"The women, of course," Jabarrah replied without hesitation. "They are the most easily controlled."
"I see. And that choice would have nothing to do with your desire for, shall we say, the spoils of war, would it?"
"I don't know what you mean, Zaki."
Zaki sighed. "Those women have already caused trouble enough for the crew of Shuhadaa. I don't think it wise to tempt this crew as well."
"Nonsense. The trouble on the submarine was caused by trying to transport so many prisoners in so small a space. Two women will be easy to guard. Besides…" He shrugged. "By separating them from the men, perhaps we guarantee the men's good behavior."
Zaki considered this. "Very well," he said at last. "But transfer them to the stateroom aft of my own."
Jabarrah's face creased in an unpleasant smile.
"Oh?"
"The better that I might hear if anyone violates their privacy."
Jabarrah's smile vanished. "As you wish."
The other man turned suddenly and stalked from the bridge, leaving Zaki alone with Al Qahir's pilot and captain.
The bastard wants to rape the women, he thought, angry. He will not get the chance.
Zaki was beginning to wonder if this Maktum operation was truly worth the risk. Several Vietnamese assets had been destroyed for their Chinese associates, yes… and the tally now included a fifty-two-thousand-ton Japanese transport, a civilian airliner, and the hostages now under guard in Al Qahir's aft lounge. What had seemed a brilliant operation on paper, however, seemed less so now. Their Chinese partners, he knew, still hoped to settle old scores with the American Navy when they entered these waters, and by all reports, that would be within the next couple of days. Intelligence reports had been relayed to the Al Qahir, indicating that the Franklin D. Roosevelt carrier battlegroup was now rounding the northern tip of Luzon.
The destruction of an American aircraft carrier, of course, would be worth almost any risk — a means of striking at the hated Americans as spectacular as the attacks against New York City and Washington, five years before. By taking the credit for the sinking — and Beijing certainly wanted to maintain a low profile in this operation — Maktum might well rally the global forces of radical Islamic jihad against the Americans, simply by proving the Americans were not omnipotent.
But right now, he was beginning to doubt that the Chinese would be able to sink the Roosevelt. Unarmed civilian merchant ships and freighters, yes. One of the almost legendary supercarriers… well, that seemed most unlikely.
At least, he thought, the weather is cooperating now. Thank you, Allah, for your mercy. With this storm blanketing the region, American spy satellites would be rendered all but useless. Certainly, they would be unable to track a vessel as small as the Al Qahir.
Then Al Qahir glided close enough to the Chinese base that, even through the rain, he could see the yawning cavern of Small Dragon's sheltered port, the light inside spilling into the rain in a diffuse smear of golden light. A few moments more, and the rain stopped with the abruptness of a falling blade. Al Qahir motored gently into the enclosure.
Ahead, at the pier, a single submarine — ul Haq's— lay tied to the dock, as sailors worked to load supplies.
Which would be more efficient, he wondered… to send the Pakistani submarine out again to raid civilian shipping? Or have her deploy to the north, into the path of the oncoming American fleet? The Chinese might appreciate the extra set of torpedo tubes.
He would need to confer with ul Haq, and see what the ex-Pakistani naval officer thought.
Behind them, with a low-voiced rumble, the sliding steel doors closed, cutting them off from the storm.
The real storm, Zaki thought, is yet to come. Allah, defend us!
Here we go again, John Stevens thought, a little wildly. He clung with aching gloved hands to the cable secured to his safety harness and stepped out of the helicopter's side door, fighting the sudden stab of panic as his feet dangled in midair. Next time… delegate!
He still wasn't sure how he'd survived the botched transfer twelve hours ago. He remembered his horror when the sailors on board the Virginia had tossed his safety line overboard, remembered the fear turning to panic as the submarine had submerged.
Fortunately, the helicopter that had ferried him out to Rendezvous Point Hotel had continued to hover overhead. He'd been afraid they wouldn't see him in the rain and surging ocean swell, but a powerful strobe beacon attached to his life jacket had triggered when he hit the water, and the helicopter, apparently warned by the submerging submarine, had swung around and come back for him, drifting slowly forward dangerously close to the waves.
A man had jumped in after him, bringing with him a rescue line. Bathed in the frosty glare of the helicopter's lights, the two men had clung together as his rescuer attached the line to his harness, then signaled for the helo's crew chief to haul them both back out of the sea. Five minutes later, he'd been back on board Sea Hawk Bravo Five-one, as someone draped him and his rescuer with blankets and the helicopter had circled toward the east and begun climbing.
They'd flown to the nearest air base, which happened to be a Filipino military facility outside of Manila. There, after breakfast and a quick checkup from a doctor, he'd been headed for a well-deserved nap when a Filipino army colonel had presented him with new orders from Yokosuka.
Once again, he'd found himself on board Bravo Five-one, edging through savage weather toward the tail end of the same submarine that had abandoned him in the wee hours of that morning.
I am definitely going to delegate next time, he thought. This shit is not worth another star on the Wall.
Back at Langley, just inside the security checkpoint for the main lobby of the CIA's headquarters, a number of gold stars inscribed with engraved names adorned a wall between the flags of the United States and of the Central Intelligence Agency… one star, one name, for each man or woman killed in the line of duty during the Cold War and after.
The wind and the rotor blast together blew at him wildly, twisting at his body and threatening to tear him free. Only about fifteen feet below, sailors on the extreme aft deck of the Virginia were raising a pole to discharge the static electricity that had built up in the Sea Hawk during its flight through the storm. With a crack audible even above the rushing air, the static discharged, and hands began reaching for Stevens's booted feet.
Instead of dropping him into the ocean alongside the Virginia, the helicopter pilot had opted for the slightly more hazardous approach of attempting an at-sea personnel transfer. As before, a safety line had been hooked to his harness and tossed to the waiting submariners below. The helo crew then had lowered him on a second cable, easing him down toward the submarine's aft deck.
Last night's drop had been more dangerous for him, but safer for the helicopter. This way was risky for them both but not quite as rough for him as another dunking in the storm-stirred ocean. The chopper pilot was willing to try this approach in daylight, but not in the dark. Submarines, Stevens was told, often took on supplies at sea this way.