Please.”
After Kwan served he said, “I want to compliment you on your excellent work last night. Very impressive.”
“Thank you, sir. Overall, it went well.” Wang still reeled from the cable clamp failure and then the slipped knot that dropped the anchor block onto the deck.
“So, all we have to do is to wait for the submarine to go by and it will activate on its own?”
“Correct. I programmed the Mark Twelve’s computer with the sound print recovered from the Russian listening device. It’s unique to that boat alone.”
“The Kentucky.”
“Yes—the Kentucky.”
“This assumes it will be running on the surface. What would happen if it were submerged instead?”
“There’s no history of an Ohio-class submerging at that location—maybe the converted ones but not the ones carrying nuclear weapons.”
“I understand. But let’s say the Americans are worried about an unspecified threat to their submarines and the Kentucky submerges in Hood Canal and then proceeds to the ocean underwater. Will the mine intercept it?”
“That’s exactly what it was designed for—to attack submerged submarines. However, there are major differences in the acoustic output from a submarine on the surface compared to when it is submerged and operating under maximum stealth conditions. That’s why our Navy is so interested in the submerged recordings.”
“Again, I understand, but could it work for our situation?”
Wang fidgeted in his chair. He was now going out on a limb. “Assuming the mine’s hydrophone detects the Kentucky while submerged—which is a huge assumption—the computer might be able to distinguish some of its unique sound signatures like propeller wash and circulation pump activity. That might be enough to trigger targeting and launch the weapon.”
“But it’s not a certainty.”
“No, sir. Based on what we know about the Ohio-class , when the Kentucky submerges, it would likely cruise past the Mark Twelve without being detected.” Wang took a sip from his cup. “Why are you asking about this? Has something changed?”
“No, the mission continues as planned. However, I did receive a communiqué this morning from our operative monitoring the Hood Canal base. One of the other submarines was not at its dock this morning and there have been no openings of the bridge.”
Wang frowned, surprised at the report. “Which one is it?”
“Nevada.”
“That’s a missile boat.”
“Yes
, and according to our operative, it is not due to deploy for two months.”
“It might be undergoing submerged testing in Hood Canal,” said Commander Wang. “It’s deep and quite long.”
“Let’s hope that is what’s going on, but if it’s something else—”
Wang laughed. “How ironic would that be . . . it could have sailed under us this morning while we were deploying the Mark Twelve.” Wang thought about it before concluding, “But I don’t believe it. My money is on the test protocol. I expect the Nevada will return to its berth later today.”
“You’re probably right.”
CHAPTER 67
Maggie and Jessie raced across the undulating terrain, their snow machines screaming and their hearts pounding as they dodged dwarf evergreens and serrated rock outcrops. The pair never envisioned they would have such fun—not with the looming business that waited at the end of their journey.
They had arrived in Fairbanks two days earlier aboard an Alaska Air flight from Portland. They had filled their checked luggage with top-of-the-line REI winter gear and the latest fashions from Nordstrom. Flush with cash and each carrying separate Visa cards with $10,000 of prepaid credit, the couple had no issues with money.
Both stylishly attired, with a first-class hotel and their rented new Cadillac Escalade SUV, Maggie Sinclair and Jessie Martel fit the profile of affluent high-tech millennials out for a late-winter Alaskan escapade. But it was all part of their cover. They shared a third-floor studio in a seedy section of Portland near the industrial sector. Jessie worked as a bicycle messenger. Maggie waited tables at a seafood restaurant.
The Kawasakis tore across the snow. It was easy running now that they followed the cleared right-of-way. Jessie and Maggie had been on the go for only twenty-five minutes but had already covered twelve miles. The Escalade and the rental trailer remained on a side road just off the highway about thirty-five miles north of Fairbanks.
It was twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and snowing—just right for the op.
The pair continued northward, running side by side. It was almost noon. They headed upslope, following the steep grade of the hillside. Bands of spruce trees, their growth stunted by the subarctic climate, lined the hundred-foot-wide cleared right-of-way on each side. Jessie periodically glanced down at his GPS unit clamped to the snow machine’s console. The first stop was about a mile away.
The Forever Spy Page 24
