Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

  “Who do I send the detention order to? I’ll copy you, of course.”

  “Send it to the head of security, Tokyo station. Christopher Mahoney can’t stand Burns, so he’s probably on a celebratory bender right now. We’ll lock Hecker down and sort through his phone messages and emails to try to get a handle on where Nolan is. That’s your second priority. Stop Nolan before he gets to the press. Third, even with Teller gone, we still have assets in Rangoon. Make certain Teller didn’t leave anything incriminating behind. Be thorough, but dial back the violence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Juanilla might have been one of the more forgetful maids in Singapore, but she was one of the tidier ones, too. Ma’am’s distress at Sir’s indiscretions caused her to redouble her normal fastidious routines. Not having seen Mei Ling duck into the kitchen at the conclusion of her ride home from Orchard Towers, she was surprised to find Sir’s bicycle water bottle in the sink. She took the lid off and half filled it with warm, soapy water. The bottlebrush scraped against something around the neck. She pulled the brush out and felt inside with her fingers. It was the loose edge of sticky tape. She tugged and the tape came free. In the middle of the square was plastic wrap with a black chip in it. This looked to be something Mei Ling might be interested in. She headed upstairs to where she was seated at the computer desk on the landing.

  * * * * *

  The 7th Fleet warships formerly berthed in Singapore’s Changi Naval Base—including the nuclear carrier Princeton—were now at sea, making for tougher targeting and a safer Singapore. Rear Admiral Jon Cochran shook his head in disbelief. The NRO had intercepted prelaunch telemetry traffic at three mainland sites. The PLA-Navy anti-ship ballistic missiles were six to seven hundred miles inland, and another two hundred miles from the Senkakus. No one knew for certain the effective range of the latest, biggest ASBM in the PLA Navy’s arsenal. The best guess for the DF-21D was twelve hundred miles, maybe a little more. The Pentagon would be rolling through conventional and nuclear response options.

  The carrier battle group flagged by the George Washington was already at flank speed, moving evasively and jamming targeting radars. If all else failed, they’d rely on an old-fashioned wall of lead provided by Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns spewing seventy-five 20mm tungsten penetrator rounds per second.

  The US Navy warships steamed toward the beleaguered Senkakus, the epicenter of this unholy mess. The Senkakus were five small volcanic rocks jutting out of the sea two hundred fifty miles southwest of Okinawa, one hundred miles north of Taiwan and two hundred miles due east from the nearest landfall on the China mainland. The UN thought there might be an Iraq’s-worth of oil and gas under the seabed, making the islands more than geographic curiosities. One country could possibly cash a billion-dollar check over the next decade. Then again, the islands might turn out to be good for only netting small tunas and collecting albatross feathers for another three hundred years.

  The head-scratcher was the next report in Rear Admiral Cochran’s inbox. China’s coastal air defense systems were either on maximum or minimum alert. The NSA’s intel feeds were contradictory. Common sense dictated that China, like the US, was on a war footing, and so the CIA had designated it as maximum alert. That meant the NSA had it wrong, badly wrong. His colleagues in Strategic Command shared his skepticism and had moved with surprising alacrity. Both subsonic B-2 Spirit Stealths and supersonic B-1B “Bones” were already en route across the Pacific, two hours beyond Andersen Air Force Base in Guam and another two-plus hours before they were on target. Slower airlifts carrying arms, spare parts and support crews would be following them across over the next twenty-four hours.

  Until midnight, air support would have to come from the 18th Wing out of Kadena Air Force Base, Okinawa, augmented by the carrier aircraft onboard the WESTPAC’s five carrier battle groups, starting with the George Washington. There was enough conventional firepower to obliterate China’s forces on or near the Senkakus, starting with that one-by-three-mile bird crap–covered rock Uotsuri Jima. Cochran’s only question was whether the commander in chief would let the existing orders stand. If he did, the outcome was foreordained.

  It was getting late. He’d already canceled Friday dinner at their friends’ home, sending his wife to represent them both. She’d hoped in vain he would be able to join them for dessert. Then came another rumble, this one more ominous. He entered passwords, satisfied the supplemental biometrics and opened the Eyes-Only message. As he did, a handful of gasps rolled through the command center. The US threat status had changed from DEFCON 2 to DEFCON 1. Now he could share the news of the inbound strategic bombers.

  Cochran looked up at the room full of staffers bustling about their tasks with scopes, screens and monitors strangely muted in this satellite-light environment. He cleared his throat and ordered everyone to stop what they were doing. “Gentlemen, you can see that we’re now at DEFCON 1. The United States is going to war with China. Right now it’ll be with conventional arms, but that could change at any time. We’re locking down this facility. Please surrender all personal communication devices to the master-at-arms.”

  * * * * *

  Mei Ling paused the online replay of a UFC fight starring one of the Gracies when Aunty Juanilla came up the stairs and presented her with a square of duct tape with a small plastic-encased computer chip in the middle. She told her it had come out of Sir’s bicycle water bottle. Mei Ling thanked her as her brain went into full panic mode. Whatever was on that chip was never meant to be discovered by whoever had planted microphones and perhaps cameras in their house. She thanked Juanilla and the maid hustled back downstairs to her kitchen sanctuary. If Mei Ling were lucky, she’d have five minutes before company arrived.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  PLAYING THE FOOL

  THURSDAY MARCH 13, FORT LAUREL, MARYLAND; FRIDAY MARCH 14, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

  “Damnit! Take that, you black bastard!” shouted Wilbur Wollam as he swung the shovel like an executioner’s axe. Even in the bright moonlight, half his movements were in shadow, as his quarry was tight against the wall of a corrugated metal shed. He jumped back and squealed as the assailant scuttled toward him. Johnson made out something low, fast and dark headed his way. The shovel came down again with a mighty whap! Wollam’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Take that, you murderous son of a bitch!”

  “What was that?” Johnson asked from his stool by the fire, beer in hand.

  By way of answer, Wollam flipped the shovel over and used the blade to lift the corpse. He walked toward the fire. Coulter deadpanned, “Watch out, Wilbur’s a practical joker who can take the smile off a rodeo clown’s painted face.”

  Agent Johnson feared no man, but certain inhabitants of the animal kingdom made him, well, squeamish. He put his beer down and stood up, towering over Wollam, who presented his shovel blade inside the ring of firelight while he stood in the gloom.

  “Have a look at that, will ya,” Wollam intoned in his Perth burr.

  “Mother of God, I hope that’s dead.” Johnson was staring at a spider right out of Marvel Comics. Black, fuzzy, bigger than his outstretched hand and sporting giant fangs, it was lethal-looking even in death.

  “The Aborigines call it a barking spider, but it’s really a species of tarantula. Only mildly venomous, but you wouldn’t want it crawling up your leg when you were squatting in the bush now, would ya?”

  “I don’t think I’ll leave my hut for a week after seeing that thing,” Johnson said.

  Break time over, Coulter spoke in his low, authoritative drawl. “So your session didn’t produce any usable information? How do you propose we proceed?”

  Johnson replied, “Recall that when I met the team at 15:00 hours, I learned that our man hasn’t been allowed to sleep more than three hours a night in the past three days, is on a hunger strike and is suicidal. We don’t have any means of consistently force-feeding him until we can get an IV and glucose solution out here. Wilbur tells me th
e next scheduled resupply is in a week, and he’s reluctant to break the routine for fear of bringing attention to what’s supposed to be a preseason, lightly staffed fishing camp.” Turning to Wollam, he took the proffered Emu Export. Swapping out the empty, Johnson slid the new frosty into the neoprene cozy. The Aussies had warm weather beer drinking down pat.

  “Is that right?” Coulter asked Wollam.

  “Sure as shit’s brown, Frank.”

  Johnson continued, “The man’s undernourished and exhausted. Harsh questioning right now would be counterproductive. We’re giving him four hours’ sleep before we wake him up for fish soup. If he won’t eat it voluntarily, we’ll force it down his throat and tape his jaws shut for two hours so he can’t vomit it out. That will put us at 02:00 hours when I’ll start.”

  “I want him to mark the maps I gave you.” Coulter’s voice was quiet but still held an edge.

  “If you want me to stand aside, sir, you can conduct your own interrogation. Just don’t expect me to be able to put the pieces together—”

  All discussion stopped at the sound of a jet overhead. They waited as it drew closer. “There! There it is!” Johnson pointed to the southwest and the Mitchell Plateau. A commuter jet, tiny against the horizon, banked as it came around for another pass over the runway.

  Wollam was already on his way to the radio shed. “Let me get military ATC on the radio and find out who that is. We may have to prepare for company.”

  Coulter said to Johnson, “The two of us need to talk. I’ve been waiting for eight years to rectify an enormous error. This scientist here is the one who can restore my reputation and rank. I need answers, and I want them now. Not tomorrow.”

  “I’m listening.”

  * * * * *

  True to his boast, Jenkins landed the Gulfstream with nary a jolt. The pilots were on the brakes in a jiffy to minimize the chance of a close encounter of the furry kind. Nolan stifled a moan as his wounds strained against the shoulder and seat belts. The plane turned around and taxied to a halt two-thirds down the gravel landing strip. Nishimoto stepped out of the cockpit. “Any suggestions as to where we should park?” he asked Nolan.

  “Pick a place somewhere near the barrels and sheds next to the runway. There may be an underground bunker nearby, but I don’t know anything about Truscott Field.” Nishimoto stuck his head back in the cockpit, and they began to roll. “As you said earlier, no lights burning, so I doubt anyone’s home. Captain, do you have a weapon?”

  “Precisely my question for you. No, I do not.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Nolan confirmed.

  “I have a sidearm,” Kaili volunteered.

  Nolan’s expression as he turned to look at her was priceless.

  “At the base of the steps before we boarded, the Sri Lanka commando gave me this before he helped you out of the car.” Kaili pulled out an automatic pistol he didn’t recognize. “It holds fifteen cartridges and it is loaded.”

  Nolan extended his right arm, palm up. She gave him a blank look, but handed him the gun. “Am I now your prisoner, Agent Nolan?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tomorrow, neither one of us will be able to carry a weapon unless we want to end up shot. Turning to the captain, he asked, “Do you know how to use this?” The Gulfstream ghosted to a stop, and Jenkins shut down the two engines.

  “Haven’t fired a shot in almost forty years, but John, now, he’s another story. Ex-Special Forces, mostly piloting Cobras and Blackhawks. Definitely can fire for effect. I don’t know three pilots anywhere who could have landed tonight like he just did, either. That man can fly anything that moves. He flies and shoots the same: always on target.”

  On cue, First Officer Jenkins emerged looking cooler than a body on ice. “Welcome to Australia.”

  “Delighted to be here,” Nishimoto said. “So much so that the Chinese Secret Service has awarded you this limited-edition firearm.”

  Jenkins took the proffered gun. “A Walther PPQ. Excellent!” He dropped the magazine and took a look. “Full mag, 9mm.” The mag went back in and he fondled the gun appreciatively.

  Nolan said, “Captain, may I borrow your satphone? I need to call the DEA officer who is alerting the locals. We need to know who is on our side and when they’ll be here.”

  “It’s damn near out of juice, but give it a go.” Nishimoto pulled the Iridium handset out of his inside breast pocket and passed it across.

  Jenkins opened the passenger door and lowered the stairs. A blast of hot, humid air negated nine hours of air conditioning. He said, “If the battery is weak, best that you go outside where you can acquire a satellite more easily.”

  Nolan set foot in Australia for the first time in years. While he’d never been to the Mitchell Plateau, he’d fished for barramundi all over the top end. The tube of superglue had sealed the deep gash, but his left arm and hand wouldn’t function in the absence of sutures. He bit the phone while he fumbled in his right-hand pocket for Hecker’s number.

  After that effort, it was a letdown to have the call fail. Not even voicemail. With only one bar showing on the battery display, he dared not try again. He smelled Kaili before he heard her. He turned slowly and was rewarded with a kiss on the lips. She was still playing, but at what he didn’t know.

  “Hey, big spender. Do you have a little something for me?” Her throaty, accented imitation of an American song from the sixties reminded him of their intimacy just twenty-four hours ago. How easily the fair sex manipulated the Bobs of this world.

  He handed her the phone and said, “It could die any minute.”

  Of course her call went through, and she spoke in Mandarin for a good five minutes before the phone quit in midsentence. She seemed perturbed but said nothing. In the interim, their pilots raised the stairs to shut the door to stay cool and keep the ferocious insects at bay. They gave a shout, and Jenkins lowered the gangway-door combination. The temperature differential inside was a good ten degrees.

  Nolan’s legs were cramping and he barely made it back to his seat. The pilots set out water bottles and an array of curries and cold cuts. He noticed a couple of empty beer cans, with two more on the go. He sure would have liked a beer, but feared he might pass out if he drank one.

  “Out here, fresh water is the most important thing. If it rains, capture all you can,” Nolan said. “It will be anywhere from 105–110 degrees tomorrow. If we run out of water and no one comes for us, we won’t last more than one or two days.”

  “We took stock while you were outside making calls. How’s the phone anyway?”

  “Empty battery,” said Kaili, handing it back.

  “That’s a shame, because by our calculations we have enough fuel to maybe, just maybe, reach Dili if we get a shot. Kununurra is easy. Broome and Darwin are also doable, but landing at any of those three will probably result in all of us being jailed. The same batteries we’ll need to start our engines are currently running the lights, circulating air and flushing the toilet. We’re shutting down the power. That means no more satphone and no cockpit radio until it’s time to obtain clearance for takeoff. It’s going to get warm in here tonight, but it’ll still be cooler and less buggy than outside.

  “John’s already confirmed a safe landing to civilian air traffic control. They wanted to know what the hell we were doing. He told them it was a hijack situation and cut the comms. That put them into a panic, I’d imagine. We’ll have visitors tomorrow bright and early.”

  Nolan said, “I’m fine with that story, provided you can convince them not to lock me up before we find the interrogation center. It doesn’t seem to be at the airstrip as I’d expected.”

  Nishimoto said, “They had a chopper here earlier this week when we landed the first time. They were waiting for sunup to fly somewhere to the northeast where there’s a camp on the beach. While you two eat, talk us through how you get through tomorrow in one piece.”

  “That’s easy. We’re not. Which is why I want to give you my account of t
he MH370 disappearance. If you get out of here and I don’t, pass it to the international media. Make a copy as well, and get that to the DEA’s Samuel Hecker in Rangoon. That’s even more important.” Nolan put down his sandwich and used his good arm to hand Jenkins the folder holding thirteen pages of handwritten scrawl. “Consider this my last will and testament as a CIA officer.”

  “Spare us the melodrama. What do we do?” Nishimoto growled.

  * * * * *

  A plainclothes officer ran up the staircase. “Mei Ling Nolan?”

  No, Mei Ling thought, I’m actually Genghis Khan’s great-granddaughter to the nth power. “Yes? And do you fellows knock?”

  “I have a warrant card,” he said, displaying a police ID.

  A warrant card that could have been bought off the internet, although Mei Ling thought better of voicing that doubt. “Detective Chan Gee Soo. Born 1980. Criminal Investigation Department. So Gee Soo, what’s so exciting that you climbed my front gate, entered my house without knocking and came upstairs at 9:45 on a Friday night?”

  “I’m here to obtain whatever was inside of your father’s water bottle. If you do not cooperate, then you must come with me.”

  Mei Ling handed back Detective Chan’s warrant card and made a show of casually taking her feet off the computer table. “As it so happens, earlier tonight I dropped by Paradise Alley in Orchard Towers. I’m sure you know it; it’s a favorite with senior police officers.” Chan looked away as Mei Ling continued, “My father’s lady friend there gave me a backpack he’d left with her for safekeeping. I brought it back and gave it to our helper. Taped inside the water bottle, she found this.” Reaching down, she picked the tape off the top of the computer table where it had been sitting sticky side up. “I’m guessing whatever my father wanted to hide is here.”

  Detective Chan was dumbstruck. He pulled out his two-way radio and spoke in Mandarin, ignorant of Mei Ling’s fluency. “You won’t believe this, but the daughter just gave me the memory chip her father hid in the water bottle. What should I do next?” Mei Ling couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but the detective hung up. He looked suspiciously at Mei Ling and stood still, brows furrowed.