by Marc Cameron
“Any Russian vessels heading toward the coded signal?”
“There are some standing well off,” Fullmer said. “But none approaching. The newest Chinese icebreaker Xue Long 2 took part in the exercises and remained in Russian waters. It is moving toward the signal from the Laptev Sea.” Fullmer swallowed. “Incidentally, Xue Long means snow dragon . . . Same as the name of the exercise . . .”
“Interesting,” Ryan said, looking at van Damm, amused but for the gravity of the situation. Forestall was on his way. That was a good thing.
Fullmer continued. “It’s spring and the Arctic ice is thinning, but it still keeps most surface vessels away.”
“So a coded signal,” Ryan asked. “And returning submarines . . .”
Fullmer waited a beat. When van Damm didn’t offer anything, he said, “The subs that—”
A knock at the door from the secretaries’ suite preceded Commander Robbie Forestall’s arrival. He apologized for D.C. traffic. Breathing easier now, Fullmer brought the commander quickly up to speed.
Forestall took a stack of 8x10 color photographs from his folder and passed them across the desk to give commentary—and clarity—to Fullmer’s earlier brief.
Ryan tapped the humpbacked submarine in the photo. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“That’s the Yuan-class,” Forestall said. “The 771.”
“And a Yuan isn’t a nuke,” Ryan mused.
“It is not,” Forestall said.
“Dustin mentioned the Chinese boomer,” Ryan said. “The Jin-class. When’s the last time we saw her?”
“Our last contact with her was a week ago, north of the Bering Strait.”
“So are we thinking this boomer is in distress and calling for help?”
“High probability,” Forestall said.
“I can see them sending the Shangs into an overhead environment like an ice floe, but the Yuan’s a diesel. Seems like a good way to lose another sub.”
“Right,” Forestall said. “But the Yuan’s not an ordinary diesel-electric. Folks at the Naval Institute describe it as like a Song that resembles the Russian Kilo or a Kilo that has some characteristics of a Song. The Yuan has horizontal control surfaces on his sail and a dorsal rudder—like the Song-class boats. The Kilos have neither of these features, but they do share the same two-over-four torpedo tube configuration with the Yuan. Shipbuilders in Wuhan are turning out this newer class of sub with a rubberized hull coating, seven-blade screw, antivibration rack. State-of-the-art weaponry and sonar come either from Russia and or France. This is a very quiet sub, Mr. President. China has had great success with air-independent power.”
“Meaning they don’t need to surface and run their diesel to charge their batteries,” Ryan said.
“Exactly,” Forestall said. “We’re not sure how long they can stay under, but at least two weeks. We’ve inserted a test section with AIP in one of our Virginia-class boats for testing, but honestly, sir, we’ve put most of our eggs in the nuke basket. France sold AIP hardware to Pakistan. Germany is using the technology as well.”
“So,” Ryan said, “all but one of the Chinese submarines returning to Arctic waters are capable of staying submerged and maneuvering while doing so for sustained periods.”
“That’s correct, Mr. President,” Forestall said.
“To go under the ice . . .” Ryan said. “Even the Communist Chinese wouldn’t want to risk their nascent submarine forces by sailing them into an overhead environment where they could not surface if they had an issue. So a DISSUB sounds on the nose.”
“True enough, Mr. President,” Forestall said. “We wanted to give you the military picture to give background for what I have next.”
19
I would not normally have brought something of this nature to your attention,” Commander Forestall said. “But considering the coded signal coming from somewhere around the Mendeleev Ridge . . .”
“I’m all ears, Robby,” Ryan said.
“Captain Russ Holland, skipper of the John Paul Jones, operating off the coast of Hawaii, kicked something up the chain regarding Arctic waters,” Forestall said. “His chief sonar technician is in possession of an audio file purported to contain noises that some believe to be the sound of metal on metal . . . and possibly . . . words . . . Chinese words.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “A sonar tech in Hawaii?”
“Correct,” Forestall said. “These sound transients in question were recorded on a hydrophone during a scientific survey below the ice north of Point Barrow, Alaska. Chief Petty Officer Barker’s former shipmate, a Dr. Patti Moon, left the Navy and went on to earn her Ph.D. in physics. She works aboard the research vessel Sikuliaq, a light icebreaker operated by the University of Alaska Fairbanks. It seems the R/V Sikuliaq was dropping under-ice sensors near an area at the edge of our continental shelf, a place called the Chukchi Borderland, when she recorded the sounds. I should point out that this is less than thirty nautical miles from the point of origin for the coded signal. In any case, Dr. Moon sent the file to her friend Chief Barker on the John Paul Jones and he submitted it through his chain of command.”
“Does he agree with her assessment?” Ryan asked. “This Barker fellow.”
“Enough to kick it up the chain,” Forestall said. “Which bears some serious consideration. I pulled Dr. Moon’s records. She’s originally from Alaska. Received consistently good performance evaluations, but all her commanders noted that she had a penchant for putting far too much credence in conspiracy theories, especially those involving the government. Secret cabals and such. Seems she doesn’t trust Uncle Sam to do right by her.”
“What words?” Ryan asked.
Commander Forestall cocked his head, not following. “Sir?”
“Dr. Moon’s Chinese words,” Ryan said. “I’m assuming someone in your office speaks Mandarin.”
SecDef Burgess walked through the door, already having read the brief.
“Admiral Talbot is on his way,” Burgess said. Talbot was CNO, chief of naval operations. “He was having a root canal.”
Ryan nodded and flicked his hand for Forestall to finish answering the question.
“The sound file is extremely garbled, Mr. President,” Forestall said. “It could very well be fish or moving ice. But if it is someone screaming, my two Chinese speakers are at odds about what this person is saying. One of them thinks fire or danger. I’ve listened to the file myself. Honestly, I find it highly unlikely anyone could pick up human voices outside a submarine. The hulls aren’t like in the movies. We make them quiet. Now, you slam a hatch . . . drop a pan of cookies . . . that’s a different story. Voices . . . I’m not sure about that. I will say, though, the metallic sounds are extremely convincing, especially with the current situation.”
“So,” Ryan said. “Let’s say these sounds are coming from a DISSUB. The Chinese are homing in on a signal thirty miles away from where Dr. Moon made her recording? Either the damaged sub traveled, or they’re looking in the wrong place.”
Dustin Fullmer moved his hand like he was going to raise it but changed his mind.
“Let’s have it,” Ryan said.
“Well, sir,” Fullmer said. “I’m not a hundred percent sure of Chinese technology, but what if the DISSUB deployed a submarine rescue buoy? If the cable detached, it could have been carried under the ice and didn’t pop to the surface until it was thirty miles away.”
Ryan glanced at Forestall.
“I suppose that could be the case,” Forestall said.
“Would the buoy have GPS of the original deployment?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not sure about Chinese design,” Forestall said. “The buoys are designed to deploy automatically if the timers aren’t reset periodically, in case they’re unreachable in an accident. The Russians kept having accidental deployments, so they welded many of theirs in place.”
/> “Okay,” Ryan said, giving Fullmer an attaboy nod. He scribbled something in his notepad and then looked up at Burgess. “Who do we have up north, Bob?”
“The Navy’s biennial ICEX ended a little over a week ago,” Burgess said. “Two subs took part. The Connecticut was headed home, already abeam the San Juan Islands by the time we turned her around. But SSN 789—the Indiana—is still under the ice. We don’t have contact with her for the moment, but we’re sending ELF signals for her to make contact when she’s able to receive. I imagine she’s shadowing a Russian submarine. They would have come to lurk around the edges of our ICEX training. If need be, we can send someone up with Deep Siren. Find a lead in the ice and get a message to them that way.”
Raytheon’s Deep Siren was essentially a low-frequency acoustic tactical paging system to communicate underwater. It had proven itself many times over during several ICEX scenarios. Moving ice was problematic, but as long as there was open water, messages could be sent to the sub. “In addition to the Indiana, the USCG icebreaker Healy is also present,” Burgess added. “We’ve been in contact and they are moving to investigate the point of this coded signal’s origin.”
“Very well,” Ryan said. “The ice makes it problematic . . .”
Forestall nodded.
“It does indeed, sir,” Burgess said. “Surface ships are a no go, other than the Healy. And with this many Chinese, U.S., and, surely, Russian submarines playing cat and mouse the chances of someone bumping rises sharply.”
Ryan shook his finger. “No bumping.”
“Roger that, Mr. President.”
“Have your experts keep playing with the sound file and that coded signal,” Ryan said, still tapping the desk with his pencil.
“Of course, sir,” Forestall said.
“So,” Ryan said. “Dr. Moon is from Alaska?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Forestall said. “Her record says she’s from a small village on the Arctic. Point Hope.”
“Point Hope.” Ryan gave a sad shake of his head. “Interesting.”
“It’s in the top corner of the state,” Forestall said. “On the northwest coast.”
“I’m familiar with Point Hope,” Ryan said. “And some of you likely read about it in college. Shortly after World War Two, some well-meaning but poorly informed folks at the Atomic Energy Commission were trying to come up with peacetime uses for the A-bomb. In their infinite governmental wisdom, somebody decided we should detonate five nuclear bombs a little south of that village where Dr. Moon is from to build a new harbor . . . in an area that stayed covered in ice more than half of the year. The plan was nixed, but it’s no wonder she doesn’t trust the government. I’m sure she grew up hearing stories about Project Chariot. You work for the government as long as I have, you learn some conspiracies deserve a little extra credence. Given the total of what’s going on, there is a strong probability that the PLAN Submarine Force is launching a rescue mission.”
“Agreed,” Burgess said.
“Very well,” Ryan said. “I’ll leave the how and how many up to you. But I’d like to be kept informed. Where exactly is the Healy right now?”
The Coast Guard vessel Healy was one of only two functional icebreakers in the U.S. military inventory. China also had two. Russia had over forty.
Commander Forestall tapped a query into his tablet, waited a moment, then said, “The Healy is patrolling north of Kaktovik, Alaska—an old DEW Line station.”
DEW Line was a series of Distant Early Warning radar sites, meant to keep tabs on the Soviet Bear during the Cold War. Some three hundred miles east of Point Barrow, the Inupiat village of Kaktovik was on the northern edge of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. It now served as a hub for scientific research on climate change and a thriving tourist destination for watching polar bears that came to eat on the boneyard from the village’s yearly harvest of bowhead whales.
Ryan stood. The others were already standing, but van Damm got to his feet as well.
“Who’s Healy’s skipper?”
Forestall glanced at his tablet again. “Captain Jay Rapoza.”
Ryan picked up the pencil again, thinking, then tossed it back to the center of his desk.
“And he’s heading for the source of this coded signal?”
“Correct,” Burgess said.
“And that will take him near the place were Dr. Moon heard her sounds?”
Burgess glanced at Forestall.
“Right over the top of it, Mr. President.”
“Bob, get in touch with Rapoza’s chain of command and make sure everyone stays in the loop as things develop.”
“Yes, sir,” the SecDef said.
“Robbie,” Ryan said, causing Forestall to turn. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to facilitate for me.”
20
John Clark marked the police minders as soon as he boarded the aircraft. Both were Han Chinese men in their forties, seated three rows behind him on either side of the aisle. They read magazines, looking up periodically with feigned disinterest. The one on the right had thinning hair and a long, horselike face. He was dressed like a businessman coming home from a conference, open-collared white shirt, rumpled suit, an overcoat he kept in his lap like a blanket. He talked on his phone a lot—or pretended to. The other was slightly doughy with a blue ball cap and puffy blue ski jacket over a corduroy sport coat that looked too tight to button. Clark noted Horse Face’s shoe that stuck half out in the aisle. It was well worn, sturdy, and didn’t quite match the business suit. The Uyghurs who’d boarded in front of Clark recognized the minders for what they were as well, and leaned slightly away when they shuffled past, as if the men were contagious.
Clark had the entire row to himself. The China Southern Airlines flight was only around half full, but most of the passengers were Uyghur men. None of them wanted to risk being seen chatting with a foreigner by the two police minders.
The steady hiss of air flowing across the fuselage of the shabby but serviceable Airbus changed to a burbling roar as the pilots deployed flaps and slowed the plane in preparation for landing. Clark’s ears popped, alerting him to the aircraft’s descent. He hated airports, and didn’t particularly enjoy being crammed into a flying metal tube. But he wasn’t apprehensive about flying itself. At best, he was ambivalent. For him, slipping the surly bonds of earth was simply a means to an end. Some found the idea of flying a romantic notion. Good for them. Clark understood, a little.
He felt that way about the sea.
The pilots kept the cabin on the chilly side, so most passengers wore their coats or at least a heavy wool sweater during the flight. Most of the Uyghur men wore black fur hats pulled low over their eyes, like the winter hat worn by Brezhnev in all the newsreels. Others wore ball caps, or snap-brims. A couple of the older ones wore large fur Kyrgyz hats, similar to a Russian ushanka but wider at the earflaps, perfectly suited to their long white beards and Turkic features. Dark eyes and aquiline noses peered back and forth at the gathering twilight out of the windows on each side of the plane.
Clark watched the ground rise up to meet him out the window to his left. A dusty haze hung over the dull gray of the city and muted brown of the surrounding countryside. Patches of grimy snow clung to the shadows. The canal along the highway leading from the airport northeast of the town flowed full of chocolate-brown water. A convoy of three white-topped military troop carriers rolled down the highway east of the city. Pickups and larger trucks shared the roads with taxis and scooters.
Clark could already feel the grit of dust in his teeth and the chill on his neck just from looking out the window. It was no wonder everyone on the plane wore winter hats.
The plane bounced once, crabbing into a stiff crosswind before straightening up and settling onto Kashgar Airport’s only runway.
The police minders followed Clark off the plane and then jumped ahead
when he was held up at Immigration and Customs. He was sure he’d see them again. No doubt about that.
The uniformed Han officer grunted as Clark slid his Canadian passport and visa, courtesy of Adam Yao’s friend in Beijing, across the counter. The officer perused it with the jaundiced eye of someone accustomed to being lied to on an hourly basis.
He asked Clark a couple perfunctory questions about the purpose of his trip. For his part, Clark tried very hard to hide the predatory edge in his eyes by acting bewildered. The three-thousand-mile trip from Ho Chi Minh City via Guangzhou and Urumqi had sapped him, and he was able to play weary traveler without acting. The officer barked something unintelligible, making the bewildered look easy to sustain.
It sounded as if he’d asked Clark if he had a jeep.
Clark shrugged and tapped his ear. It was better for the officer to think he was simply dealing with an old deaf guy rather than to be offended because Clark couldn’t understand his English.
“You have the GPS?” the officer pantomimed, using his index finger like a compass needle. “For navigation.”
“On my phone,” Clark said, honestly.
“Mobile phone!” The man snapped his fingers. “Give to me.”
Clark fished the phone out of his jacket pocket and passed it to the officer without argument.
“Extra battery?”
Clark dug out the spare charging block as well.
“Passcode!
“I . . .”
“Passcode or I do not give back,” the man said. He gazed up at Clark without lifting his head.
Clark gave him the code to unlock the screen.
The officer scrolled, perusing the various icons, then said, “Do not use in China.”
“The phone?”
The officer gave a disgusted shake of his head, then pointed to the map icon on the screen, raising his voice for the deaf Canadian at his station.
“No JEEPS in China.”
“I understand,” Clark said. “No GPS.”
