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  “Way to go, Skipper.”

  Matt handed the launcher off to Sam and stepped back into the bridge. Doc, Beth, and Charlie were kneeling around Jason.

  “That was amazing,” Beth said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  “How is he?” Matt bent down on one knee and looked into Jason’s face. It was the color of parchment. “You know everyone’s blood type, Doc. Can we do a transfusion?”

  Doc shook his head. “Scootchy’s the only guy with the same blood type as Jason. We couldn’t get enough.”

  “What type is it?” Beth asked.

  “O positive.”

  “That’s mine. Take mine. Please take mine.”

  Doc looked at her thin body. “Even that wouldn’t be enough,” he said. “The wound’s just too massive. All we can do is make him comfortable.”

  Jason coughed. A thin trickle of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth. He looked at Matt and appeared to try to say something; then his head rolled to the side.

  Doc felt for a pulse. After a moment, he laid Jason’s arm gently over his chest. “He’s gone.” Doc looked up at Matt. “I’m sorry, Skipper. What he needed was way beyond what I could give him.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Beth said. “If I’d gone below when you asked me to, he might still be alive.”

  Matt came to his feet, fighting back tears. He’d known Jason Tyler for five years.

  “You’re finally right about something.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Matt said.

  “I promise I’ll never disobey another order.”

  Matt stepped over to the PA system and keyed the microphone. “Damage report to the bridge on the double.”

  The bridge telephone rang. Matt picked it up. Scootchy Carter’s strident voice screeched through the wire.

  “You happy now? Goddamn port screw’s twisted out of shape, and we’re wallowing around out here like sitting ducks.”

  “Calm down, Scootchy. Can we get under way?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. We’re shoring up the after steering compartment. Starboard shaft looks okay. If it is, we can compensate and get under way, but at a reduced speed.”

  “Do the best you can, Scootch. We need to get under way as soon as possible.” Matt hung up the phone.

  “What are we going to do, Skipper?” Doc Miller said.

  “The only thing we can do. Try to hide in that storm and repair the damage.”

  “We don’t need to hide,” Doc said. “Let ‘em come. With those Stingers, we can give the bastards a run for their money.”

  “No,” Matt said. “Shooting down a helicopter with a Stinger missile isn’t that hard, especially if they weren’t expecting it, but a destroyer is another matter. We wouldn’t stand a chance against the Zhuhai, and she can’t be far behind.”

  James Lao paced across the room with his hands behind his back, struggling to conceal his fury with Han Jinhua. The head of the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service had deliberately waited to drop the bombshell about his cousin’s escape until the full meeting of the Central Military Commission had been convened.

  He looked at his watch. Almost 11:00. The three men had been waiting in President Xiang’s anteroom for over two hours, his father sitting stoically, James pacing, Han smirking. As much as he hated to be in the same room with this vindictive peasant, he was grateful for the delay. It had given him time to make contact with the captain of the destroyer Zhuhai. Captain Chen had assured him that he’d pinpointed the location of the American salvage ship not far from the island, heading in the direction of Taiwan. He’d invoked his father’s name and ordered Chen to dispatch a helicopter to sink the ship and dispose of everyone aboard.

  He thought about the summers he’d spent with his cousin on Martha’s Vineyard. One summer in particular. Beth was so damn beautiful it made him ache. Physically ache. The thought of killing her made him sick, but it had to be done.

  He checked his watch again. It was no doubt done by now. Information was power. Let Han spout off in this meeting. James would wait for the opportune time and drop his own bombshell.

  The door opened and Xiang’s senior aide, a cadaverous-looking man with white hair, stepped into the room.

  “President Xiang will see you now, comrades.”

  As the junior man present, James waited for his father and Han Jinhua to go first, then followed them into the room. The president sat behind a large oak desk, writing with a fountain pen. Without looking up, Xiang nodded toward the three red leather chairs placed in front of his desk.

  James’s father and Han took the outside chairs, leaving the center seat for James. The hot seat. Even his father was distancing himself from him. James understood. The wily old general wasn’t going to go down for the sins of the son. That was how he’d managed to stay in power and survive to the ripe old age of eighty-three. His father was convinced that China needed him, and he’d sacrifice anything, including his only son, to maintain his position. The old man would do what he could, but if James had made a serious error in judgment, he’d be on his own.

  President Xiang closed the folder before him and leveled his gaze at James.

  “It was upon your insistence that the American woman employed in your laboratory was placed in a minimum security facility. That decision was approved because of your assertion that an escape from that facility would be impossible. How could this happen?”

  “Very simple,” Han Jinhua said before James could answer. “All the signs were ignored. We know now that Senior Colonel Lao had ample indications of American intervention, indications that were not passed on to the proper authorities and that were not acted upon.”

  “Those are serious accusations,” General Lao said. “I’ll trouble you to explain.”

  Han twisted his face into something resembling a smile. “Perhaps the senior colonel would care to explain.”

  James envisioned his hands around Han’s scrawny neck, squeezing until that smirk disappeared. He nodded politely.

  “I assume that Director Han refers to the American ship salvaging a U.S. flag freighter that was run aground on an island adjacent to the laogai. It’s true that we were the first to take notice of this ship, but it’s inaccurate to say that we did nothing, or didn’t pass along this information to the proper authorities. On the contrary, as soon as I became aware of the situation, I took it upon myself to notify the PLA Navy. I requested a destroyer operating in the area to intercept the ship and place a contingent of marines aboard to supervise the salvage operation.”

  “I assume that Senior Colonel Lao refers to the five marines who have gone missing and are now presumed dead,” Han said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. James went right on, as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “In addition, I took the unprecedented step of assigning a female sergeant in the PLA, a martial arts instructor, to pose as a prisoner and watch the American woman. Her orders were to terminate the woman in the event of an escape attempt.”

  “I assume that Senior Colonel Lao refers to the martial arts instructor who was found dead,” Han said. “And don’t forget the agent placed aboard the ship in another amateurish bit of theatrics. He is also missing and presumed dead. Then there is the little matter of one of my wardens, brutally murdered by the barbarians.”

  James said nothing, waiting for Han to fire his last volley.

  Han turned to President Xiang. “In view of the death toll alone, it’s obvious that this operation has been bungled from the beginning. In light of the serious breach of security that has occurred, I recommend the operation be delayed until the woman is captured or it can be confirmed that no contact with the West has been made.”

  “That’s hardly necessary,” James said. “I’ve taken personal charge of the recovery operation, and the situation is well under control. I’ve been in close contact with the captain of the destroyer Zhuhai. We have the American ship pinpointed. I spoke with Captain Chen not two hours ago. A hel
icopter is on the way to torpedo the ship.”

  Han’s eyes darted around. “All well and good, but who’s to say the Americans have not already made contact?”

  “Impossible,” James said. “On my orders, the captain of the Zhuhai ordered the ship’s radio destroyed upon first boarding it.”

  “That means nothing. It’s obviously a spy ship. They could have had a dozen radios secreted aboard that ship.”

  “Again, not possible. The ship was thoroughly searched. A few weapons - small arms - were found and confiscated. No other radios were found.”

  “Surely the marines who boarded carried a radio. What about that?”

  “The range on that radio is only a few miles. So you see, Director Han, it isn’t possible that the American ship has made contact with anyone. Further, the captain of the Zhuhai has assured me that the ship has been sighted and will be intercepted shortly.”

  President Xiang leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps we’ve overreacted. It’s beginning to appear that the situation is under control.” He nodded to James. “Our apologies, Senior Colonel.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, James could see Han seething. Smiling graciously, he returned Xiang’s nod. “No apology is necessary, Chairman Xiang.”

  James heard a soft rap on the door behind him. It opened to admit the cadaverous aide.

  “Please forgive this intrusion, Comrade President. There’s a call for Senior Colonel Lao. The captain of the destroyer Zhuhai. Most urgent.”

  “I’ll take it outside,” James said.

  “No need,” President Xiang said. “You can transfer the call in here.”

  James watched the button on the president’s console light up and tried to keep his breathing steady. He’d had trouble making contact with the destroyer on his cell phone and had given Captain Chen the aide’s number as a backup, but he didn’t want the captain’s call transferred into the president’s office. He wanted to be in a position to screen out any bad news. President Xiang pressed the blinking yellow button, and James reached for the handset.

  “The call obviously relates to the subject at hand,” Han said. “Surely the senior colonel will not mind if we hear the destroyer captain’s report?”

  President Xiang looked at James, his finger poised over the speakerphone button.

  “An excellent suggestion,” James said.

  The speakerphone rumbled with the ghostly sounds of a ship at sea. James leaned forward in his chair.

  “This is Senior Colonel Lao speaking.”

  “Senior Colonel, this is Captain Chen,” came the response. “I am afraid I have-”

  “Captain Chen, as a courtesy to you, you should know that with me is the honorable Xiang Shankun, president of China and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Also present are General First Class Lao Jianxing, vice chairman of the Commission, and the honorable Han Jinhua, director of the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service. You are on a speakerphone.”

  “I’m honored to be in the presence of such greatness,” Captain Chen said, “but I fear it makes my report all the more difficult. I regret to inform you and the other esteemed comrades that the helicopter dispatched to intercept the American ship has not reported in and cannot be contacted. I’m afraid it’s missing.”

  James could feel Han’s eyes boring into the side of his head. “No doubt it was an accident,” he said, too quickly. “Most unfortunate, but accidents happen at sea.”

  “I fear it was no accident,” Captain Chen said. “The pilot was heard to shout the word ‘missile’ seconds before radio contact ceased.”

  James felt his voice tremble slightly. “A missile? From where? It had to have come from another ship.”

  “Radar reports no other ships in the vicinity,” Captain Chen said.

  “But you assured me that your men had searched the ship and confiscated all weapons.”

  “I assure you, they went over the ship thoroughly. It’s a mystery.”

  “A mystery? That’s the best you can do?”

  Han reached over and pressed a scrawny finger on the mute button as Captain Chen went on justifying the search. They could still hear the destroyer captain, but he couldn’t hear them.

  “Missiles?” Han said. “You assured us that all weapons had been confiscated. Now we learn that the Americans have sophisticated missiles aboard. One would assume it would be difficult to conceal something as large as a missile. Where were they hidden? In the pantry? Are we to believe all your other assertions? If a missile was concealed on the ship, surely a radio could have been. How can we now be sure there is no radio and contact has not been made with the outside world?”

  James removed Han’s finger from the mute button and leaned closer to the speakerphone.

  “Where’s the ship now?”

  “Traveling in an easterly direction, toward a storm. The captain apparently intends to hide his ship in it. That will do him no good - we’ll seek him out and find him. What are your orders when we overtake the ship?”

  “Same as before,” James said. “Sink the filthy thing and kill them all.”

  “No,” General Lao said. “Director Han is right. We don’t know whether contact has been made with the West. The Americans must be taken alive so we can find out who, if anyone, has been contacted.”

  “Just so,” Han said. “My sources tell me there were three men involved. One from the inside, a Chinese traitor posing as a prisoner, and two from the outside, a black man and a barbarian with a blackened face who is the captain of the American ship.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” James said.

  “Very simple,” Han said. “One of the wardens who narrowly escaped with his life overheard the black man refer to the foreign ghost as ‘Captain.’”

  James told himself to calm down and think. He could tell by the body language of the three men that he was losing ground. He leaned into the speakerphone.

  “General Lao is correct. Seize the American woman and the three men who participated in her escape. As soon as you recover them, bring them to me.”

  “No,” General Lao said again, this time more forcefully. “They must be questioned immediately. The best place to do that is on board Zhuhai.” He leaned toward the speakerphone. “Captain Chen, this is General Lao. These are your orders, which supersede all previous orders. Hunt down the ship. Arrest the woman and the three men. Interrogate them independently aboard your ship en route to the PLA naval base at Macau, where they will undergo further interrogation. Use any means necessary to discern the truth. Report what you find immediately to . . .”

  He glanced up. James stared at him, unable to hide the look of utter humiliation at being stripped of all authority in front of the president of China and his nemesis, Han Jinhua.

  His father’s face softened. “Report what you find to Senior Colonel Lao.”

  “I understand, General. What about the ship? Shall we take it into custody and tow it to the base at Macau?”

  “No. Search it top to bottom to determine the presence of a radio. Bring back any you find. Then open the seacocks and scuttle the barbarian ship. Make it appear that it went down in the storm.”

  “Yes, General. What about the remaining crew?”

  James watched his father and President Xiang exchange looks.

  “Most unfortunate,” his father said. “In spite of the heroic efforts of the PLA Navy, the entire crew was lost with the ship.”

  Chen Dian stood in the combat information center of Zhuhai and watched the black hand of the surface radar sweep around the scope. He pointed to a fuzzy white area at the top of the screen.

  “Is that the storm they’re hiding in?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the radarman said. “Last contact was at 22 degrees relative.”

  “They can run, but they can’t hide,” Chen said, parroting a phrase he’d heard in America. The truth was they’d been hiding successfully for more than twenty-four hours, and Chen was frustrated. “Stay focused on that area. Noti
fy me at once when contact is reestablished.”

  “Consider it done, Captain.”

  The CIC fax machine beeped. A sheet of paper rolled out, black ink still glistening. It was what he’d been waiting for, a page out of his Naval Academy yearbook. He picked it up and scanned the black and white photographs. A page of confident-looking first classmen gazed back at him, admirals of the future. The west-ocean ghosts all looked alike, but one of the faces stood out from the rest. He read the words beneath the picture: “Connor, Matthew Baines. Brigade Commander.”

  As a lowly plebe, Chen would have had no contact with the number-one-ranked midshipman officer, but he’d had the academy chain of command drilled into him, both names and faces, and he knew he’d recognized him. His mind flashed on the naval officer’s sword with the odd inscription he’d taken from the barbarian ship, embarrassed now that he hadn’t made the connection. But he couldn’t be blamed. He’d asked Matthew Connor where he’d seen him before, had asked him to his face, one officer to another, and he’d lied like the graceless kwai lo he was. No matter how exalted they were, the filthy barbarians could never be trusted.

  Chen’s eyes dropped down to Matthew Connor’s biography. Written by his classmates, it went on longer than the others. He’d been a superstar, a leader involved in everything, admired by everyone. When Chen was a plebe, fighting to maintain his dignity, Matthew Baines Connor had been sitting at the top of the mountain, looking down on him. How could he have fallen to such a low state?

  The fax machine beeped again, and another sheet of paper rolled out. Chen picked it up, wet ink curling the page. It contained two newspaper articles from The New York Times. The first one was six years old. It covered a fire aboard the USS Phoenix, a Los Angeles-class nuclear-powered submarine. A man had been killed, and the boat had nearly been lost. The captain and the executive officer, one Lieutenant Commander Matthew B. Connor, had been relieved of command. He read the second, smaller, article at the bottom of the page, dated a few months later. After a court of inquiry, the captain had been fired and the executive officer had resigned in disgrace.