Ul Haq sighed, returning his attention to the periscope. Khalili's joy at the destruction of the Vietnamese base had swiftly taken on a dark and fanatic aspect. He was grating on ul Haq's nerves.
An hour ago, Shuhadaa had come to snorkeling depth to recharge her batteries, and to radio a detailed report of the attack against the Vietnamese base. The al Qaeda courier and liaison, Zaki, was cruising somewhere in the general Spratly area on board the motor yacht Al Qahir, serving as a communications relay for the Shuhadaa … or was Zaki himself giving the orders for this mission? Ul Haq had not been told who was ultimately in command, nor was it important that he know. Over the radio, Zaki had congratulated him on the successful attack, and had then passed on some interesting news.
According to Chinese intelligence, two months ago, the sailing yacht Sea Breeze had set sail from Hawaii for Danang in Vietnam. The sailboat was registered as the property of the Global Oil Corporation, and on board, supposedly, was a senior official of that company. In Danang, Sea Breeze had picked up two representatives of the Vietnamese government, then set sail again, this time for either Spratly Island, or for the base at Amboyna Cay.
The intelligence report suggested that Global Oil was trying to impress the Vietnamese officials — the incongruous American phrase ul Haq remembered from his stay in the United States was "butter up" — to secure lucrative petroleum concessions and exploitation rights in the Spratly Island area. According to Zaki, the Sea Breeze was now somewhere between Spratly and Amboyna Cay.
By taking the passengers hostage, Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen would both embarrass the Vietnamese attempting to stake commercial claims in the region, and hurt American interests. Besides, having hostages on board would help safeguard the Shuhadaa as she continued her mission. Guided by Zaki's information, ul Haq had located the American yacht almost at once.
The two women on the deck appeared to be… what were they doing?
Perhaps it was time to interrupt the party after all.
"Prepare to surface!" he barked, snapping the handles of the periscope home. "Down scope! Boarding party, report to the forward escape hatch, with arms and life jackets!"
Khalili was right. There was no point in delaying further. The horizon was empty, save for that single tiny, vulnerable, unarmed yacht. There would be no better time.
"Take us up!"
9
"You shouldn't tease poor George so much," Matthew DuPont said, sitting down on the deck next to the two women. "He's a prig… but he's a well-meaning prig."
"It's a shame, really," Katie said, letting Ginger go and sitting up. She shaded her eyes as she watched Schiffer walk aft, turn, and descend below deck into the yacht's salon. "He's a nice guy… good-looking, smart. Why can't he loosen up?"
"He's a Bible-thumper," Ginger said with a dismissive toss of her blond mane. "Bible-thumpers don't want anyone to have fun."
"I don't think it's that simple," DuPont said.
"He never quotes scripture at us, or anything like that," Katie said. Lying back, she stretched happily on her towel. "Oh, God. This is the best. I wish this job would never end! Why can't George just, you know, go with it? Enjoy life?"
"He's a good man, Katie. Worked his way up to assistant vice president from the very bottom of the corporate ladder." DuPont shrugged. "My impression is he was raised by pretty strict parents. My guess is he's afraid of what might happen if he did let go. Had a friend like that in college, a few centuries ago…."
Ginger laughed and reached out, stroking his thigh. "Mr. DuPont! You're not that old!"
"Thank you, Ginger. I just sometimes feel—"
"Hey!" Katie called, pointing out to sea. "What's that?"
DuPont turned, looking off the starboard beam. Something like a vertical pipe was emerging from the water less than a hundred yards away, dragging a white curl of spray in its wake. The white water exploded then, the wake becoming much higher and longer as the upper reaches of a massive black rectangle shouldered itself above the calm surface of the sea.
It took DuPont a moment to identify the apparition as a submarine.
"You girls better put some clothes on," he said, standing. "We may be about to have some company."
"Yes, Mr. DuPont."
Walking aft, he joined the two Vietnamese, both of whom were standing by the starboard mainstays, staring at the newcomer. "Is it one of yours?" he asked, hopeful.
"Mr. DuPont," Nguyen said. "The Socialist Republic of Vietnam has no submarines."
"I have some naval experience," Phuong added.
"That is what your navy people would call a 'Kilo-class' submarine. It is almost certainly Chinese. Our intelligence service warned us that they may have one in these waters."
"And that means trouble," DuPont said. "George! George!"
Schiffer stuck his head up out of the hatchway below. "Yessir?"
"Quick! Tell Davis to get on the horn to Oahu Corporate. Tell 'em there's a Chinese Kilo submarine surfacing next to us. Give our position exactly. Tell him to keep broadcasting until I tell him to stop."
Schiffer raised high enough out of the hatchway to see the submarine, his eyes wide. "Yes, sir!" he snapped, then vanished back down the hatch.
Davis was the yacht's radio operator, and the custodian of her state-of-the-art satellite communications and navigational equipment. If the Sea Breeze was about to become the focus of an international incident, Global Oil needed to know the particulars, and fast.
The submarine was on the surface now, running parallel to the Sea Breeze and less than the length of a football field away. The solid-black rectangle, clearly, was the conning tower, a windowless two-story building considerably longer than it was tall. The deck was only just visible above the water; he guessed the submarine was three times the length of the Sea Breeze, which made it something like two hundred to two hundred fifty feet long.
Men were spilling onto the deck now from a hatch in front of the conning tower, and he could see men in the tiny bridge atop the front of the conning tower itself. DuPont walked aft to the tiller, where Kingsfield was standing at the Sea Breeze's wheel, and picked up a pair of binoculars hanging from the binnacle.
"Whaddaya think, Mr. DuPont?" Kingsfield said. "Should I have the boys break out small arms, just in case?"
DuPont raised the binoculars and scanned the submarine's deck and sail. The men on the forward deck, he saw, wore bright orange life jackets… and several were carrying weapons. He recognized the wickedly curving magazines of AK-type assault rifles.
He considered the question. Michael Kingsfield and two of the other crew members had been drawn from Global's security division. Kingsfield himself was a former Army Green Beret. Davis was a former Marine, and Carle had been a Navy SEAL. A fourth hand, Greg Marshall was a former New York City cop, serving now as one of Sea Breeze's general hands. On a quasi-diplomatic business cruise like this one, it was good to have some competent security people along, just in case. The South China Sea was infamous for its modern-day gangs of pirates.
But pirates don't use submarines, and they were rarely this well armed. "I don't think so, Michael," he said. "But it won't hurt to be on your toes."