Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (21 page)

On the Crowe’s bridge, Commander James S. Chervenko focused his
binoculars on the black horizon and saw nothing. Square and muscular, he
had a rugged face with eyes permanently narrowed from years of sea duty.

He spoke to his exec, It. Commander Frank Bienas. “Any indication she’s
not alone, Frank?”

“Nothing on radar or sonar,” Bienas reported. Bienas had the fluid grace
of a boxer. Young, smart, and handsome, he was something of a ladies’
man.

“Okay. When it’s light enough to see the freighter, drop back and track
by radar alone. I’ll be in my quarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commander left the bridge, working his way below. Admiral Brose had
impressed on him the importance of this mission, but he needed no one,
admiral or anyone else, to do that. He was well aware of the Yinhe
incident. Today, with China stronger, more stable, and more important to
the state of the world, the situation was all the more treacherous. At
the same time, allowing Iraq to create a new batch of biological and
chemical weapons was no option either.

Once in his quarters, Commander Chervenko opened direct communication
with Admiral Brose, as ordered, bypassing task force and fleet HQs.

“Commander Chervenko reporting the USS Crowe on station, sir.”

“Good, Commander.” The admiral sounded as if he had been pulled from his
dinner table in Washington, where it was still Thursday night. “How’s it
look?”

“Routine so far. Radar shows no other vessels, surface or submerged, in
the area, and not a peep out of their radio. As soon as it’s light,
we’ll drop back and rely on radar contact.”

“Keep monitoring their transmissions and receptions. You have a Chinese
interpreter aboard?”

“Yessir.”

“All right, Commander. Jim, is it?”

“Jim, yessir.”

“Keep me posted on anything that happens out there, the instant it
happens, short of endangering the operation or your ship. Anything, you
understand?”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Good to have you aboard on this, Jim.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The transmission over, Commander Chervenko leaned back in his desk
chair, his gaze focused on the ceiling of his quarters. This was not the
kind of bombshell mission that usually fell to the lot of a frigate
commander. He could see a hell of a lot of risk involved, right down to
a live engagement that could cost him his ship. He could also see
opportunity. In the navy, there were no higher stakes than those that
threatened an officer’s vessel in combat. And success in the face of
high risk was what could make a career. Or break one.

The East China Sea.

The pulsing power of the carrier’s giant engines reverberated through
the hull and into Jon’s bones. The sounds and sensations were soothing
as he waited in his temporary quarters for the call to Fred Klein to go
through to the yacht club back in Washington. He knew Klein’s habits.

Dinner–if Klein remembered to eat that night–was usually in his
cluttered office there, despite the late hour.

The submarine had ferried him to the carrier, which had been running
dark north of Taiwan, surrounded by escort vessels. Jon had the distinct
impression the captain and the fleet admiral considered being ordered to
extract an undercover agent a waste of time for their mighty ship. After
a cup of coffee with the lieutenant commander, who had been sent to
escort him, he was shown straight to his makeshift quarters. He
showered, shaved, and asked to make a call.

As he waited, he thought about the Uighers, especially Alani. He hoped
they had escaped safely. When the phone rang, he snatched it up.

“You got out in one piece, Colonel?” Fred Klein’s unemotional voice was
somehow reassuring.

“Thanks to you, the U.S. Navy, and some local help.” He related his
escape, from the moment he had ended his call to Klein at the Peace
Hotel. “The Uighers want independence from China, but they seem to have
no illusions that it’s going to happen anytime soon. They’d settle for
being able to keep their identity and culture. President Castilla’s
human-rights treaty might help them do that. Or at least lead to it
eventually.”

“One more reason to concentrate on getting that agreement signed,” Klein
said. “So Asgar Mahmout was Mondragon’s asset?”

“Thought you’d like to know.”

“You’re right. Any change with regard to the manifest?”

“It’s probably destroyed by now, if they’re smart. That copy, at least.”

“I agree.” Jon could hear Klein puffing on his pipe in the distant
office. “Yet you think they tracked you to that beach with the Uighers.

If they destroyed the manifest, why would they also want to eliminate
you? That seems like overkill. Certainly an unnecessary risk. Are you
sure your attackers weren’t police or state security?”

“As sure as I can be.”

Excited puffing. “Then something else is going on. They don’t want the
manifest to fall into our hands, that’s obvious. But they had plenty of
time to make certain no one would ever get it. Yet they still tried to
kill you, and they did it on their own. Without the police.”

Jon’s pulse accelerated. He saw what Klein was getting at. “They don’t
want Chinese government security to know there was a manifest, and that
an American agent was looking for it. Public Security already knew I was
there and was more than I appeared to be, but they couldn’t figure out
what I was doing. Whoever forced Yu Yongfu to commit suicide doesn’t
want them to know.” He thought rapidly. “Do you think it’s some kind of
internal power struggle in Beijing?”

“Or maybe the shady deal of some big Shanghai tycoon.”

“Isn’t that the same thing in New China?”

On the other end of the line, the pipe puffing stopped. The dead air was
like a vacuum. Klein said in an awed voice: “The Chinese government
doesn’t know what The Dowager Empress is carrying. That’s got to be it!”

“How is that possible? In China? Everything’s done by committee, by
arrangement. Hell, they probably don’t even take a leak alone.”

“It’s the only logical answer, Colonel. Someone, almost certainly very
high up, is trying to cause trouble between our nations. It is a power
struggle, but on an international scale.”

Jon swore. “China’s got heavy-duty nuclear armaments. A lot heavier than
the world knows.”

The silence at the far end of the connection was ominous. “Jon, this
makes the situation far more dangerous than we’d thought. If we’re
right, the president must have the proof of the Dowager’s cargo before
he orders any kind of move. I’ll have the navy fly you to Taipei right
away. You can catch the first flight out to Hong Kong from there.”

“What do I use as a legend?”

“We’ve researched this Donk & Lapierre company. They’re a conglomerate
with interests in international shipping and electronics. What’s perfect
for you is they also work in biotechnology.”

“I can’t go as myself anymore.”

“No, you can’t. But I’ve arranged for you to impersonate one of your
colleagues at USAMRIID: Major Kenneth St. Germain.”

“We look something alike, but what if they check and find he’s still
there, working?”

“They won’t. He’s taken an offer to go mountaineering in Chile.”

Jon nodded. “An offer Ken would never refuse. Nice work. Now ask your
new permanent staff to arrange a meeting between me–or Ken St. Germain
–and the head of Donk & Lapierre’s Hong Kong office to discuss their
work with viruses.”

“Consider it done.”

“Have you learned anything about the killer I told you about–Feng Dun?”

“Not yet. We’re still checking. You get to Taipei, and I’ll bring the
president up-to-date here. He’s not going to be happy.”

“You should let him know the latest about the old prisoner who says he’s
David Thayer, too.”

“You have new information?”

Jon repeated what Asgar Mahmout had told him. “The prison farm’s outside
the city of Dazu, about seventy miles northeast of Chongqing. It’s
apparently low security, at least by Chinese standards.”

“Good. That gives me something to work with, in case we do have to go in
for him. A simple fence won’t stop us, and neither will ordinary prison
guards. It’s helpful that he’s got privileges and only one cell mate. If
we bring some of the political prisoners out, too, that’ll give cover to
both Thayer and the mission. I don’t like the farm’s location–it’s a
heavily populated area. And I don’t like that they move him around. It’s
possible he could be gone before we get there.” “From what Asgar said,
he’s been at Dazu awhile. It didn’t sound as if there was any hint he
was going to be relocated.”

Jon heard the slow puffs that indicated Klein was thinking. “Okay, and
where the farm is could be worse. At least it’s close to the borders of
Burma and India.”

“Not that close.”

“So we’ll have to work a little harder. We all have to do that anyway. I
want that manifest, Colonel.”

The Indian Ocean.

In the communications-and-control center of the USS John Crowe, It.

Commander Bienas leaned over the shoulder of the radar man, his gaze
fixed on the screen. “How many times has her captain changed course?”

“Counting this time, three, sir.” The radar man looked up.

“Describe the changes.”

“First he turned forty-five degrees south, then he–”

“For how long? How far did he go?”

“About an hour, maybe twenty miles.”

“Okay, go on.”

“He went back to his original heading for close to another hour, then
went north for maybe another hour, and back to his original course
again.”

“So he’s back where he started?”

“Yessir. Just about.”

“And we changed course every time?”

“Sure. I reported the new headings.”

“Okay, Billy, good work.”

The radar man grinned. “Anytime, sir.”

The lieutenant commander did not return the grin. He left the control
center and slid down the gangways until he reached the captain’s
quarters. He knocked.

“Come.”

Commander Chervenko looked up from where he sat at his desk doing his
paperwork. He immediately saw the concern on Bienas’s face. “What’s
happened, Frank?”

“I think they’ve spotted us, sir.” Bienas reported everything the radar
man had told him.

“We changed helm each time?”

” ‘ so. Canfield had the bridge. He’s too damned new.”

Chervenko nodded. “Later would’ve been better, but we knew they’d spot
us eventually. Any increase in radio–?”

His ship intercom squawked: “Communications, sir. I’m picking up a big
increase of radio activity in Chinese.”

“Speak of the devil,” Commander Chervenko muttered. Then into the
intercom: “Get Ensign Wao up there now.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Chervenko remained bent to his communications console. “Chief, crank her
up. I need top speed.” Then he stood up. “Let’s hit the bridge.”

By the time the commander and Bienas reached it, Ensign Wao was already
there. “They’ve figured out we’re back here, sir, and they’re on the
horn in a panic to Beijing and Hong Kong.”

“A panic?” Chervenko frowned.

“Yessir. That’s the funny thing. They know who we are. I mean, they know
we’re a U.S. Navy frigate.”

“They must have a military radar expert on board,” Bienas decided,
astounded.

Commander Chervenko nodded unhappily. “Tell the chief to give me all he
has. No point hiding now. Let’s see what they’re doing on board.” He
focused his binoculars on the horizon. It was a clear, sunny day, a calm
sea, and visibility was nearly unlimited. Surging forward at
twenty-eight knots, the Crowe soon raised the Empress dead ahead and
closed to viewing distance.

It. Commander Bienas joined the captain with his binoculars.

“You see what I see, Frank?”

Bienas nodded. The decks of the cargo ship were packed with crew
members, everyone pointing astern and waving their arms. An officer
stood on the cabin housing, yelling down to them, but the crew members
continued to mill around.

“They’re worried as hell, Jim,” Bienas said.

“I’d say so,” Chervenko agreed. “No one told them we were back here, and
they were taken by surprise. But someone expected either us or someone
like us.”

“Or they wouldn’t have had that radar expert on board.”

“Yeah,” Chervenko said. “The bridge is yours, Frank. Keep a close eye on
them. The fat’s sizzling in the frying pan.”

“What do you think the Chinese’ll do?”

Chervenko turned away to go below and make his report to Admiral Brose.

“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “I expect a whole lot of
people in D.C. are going to be worried about that question real soon,
too.”

Thursday, September 14.

Washington, D.C.

President Castilla sat in his Zero-Gravity recliner upstairs in his
bedroom in the White House residence, trying to read while worrying
about China and the human-rights treaty … thinking of the father he
had never known and the suffering he must have endured … and longing
for the first lady.

His mind wandered, and the sentences ran together. He lay the book on
his lap and rubbed his eyes. He missed the cutthroat two-handed poker
games with Cassie they always played on nights one or the other could
not sleep, even if she did win eight of ten. But she was off in Central
America, doing good works, surrounded by a gaggle of press, and making
friends along the way. He wished she were home, with him. Making friends
with him.

His thoughts had begun to drift toward what their lives would be like
after he left office, when Jeremy knocked lightly.

“What is it now?” he snapped, hearing his irritation too late.

“Mr. Klein, sir.”

Castilla came alert. “Send him in, Jeremy. And sorry, I guess I miss my
wife.”

“We all do, Mr. President.”