“That was the Oregon again,” he said. “They just intercepted a transmission from the police to the port authorities. They have ordered the port sealed—no one in or out. The police and port authority boats have been given orders to fire on any craft that refuses to comply.”
“Shh…,” Seng said.
The sound of a ship under power came across the water.
“They’re coming,” Seng said.
CAPTAIN Smith walked the pilot to the ladder leading down and bid him farewell. The pilot climbed down the ladder, then stepped across to the pilot boat, which quickly backed away from the Oregon. Smith watched the pilot boat accelerate away into the rain.
The pilot boat was still visible when it began to slow and turn.
Cabrillo reached for a tiny radio at his belt and flicked it on. “Max,” he said quickly, “what’s happening?”
“The authorities have ordered the port sealed,” Hanley said. “The pilot’s been ordered to bring us back to port.”
Cabrillo sprinted across the deck as he spoke. “Full steam ahead,” he shouted. “I’ll be in the control room in a few minutes.”
RHEE was in his office. The port’s night manager was on the other end of the phone line.
“They won’t stop?” he asked.
“The pilot boat can’t reach them,” the port manager noted. “The pilot that guided them out mentioned that the vessel was in terrible shape—maybe their radios are faulty.”
“Have the pilot boat outrun them and deliver the message in person.”
“I already ordered that,” the manager said in exasperation. “But the ship keeps gaining speed—the pilot boat can’t seem to catch up with her.”
“I thought you said the ship was a rust bucket,” Rhee said.
“She’s a fast rust bucket,” the manager noted. “Our pilot boats can do over thirty knots.”
“Damn,” Rhee said. “How long until the ship reaches international waters?”
“Not long,” the manager admitted.
“Get me the navy,” Rhee shouted to Po, who reached for another telephone.
“What do you want us to do?” the port manager asked.
“Nothing,” Rhee said. “You’ve already done enough.”
He slammed down the telephone and took the one in Po’s hand. The second in command of the Chinese navy detachment in Macau was on the line.
“This is the chief of the Macau police. We need you to stop a ship heading out into the South China Sea,” he said quickly.
“We have a hydrofoil that can run at sixty-five knots,” the Chinese navy officer told him, “but it isn’t very heavily armed.”
“This is an old cargo ship,” Rhee said loudly. “I doubt she’ll put up much of a fight.”
Rhee had no way of knowing it, but he’d just made the biggest error of his life.
CABRILLO burst into the control room, shedding his grimy rain suit while at the same time removing the dental appliance that made his teeth appear as stubs. He tossed both to the side and tugged at his fake beard as he spoke. “Okay, what’s the situation?”
“We just intercepted a communiqué from the Chinese navy to their high-speed hydrofoil. They’ve been ordered to intercept us—a naval frigate and a fast-attack corvette are following.”
“Any other ships?”
“No,” Hanley said. “That’s the only Chinese navy fire-power currently in Macau.”
“Where’s our team with the Golden Buddha?” Cabrillo asked as he tossed the beard aside, then spit out a sliver of latex left over from the false teeth mold.
“They are driving at full speed out of port,” Stone said, pointing to a screen. “But it looks like they have picked up a tail.”
“Get me Adams,” Cabrillo said. “While he’s making his way here, have the deckhands drop the walls on the helicopter pad and start raising the Robinson from the lower hangar.”
“Got it,” Stone said.
“Max,” Cabrillo said, “get me Langston Overholt on a secure line.”
Hanley started to assemble the satellite link.
Cabrillo stared at the screen showing the progress of the Zodiacs and the ship pursuing them. Then he glanced over at another screen that showed the Oregon’s location and the path of the Chinese navy vessels giving chase. The screens were filled with blinking lights and estimated paths.
“Adams will be here in a second,” Stone said.
“Sound battle stations,” Cabrillo said quietly.
Stone pushed a button and a loud whooping noise filled the Oregon.
Belowdecks in the sick bay, Gunther Reinholt heard the sound and sat up in bed. Swiveling to one side, he slid his feet into a pair of carpet slippers. Rising to his full height, he reached around and tightened his hospital gown around his body. Then with one hand on his IV drip, which was hanging from a stainless-steel rack with a wheeled base, he began to shuffle from the sick bay to the engine room.
Reinholt knew that if the Oregon went to war, they would need every hand on station.
32
THE captain of the Chinese navy hydrofoil GaleForce, Deng Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots. Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still a distance away, but the gap was closing.
“Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?” he asked his second in command.
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.
“Once we draw closer, I’ll want to send a volley over their heads,” Ching said.
“That should be enough,” the second in command agreed.
LANGSTON Overholt sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. On his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the admiral in command of the Pacific theater.
“Presidential directive four twenty-one,” he said to the admiral. “Now, what do you have nearby?”
“We’re checking now,” the admiral said. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”
“Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being tied to the U.S.?”
“Understood, Mr. Overholt,” the admiral said. “Force from afar.”
“That’s it exactly, Admiral.”
“Leave it to the navy,” the admiral said. “We’ll come up with something.”
The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke to Cabrillo.
“Hold tight, Juan,” he said quietly. “Help’s a coming.”
“Fair enough,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.
IN the movies, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.
Reality is somewhat different.
Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy—it can lead to detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles–class attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports from his crew with practiced ease.