Radford was due on the RDT net in fifteen minutes. Scott hoped that Fumiko would join in so he’d have a chance to see her one more time before shoving off.
“Skipper, can we pipe the conference into the control room?” Scott asked. He pointed to an auxiliary video monitor rigged over the starboard plotting table. “I’d like you to sit in so you know what’s what in case we need backup later.”
Jefferson reacted. “No way…. Sorry Captain, no offense.” He jerked a thumb at the officers and men on watch in the control room. “These people aren’t cleared for this conference.”
Scott said, “Let me worry about that. I want Captain Deacon in the loop. He and his crew got us here and they’ve got to get us home.”
“I said they’re not cleared—”
Scott gave Jefferson a flinty look. “I heard what you said.”
Jefferson and Scott looked at each other. After a long moment, Jefferson nodded and said no more.
Deacon tugged his nose while Kramer said, “Sir, we can patch the conference through to this monitor.”
“Do it,” said Scott.
Radford’s normally rocky mien looked haggard. Fumiko appeared on the other half of the split-screen looking alert and polished.
“General, I’ve asked Captain Deacon to be present for this update,” said Scott.
Jefferson’s jaw tightened, but Radford was past it, saying, “As far as we can tell from satellite IR and laser imagery, nothing’s changed on Matsu Shan. However, we spotted that chopper from the Sugun — it’s parked on Matsu Shan. We also found the Sugun. She’s on a racetrack about a hundred miles off the China coast at Fuzhou, killing time, we presume, waiting for Jin to fly back from the meeting. We’ll keep you updated on her movements.”
“Anything new on the other dude, like how he got to Matsu Shan?” Jefferson asked.
Fumiko said, “We think he was met by Wu Chow Fat in Taiwan and ferried to the island aboard the White Dragon. But our surveillance is inconclusive. There’re just too many vessels and too much traffic in and around Fuzhou to pick out Fat’s junk from all the clutter.”
“How did he get to Taiwan?” Scott asked.
Fumiko said, “We just don’t know. JDIH has monitored flights into Taipei, but I was told by my director that no one suspicious was seen arriving via a scheduled flight. And there’s been no private charters. Well, I take that back, there’s a Taiwanese movie star who has her own jet. She arrived yesterday.”
“Were there any unscheduled flights to Taiwan?”
“Only one in the last forty-eight hours, from Tokyo to CKS. A ToriAir 737 filed a last-minute flight plan to deliver a cargo of electronic switching gear for transhipment to Iran.”
“What’s ToriAir?” Scott asked.
“A Japanese air cargo service. They’re trying to compete with UPS and FedEx in the Far East, but it’s a loser.”
“And there were no passengers aboard that 737?”
“I was told just the regular flight crew.”
“What about a ship from Japan?” Jefferson asked.
“It wouldn’t be practical, Colonel. It would take too long, plus there’s no regular passenger service from Japanese ports to Taiwan, so we’ve ruled it out.”
“So how did this guy, whoever he is, get to Taiwan from Japan and then to Matsu Shan?” Scott said.
“Hell, what’s it matter?” Jefferson said. “We’ve got our orders, let’s go.”
“I agree with McCoy,” Radford said. “How he got there is purely academic. What’s important is that we find out why he’s there. Later we can retrace our steps and see what we missed. In the meantime, I’ve asked Director General Kabe to redouble efforts to identify him. Ms. Kida is still working with them on that.”
“Sir, any update on how many people are on that island?” Scott said.
“Um, we’re working on that, too. Recounting heads. Fair enough?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll have that open channel ashore from the sat com. I’d appreciate an update as soon as you get it.”
“Anything else?”
“That PLAN Kilo. Where is she now?”
“Yes, the Kilo.” Radford consulted a document. “We think she’s north of the Formosa Strait.”
Deacon spoke up. “Sir, do you have any information that we can use to plot her track?”
“Yes, we do, Captain. It’s not terribly accurate, but I’ll see that it’s uploaded to the Reno immediately.”
“Anything you have will do, sir.”
“McCoy?”
“No, questions, General. The clock’s running.”
“Scott?”
“McCoy’s right. It’s time to go.”
“Very well. I spoke with the president. He’s confident the mission will succeed. And so am I. Please convey that to your men.”
“Yes, sir, we will. Thank you.”
Radford signed off. Jefferson and Deacon, lost in their own thoughts, peeled away from the video monitor.
“Jake.” Fumiko looked at him across space, her beautiful, almond-shaped jade green eyes sparkling. “Take care of yourself and your men.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll call when I get back.”
Deng Zemin peered through the Kilo’s raised night-vision periscope and saw a curtain of rain slanting over Matsu Shan. The scene was rendered an acid green by the NV optics. Still, he could identify the high, rocky bluff topped by the Sino-baroque villa and below it, in the mouth of the channel, the anchored White Dragon.
“Forward and aft up ten degrees,” Zemin ordered the planesmen.
The deck tilted up; the Kilo rose slightly. Zemin twisted the focusing handle’s detent into high magnification and was catapulted past the White Dragon to a motor launch tied up at a pier illuminated by a string of dim lights. Zemin counted five men standing on the pier and two more in the launch’s stern sheets. Next he examined the villa, with its gaily lighted interior and silhouetted figures behind curtained windows. Perhaps Fat was entertaining his visitor, Zemin thought. Someone important. Someone very important.
11
The president toweled off after doing fifty laps in his pool. The first lady, clad in a skintight white maillot, lay in a lounge chair with a gin and tonic in hand.
Diamond-hard Florida sunlight slashing through palm fronds and crepe myrtle almost blinded Paul Friedman, the president’s national security advisor, as he approached the pool after having concluded a video conference inside. A sheer curtain billowing out the sliding glass door to the pool snagged on Friedman and wrapped him up like a mummy until a Secret Service agent set him free.
The first lady, a former actress, gazed listlessly over lowered pink-framed sunglasses and saw Friedman approaching. He was dressed in baggy shorts and a colorful Hawaiian shirt on which a bevy of scantily clad girls played beach ball. A head of thick, unruly hair exploded over his ears and collar.
“Darling,” said the first lady, sotto voce to her husband, “it’s Paul. Hello, Paul.”
“Hello, Mim,” said Friedman, using the first lady’s nickname, which she preferred to Cole, her real name, which she hated even though she’d used it on the screen.
The president, looking grim, absently seesawed the towel around his neck. “Drink, Paul?”
“Coke, please, sir.”
The president, shod in zoris, flapped to the bar, popped a can, and poured it over crackling ice cubes.
“Karl tell you the latest out of Pyongyang?” asked the president.