7. OPERATIONAL MODALITY FOR TF STILETTO REMAINS UNCERTAIN UNTIL IDENTITY OF HOSTILES IS CONFIRMED. STILETTO'S AND TRIDENT'S FIRST PRIORITY WILL BE TO ASSIST IN CLARIFICATION OF SITUATION BY PERFORMING SURVEILLANCE OF SHIPS AND STATIONS IN AO IN ORDER TO ASCERTAIN LOCATION AND STATUS OF HOSTAGES.
8. ATTEMPTS WILL BE MADE TO SECURE RELEASE OF HOSTAGES THROUGH DIPLOMATIC CHANNELS, ASSUMING HOSTAGE TAKERS REPRESENT THE PRC OR OTHER FOREIGN GOVERNMENT. A POSSIBILITY REMAINS THAT HOSTAGE TAKERS ARE PIRATES, TERRORISTS, OR OTHER ROGUE FORCES OPERATING IN CONJUNCTION WITH TERRORIST ELEMENTS. CO VIRGINIA SHOULD ANTICIPATE POSSIBILITY OF MILITARY ACTION IN ORDER TO SECURE HOSTAGE RELEASE….
There was more, most of it dealing with command authorities and communications protocol. The orders were signed James J. Taylor, Vice Admiral, JCS, and the time stamp showed the orders cut and issued less than two hours ago. Fast work. Who the hell was this DuPont character, and why was he so important? From the sound of things, the Pentagon, possibly the White House itself, had passed this one down the chain of command by way of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. DuPont's disappearance had overturned a real hornet's nest, and now Virginia was on her way straight into the heart of the swarm.
The Spratly Islands? Garrett knew they'd been the short fuse on a powder keg in Southeast Asia for decades. Claimed by China, Vietnam, and a handful of other nations, they were a war waiting to happen… especially if someone happened to strike oil in the region. The presence of Global Oil people on a pleasure boat with representatives of the Hanoi government suggested that Vietnam was raising the stakes, possibly bringing in Global to actively prospect. Or maybe they'd already made an oil or gas strike, and Global had been invited in to exploit it.
Either way, the People's Republic of China couldn't be happy about oil company representatives wandering around on behalf of the Vietnamese government. If the PLAN — the PRC's navy — was responsible for the man's disappearance, the chances for a diplomatic resolution were good, but Washington was going to want a powerful force in the area — like a carrier battle group and a few attack subs — to keep the Chinese honest. Given the recent history between the two powers, things could get hot.
And if China wasn't the culprit, there were a dozen different popular insurrections, civil conflicts, boundary disputes, religious wars, and out-and-out piracy going on in the region — in Indonesia, in Malaysia, in the Philippines, and elsewhere — to keep things damned interesting. DuPont might be the target of nothing more than a freelance bid for ransom or political leverage.
Or it could be something far more sinister, and deadly.
One thing was certain. Garrett wasn't going to get to see Kazuko. Once again, his personal life would be on hold until a crisis was resolved.
Well, that was the Navy way. He still might be able to call her, once the ship-to-shore phones were on-line.
He walked back to the control room, where a skeleton watch manned the con stations. The exec rose from the center seat. "Captain on deck."
He exchanged places with the XO. "Thanks, Number One."
"What's the word?"
Without comment, Garrett passed Jorgensen the printout. The XO read it, his eyebrows rising. Finally, he pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. "The Chinese?"
"Possibly. You'll note Washington doesn't know who the enemy is just yet. That's what they want us to find out."
"So I see. Looks like we have our work cut out for us."
"That we do."
"Are you going to cancel the crossing ceremony, sir?"
Garrett considered the question, his eyes on the control room bulkhead clock. "No. Let them go. The ritual is important. And we're going to be asking a lot of those men in the next few weeks."
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. DeKalb, plot the most direct course for Yokosuka, Japan."
"Aye aye, Captain." A pause. "Sir, recommend coming right fifteen degrees to put us on the desired course."
"Very well. Helm! Come right one-five degrees!"
"Come right one-five degrees, aye, sir!"
"Maneuvering, this is the Conn. Make revolutions for thirty knots."
"Conn, Maneuvering. Make revolutions for thirty knots, aye."
Garrett felt the surge of power as Virginia sped southwest through the depths.
10
DuPont sat in the corner on a stinking mattress, one of a half-dozen spread out over the deck. There was no room to lie down. He was wedged in tightly between Kingsfield and Zubrin, Sea Breeze's engineer, and Carle's back was right in front of him. The compartment was tiny, a room the size of a large closet, really, and never meant to hold ten people.
Sea Breeze's entire complement was packed into the room; only the two Vietnamese were missing.
The boarding party had stormed onto the yacht, coming over the starboard gunwale, shouting first in a language DuPont didn't know, and then in English. "Everybody! Everybody on boat! Line up here!"
There'd been ten of the invaders altogether, and they stormed through the Sea Breeze, rounding up crew and passengers alike with rough efficiency, herding everyone into a tight and easily controlled huddle on the aft deck.
"DuPont!" the man who appeared to be in charge shouted, waving a pistol. He wasn't wearing a uniform… or, rather, his dress appeared to be ragged castoffs of several uniforms. He wore a turban and sported a greasy, black beard. "Who is DuPont?"
Kingsfield had put a cautioning hand on his arm, but DuPont pushed forward anyway. "I am." The fact that they knew his name was unsettling. This attack was no random pirate outrage. It possessed the surety of an operation with a considerable military intelligence apparatus behind it.
"You come with us!" the ragged leader had shouted, pointing the pistol in his face.
"Will you let the rest of my people go?" he asked. Somehow, somehow, he had to find a way to bargain with these thugs.
"You come with us!"
"Look!" he'd said. "I… I work for a very important company. If you keep all of us alive, my company will pay a very generous ransom!"
"You Americans," the man said, with a look of pure disgust souring his face. "You think money can buy anything."
In DuPont's experience, there were very few things that money couldn't buy. And these people, whoever they were, surely needed money to operate, and a lot of it.
"You are prisoners, now," the man said, "of al Qaeda and Maktum. If you do exactly what you are told, you may be allowed to live. If you are trouble, even little trouble, we throw you to the sharks!"
Al Qaeda! DuPont had reeled at that, stunned. The Islamic fundamentalist terror group that had catapulted the twenty-first century into bloody war. Like most Americans, though, he thought of al Qaeda as ragged desert militia types, hiding out in caves and mountain camps, hunted from nation to nation by U.S. special forces.
My God, he thought. Where did they come up with a fucking submarined
The two Vietnamese were knocked to the deck, pinned down with rifle butts, and their hands locked behind them with plastic ties. "Hey!" DuPont shouted. "You don't need to do that!"
In the next instant, a rifle butt slammed into his skull from behind, pitching him to the deck in a black haze of pain. "Be silent," he was told, "or die!"
For the next twenty minutes, the invaders kept them there, kneeling in a close-huddled circle or flat on the deck, while several of their number went through the Sea Breeze's quarters, gathering papers, passports, and documents. The rest of the prisoners had their wrists roughly bound behind their backs with plastic ties, and were kept under close guard. When anyone tried to protest, he got a rifle butt from behind — not hard enough to kill or render unconscious, but enough to knock him to the deck and keep him silent.