“Maybe, but we don’t think so. It’s a fluke that we even got wind of it. The signal was in an old parcel of data sent by some Brit exploration team that’s drilling into the Antarctic ice. They’ve got funding for another round of digging, and wanted some previous data verified, so they forwarded the packet to one of our scientific teams, who detected the buried signal. This data they sent is years old, but…” Harker shrugged. “The Sea Shadow was, is, nuclear powered, so the energy source would have continued to fuel the signal beacon for as long as it remains operational.”
Chilton sat back. “How could it be operational, when it vanished years ago in abyssal water? We spent months looking for it, but in water that is some of the deepest in the ocean.” He frowned. “And then it ends up in Area 24? That’s damn well miles away… and miles inland.”
“And two miles down, under the ice and rock.” Harker tilted his head. “But we know there’s more under the Antarctic ice sheets than just snow, ice, and rock, don’t we?”
“That’s why we quarantined the area,” Chilton said.
Harker raised his eyebrows, further wrinkling an already heavily creased forehead. “So here’s my wild theory: what if the Sea Shadow found a way in, or was sucked in… all the way to Area 24?”
Chilton sat staring at the data sheet in his hands. His large head lifted. “Who else knows about this?”
Harker exhaled. “I think more people than we’d like. This is where it gets choppy. Two hours ago, several Chinese high-speed choppers were dispatched to their Xuě Lóng Base in the Antarctic. This has been followed by the Kunming, one of their new guided missile destroyers. We’ve plotted its course — it looks like it’s on its way there. You might have expected a supply ship, or even an engineering vessel. But instead they’re sending an attack and defense craft packed with enough armaments to start a war. Bit extreme for a quick run down to resupply some hungry scientists.”
“What have they said?” Chilton asked.
“Nothing plausible,” Harker replied.
“So…” Chilton’s eyes narrowed. “The Kunming is making its way down to the Southern Hemisphere, by itself. There are no joint war games planned, and there has been no official explanation.” Chilton looked up from under heavy brows. “Somehow they got access to that data. Hacked ours, or the Brits’. And you think they’re making a run for the sub.”
“It’s a possibility.” Harker shrugged. “It’s what we’d do if we were them. But maybe they didn’t have to hack anything. Their Antarctic base, the Xuě Lóng Base, is supposed to be a weather research station, but really it’s just cover for a rare earth minerals mining. We know they’ve been deep excavating for years. Maybe they went deep enough to pick up the signal themselves — just decided not to tell anyone.”
Chilton laughed softly. “Again, probably what we’d do.”
“So far, the Australians’ request for notification of intent has been met with silence from the Chinese,” Harker said. “But we’ve been picking up a lot of chatter between Beijing and their Antarctic base — or at least we did — it went offline a few days ago. Been nothing but silence since. That also could be the problem.”
“I don’t like it.” Chilton’s voice was basement deep. “And I don’t like where this could end. If that is our sub, I want it back… and I don’t mean handed back after the Chinese have pulled it to pieces.” Chilton leaned forward. “What do we have in proximity?”
“Not much. Most of the fleet is conducting exercises in the Arabian Sea or in port. We do have a fully armed Seawolf in the Southern Pacific, the USS Texas, that was coming in for some down time, and guess who’s onboard?” Harker raised an eyebrow. “Commander Eric Carmack.”
Chilton started to smile. “Good, and just what we need: a wise head and a steady hand. Divert them — priority order. I want the Texas down in the Southern Ocean, ASAP.” He seemed to think for a moment. “Also, alert McMurdo. Who’s down there now? Is it still Benson?”
Harker shook his head. “No, his tour finished last July. On deck now is Sergeant Bill Monroe. He’s currently got a squad of twenty soldiers, just regulars; engineers, comms. specialists and some medics.”
Chilton nodded. “I know ‘Wild’ Bill Monroe — good man. But if the Chinese have sent fast choppers, I’m betting they’ll be dropping some hard asses onto their base.” He sat, rubbing his chin for a moment.
“Get a secure line through to McMurdo. I think we better let Monroe know what’s going on.” Chilton leaned back. “Also get him to take a run over to the Chinese base and have a little look-see at what they’re up to. I think we, and Bill Monroe, need to be ready for anything.”
The two sixty-foot Chinese transport helicopters landed heavily on the hard packed snow, sending any loose flakes into a furious cloud that swirled around the large craft.
They had +-+-ed the absolute end of the fuel distance having last tanked up in South Africa. From one craft, a crew of men and women disembarked — a dozen of them, and set to unloading equipment, and supplies. From the other, a very different set of human beings — twenty of them, all over six foot, broad, but moving smoothly and efficiently, in whiteout fatigues, and carrying packs. Over most shoulders were slung skeletal automatic rifles.
The group made their way to the entrance of the camp. It was a submarine portal-like door, with spinning lock wheel and combination pad. The entrance tunnel led to a connected set of reinforced boxes, amounting to about one hundred square feet above ground. They waited, the twelve-person science team, engineers, and machinists, all lining up at the entrance but all keeping clear… for one man.
Captain Wu Yang pushed his goggles up on his forehead and strode forward. He let his gaze travel over the assembled men and women, barely concealed contempt in his dark eyes. The PLA captain was tall, like all of his team, but even he was dwarfed by one of them — the massive soldier standing at Yang’s shoulder was another half a head taller. At around seven feet, the man’s oversized, broad features and diastemic space between his front teeth told of acromegaly, the trait that produced gigantism in humans. But the man, Li Mungoi, was not just a freak of nature, instead he was the first of the Hǔ Zhànshì — the tiger warriors — the enhanced combat soldiers produced by the secretive new warrior program run by the Ministry of Military Biological Research, and headed by Minister Chung Wanlin.
Mungoi’s intellect was little better than that of a child. But he was as strong as three men, utterly merciless, and loyal to Wu Yang without question.
Yang smirked at the look of fear on the civilians’ faces. The PLA captain could make grown men pale, but Mungoi made them sick from fear. He was the monster at Yang’s back.
Following Yang’s failed mission in America, this assignment would be different. He would determine the nature of the signal emanating from under the rock and ice. If it was the missing American submarine, he would take legitimate ownership on behalf of the People’s Republic of China under the Maritime Law rules of fair salvage.
Yang looked up at the giant. He had everything he needed, every advantage, and he had Mungoi. This time, there would be no distractions, no failure. Nothing else mattered — he turned to briefly face the science team — nothing.
Yang grunted his approval at the lit code pad. “Good. Power and heating intact.” He held up one finger to the scientists and then turned to his men, nodding to several. He keyed in the code and spun the door lock handle and tugged. It swung open with a hiss of escaping air. He drew his handgun, letting it hang casually at his side for a moment, and then he and half a dozen of his soldiers pushed in quickly.