Virginia Class

2

Captain Jian stood on the catwalk extending along the length of the cavernous submarine pen, leaning on the railing as he watched the arrival of the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen, an Arabic name meaning "Holy Martyrs." Other People's Republic naval officers and men stood to either side, watching in silence. How many of them, he wondered, know just what is at stake here?

His own vessel, the Yinbi de Gongji, was already moored inside the base, starboard-side to in Mooring Slip One. Working parties labored on her deck, carrying cases of provisions aboard from the dock and handing them down through deck hatches. The Yinbi would be ready for sea soon. Jian would be glad to be free of the dank-walled, confining closet of the Small Dragon sub pen and out beneath the waves of the open sea once more.

The shelter was necessary for the moment, a haven safe from the prying scrutiny of American spy satellites. It was important that the Yankees not be aware that the Yinbi de Gongji was operational and in these waters… at least, not yet. With luck, the Yankees still thought she was at Darien, unaware that the sleek and deadly shape now moored at the shipyard construction dock was a shell of plastic and plywood.

An elaborate deception, carried out under the thick cloud cover of an approaching typhoon, had enabled the Yinbi de Gongji to slip out to sea unobserved. The passage south to Small Dragon had been uneventful. Now, all he wanted to do was to complete the resupply and get back to sea.

But first, there was this small and unpleasant formality.

He could see two men squeezed together in the weather bridge of the submarine as it entered the shelter. One was almost certainly the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen's captain. The man reached up and removed his cap in salute; Jian ignored the gesture, pretending not to see. Line handling parties on the dock stood ready as the incoming vessel approached Slip Two, sidling up toward the dock port-side to. The submarine's black hull, the rectangular tower of her sail, passed slowly through the glare of spotlights suspended from the latticework of struts supporting the shelter's high ceiling.

The flag hanging limply from the foreign submarine's mast was that of Pakistan, but that was a lie, of course. Or, rather, it was a political misstatement. The submarine, a Kilo-class diesel electric boat, had recently been purchased by Pakistan from the Krasnaya Sormova shipyards in Russia, but the Pakistani admiralty, Jian thought, had no idea who was actually crewing that vessel… or why. Shuhadaa might be operating under the flag of Pakistan for the moment, and her captain and most of her officers and crew were Pakistani nationals, but her first officer was Saudi, and an Afghani reportedly was aboard as well.

And the doctrine under which she sailed was that of al Qaeda.

How deeply, Jian wondered, did the political cabal within the Islamabad government extend? They were playing a deadly game over there, one with terrifying consequences should they be found out by the United States.

Officially, of course, Pakistan was an ally of the United States in the so-called War on Terror. The CIA had established a covert presence in that country during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Almost two decades later, the U.S. had coordinated much of its military campaign against the Taliban and al Qaeda from Pakistan. But the government in Islamabad was less than perfectly stable, and religious fervor and factionalism ran deep. There were plenty of people within both Pakistan's government and the military who admired Osama bin Laden and the small army of Islamic imams, mullahs, and clerics who continued to repeat and elaborate on his inflammatory, anti-American rhetoric.

The truth of the matter was that Pakistan desperately needed American foreign aid and would do almost anything to keep that pipeline open and flowing. But some individuals and certain cliques within Islamabad's centers of power continued to work behind the scenes, not against American interests directly, but in support of the numerous factions, cells, and networks throughout the Islamic world that continued to wage a shadow war of unrest, revolution, and terror against the Western behemoth.

So far, the People's Republic had managed to stay out of that particular tiger's lair, despite the fact that a significant percentage of Chinese — especially in the western provinces — was Muslim. The PRC officially was an atheist state, at times militantly opposed to religious activity that might threaten Beijing's authority; the state's ongoing policy of suppression and subversion in Tibet was a case in point. Now, however, the state apparently had reasons for covertly supporting al Qaeda.

That reasoning was utterly beyond Jian's understanding.

Eighteen years in his nation's naval service had left him with the ability to turn the occasional blind eye to bureaucratic idiocy or incompetence. One needed such convenient blindness at times simply to survive. This, however, was infinitely worse than the typical clumsiness of Beijing's bloated party system. The possibility of a full-fledged war with America was all too real, and Jian knew exactly what the consequences of such a conflict might be. The knowledge left him feeling bitter, angry, and trapped. His two options — and at the moment he could see only two — were to carry out his orders without question, without thinking, and in so doing involve his country in a war that no one could possibly win; or to refuse those orders, a decision that would mean the end of his naval career, possible imprisonment, and disgrace for his wife, both of his children, his father, and his father's politically powerful brother.

His face impassive, he stared down at the long, rectangular upright of the Kilo's sail, passing slowly now almost directly beneath his position on the catwalk.

Where, he wondered, was his path of duty, and was it also a path of honor?

Captain Abdullah ul Haq replaced his cap on his head as the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen slid serenely beneath the catwalk perch of the Chinese officers. He was pretty sure he recognized his opposite number— Captain Jian — among them, and felt a small stir of resentment at the man's deliberate slight, his refusal to acknowledge ul Haq's cordial salute. The alliance was off to an uncertain start.

Not alliance, ul Haq reminded himself. A relationship of the moment only. The marriage between the Maktum and the People's Republic of China was one strictly of convenience and expediency. Not all within the Maktum thought it was a good idea to ally with infidels.

Maktum — the word meant, roughly, "closed mouth" or "sworn to silence" — had arisen in Pakistan during the evil days of America's invasion of Afghanistan and the destruction of the Taliban. Beginning back in the early nineties as a clique of officers within Pakistan's military, dedicated to fundamentalist Islam and the creation of an army-backed theocracy in Islamabad, the Maktum had been instrumental as a pipeline for key Taliban and al Qaeda leaders fleeing the far-flung nets of the American forces attempting to capture them in Afghanistan. They'd helped bin Laden himself escape the trap at Tora Bora, smuggling him first across the border into northern Pakistan, and then eventually to a safe haven in Indonesia.

The man squeezed into the cockpit at ul Haq's side now atop the sail of the Shuhadaa had also fled the Afghan holocaust with the Maktum's help. His name was Noor Khalili, and he'd been one of the immortal bin Laden's most trusted lieutenants. He still was one of the most powerful men within the secretive al Qaeda.

"All back," ul Haq said into the microphone for the sub's intercom system. Instantly, the single screw astern reversed direction, churning a swirl of white water as the slow-drifting vessel began slowing more, edging gently toward the pier. The line-handling crews fore and aft tossed lines across to the men on the dock, who grabbed them and began making them fast to the pier-side bollards. Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen shuddered as she came to rest.

"All stop," ul Haq commanded, and the engine fell silent. The first leg of the vessel's long voyage, from Karachi to the Spratly Islands, was complete.

"Well done, my friend," Khalili said. The Afghan grinned broadly, exposing a ragged array of yellow teeth. "Truly, Holy Martyrs is a magnificent vessel! A magnificent weapon for striking at the Americans!"

"Perhaps," ul Haq replied. "But at the moment, I'm more concerned about our hosts and the promises they've made. I need to go ashore and arrange for our refueling."

"You don't need to worry about the Chinese, Captain. Every detail has been carefully arranged."

"It's my job to worry. That is what ship captains do. If you'll excuse me?"

He squeezed past Khalili and descended into the dark tunnel leading down into the submarine's belly. Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen was a submarine of cramped and antique design, one of dozens of Kilo-class vessels a cash-hungry Russian Federation had been peddling lately to every would-be sea power from the People's Republic of China to Iran. The despised Indians possessed no fewer than five Kilos in their navy, one important reason that Islamabad had decided to purchase one as well. Commissioned as S-137, Al Saif ("the sword") at Khalili's suggestion, the Kilo had been renamed shortly after leaving port. Though neither the government in Islamabad nor the Admiralty in Karachi knew it, Shuhadaa was now the first warship in al Qaeda's navy, a terror weapon that could strike unseen at the West's mercantile infrastructure from the Arabian Gulf to the northern coast of Australia.

Until recently, Pakistan had purchased all of its submarines from the French. Islamabad's small navy boasted six other diesel attack boats — four of the aging Daphne class, plus two of the more modern Agosta class. The two Agostas, Hasmat and Hurmat, were excellent vessels; ul Haq had commanded the Hasmat for two years in the late 1990s. Displacing 1,200 tons and capable of about twelve knots submerged or twenty on the surface, they were capable and deadly.

But the Kilo…

She was twice the Hasmat's tonnage, with a larger pressure hull. Constructed with full and certain knowledge of the U.S. Navy's sonar capabilities, she was quiet, quieter even than the American Los Angeles submarines, quieter even, it was whispered, than their

Seawolfs. She carried fewer torpedoes, true, and she was no faster than the French Agostas, but she had a considerably greater cruising range and greater endurance submerged. She also had a bonus, so far as al Qaeda was concerned. Mounted in her sail was a surface-to-air missile launcher, a feature unique to the Kilo among all of the world's submarines. The Russians didn't usually include that particular accessory on board their export submarines. Evidently, some palms had been liberally greased. Despite American efforts, al Qaeda still had considerable financial resources. How else could they have manipulated the Pakistani government to get access to this vessel?

Stepping off the ladder from the weather bridge, ul Haq entered the submarine's control room. Half a dozen men in Pakistani naval uniforms manned the various control stations there. His first officer, a dark and leather-skinned Saudi named Muhammad Hassan Fitaihi, stood at the periscope well. "Ship-to-shore communications have been established, Captain. The Chinese have just requested inspection rights."

"Tell them that I will come ashore to meet with them," ul Haq said. He didn't want the infidels mingling with the crew freely just yet.

Ul Haq was fiercely proud of Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen. Her single limitation as a weapon for al Qaeda was her basing and logistical needs. Once the Pakistani government knew that the Shuhadaa had gone rogue, she would never again be able to return to Karachi, nor could she pull into any friendly port to refuel. For al Qaeda there were no friendly ports.

That was where the Chinese came in.

For reasons of their own — ul Haq still didn't understand what they were — Beijing had agreed to allow the Shuhadaa access to their new and highly classified submarine base in the Spratly Islands. More, they'd promised the assistance of a PLAN attack submarine, that one tied at the other slip ahead, in training the Pakistani crew on the new vessel. The PLAN knew the Kilo; they'd purchased a number of them from the Russians and were rumored to be building their own. They knew submarine tactics, knew how to employ attack submarines against a larger and more powerful adversary.

The advisor the Chinese had promised to send on Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen's first voyage would be in-valuable—if this marriage of convenience could be made to work.

Ul Haq did not trust the Chinese. They were not altruists, and they were not motivated by religious faith. Clearly, they had an agenda of their own, one that would not necessarily further al Qaeda's interests. It was self-evident that they hoped to use the al Qaeda submarine and crew for their own benefit. Ul Haq wished he knew what that benefit might be. The orders transmitted by his Maktum contact in the Admiralty had given no hints as to what Beijing hoped to gain from this… association.

Clearly, too, not all of the Chinese officers involved in this plan were eager to implement it. Ul Haq would have to see what he could do to generate some enthusiasm in that quarter.

And he would have to watch his back. The Chinese were perfectly capable of tossing him, his crew, and the Shuhadaa to the Americans like a scrap to a dog if the submarine became an embarrassment to them.

Fortunately, he would not have to rely too heavily on the infidels. He needed Small Dragon Island's submarine pen for refueling and provisioning, and he needed those promised advisors. Once Shuhadaa had set sail once more, Beijing's games within games would no longer matter.

In the meantime, he wanted to limit contact with the Chinese as much as possible. He didn't want them on his vessel, didn't want them contaminating the crew with strange ideas.

Most of all, he did not want any of his men to start speculating about their chances for surviving this mission.

Ul Haq did not expect the submarine to survive her first cruise. The idea was to do as much damage to American interests as possible before they finally hunted Shuhadaa down and sank her.

Thoughtful, he watched the men in the control room securing their stations. Through Maktum's manipulations, most of the men on board were fervent Muslims, eager for jihad. The story had already been passed among them that Pakistan might soon be at war with the American giant… alie, of course, but a very useful one. The nation of Pakistan continued to play the lapdog to American foreign interests. It was al Qaeda that was waging holy war.

But only a few of the officers were al Qaeda or committed to the path of martyrdom. He needed the full cooperation of all his men in this difficult mission to come.

It was too bad, he thought, that all of these brave men would perish with the Shuhadaa when the Americans caught her at last.

"Tom, I just don't think we can continue like this."

Garrett heard the words but was having trouble grasping their reality. They were faint with distance, but clear enough. Damn it, not again….

"Don't do this to me, Kazuko." He heard the echo of his voice on the line, marking the half-second's delay as his voice was relayed by satellite from New England to California. "Please don't do this to me." Not like this….

"How long has it been since we were together, Tom? Four months? Five?"

"The last time I was on leave. In November. I flew out to LAX just to be with you on your birthday." That had been a hell of an expensive vacation, but worth every dollar, worth every moment. "Kazuko, I love you."

"I love you, Tom. But we can't continue a relationship where we see each other twice a year, maybe, when both of us happen to be in the same town."

Garrett leaned back in the chair — one of the one-size-fits-all wonders of modern furnishing provided in naval BOQs the world over. The room was a pleasant one and tastefully decorated; he was a commander, after all, and the captain of an attack submarine. But it was also sterile, a hotel room, not a home.

He'd almost forgotten how much he missed home… or missed, at least, the idea of one.

"I told you last week, baby," he said. Damn, that echo was distracting. Hearing his own words bouncing back at him made him all too aware of how pathetic he sounded. "I've got some more leave coming. I was saving it for our anniversary. I could probably get approval for a long weekend, though. I could come out there. We could talk."

They had to talk. Had to. He'd been seeing Kazuko for four years, now, since shortly after his divorce, in fact. She'd been a junior flight attendant working for Singapore Airlines then; she was a senior attendant now, which meant she had a good deal more flexibility in arranging her schedule.

He heard her sigh. "I'll be home in Bangkok next weekend," she told him. "After that, I'll be on the Tokyo-Singapore run again. That'll be at least six weeks."

Garrett closed his eyes, mind racing. It might work.

"Maybe I could swing seeing you out there, hon. In about a month." He couldn't say more. His new command, the Virginia, was at sea now undergoing her trials. He would formally take command when she returned to New London, sometime next week. The scuttlebutt was that she would then be deployed to the Far East — possibly Japan, possibly Hong Kong. The latest intelligence reports suggested that the Chinese navy was up to something, possibly something big, and the rumors suggested that Virginia's mettle might be tested in the same waters where Garrett had taken the Seawolf three years before.

It was only scuttlebutt, of course, and not something he would ordinarily count on. Virginia might easily be sent anywhere in the world, and her orders hadn't been cut yet. But if there was even a chance of seeing Kazuko face to face, to make her reconsider…

Even if the Virginia called at Hong Kong rather than at Yokosuka, he might be able to wangle a forty-eight for a quick flight to Tokyo and see her there.

"Tom … I don't think you're hearing me. I can't live like this. I can't live on promises and stolen weekends. I can't live with the secrecy and the maybes and the 'I'll try to see you if I'm in port.' I can't go on month after month not knowing when I'll see you again. This is good-bye."

"Not long distance, damn it," he said. "I want to see you. I want you to look me in the eyes when you tell me that!"

"It won't change anything, Tom. Give me a call when you're in Japan again. I'll see you if I can. But I won't change my mind."

"Kazuko, please…"

"I've… I've got to go now, Tom. I'm sorry. I know this is hard on you. It's hard on me, too. But, like I said, I can't keep living this way. I want my life back!"

"Kazuko, don't—"

But the line was dead.

Garrett sat there for a long time, the phone still to his ear, listening to the buzz of the dial tone. Kazuko… She'd just walked out of his life. Not again. Damn it, not again. His marriage had ended five years ago when his wife couldn't stand the long stretches of sea duty or the uncertainty. A casual romp with a Japanese flight attendant had swiftly grown into something very serious indeed. They'd talked about marriage.

Carefully, he replaced the phone in the cradle on his desk. If the Navy wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one with your sea bag. The old saw, long popular among enlisted men in boot camp, clawed its way out of long-buried memory, taunting him.

Suddenly, Garrett was terribly, achingly lonely.

No … he corrected himself. He'd been lonely all along. Kazuko's call had merely dredged that carefully buried fact out of the muck of his unconscious and smacked him in the face with it. It hadn't been this bad since… well, not since Claire had left him.

Part of the price of command, he knew, was the loneliness that came with it. The captain of a submarine, of any vessel, needed distance between himself and the men under his command, an aloofness that meant that, while they might come to him with their problems, he could not share his problems with them. The captain simply could not afford to be human.

Nor could he share the burden of command with friends, family, or wife. They couldn't know what it was like to be responsible for 153 men packed into a watertight sewer pipe with delusions of grandeur. The only other people who could possibly understand were other submarine drivers.

And they usually had problems enough of their own.

Eventually, Garrett dealt with the pain the way he'd always dealt with it — burying himself in work. The Virginia was not his just yet. She would be, though, next week, after she returned from her trials. A change-of-command ceremony was scheduled for the following Thursday morning, with all of the usual pomp and circumstance demanded by such occasions. They were preparing the dock for the ceremony now, carpenters banging away at the VIP stand and dignitary bleachers. The usual round of invitations had already gone out to most of the politicians, admirals, and civic leaders in New London and Washington and most points in between. It promised to be quite a show.

In the meantime, though, he had plenty to keep him busy — wading through status reports and stores inventories, personnel records and weapons manifests. Virginia had been heralded as a truly "paperless" submarine, with all reports and recordkeeping handled by computer. The interface of Virginia's computer records with the paper-logged files and folders ashore, however, formed a major bottleneck. A small army of personnel-men, yeomen, and civilian secretaries were busily inputting data into the electronic files that would shortly be transferred to the Virginia, and Garrett needed to check and sign off on much of it — a tedious and thankless job.

But one that kept his mind from dwelling on more painful thoughts.

"This just in, hot from NPIC."

The case officer pronounced the acronym "en-pick," and it stood for the National Photographic Interpretation Center in Washington, D.C.

"Thanks, Chris." John Stevens broke the seal reading top secret and opened the folder. Inside was a single black-and-white photograph identified only by the cryptic lines of transmission data and time/date stamp in the corner. The shot had been taken less than six hours ago. "Any change in course?"

"They've been zig-zagging all over the ocean,"

Chris Minkowski replied. "But they're not very good at it. They always keep coming back to the same heading."

Stevens studied the photograph. It had been enlarged quite a bit and showed some graininess, but the overall quality was exceptional — considering that it had been taken by a KH-12 satellite some 150 kilometers above the South China Sea. It showed a sharply angled view of the surface of the water, and a single vessel… the sleek and graceful lines of a large, oceangoing yacht. The view was from the stern starboard quarter, and the vessel's name, in English and Arabic, was easily read. al qahir.

"They see this yet over in OIA?" The Office of Imagery Analysis was responsible for creating assessments of photographic data provided by NPIC and other sources.

"Yup. They're still working on it." Minkowski tapped the white "V" of the vessel's wake. "They did say the wake shows they're humping it at a good twelve knots. That's pretty good for an eighty-foot yacht."

"Must be a souped-up job. If they're headed for Small Dragon Island, how long till they get there?"

Minkowski shrugged. "Depends how much more zig-zagging they do. At their present rate, three more days, maybe four."

Stevens leaned back in his chair, still studying the photograph as if to leach yet more information from its somber black, white, and gray tones. Al Qahir—the name meant "the conqueror" — was officially registered as the property of a wealthy oil sheik named Feisel living in Dhahran, but the agency had managed to peel back several layers of blind trusts and corporate shelters to identify the man who really owned her.

That man, a Saudi national named Sabawy, was a former associate of the bin Laden Corporation… and a close personal friend of Zaki Abar.

And Zaki Abar was high on the Agency's ten-most-wanted list of al Qaeda all-stars.

"So the question is… what the fuck is Sabawy doing in the Spratlys?"

"He's not. Intelligence puts Sabawy in Paris right now."

"Jesus! Then… "

Minkowski nodded. "They think Sabawy's good buddy Zaki is using the yacht for the summer. Kind of like your time-shared vacation getaway, y'know?"

"Huh. Are we talking about a snatch, here?" If Zaki was on board that yacht, it would be the perfect opportunity to send in a team and get him.

"Not until we know what he's doing in the Spratlys. Or how the Chinese might be involved."

"Do the Chinese even know he's there?"

"Hell, yes. What do you think? They've been following him on radar ever since last Tuesday."

"Doesn't mean they know who's on board."

"C'mon. A playboy toy would've been warned off long before this. They haven't even sent out one of their trawlers for a look-see. It's like they don't want to attract attention, y'know?"

"Yeah. That's what it looks like to me, too." Stevens thought hard.

The CIA's Office of Global Issues was responsible for analyzing international issues of all kinds — economic trends, geographic factors, commodities and trade, and technological developments. It was also the bureau responsible for such juicy and often interrelated issues as narcotics production and shipment, sales and shipments of restricted weapons and technology, political instability anywhere in the world… and international terrorism. Department emphasis on that last had skyrocketed since 9-11, and Stevens ran the unit that specialized in tracking key assets of al Qaeda — its money, its weapons, and its personnel.

OGI also had a special interest in the Spratly Islands. Located in the South China Sea, the Spratlys comprised some one hundred islands and atolls with a total land area of perhaps 5 square kilometers, scattered across 410,000 square kilometers of ocean. The highest point in the whole island chain was an unnamed point on Southwest Cay, some four meters above sea level at high tide.

The Spratlys might be insignificant geographically, but the mere possibility of natural reserves of gas and oil had transformed them into one of the world's hottest potential flash points. All of the islands were claimed by the People's Republic of China, by Vietnam, and by Taiwan — three mutual and deadly enemies. Some atolls and islets were also claimed by Malaysia and the Philippines. Tiny Brunei claimed an exclusive fishing zone encompassing Louisa Reef in the southern Spratlys, but so far had not publicly claimed the island. There was no native population, but China and the Philippines each had occupied a few of the larger islands with military garrisons.

For many years, the dispute had festered in various nations' capitals, but little had been done beyond the obligatory rattling of sabers. Most of the area remained unexplored, and the oil reserves, if they existed, remained undiscovered.

Recently, though, the People's Republic had upped the ante. Elements of their fleet had crisscrossed the Spratly zone, investigating dozens of the larger islets.

One — Small Dragon Island — had become the center of almost frantic activity.

American spy satellites had followed events from orbit. There'd been no natural harbors in any of the Spratlys, but the Chinese had constructed one, blasting it out of submerged coral rock. Part of the blasting had cut deep into the island itself, creating an anchorage which was then roofed over. A structure something like an offshore oil platform had gone up alongside, a three-story tower with windows and decks, and a helicopter pad connected to the main building by a causeway or ramp. The OIA thought it might be a base for prospecting for oil and gas. The OGI believed it was a sheltered anchorage for military ships, complete with a sheltered dock where weapons or other supplies might be offloaded in privacy, unseen by U.S. satellites.

Whatever the truth, Beijing had invested a lot of time, effort, and money in building the base at Small Dragon, enough to give them a very large stake indeed in the area. The base was particularly worrisome because of its location. Small Dragon was one of the easternmost of the Spratlys, positioned astride important international shipping lanes running southwest from the Philippines toward Singapore, a shipping chokepoint called the Palawan Passage. Much of the Spratlys' area was a treacherous maze of coral atolls and shoal water, deadly for all but the most shallow-draft vessels. Deeper-hulled craft — such as the oil tankers that kept Japan's faltering economy afloat— skirted the main body of the Spratlys and their dangerous reefs by running up the Palawan Passage, a deep-water channel that measured just a hundred kilometers from the shores of Palawan to tiny, strategic Small Dragon Island.

That much of the situation was worrisome enough to the analysts at OGI. But now there was evidence that one of the highest-ranking surviving officers of al Qaeda was heading for Small Dragon, and apparently taking steps to keep that visit secret.

"I think it's time," Stevens said at last, "to have a closer look at Small Dragon Island."

"I thought you'd feel that way," Minkowski replied.

Stevens reached for the phone on his desk.