Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (39 page)

Protected by the darkness and the aerial insult of the helicopter, he
would pilot the Zodiac to the Empress’s side, where his people would
hook silently to the hull with the magnetic mooring. If all continued to
go well, they would use the magnetic climbing gear to swarm up to the
dark forward deck, where they would begin their critical search.

On the USS John Crowe, Commander Chervenko watched the Seahawk settle
down onto its helipad in a perfect landing. He ducked under the
still-turning rotors and ran toward the door. “Everything go okay?” he
shouted to the pilot.

“Great, sir! They’re there.” Chervenko gave a brisk nod and hurried back
down to communications-and-control. As he entered, his gaze instantly
went to OS2 Fred Baum, who was concentrating on the radar screen. “Can
you pick up the Zodiac, Baum?”

“No, sir. Way too small.”

“Hastings? You hearing anything?”

“Only the Empress’s screws and that sub that’s dogging us, sir,” Sonar
Technician First-Class Matthew Hastings said.

“No one can pick up that electric motor behind the noise of the
freighter.” Chervenko pursed his lips with satisfaction. “Good. Maybe
our boys will pull it off.” He turned to leave and thought better of it.

“Keep alert. Watch for anything funny the Empress does, and–”

“Sir?”

Hastings at sonar was listening intently. His voice rose. “The sub. That
Chinese sub is moving in fast! Real fast! She’s closing in on us!”

Chervenko grabbed an earphone and listened. The submarine was definitely
approaching at full speed. “Anyone got anything else?” Another
technician called out, “They’re arming torpedoes, sir! Running them in!”

Chervenko whirled to the radioman. “Call the abort! Abort!” The
communications technician bent to his mike and yelled, “Abort! Abort!

Abort!”

The Zodiac pounded through the sea to within only a few feet of the
towering steel side of the Empress. For the SEALs, it was like looking
up at a skyscraper, except that the skyscraper was moving at a fast
clip, while they were moving toward it and trying not to be sucked in,
caught in the turbulence, or slammed against the side. Disorientation
and surprise twists from the sea killed many. Still, Kozloff was
accustomed to disorientation, and his brain was well trained to
calculate exactly how to approach the looming freighter most safely,
without cracking up against it.

He inched the Zodiac closer. Cold spray hit his face. The stink of oil
and metal was oppressive. Without needing an order, the SEAL who was
responsible leaned far out and clamped the magnetic docking device to
the Empress on the first try. Water surged up over the Zodiac’s sides,
drenching them. At the same time, the point SEAL activated his magnetic
hooks and began to climb, a spider scaling a monolith. Soon the next
SEAL climbed, then the next.

Kozloff watched proudly. The safety of night … the diversion by the
chopper … the nearly perfect anchoring … everything told him that
this vital operation was going to be successful.

He allowed himself a smile as he activated his magnetic climbers and
attached them to the hull. Instantly he felt the pull, the sense of
safety. The damn things really worked. He launched upward, just as the
first SEAL reached the ship’s deck.

Suddenly his minireceiver screamed in his ear, “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

With a wrench of his gut, he forced himself to reverse his drive to push
onward. He made himself believe the incomprehensible: Success was
withdrawal.

He flipped the switch, opening the line to his men. “Abort! Come back!

Abort, dammit. Abort! Get your asses back down here on the double!”

The men dropped down the wall, sliding quickly by reducing the magnetism
in their hand-hold and foot-hold units. He worried about the top man,
who had disappeared onto the ship. From the Zodiac, he stared upward,
unconsciously holding his breath. Where was his point man?

When the point SEAL appeared, he was like a fireman on a greased pole,
dropping straight down the hull, his expression pissed and trying to
hide it. As soon as his feet touched the Zodiac’s side, one SEAL yanked
him aboard, while another released the magnetic anchor. Kozloff turned
the boat away from the freighter, fighting waves and the drag of the sea
that tried to suck the Zodiac into the ship’s screws.

His people watched the hulking Empress without talking. They could still
be seen.

When no searchlight appeared, Kozloff took a deep breath of relief. The
only good thing as far as he was concerned was at least that part of
their mission was successful–The Dowager Empress had not spotted them.

As he accelerated back toward the Crowe, the Empress thundered onward,
leaving the Zodiac to pitch and yaw in the rough wake. Now that they
were safe, his men began grumbling.

“What in hell happened?” asked the point man.

“We could’ve made it!” complained the anchor man.

Kozloff silently agreed, but he was also commander. “Orders, people,” he
said sternly. “We had orders to abort. We don’t question orders.”

Commander Chervenko leaned over the shoulder of Hastings, listening to
the submarine. He stiffened as he heard the enemy vessel slow. Had he
heard right?

Hastings swallowed. “The sub’s easing up, sir. Falling back.” The
radioman called, “Bridge says the Zodiac’s home. It’s signaling off the
starboard bow. Commander Bienas says he’s slowing to pick up the SEALs.”

His voice radiating relief, Hastings added, “Looks like the sub’s
dropping back to its original position behind us, sir.”

Chervenko inhaled. It was the most emotion he allowed himself in front
of his men. He was drained by the last few hours. As he looked around at
the tight faces, he knew they were even more so. At least he had years
of experience under his belt buckle. “All right, let’s figure out how in
hell that sub knew to threaten us just when our SEALs were about to
board the Empress. Hastings?”

“No way they picked up the Zodiac or the Seahawk on sonar, sir.”

“The Empress saw the Seahawk hovering,” OS2 Fred Baum suggested. “They
put two and two together.”

“That could’ve been it,” Chervenko agreed. “Good work everyone. Keep
your eyes and ears open. Call me if there’s anything else.”

As Chervenko hurried down to his quarters to report to Washington, he
knew there was no way The Dowager Empress could have detected the
unloading of the SEAL team far ahead in the nighttime ocean. The Empress
knew they had been hassled by the Seahawk, but that was all. The only
way the Chinese sub would have known to move ahead to threaten the Crowe
so the SEAL raid was stopped was if they had been warned in advance.

Someone had warned the Chinese submarine. Someone in Washington.

Saturday, September 16.

Washington, D.C.

The president stood at the windows of the Oval Office, looking out over
the Rose Garden, his back to the distraught Admiral Brose. “They
failed?”

“The Chinese sub moved in.” Brose’s voice was wooden. “It loaded and
armed torpedoes. Commander Chervenko thinks they knew the raid was
coming and guessed the chopper overfly was the start.” “Someone here
warned them?” “That’s how it looks.” The admiral’s remark suggested the
president might know more than he did. The admiral had not been included
in the recent information about the leaks. No one but the DCI and Fred
Klein were tight in the loop.

“All right, thank you, Stevens.”

The admiral stood, but he did not leave. “What now, sir?”

The president turned, his hands clasped behind, his tall figure framed
in the window. “We go on as before. Make sure all the services are ready
and that we have a strong presence in Asian waters on a war footing.”

“Then, Mr. President?”

“Then we wait for China’s move.”

“The Empress should reach Iraqi waters Monday evening our time. Tuesday
morning theirs.” Brose’s hard gaze fixed on the president. “Today’s
Saturday, so we’re talking just one and, maybe, a half days. Things were
bad enough when we still had almost a full week.”

“I know, Admiral. I know.”

The admiral heard the unspoken criticism and nodded slowly. “My
apologies, Mr. President.”

“No apology needed, Stevens. Go see that your people are taken care of.

Were any hurt?”

“We don’t know yet. When I talked with Chervenko, the Crowe hadn’t
picked them up yet. I thought you’d want to know about the abort as soon
as possible.”

“Yes. I did. Thank you.”

When the admiral left, President Castilla remained standing. At last he
let out an agonized sigh. He picked up his blue phone, the direct,
scrambled line to Covert-One headquarters.

Fred Klein answered immediately. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“The SEALs had to abort.” The president repeated Brose’s report. “The
Chinese were warned. Commander Chervenko is sure.”

“Was it Secretary Kott?”

“No. I sent him on a special mission to Mexico to keep him out of
Washington. He’s completely off the page, and the CIA’s watching him,
just to be sure.”

The president paused, feeling again his outrage and disgust at Kott’s
misuse of power. His leaks had caused devastating damage, and the
president intended to hold him accountable. But not yet. It was too
early to tip his hand.

He continued, “I’ll tell Arlene Debo that a leak here in Washington may
be the source for the sub’s aggression on the Crowe. Obviously, we can’t
lay that one on Kott. Have you heard from Jon Smith?”

“Afraid not,” Klein told him. “Another hour, I activate my people.”

“We’d better both pray they find him and the manifest. He’s our last
chance.”

“What does Arlene say about Mcdermid? Any news from Agent Russell?”

“More bad news. Russell has disappeared, too.”

Hong Kong.

Two Chinese men dragged a struggling peasant woman into the L-shaped
room and flung her to the floor near where the man slumped in a chair,
his hands tied behind, his face bloodied, his feet naked. The room was
airless.

“Take a good look,” one told her in Cantonese. “When you’re questioned,
remember–that’ll be you if you don’t answer.”

Dressed in loose pajama trousers and shirt, the peasant woman cowered on
the floor and blinked in the way of someone who has not understood a
word. The man shook his head, beginning to worry. He looked at his
partner, and they left.

Randi heard the door lock behind them. Her black eyes flashed angrily,
and her gaze swept over the room, analyzing it. The two wide windows,
one front and one back, were covered by drapes. The morning light
penetrated only in thin lines around them. She did not move, concerned
she was being observed from somewhere. She studied Jon and the knots
that tied him to the chair. Silently, she swore. Damn. They had him,
too, and they had been tuning him.

She had stumbled into more than she or Langley had expected. Whatever
Jon was working on this time, clearly Ralph Mcdermid was part of it.

Experience had taught her that when her almost brother-in-law showed up,
something significant was likely involved.

Langley was rarely in the loop of whatever exactly Jon was doing. His
employer must operate at the highest levels of the federal government,
no matter how much he denied it. That meant the leaks Mcdermid had
somehow orchestrated might be only the tip of some political or military
iceberg. If she were right, her assignment took on a new dimension she
would, for the moment, keep to herself.

Meanwhile, she had to hope her local team had realized by now she had
been taken while staking out Ralph Mcdermid and his latest girl novelty,
and that they were already mounting a rescue. On the other hand, she
could not count on it.

She crumpled back against the floor as if overcome by fear. What she had
to figure out was some way to escape so she could contact them. At the
same time, she could not let them realize she and Jon knew each other or
that she was a Langley spy, no matter what they did to Jon or to her.

As if hearing her thoughts, the door to the L-shaped room opened, and
Ralph Mcdermid entered. The Altman CEO was followed by Feng Dun, but it
was Mcdermid who stood over her.

He asked harshly in English, “Why are you following me? Spying on me?

You’d better talk, if you don’t want to rot in one of your government
prisons.”

She forced her body to do nothing. She lay on the floor in her peasant
disguise without moving a muscle, as if she understood no English and
had no idea what he said or even that he was speaking to her.

Feng Dun kicked her in the ribs. She howled in protesting Mandarin and
twisted to look up at the two men, an innocent peon cringing with fear.

“She’s not from this area,” Feng Dun told Mcdermid in English. “She’s
speaking Mandarin from around Beijing or farther north.” He casually
kicked her again and switched back to Mandarin to demand, “What are you
doing so far from home, peasant? Why are you in Hong Kong?”

Randi howled once more, a small, aggrieved nobody being picked on by the
powerful. “There is no work on the land of my father!” she screamed.

Then, weeping: “So I left for Guangzhou, but the money is better here.”

“What the hell is she saying?” Mcdermid said.

Feng repeated it. “It’s a common story. Millions leave the country to
look for any kind of job in the cities.”

“Millions don’t end up following me. Why was she spying? For whom?”

Feng translated the question with a few twists of his own: “You were
following Mr. Mcdermid most of the day. Did you think we didn’t see you?

Mr. Mcdermid is a very important man. Unless you want to be given to the
police, who will put you in prison for the rest of your life, you’ll
tell us who paid you and what he wanted you to find out.”