Golden Buddha

32

THE captain of the Chinese navy hydrofoil GaleForce, Deng Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots. Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still a distance away, but the gap was closing.

“Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?” he asked his second in command.

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

“Once we draw closer, I’ll want to send a volley over their heads,” Ching said.

“That should be enough,” the second in command agreed.

LANGSTON Overholt sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. On his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the admiral in command of the Pacific theater.

“Presidential directive four twenty-one,” he said to the admiral. “Now, what do you have nearby?”

“We’re checking now,” the admiral said. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being tied to the U.S.?”

“Understood, Mr. Overholt,” the admiral said. “Force from afar.”

“That’s it exactly, Admiral.”

“Leave it to the navy,” the admiral said. “We’ll come up with something.”

The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke to Cabrillo.

“Hold tight, Juan,” he said quietly. “Help’s a coming.”

“Fair enough,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

IN the movies, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.

Reality is somewhat different.

Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy—it can lead to detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles–class attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports from his crew with practiced ease.

“Electric check completed on packages one and two,” an officer reported.

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

“Boat rising to optimal firing depth,” the driver reported.

“Excellent,” Farragut said easily.

“Countermeasures and detection at one hundred percent,” another officer reported.

“Perfect,” Farragut said.

“Sensors report clear, sir,” the chief of boat said. “We appear to be alone out here. We can commence operation inside of eight, repeat eight, minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

The great beast was rising from the depths and preparing to bite if necessary.

ADAMS burst into the control room of the Oregon. He was dressed in a tan flight suit that he was zipping up as he approached.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, smiling a blindingly white smile, “what can I do for you?”

Cabrillo pointed to one of the computer screens. “George, we have a situation. We have the two Zodiacs along with seven of our people trying to get out of Macau waters. We can’t turn to pick them up because we’re being pursued ourselves.” Cabrillo pointed to another screen. “You can see they also have a tail. You need to provide support.”

“I’ll mount the experimental weapons pods Mr. Hanley designed for the Robinson. That gives me mini-rockets and a small chain gun, so I can cover their exit.”

“What about the extraction system?” Cabrillo asked.

“I can’t pull seven people aboard,” Adams said, “I don’t have the payload.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Cabrillo said. “Let me explain.”

CAPTAIN Ching stared at the radar screen. He had been told the ship he was supposed to intercept was an aging cargo ship named the Oregon. From the description given by the pilot, the vessel was little more than a bucket of rust. Somehow, Ching was beginning to doubt that—Gale Force was steaming at fifty knots, and if the radar on the computer screen was correct, the cargo ship was doing forty-five. At the current speeds, the Oregon would be safely in international waters in less than five minutes. Then there would be the risk of a major incident if the sailors on Gale Force attempted a boarding.

“Give me full speed,” Ching ordered the engine room.

“THE hydrofoil is accelerating,” Hanley noted. “At the increased speed, they will intercept us a minute or two before we reach the demarcation line.”

Cabrillo glanced at the screen showing the water in front of the Oregon. The clouds were finally clearing and soon they would be free of the fog bank.

“Let’s raise them on the radio,” Cabrillo said, “and explain the situation.”

Stone started tuning the radio while Cabrillo reached for a different microphone.

“Engine room,” he said.

“Sir,” a voice said, “this is Reinholt.”

Cabrillo didn’t bother to ask why the ailing engineer was not in sick bay as he had been ordered. The man had obviously felt well enough to help.

“Reinholt,” Cabrillo said quickly, “is there any way to coax out a few more knots?”

“We’re on it, sir,” Reinholt answered.

DOWN belowdecks, the weapons pods had already been attached to both sides of the R-44. While the elevator lifted the helicopter up to launch height, Adams slid a pair of Nomex flight gloves over his hands, then slid a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses over his eyes. He stepped from foot to foot in anticipation, and as soon as the elevator stopped and locked in place, he raced over, did a quick preflight and checked the underneath harness, then stepped to the pilot’s door of the Robinson and cracked it open. He was sliding into the seat as a deckhand raced over.

“Do you want me to pull the pins?” the deckhand asked.

“Arm me,” Adams said quickly, “then clear the deck. I’m out of here as soon as I have operating temps.”

The man bent down, removed the pins from the missiles and checked the power to the mini-gun. Once he was finished, he popped his head inside the door again.

“Check your weapons console.”

Adams stared at the small screen attached to the side of the dashboard. “I’m green.”

The deckhand shut the door and raced away. Adams waited until he was clear, then engaged the starter. Four minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, using the surface wind from the accelerating Oregon as a crutch, Adams lifted from the deck, then pivoted the R-44 in midair, turned and headed back toward Macau.

THE Zodiacs were skimming across the water at thirty knots. According to their crude radars, they were keeping ahead of the pursuing boats, but just barely. Seng’s boat, with the added weight of the Golden Buddha, was straining to maintain speed. He had the throttle all the way to the stops, but there was no more speed to be coaxed from his engine. The fog and rain were still thick and they shielded the inflatable boats from the pursuers, but Seng could sense they were just out of visual and auditory range. If one thing went wrong—an engine miss or overheating, a leak in the inflatable pontoons that slowed them down—they would be toast.

At the same instant Seng was having his dark thoughts, Huxley heard the Oregon calling over the radio. She cupped her hand over her ear so she could hear. Because of the potential for interception, the message was brief and to the point.

“Help is on the way,” Stone said.

“Understand,” Huxley answered.

She turned to Seng and Hornsby. “The Oregon’s sending the cavalry,” she said.

“Not a moment too soon,” Seng said as he stared at the temperature gauge for his engine, now beginning to creep into the red.

Not too far distant, the Zodiac carrying Kasim, Murphy Meadows, and Jones heard the message as well. Kasim was steering, Meadows standing alongside, with Jones lying prone on the deck to the stern. Once Meadows heard the news, he turned, crouched down, then yelled the news over the sound of the wind and waves to Jones.

“I wish I’d have known,” Jones quipped. “I would have asked them to bring some aspirin.”

“You want another bottle of water?” Meadows asked.

“Not unless there’s a bathroom on board,” Jones said, grimacing.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Meadows said. “We’ll be home soon.”

LIKE the distant view of a shoplifter across a crowded store, the outline of the Oregon started to form through Ching’s binoculars as the fog began to clear. Concentrating on the hull, Ching could see the large white-capped wake being created by the racing cargo ship. The wake and the cargo ship’s track were like nothing he had ever witnessed before. Most cargo ships, and Ching had tracked and intercepted more than a few, moved through the water like lumbering manatees—this Iranian-flagged vessel he was chasing moved like a thoroughbred in heat.

The water out the stern was not churning, as with most ships; instead, it seemed to be forming into concentric whirlpools that flattened the sea to the rear, as if a large container of glycerin had been poured overboard. Ching stared at the decks, but no crew was visible. There was only rusty metal and junk piled high.

Though the decks were deserted, the Oregon did not give the appearance of a ghost ship. No, Ching thought, beneath her metal skin, much was happening. At just that instant, a medium-sized helicopter flew over the Gale Force about a hundred yards to the port side, just above wave-top level.

“Where did that come from?” Ching asked his electronics officer.

“What, sir?” the officer said, staring up from a screen.

“A helicopter,” Ching said, “heading from sea toward land.”

“It didn’t show up on the sensors,” the officer said. “Are you sure you saw it through the fog?”

“Yes,” Ching said loudly, “I saw it.”

He walked over to the screen and stared at the radar returns.

“What’s happening?” he asked a few seconds later.

The electronics officer was short and slim. He looked like a jockey in a fancy uniform. His hair was jet black and straight and his eyes brown-edged with bloodshot red from staring at the radar.

“Sir,” he said finally, “I’m not sure. What you see has been happening intermittently since we began the chase. One second we seem to get a clear return, then it jumps to the other side of the screen like it’s a video game playing hide-and-seek.”

“The image is not even the correct size,” Captain Ching noted.

“It grows, then diminishes to a pinprick,” the officer said. “Then jumps across the screen.”

Ching stared out the window again; they were drawing closer to the Oregon. “They’re jamming us.”

“I can detect that,” the officer said.

“Then what is it?” Ching asked.

The officer thought for a minute. “I read in a translated science journal about an experimental system an American engineer was building. Instead of making objects disappear, as with stealth, or using extra signals, as on most jamming equipment, this system has a computer that takes in all the signals from our hull and reforms them into different shapes and strengths.”

“So this system can make them appear or disappear as they decide?” Ching said incredulously.

“That’s about it, sir,” the officer said.

“Well,” Ching said finally, “there’s no way an old rust bucket has anything like that on board.”

“Well, let’s hope not, sir,” the electronics officer said.

“Why’s that?” Ching asked.

“Because the article also stated that by changing the object dimensions, they can increase the targeting potential.”

“Which means?”

“That if the frigate to the rear or the fast-attack corvette coming up quick on our stern fires anything other than bullets, and they have a system like this, they could redirect the fire to us.”

“Chinese missiles used to sink Chinese ships?”

“Exactly.”

“RAMMING and jamming,” Eric Stone shouted. Lincoln was on the far side of the control room at the primary fire control station. He was running a quick diagnostic check on the missile battery. He stared intently at the bar graphs as they filled the computer screen.

“Mr. Chairman, I’m good to go,” he shouted toward Cabrillo a few seconds later.

Cabrillo turned to Hanley. “Here’s the deal as I see it. The entire thrust of this operation was the retrieval of the Golden Buddha. We have it, but it’s still inside the circle of Chinese influence. Our first priority must be to get our teams and the Golden Buddha safely back on the Oregon, while at the same time making our escape.”

“I hate to say it, Juan,” Hanley said, “but I wish the weather wasn’t clearing.”

“A wasted wish, but I agree,” Cabrillo said.

“We don’t know what the navy is sending,” Hanley noted, “but we can safely assume there won’t be surface ships involved—our sensors don’t detect any other vessels for a hundred miles.”

“They launched cruise missiles from the Persian Gulf into downtown Baghdad,” Cabrillo said, “so we can assume either missile or aircraft support.”

“The enemy has rockets on the fast-attack corvette, and some long guns that can fire high-explosive rounds, plus the frigate should have some Chinese-made cruise-type missiles.”

“They any good?” Cabrillo asked.

“Not as accurate as ours,” Hanley admitted, “but they can sink a ship.”

“The hydrofoil?”

“Deck-mounted machine guns only,” Hanley said.

“And the Zodiacs are being pursued by harbor patrol boats?”

“Correct,” Hanley said. “A pair of forty-six-foot aluminum cruisers with diesel power. They each have a single bow-mounted machine gun.”

“Radios?”

“Nothing special,” Hanley said.

“So even if we took out the harbor boats,” Cabrillo said, “the Zodiacs would still need to pass the trio of vessels on our tail.”

“I’m afraid so,” Hanley agreed.

Cabrillo started sketching on a yellow pad with a black Magic Marker. When he finished, he handed the pad to Hanley. “Make sense to you?”

“Yep,” Hanley said.

“Okay then,” Cabrillo said forcefully, “hard a’ starboard. We’re going back toward land.”