“Based on the trajectory analysis from MOTHER, best guess is that the missile was launched from one of the many small islands in the South China Sea. Most likely in this area,” Sanchez had a satellite image projected onto the large color monitor, and he was pointing to a circle overlaid on the geography. SGIT’s super computer—nicknamed MOTHER because it always seemed to have an answer to every question—had crunched the radar data from the Shiloh, Lassen, and McCampbell. Constructed using massive parallel optical processing and rated at 158 petaflops, it seemed no problem was too difficult for MOTHER. And now, with three separate perspectives on the trajectory, MOTHER calculated the probable flight path of the missile and extrapolated back to the likely launch coordinates. Unfortunately, it was still a very large area that encompassed dozens of tiny islands in the Spratly chain—some no more than rocky outcroppings barely large enough for a small flock of seagulls.
Eyes were still focused on the screen when Ross spoke up. “Excuse me, ma’am. Just received an update from Navy.”
“Go on,” Lacey answered.
“It says the USS Pioneer arrived on site at the location of the Izumo, and she has just completed an examination of the wreck using the Navy’s most advanced ROV. The debris field is relatively contained, and the ship did break in two sections, confirming the eyewitness reports. The bow section and stern section are only separated by about 300 yards. Let’s see,” she was leaning close to the computer monitor and summarizing the email as she read. “Looks like the ROV collected video. I have a link so we should be able to put it up on the monitor.” Ross pointed to the large wall-mounted display. “Also, they collected a dozen samples—pieces from deck plates, bulk heads, conduit and electrical cable, and small pipe. Samples have been flown to Okinawa for lab analysis.”
“Let’s take a look at the video,” Lacey said.
Ross entered a few keystrokes. The large monitor flickered and then video of an underwater scene replaced the color map of the Spratly Islands.
The analysts watched in rapt attention as the sharp image revealed first the bow section of the Izumo, then the broken decks, and finally the fractured stern section. The entire video, lasting less than three minutes, had been spliced together to provide a concise visual summary.
Sanchez was the first to react, letting out a soft whistle.
“I’ve never seen such destruction.” It was the first comment from Mark Williams since the team had completed their meal. “But it doesn’t look like it was caused by an explosive warhead.”
Lacey had been studying the video from the far side of the room, near the coffee carafe. She walked to her chair and seated herself, her eyebrows pinched together. “Play it again. And when you get to the broken hull sections, freeze the image so we can take a closer look.”
Ross moved the slider at the bottom of the video to advance to the frames of particular interest, then played the video at one quarter normal speed. “There!” Lacey said, and Ross paused the playback.
Both Williams and Lacey approached the monitor for a closer inspection. Williams shook his head. “The primary damage is largely buckled deck plates and bulkheads.”
“And the damage is not localized,” Lacey added. She pointed with her index finger. “It continues all the way through to the keel. In my opinion, the damage is more consistent with a kinetic penetrator and not an explosive device.”
“I’ve read about such a weapon,” Stephens said. “But I didn’t know any military had actually deployed it. Mark? You seem to be the most familiar with this weaponry.”
Williams returned to his seat and faced Stephens. “Well, there’s not a lot to report. You’re correct. Only the Chinese are believed to have developed an operational version. But Uncle Sam has funded development through the Department of the Navy for almost a decade now. Still, there isn’t much support among the top brass for the weapon system.”
“I’d have to agree,” she replied. “I mean, why go to all the trouble when a thousand pounds of high explosive can do the job equally well?”
“Or a well-placed torpedo,” Sanchez added.
Lacey leaned back. “The Chinese call it the ship killer. It’s a key part of their strategic plan to forcibly retake Taiwan, if it ever comes to that.”
“I still don’t get it. Like I said, place a Mark 48 torpedo against a ship’s hull, or detonate the warhead under the keel, and even the largest warship is in serious trouble.”
Mark Williams had folded his hands, listening intently to the discussion. East Asia was his specialty, and lately that meant he stayed very busy. “It’s a simple doctrine, when you think about it. China knows they must have a standoff weapon system that neutralizes our carrier strike groups. They accept that they will never win a prolonged naval conflict with the United States, and they don’t have the patience to build a blue-water navy that does pose a formidable threat to the Pacific Fleet. Furthermore, they can’t risk using tactical nuclear weapons, even in a limited theater dominated by open ocean.”
Sanchez waved his hand in objection. “You haven’t answered the question. Why deploy a weapon system as complicated as a ballistic missile when a cruise missile or torpedo can do the job equally well, maybe better?”
“The answer should be self-evident.” Williams cast a curious glance at Sanchez. “Standoff distance. A theater ballistic missile has range that cannot be met—not even close—with anti-ship missiles and torpedoes. A plus is that the weapon may be fired from fortified positions, or from mobile launchers, within mainland China.”
“And as we all know,” Stephens said, “if a ballistic missile is not intercepted in the boost phase, the probability of taking it out during reentry is very low.”
Lacey pointed to Williams. “You take point on this Mark. You’ve studied Chinese military doctrine longer than anyone in the group, and probably longer than any analyst at the DIA. I want every theory you can come up with, or have ever heard about, put forward. And then arguments for and against. You have the entire team at your disposal.”
Williams returned a curt nod.
“Okay people. Let’s get to it. I want answers!”
Chapter 10
London, U.K.
August 23
It was nearly midnight, but despite the tasing and bruises from the beating, Peter was wired. He knew exhaustion would set in once the adrenalin rush wore off.
After hours of questioning, and long phone conversations with the Brunei Foreign Ministry and the U.S. State Department, the London police released Robert and Peter. They politely declined to return the Walther, citing the strict laws in the U.K. concerning ownership of handguns. “That’s not your property,” Robert objected.
“And I suggest your government take it up through diplomatic channels,” a stern officer replied.
“Come on, Robert,” Peter said. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”
He nodded. “How about having one of your patrol cars drop us off at the Ritz?” The Rolls had been impounded as evidence.
“I beg your pardon,” the officer replied. “We are public servants to ensure safety and enforce the law. We are not a taxi service.”
Robert’s face flushed. Peter placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. Riding in a London taxi will be another first for me.”
Back in the Prince of Wales Suite, Diesel greeted Peter and Robert with wagging tail as they walked through the door. “Good heavens,” Roger said as he laid eyes on the two men.
“Yeah, you should see the other guys,” Robert quipped.
Roger raised an eyebrow, not sure if Robert was serious or his comment was just an example of odd American humor. “May I prepare something to eat and drink? Perhaps tea and cookies?” he asked.
“Thank you, Roger, but I’ll require something stronger than tea,” Peter replied.
“Champagne? I always keep two bottles chilled for Miss Jade.”
“Yeah, well, Miss Jade is not here,” Robert answered morosely. “She’s been taken.”
“Taken? You mean Miss Jade has been kidnapped?”
“Yeah.” Robert walked away from Roger and leaned over the fireplace, his meaty arms anchored against the marble mantle.
Peter gently stretched. His entire body ached, no doubt from the muscle spasms caused by the 50,000 volts from the Taser. He gently lowered himself into one of the leather armchairs, the padding softly cushioning his back. Diesel curled on the Persian rug at his feet.
“Know much about whiskey, Roger?” Peter asked as he stretched his neck.
“Hmpf. Scotch, Irish, Canadian, or American?” Roger straightened his back and puffed out his chest as he replied, causing Peter to grin.
“Scotch. Oban, 18-year-old. Do you think they have a bottle at the bar?”
“Of course. I have no doubt.”
Sensing Peter and Robert wanted privacy, Roger closed the door as he exited the living room for the kitchen.
Robert had his phone to his ear, waiting as the call went through. Peter could tell that he was being transferred from one person to the next, finally connecting. “Yes ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I have bad news.”
The conversation was short, not more than a minute. Robert spared Mrs. Lim the details, informing her only that Jade had been kidnapped.
After the call ended, Peter asked, “What now?”
“We have to get her back.”
“Yeah, okay. And just—”
A knock at the door interrupted Peter. Roger entered carrying a silver tray holding two tumblers, a bottle of Oban single malt Scotch, and a small ice bucket. “Would you care for anything else?”
Peter shook his head. “Thank you.”
When Roger reached the door, he hesitated and turned to face Peter. “Sir, I hope Miss Jade will be all right.”
“Me too, Roger, me too.”
s
It was the first time Peter had witnessed Robert have a drink. After two more phone calls and a generous glass of Scotch, he looked Peter squarely in the eyes. “We’ve been summoned to Brunei.”
“We? There’s nothing I can do there.”
“Lim Eu-meh, Jade’s mother, has requested your help.”
“This is a police matter. I’ve given them my statement, as have you. What more can I do? Let the police do their job and catch the gang of thugs that kidnapped her.”
“You can’t be serious. That was not a gang of hoodlums.” Robert paused to let the thought sink in. “Why didn’t they shoot us? It would have been easier, faster.”
“How should I know? Maybe they thought the police would put more resources on the case if they committed murder.”
“You’re joking. Right? Come on. They kidnapped the niece of the Sultan of Brunei. It doesn’t get more high-profile than that.”
“I can’t help you.”
“That job was professional,” Robert said, his face grim. “With military precision, they herded us into a trap using multiple elements and coordinated in real time.”
Peter stared back.
“You saw it; you were there,” Robert pressed.
“So were you. And what good did it do?”
“Like I told you, I’m familiar with your file. Mrs. Lim is, too.”
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes, nor am I James Bond or Jason Bourne.”
“What you are is resourceful.” Robert leaned forward. “You know as well as I do that the police will not find her. What do they have to go on? Tell me.”
Peter’s silence was answer enough.
“Neither of us can ID any of them. If the vehicles are ever recovered, they’ll be clean.”
“Someone will call with a ransom demand,” Peter said. “Isn’t that the way this works? The police can trace the call or follow the cash. A bank transfer would be better—easy to follow the account numbers.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not about money.”
“It’s always about money.”
Robert shook his head. “Not this time.”
“Really? Enlighten me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then why should I go with you to Brunei?”
“Because you care about Jade.”
“Well, caring isn’t good enough.” Peter sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. Fatigue, combined with the whiskey, was beginning to have an effect. “It didn’t help today.”
“The Sultan’s A340 will be fueled within the hour and the flight plan is being filed. We’ll leave in the morning.”
“You’re not listening. I’m not going to Brunei.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Are you planning to drag me onto that flight?”
“Mrs. Lim wants to talk to you.”
“No disrespect intended, but she knows how to use a phone.”
“She’ll only speak with you in person.”
“Look, Robert, you seem like a nice person. And I’m sure Eu-Meh is as well. She’s upset. It’s understandable. But she has the assets of her government plus the London police—probably Scotland Yard as well—at her disposal to solve this kidnapping and rescue Jade. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“She knows.”
Peter furrowed his brow. “Knows what?”
“She knows why Jade was taken, and it’s not for money.”
Chapter 11
South China Sea
August 24
The Royal Seeker was nearly motionless on calm seas. A light breeze washed across the bridge. Captain Rei checked the radar scope again—no blips. It was approaching time.
The sun had risen but was still low on the eastern horizon. He would have preferred low clouds, but the weather conditions were acceptable nevertheless.
First Officer Chang approached from behind the captain. “Everything is ready, sir.”
Rei nodded almost imperceptibly, prompting his First Officer to continue.
“The target coordinates have been entered and confirmed. What are your orders?”
Rei clasped his hands behind his back and gazed through the forward bridge windows at the placid ocean. Just off the starboard beam a rocky outcropping, barely a square mile in area, rose a dozen or so feet above the sea. He had positioned his ship close to this barren patch of ground—one of many dozen small islands, cays, reefs, and shoals in the vast archipelago known as the Spratly Islands. It was all part of the illusion.
“Why do you suppose these islands are coveted by so many nations?” he asked.
Chang was still behind Captain Rei, and he frowned, annoyed with this trivial conversation when far more important tasks required action. “Fishing, I suppose. Perhaps mineral rights.”
Hmmpf, Rei scoffed.
“Sir, I request permission—” but Chang was cut off before he could complete his request.
“Fish… oil and gas that have yet to be discovered,” Rei sounded philosophical, his voice soft. “Countries don’t threaten war over such mundane needs. No. This is about dominance. China must show the United States that it can take these islands and the surrounding waters—for no other reason than because the Central Party says so.”
“Captain?”
Rei turned and faced Chang. “China must expand. The west is arid and unsuitable for supporting a large population. The east is overcrowded. Pollution is poisoning our water and our air.” His dark eyes squinted as he scrutinized his First Officer. Chang only nodded, unwilling to engage in a pointless discussion.
“The opportunity is east, of course. Southeast Asia, Taiwan, Australia… Japan. It will be an empire the likes of which mankind has never witnessed. Once the western Pacific is dominated by China, our security will be assured.”
Chang’s countenance was rigid, showing no emotion. He cared little for politics. He was a soldier, trained to follow orders.
“Captain, it is daylight. Once again, we are vulnerable to observation by passing aircraft and satellites. We should not tempt fate and press our luck any further.”
“You would have preferred we fire the missile under the cover of
darkness?”
Chang did not answer.
“Your youth is both an asset and a weakness, my friend. Over the years, I have learned the value of patience—a lesson you still have to master. The darkness is not our ally; it is an illusion. Once the rocket motor ignites, the brilliant plume is a million times brighter than a signal flare. It would attract attention for a hundred miles in all directions as the missile climbs higher and higher.”
Captain Rei placed a hand on his First Officer’s shoulder, addressing him like a student rather than a subordinate. “Now, with the sun just above the eastern horizon, infrared imagers onboard the American satellites will be challenged to detect the superheated exhaust against the rising sun. And if the missile plume is detected by their satellites, technicians monitoring the signals will lose precious minutes trying to determine if the detection is really a missile launch or merely a false alarm due to the sun.”
Rei paused, a rare smile creeping across his face. “You are smart and ambitious, and you will do fine. Now, it is time.”
s
Deep inside the bowls of the rusted hull, four decks below the bridge, the electronic launch and control center was bustling with activity. The overhead lights were extinguished, replaced with red lamps and diffuse illumination from a vast assortment of electronic equipment—most of it with multicolor flat screens to display graphic data and images with remarkable clarity.
Thick, shielded cables connected the control center to the outside world via radar, several cameras, and antenna for both sending encrypted messages as well as conducting electronic surveillance. Most of the cameras were pointed at the deck area where the missile was erected amidst the three steel drill towers, the images displayed on a dual row of screens.
At another console, a technician was monitoring for radio and radar signals. Even though there were no ships within a radius of sixteen nautical miles, electromagnetic emissions from ships could bounce off the upper atmosphere and travel much farther than line-of-sight. “Normal background emissions,” the technician reported.
“Very well,” Chang replied. He preferred the control center over the bridge. “Is the deck clear?”
Guarding Savage Page 8
