Authors: Patrick Robinson
“Thank you, sir. Nicely explained. What do you think caused it?”
“I’m afraid to think about that right now. But I know one thing: It’s not another minefield. Both Singapore and Sumatra get rich on the pilotage fees through the Malacca. They’re high and getting higher. Last thing they want is a blockade. The Chinese would get no help from them. That means we’re looking for something else. But not tonight. We’re having a quiet dinner…then I’m not going to save the world, and we’ll go to bed quietly together.
“Tomorrow will be different. I’ll be in the office early. So will you. And Admiral Borden wants to fasten his goddamned safety belt.”
“I’m just beginning to feel a teeny bit sorry for the poor Admiral.”
“Well, don’t be. He’s a negative guy. Which is bad in Intelligence. In Fort Meade, you gotta stay right on top of the game. Also Borden’s obviously been very awkward with the excellent Lieutenant Ramshawe. I don’t like that. Young men that sharp ought to be encouraged—not made to feel frustrated, so they have to phone the goddamned White House in order to get someone to pay attention.”
“Well, you were pretty short with him when he did make the call.”
“Kathy, there are formalities of command in the
United States Navy, and they have to be observed at all times. And quite often they soothe troubled waters, even soften the truth. What they never do, howevever, is
hide
the truth. Jimmy Ramshawe knew that when he called. He probably knew I’d be kinda dismissive. But he also knew I’d hear him. That’s why he called. He never had to tell me his boss was being pigheaded stupid. He didn’t have to. He knew I’d get it. And he was right…more goddamned right than even he knew at that point.”
“I guess it was pretty impressive how he got onto the Chinese involvement?”
“Sure was. He was a couple of jumps ahead of me, and we were running on the same track. I’m not real used to that.”
“Do you feel a little resentful…someone that young?”
“Hell, no. I was pleased. Saved me a lot of thinking time. That boy just laid it right out…almost.”
“What d’you mean, ‘almost’?”
The Admiral leaned back in his chair, and took a deep sip of Meursault. “Kathy,” he said, “there’s something real strange about this whole damned thing. Lemme ask you a question. What’s the first thing any halfway decent detective wants to know about a murder?”
“Whodunit?”
The Admiral chuckled, leaned over, took her hand and told her he loved her. Then he stopped smiling and said, “Motive, Mrs. O’Brien. Motive. Why was this crime committed?”
“Okay, Sherlock, go for it.”
“Kathy, I cannot go for it. Because I cannot for the life of me see one motive the Chinese may have had for getting heavily involved in a blocklade of the Gulf of Iran. I have wracked my brains, and every time we make a big move to protect the mine clearance, I get a damned funny feeling about the entire scenario.”
“You do?”
“Well, we got a Navy that has to protect the Indians’ ships. But right now we got battle groups standing by to relieve battle groups. We’ve even got battle groups coming out of the Med in order to get into the Arabian Sea.
“Kathy, do you know how many ships that is—in the five U.S. battle groups?”
“What are they, a dozen each? So I guess around sixty?”
“Kathy, that’s enough Naval hardware to conquer the world about three times over. That’s more U.S. warships grouped together than there’ve been since World War Two. So what the hell’s going on? There’s no hostile threat. The mines that blew three tankers are essentially passive, just sitting there in the water, and the Pondicherrys are quite steadily getting rid of them.
“Neither China, nor Iran, has opened fire on anyone. Christ, we just banged a hole in China’s most important destroyer and they never even fired back, never even protested.
“I just got an awkward feeling I might be missing the big picture right here. Seems to me we got too much Naval hardware in one place. And I know that’s because we’ve also got a President whose only real concern is the price of gasoline at the American pumps.
“And I’m wondering if we’re overreacting to the oil threat to civilization. Could someone be very seriously yanking our chain?”
1700. Monday, May 7
.
Headquarters, Eastern Fleet
.
Ningbo, Zhejiang Province
.
The streets were always crowded at this time in the ancient harbor town that lies 120 miles due south of Shanghai across the great Bay of Hangzhou. Ningbo traces its roots back to the Tang Dynasty, through more than a
thousand years of trading, and every day in the early evening a commercial stampede seems to break out, as if the entire population was racing, to sail before the tide.
Throngs surged across the old Xinjiang Bridge in the main port area. Traders bought and sold all along the old central throughway of Zhongshan Lu. And yet, it was a curious place to see a senior Naval Officer, in uniform, hurrying through one of the oldest parts of town, along Changchun Lu.
Nonetheless, moving swiftly between the merchant houses along the crowded sidewalks was the tall, lean, still-upright figure of the Commander-in-Chief of the Peoples’ Liberation Navy, Admiral Zu Jicai. He was no stranger to this city. He had been born here more than 60 years ago, and his Naval career had begun in the dockyards of Zhejiang Province and ultimately, before he was thirty years old, in Shanghai.
Following him closely among the shoppers were four uniformed Navy guards, with sidearms. Even for a mission as unorthodox as this, Admiral Zu was not permitted to travel so far from the dockyard without protection.
He reached a building on the left-hand side of the street, and paused briefly to confer with his guards, instructing them to wait outside, and to have a staff car ready in 45 minutes.
Then he walked up the steps, and entered through one of the wide, folded wooden screen doors of the Tianyige, the oldest private library in all of China, dating back to the sixteenth century, at the height of Ningbo’s prosperity during the Ming Dynasty. A member of the family bowed formally to him, and the Admiral returned the courtesy, before he was led through the book-filled, paneled main room into a smaller inner sanctum, dimly lit and plainly designed for thought and as a home for reference books.
There was one single table in the room, and it stood beneath a deep, paneled, beamed ceiling, divided into
wide squares, each one decorated with intricate inlays of light wood and ivory, each one of an entirely different pattern. Seated at the table, in the shadows beneath this great mosaic of ancient Chinese art, was the powerful figure of Admiral Zhang Yushu, senior Vice Chairman of the PLAN’s Council.
“Ah, Yushu, you found my childhood hideaway,” said Admiral Zu.
“Hello, Jicai. You were right. One of the most secretive rooms in China. We can talk here. But we must be swift and careful…and so, quickly, what can you tell me about the destroyer?…”
“Very little. The Americans warned her away from the area of the minefield, which she ignored, as agreed. And then one of the American ships opened fire and essentially crippled her. Blew both shafts, both props and rudder. There was no way of returning fire, and in any event she could not really see her assailant. Which makes me think they may have hit her from a submarine.”
“Yes. Precisely. But the loss amounts to very little. Are the Iranians towing her in?”
“Yessir.”
“And the tanker at the end of the Malacca Strait?”
“Our Kilo hit it with a torpedo and vanished. Apparently it was a good choice. Nice and big, and nice and empty.”
“Excellent. Have the Americans panicked?”
“I’m not certain, sir. But they just diverted yet another CVBG toward the Indian Ocean. It’s on its way through Suez now.”
“And the carrier
JFK
?”
“Plainly on its way to Diego Garcia, taking a southerly route—a long way south from its normal route up to the Japanese Islands and Taiwan.”
“Which leaves them where?”
“With FIVE carrier battle groups either in, or heading for, the Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia or Hormuz.”
“And the
Ronald Reagan
Group? Still in San Diego?”
“Yessir and nonoperational for a good two months yet. My guess is they’ll call the
JFK
back for Taiwan.”
“Then we’ll have to deal with her, I suppose. But I don’t think that will be beyond us. Not with our Kilos.”
“Nossir.”
It was a very Chinese relationship. Formal to a degree when the subject involved the Navy’s business, Commander-in-Chief to the biggest chief. But when the conversation slipped from report to discussion and opinion, it instantly lapsed into the kind and understanding conversation of two lifelong and beloved friends.
“And now, Jicai, do we see any improvement in our amphibians’ capacity?”
“Not really, sir. I think we have to accept eleven thousand.”
“And are we ready?”
“Nossir. But we are preparing every day.”
“Where do you see our critical paths?”
“Certainly the Kilos, sir. We will have them routinely overhauled and ready. Most other ships are on standby. Airborne troops I understand are training with some success but with more to learn. The infantry commanders have forgotten nothing. Tanks are ready. In the air, I fear, it will be costly.”
“Do we have a date?”
“I’m looking at ten days, sir.”
“A feint to the outer island first?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Are you confident, my friend?”
“With great reservations, sir.”
“That’s good, my Jicai. All commanders must be a little bit afraid.”
And with that Admiral Zu walked to the door of the little room, and he called softly to his friend, a member of the twentieth generation of the family to own this library.
And moments later, the librarian returned and handed
each of his guests a small porcelain cup, containing sweet, heavy Shaoxing red wine, served warm.
“A toast, Jicai,” said Admiral Zhang. “To the immortal memory of the ruler of all the seas, Admiral Zheng He.”
1100 (local). Monday, May 7
.
The White House
.
Arnold Morgan wanted answers. And he wasn’t getting any. At least not from Admiral David Borden. The Acting Director of the NSA was unable to grasp how urgently the Big Man in the White House wanted to know who had hit the tanker in the Malacca, and with what.
Admiral Borden actually said, “Sir, we do not I believe have any proof the tanker was hit at all.” Which was tantamount to telling Evander Holyfield that nobody had just bitten a hole in his ear.
And Admiral Morgan was furious. He banged down the phone, just as news came in that Brent Crude had gone to $78 a barrel in London, on rumors of a worldwide strike by the masters of the big tankers. Right now America was looking at $5 for a gallon of gasoline at the pumps. Worse yet, if things did not shake loose very quickly, there could be shutdowns at some of the nation’s major electricity generators, which ran on fuel oil, or natural gas.
“
KATHY
!!”
She came in through the open door, closing it hastily in case someone else heard the anger of the President’s top military adviser.
“Get George Morris on the phone right now.”
“Arnold, he had surgery early this morning. You know that. He must be asleep.”
“Well, wake him up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t wake him up. He’s very sick.”
“He’ll be a whole lot sicker if the goddamned lights go out and his iron lung shuts down.”
“Arnold, they do not use iron lungs in modern surgery anymore.”
“Try not to bore me with this high-tech crap. Electricity is the lifeblood of all hospitals, including George’s. Okay…okay…don’t wake him up till later, but tell him to get into Fort Meade tomorrow and kick that asshole Borden out of his office.”
“Arnold, I guess you could arrange to bomb Shanghai, but you cannot instruct the head of surgery at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda to discharge probably his most important patient.”
“Kathy, forget all that I’ve just said. But please ensure I speak to George the moment he regains his senses. Because this clown in Fort Meade is unlikely ever to regain his.”
“Yessir. Meanwhile, anything I can do right now?”
“Yes. Get that good boy, Jimmy Ramshawe, on my private secure line. And hop to it—don’t tell me he’s asleep or anything.”
“Of course I may murder you one day, my darling,” she said, stalking out of the room, head high, trying not to laugh.
National Security Agency
.
Fort Meade, Maryland
.
Lieutenant Ramshawe’s phone rang angrily, reflecting precisely the general demeanor of the caller.
“Hello, sir. Yup, this is Jimmy…Sir, I’ve been on it since I got here at three this morning. You want my opinion?
“I think the Chinese fired a torpedo into that tanker from one of those Kilo-Class submarines.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Sir, I’ve had full coverage of those coastal waters, all
the way down from the Rangoon Delta to the northern headland of Sumatra, right down from the Nicobar islands. And I’m here to tell you there’s not been a warship in sight in those waters all through the weekend, and then suddenly…BAM! Another tanker goes up at six-thirty local time. And where does it go up? I have it at six-ten-north, ninety-four-fifty-east. That’s six miles southeast of Point Pygmalion, the southern headland of Great Nicobar.
“It’s also six hundred miles south of the Chinese Navy base in the Bassein River—I’d say less than three days running for a Kilo moving at twelve knots through waters without a serious Naval presence. At least nothing that’s looking for them. They don’t even have to be careful.
“Anyway, sir. That’s not all.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, I got two satellite shots right here showing a Russian-built Kilo on the surface, heading right for the Mergui Archipelago…that’s right off the Burmese coast….”
“I know where the hell the goddamned Merguis are, for Christ’s sake…. Keep going….”
“Yessir.”
Arnold Morgan smiled to himself.