Nighthawk

9

The NUMA vessel Catalina continued through the night on a northerly heading, traveling at full speed. Two hundred and sixty feet long, the Catalina was sleek for a research vessel and she took to the high-speed run well, cutting through the waves and rolling only slightly with the crossing swells.

Gamay Trout was thankful for the ship’s stability as she walked from the communications room to the bridge with an odd message to deliver.

Five foot ten and willowy in build, Gamay had dark red hair with a rich and ever-changing luster; her eyes and easy smile suggested a tough playfulness, brought about from growing up as a tomboy. She spoke in a clear, concise way, with few wasted words, a pattern she’d been told came from an uncluttered mind that moved with effortless speed.

At any rate, she had a never flagging sense of urgency that had earned her several degrees, including a Doctorate in Marine Biology and a Master’s in Marine Archaeology.

Most men found her attractive, but not in a superficial way that faded over time. The more time they spent with her, the more impressed they were, partly because she put them at ease. It was a gift, one she was trying to summon as she approached the bridge with a directive that had just come in from Kurt Austin.

She smiled as she entered the bridge, spotting Ed Callahan, the Catalina’s captain, his executive officer — or XO — and her husband, Paul, conversing near the radar scope.

“Good evening,” Callahan said. “Sorry I’ve kept Paul up here for so long. We’re discussing the scuttlebutt surrounding our change of plans. The fact that we were ordered off a study we’d spent five months prepping for has a few people concerned.”

She raised a single eyebrow. “Gossiping around the watercooler and I wasn’t invited? Shame on both of you.”

“Inexcusable,” Callahan replied. “Consider this an official request to join our party.”

The captain made space in the group for her to join and she slid in next to her husband. Paul was a towering man of six foot eight who spoke seriously and quietly. Gamay had met him at Scripps Institute, where Paul was getting his own Ph.D. in Ocean Sciences. They’d married soon after and had been inseparable ever since. After joining NUMA together and becoming part of the Special Projects team on the same day, rumor had it working together had been written into their employment contracts.

“Any idea what’s going on?” Callahan asked.

“Not really, but…”

Ever the voice of reason, Paul spoke up. “I told everyone to expect the unexpected when Kurt’s involved. Though I’m sure it won’t be anything too crazy.”

Gamay took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t put money on that.”

Callahan noticed the dispatch in her hand. “What have you got for me?”

She handed Callahan the printed request and explained the order that had come in as calmly as possible.

His tone changed instantly. “They want us to do what?”

“To dump our best submersible overboard and leave it behind,” Gamay repeated.

Callahan looked at Paul for some assistance. Paul held up his hands as if to say it had nothing to do with him.

“But that’s absurd, on the face of it,” Callahan said. He was a two-year NUMA veteran, with stints in the Navy and Merchant Marine before that. He’d been on the receiving end of strange and questionable orders before, but this topped them all. “The Angler is a thirty-million-dollar machine,” he reminded everyone. “It’s not some old rust bucket you sacrifice to Poseidon.”

“Did anyone explain why?” Paul asked. “Are we getting a tax write-off?”

Gamay shook her head and read out the order word for word. “Per Kurt Austin, Director of Special Projects. Immediate directive. Under cover of darkness, submersible NSV-2 (Angler) is to be launched unmanned. Ensure all systems are fully charged and set depth to one hundred feet. Program the autopilot to surface the vessel in two hours. Immediately upon launch of Angler, Catalina is to change heading and proceed east, directly toward the Guaya river mouth, and await further orders. Be aware, Catalina is under surveillance. Make all efforts to conduct launch without drawing attention to your actions. Do not report launch of Angler to NUMA HQ. Do not reference this order on standard radio channels.”

“Are we sure this came from Kurt?” Callahan asked.

Gamay nodded. “When I double-checked, I was told to Make sure the lid was screwed on tight and don’t get the velour seat covers wet.”

Paul laughed. “That’s Kurt, all right.”

The XO chimed in. “Maybe we should check with Rudi Gunn anyway. Just to be safe.”

Gamay shook her head. “Trust me. You could call Rudi Gunn, Director Pitt or Vice President Sandecker himself and you’ll get the same answer from all three: If that’s what Kurt wants, that’s what Kurt gets.”

Callahan glanced at the navigation panel and the chronometer. It was after ten p.m. The Moon would be up in an hour.

“No time like the present,” he said, turning to the XO. “Issue the men night vision goggles and keep the deck lights off. Check the tech manuals and make sure dropping the Angler over the side at our current speed won’t damage her. Otherwise, we’ll slow down, make our turn and drop the penny then.”

“Yes, sir,” the XO said. “I can only imagine what they’ll ask for next.”

“I’m sure it won’t get any crazier than this,” Callahan insisted.

Neither Paul nor Gamay commented, but they shared a knowing look. If history was any guide, Callahan would probably be proven wrong.

While Gamay returned to the communications room, Paul went with the deckhands to oversee the launching — or perhaps discarding — of the submersible.

Working on the fantail of the ship moving at full speed was not an easy task under the best of circumstances. Operating under blackout conditions with night vision goggles made it a surreal sight. The view was slightly distorted, and the sky was now lit by thousands of stars the naked eye could never spot, but the sea remained black and cold.

Despite the conditions, the crew operated smoothly and efficiently, with Paul stepping up to work the heavy crane himself.

The XO soon joined him. “The quick-release hooks have been set. Feel free to lift away. Also, per the specs, the Angler should be fine dropping into the water at this speed.”

“Expected nothing less,” Paul said, “considering Joe Zavala designed it.”

Joe was a top-notch engineer, he tended to overbuild, making things far stronger than they had to be. A fact that had saved NUMA crews on more than one occasion.

The crane came to life and the white-painted submersible with a broad red stripe across its back rose up off the deck. As the boom extended, Paul noticed a problem. “We’re going to get creative with the launch.”

“How so?”

Paul pointed toward the rail. “If you look over the side, you’ll see that the slipstream of the bow wave curls back toward the ship at our position. If we drop the Angler straight down, it might get caught in the slipstream and be slammed back into the side of our hull or even get swept into the propellers.”

Paul extended the crane to its maximum length and began to raise it up, increasing the angle to thirty degrees.

“I’m not sure that’s going to help,” the XO said. “The sub is up higher but also closer to the side of the hull.”

“Haven’t done much fly-fishing, have you?” Paul said.

“You’re not serious?”

Without answering, Paul retracted the boom a few feet and then extended it. The Angler swung in and then out, moving farther each time Paul manipulated the controls.

“I don’t know about this,” the XO said.

“Trust me,” Paul said, timing his motions perfectly.

He used a flashlight to signal one of the crewmen, who picked up a phone and called the bridge. Paul had already set up the plan with the captain. Upon receiving that call, Callahan would idle the props. They would reengage thirty seconds later. The reduction in speed would be almost unnoticeable. But with the props idled instead of spinning, a bulge of water would deflect off of them and out instead of being drawn through them.

A subtle change in the vibration told Paul the propellers had been feathered. The stern rode a little higher. The wake was smoother.

Paul pulled the controls back once more and the Angler swung toward them like a four-ton bob on a pendulum. The crane groaned, and the strain on the boom was noticeable, but it was designed to hold three times the weight.

Paul allowed one more arc and then, just as the Angler was swinging outward, he hit the release button. The cable disconnected with a sharp crack and the fish-shaped submersible flew outward, seeming weightless for a second, before dropping down.

It hit the water fifty feet from the ship’s hull. A baritone thud resonated and its impact drew up a tower of water that spread out and splashed down behind the ship.

As the spray fell and the impact zone disappeared behind the Catalina, the engine vibration picked up once again.

The First Officer was standing with his mouth open. “Very impressive. Crazy but impressive.”

Paul grinned. “It’s all in the wrist.”

By the time Paul had retracted the boom, the ship was turning east and the multimillion-dollar submersible they’d dumped out behind them was nowhere to be seen.

Twenty miles behind the Catalina, a figure stood on the top deck of a small vessel made up to look like a fishing trawler. Tall, for a Chinese woman, though no more than five foot six, her black hair fell straight to her shoulders and cut across them in a perfect horizontal line. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair, and the skintight clothing she wore made it easy to see the lean, muscular build of a distance runner. Her given name was Daiyu, which in Mandarin meant Black Jade. She was twenty-eight years old and already a skilled and experienced operative for the Ministry of State Security. She was also one of the “children that were never born.”

It was an awkward euphemism given to her and others who were victims — or perhaps beneficiaries — of China’s drastic stand on procreation. Amidst the fervor of the infamous “one child” policy, most couples who conceived second children were strongly encouraged, if not forced, to endure abortions. If they skirted the state rules and hid the pregnancy, punishments were harsh and lasting.

When officials in Guangdong discovered that Daiyu’s mother was pregnant for a second time, they initially insisted on the standard remedy: threatening prison for the deception if an abortion was not agreed to. Appeals for mercy fell on deaf ears until a mysterious man named Zhang arrived from Beijing carrying special paperwork and granting them an exception at a very high price.

It was a mixed blessing. By signing the papers, Daiyu’s parents would be allowed to carry the birth to term, but only under the harshest condition imaginable: the child would be taken from the family at eighteen months and raised anonymously in a government orphanage.

With little choice, her mother and father had agreed to the terms. A year later — six months earlier than they’d agreed to — Zhang had returned to her village and taken Daiyu away.

She was sent inland, to an orphanage run by the military. Some might have thought it odd to see hulking sergeants and stern-faced officers caring for gaggles of young children, but the orphanage was in a forbidden zone carved out for military purposes. There was no one around to see anything that went on there.

Daiyu grew up in the military’s care, never learning the real names of her parents. She was told they were special. Her mother had been a world-class athlete who’d competed for China in the Olympic Games. Her father was an athlete himself and a decorated soldier. After his military career, he became one of China’s leading scientists.

It was explained to her that her parents’ blend of attributes were the only reason her birth was allowed. In a godless country, her existence was a blessing bestowed upon her by the state. From birth, she and the others like her literally owed the nation their lives. This fact was drilled into their heads while they learned at the hands of their masters.

By age twenty, Daiyu was an expert marksman, a trained survivalist who could live off the land and a lethal opponent in hand-to-hand combat. She was also an electronics expert and was fluent in five languages.

She proved less adept at the more subtle arts of charm and deception. With rough edges that the Ministry could not sand off no matter how hard they tried, she was assigned to the field instead of a consulate position; she was tasked with projects that required physical work and lethal skill.

After a series of missions to Africa and Europe, she was transferred to South America, where Chinese influence and investment were growing by the day.

Now, standing on the top deck of the trawler, she stared at the distant navigation lights of the NUMA vessel they were following. It was dark, and the wind blew with a chill.

Behind her loomed a seventy-foot-tall mast that carried a radar dome, several antennas and a powerful set of cameras, which were watching the American ship for things no human eye could see.

On a video screen to her left, a tiny flare of white appeared and vanished. It looked to her as if it was a large splash, but it did not repeat itself, and all else remained normal.

“The Americans are up to something,” she said.

The statement was addressed to a man standing in the dark behind her.

Jian Feng had a sturdy, muscular build, a square face and short, dark hair. He had a very plain look except for his right ear, part of which had been torn off in a fight years before.

Another member of the unborn children, in an odd way Jian was her brother. Like her, he’d been raised to serve the state. “They’re turning,” he said.

“Turning?”

“Look at the radar track.”

Daiyu glanced at a separate screen. The Americans were indeed turning to the east. “It makes no sense. The search area is to the north and west.”

“Maybe something’s gone wrong,” Jian said. “The nearest port is due east.”

Daiyu could only hope that the American ship had suffered a mechanical problem. Perhaps that was the cause of the brief flash she witnessed. “They’re continuing at full speed,” she said, noticing the new data on the radar plot. “They’ve noticed us.”

Jian shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“And why is that, Jian?”

“We’re too low in the water and our signature is too indistinct. The vessel we’re following is not equipped with military-band radar, only a simple weather-tracking set. There’s been no radio traffic beyond the banal chatter that seems to permeate American culture. They know nothing of us.”

There were other ways to be spotted. Her instincts told her the Americans had done just that. She resisted the urge to argue and instead checked the time. Her watch was over. It had been for almost an hour. She took a final look at the American ship and then turned to go inside.

With a curt good night, she left Jian to his ignorance, walked back along the deck of the dilapidated-looking trawler and entered a hatch.

The vessel itself was filthy. It smelled of diesel oil and fish guts — discomforts she took little notice of. Passing through the wheelhouse, she entered the control room, where the façade of the aging trawler gave way to a modern command center, complete with flickering screens, climate control and a row of technicians in military uniforms sitting at various consoles.

She looked over the latest reports and then put them down without comment. Only one of them was of any consequence: the operatives in Guayaquil had been given a tip regarding the American named Austin. Something to act on. But they’d failed to corral either Austin or the rather unimpressive woman (in Daiyu’s opinion) named Townsend.

“Contact General Zhang,” she told the communications specialist. “Inform him of the new course. And wake me if anything changes.”

The man nodded and Daiyu continued to her cabin.

She closed the door behind her and stripped off her outer layer, revealing a pistol in a holster, strapped across her flat stomach, and a series of tattoos across her back.

She removed the pistol, sliding it under her pillow on the narrow bed in her quarters, then placed the holster with her clothes.

Half dressed, she stood in front of the tarnished mirror and struck her first pose. With almost inhuman precision, she moved through a series of martial arts steps that were beautiful, well balanced and deadly.

As she turned from position to position, the ink on her skin seemed to change color with the light. On one shoulder blade, she wore the Chinese symbol for love; on the other, the symbol for punishment. In the middle, centered on her spine, a pair of black and white forms swirled together — a stylized version of the famous symbol for yin and yang.

In Chinese mythology, yin and yang were supposed to be complementary forces, each providing what the other cannot. But Daiyu rejected the notion. In her mind, they were antagonists. Yin would destroy yang, if it could; and yang would murder yin, if ever they met — for that’s what opposites did. Because of this, she’d directed that an almost invisible line be left between the two curving symbols. A sliver of her own natural skin color remained there as if she was the buffer between the two warring forces, the only thing preventing the great destruction.

As the moves progressed in speed and intensity, the sweat began to trickle from her skin. A kick, a turn, an upward thrust of the hand that could break a neck. After a time, her hair, body and clothing were soaked. Her last move was a turn and sudden punch with an open palm that could kill any opponent it caught. She held it for several seconds, realizing she was staring directly at herself in the mirror, and then turned away.

The dance was over. She stripped off the rest of her clothes, threw them in the corner and stepped into the shower, blasting the water at its most icy cold.