The Altman Code

  Moments later, his phone rang.

  The admiral’s deep voice appeared in his ear. “Yessir, Mr. President.”

  “How soon can you put that SEAL team on the Crowe?”

  “They’re on the Crowe now, sir. I took the liberty.”

  “Did you? Well, I expect you’re not the first field commander who’s done that to a president who hasn’t made up his mind.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t think so. May I ask if you have made up your mind?”

  “That’s why I called.”

  “Are we go, sir?”

  “Yes. We’re go.”

  “I’ll transmit the order.”

  “Don’t you want to know why, Stevens?”

  “That’s not my job, Mr. President.”

  The president hesitated. “Right again, Admiral. Keep me posted.”

  “What I know, you’ll know.”

  As the president hung up, a quote he had read once years ago in a biography of Otto von Bismarck came to mind. Something like . . . a person’s moral worth begins only at the point he is willing to die for his principles. He was not risking his life for his principles, but he was risking his future, which was not all that important, and the future of his country, which was. That might not be a full commitment for those stern and demanding old Prussian squires, but it weighed heavily enough for him.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  Sunday, September 17

  The Arabian Sea

  Tension was wearing on the small cadre of officers of the USS John Crowe. This was far from an ordinary military emergency, which often turned out to be a false bogey, a lost craft, or a mechanical failure. One mistake, and they could cause not only their own deaths but war.

  In the communications-and-control center, the calm commander, James Chervenko, broke the radio connection with Admiral Brose back in Washington. His eyes, narrowed by decades at sea, had become laserlike slits of intensity as he had listened to Brose’s orders.

  He removed his headset and turned to Lt. Commander Gary Kozloff. “You’re go.”

  “Right,” Kozloff acknowledged. No surprise. He had guessed. “Chopper prepared?” Kozloff was one of those extraordinary SEALs who was all muscle and brains. Long, lean, and fiercely proud of his work, he crackled with purpose. His presence seemed to fill communications-and-control, giving momentary reassurance to everyone around.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  Chervenko nodded as if to say that was to be expected. “Remember, Commander, the overriding mission protocol is total secrecy—you were never there. The first hint you might be discovered, you’re gone.”

  “Yessir.”

  “We’ll keep close tabs on the sub and the Empress. If anything looks hinky, I’ll radio to abort. Keep your communications on at all times.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Good luck, Gary.”

  “Thanks, Jim.” Gary Kozloff gave a short smile. “Nice night for a swim.”

  On the shadowy deck, Kozloff’s team of four SEALs were suited and ready, waiting for the order. When Kozloff reappeared, they jumped expectantly to their feet. He nodded, and they did a final check of their equipment.

  “You have your magnetic climbing gear?” It would be critical tonight. When the air resonated with “aye, sir,” he said, “Let’s hit the chopper.”

  They made their way aft to the SH-60 Seahawk. Silhouetted against the starry horizon, it looked like a giant, menacing bird. The wind was light, carrying the scents of diesel and salt water. Inside the Seahawk, attached to its lowering rig, was a special Combat Rubber Raiding Craft (CRRC) Zodiac, already loaded for the operation.

  The five SEALs climbed aboard the chopper, the rotors erupted into full power, and the great craft rose into the night and banked left. No lights showing, it quickly melded with the darkness as it circled out of sight toward the Empress, ten miles ahead. The air around them thundered with the chopping blades.

  As his ears grew accustomed to the noise, Lt. Commander Kozloff watched the reflections of the moon and stars off the rippled sea below. He was worried, and that was unlike him. If you prepared properly, you knew you and your team would execute well. That was the only guarantee anyone got. But this time, they were using the new, small Zodiac and the new climbing equipment designed specifically for a helicopter-delivered, clandestine boarding operation on a fully moving ship at sea. They knew their equipment, but there had been no time to practice the usual varied and complicated scenarios.

  He had the highest confidence in himself and his people. You could not be a SEAL otherwise. Still—

  Abruptly, Kozloff brought his concentration back to the scene below. They had reached the Empress and were hovering over it, as planned. The freighter was going about ten knots. Kozloff could see cargo, a partially lighted deck, and the usual ropes, gear, and hold covers. There were three Chinese sailors—impossible to tell on this commercial freighter which one or ones were officers, if any—on the open bridge. The trio were gazing up at the helicopter, expressions angry, and he worried again. Would they dive for cover while their ship fired?

  The plan was for the chopper to appear to be doing recon and then close-up surveillance. Innocent, not deadly. He waited, aware his men were also studying the bridge below, concerned about how the Chinese would react.

  As two continued to glare up, the other got on the horn. In response, the helicopter swung left and right, as if waving . . . or doing a nautical nose-thumbing. The Chinese sailor broke his communications link, threw back his head, bellowed what was probably a string of obscenities, and shook his fist at the chopper.

  Kozloff liked that—the sailors had bought the surveillance ruse and expected nothing more dangerous from the Seahawk. As his SEALs chuckled, his spirits lifted. The Seahawk resumed full speed and banked in such a wide arc away that they lost sight of the freighter.

  “Ready?” the pilot called into Kozloff’s ear receiver.

  Kozloff looked at his men. They gave him a thumbs-up. He barked into his pinpoint mike, “Ready. Take us down.”

  The Seahawk swept low to the swell of the open sea and hung there, vibrating. The SEALs pushed the Zodiac out the side hatch, and the lift operator lowered it to the surface. The SEALs hooked to the lift and went over the edge, one by one, and dropped into the water. For an instant, Kozloff had the usual double reaction—shock at the feeling of suspension that the water gave, and relief to be where he felt so at home.

  As the Zodiac bounced on the undulating sea two dozen feet away, Kozloff struck out in a crawl, pulling the water. It was black, impenetrable, but he did not notice. Focused on the operation, he clambered aboard, the others following. He started the electric outboard, and soon they were speeding toward the oncoming Empress. This was the safest direction to approach, where they ran less risk of being sucked into the ship. It was also faster, since the Empress was headed directly toward them.

  When the Empress came into view, the chopper was sweeping over it again, a noisy diversion. Kozloff studied the cargo ship, calculating and adjusting the Zodiac’s direction so that it would run parallel, not dead on. At just the right moment, he would turn hard to the right. Protected by the darkness and the aerial insult of the helicopter, he would pilot the Zodiac to the Empress’s side, where his people would hook silently to the hull with the magnetic mooring. If all continued to go well, they would use the magnetic climbing gear to swarm up to the dark forward deck, where they would begin their critical search.

  On the USS John Crowe, Commander Chervenko watched the Seahawk settle down onto its helipad in a perfect landing. He ducked under the still-turning rotors and ran toward the door. “Everything go okay?” he shouted to the pilot.

  “Great, sir! They’re there.”

  Chervenko gave a brisk nod and hurried back down to communications-and-control. As he entered, his gaze instantly went to OS2 Fred Baum, who was concentrating on the radar screen. “Can you pick up the Zodia
c, Baum?”

  “No, sir. Way too small.”

  “Hastings? You hearing anything?”

  “Only the Empress’s screws and that sub that’s dogging us, sir,” Sonar Technician First-Class Matthew Hastings said. “No one can pick up that electric motor behind the noise of the freighter.”

  Chervenko pursed his lips with satisfaction. “Good. Maybe our boys will pull it off.” He turned to leave and thought better of it. “Keep alert. Watch for anything funny the Empress does, and—”

  “Sir?” Hastings at sonar was listening intently. His voice rose. “The sub. That Chinese sub is moving in fast! Real fast! She’s closing in on us!”

  Chervenko grabbed an earphone and listened. The submarine was definitely approaching at full speed. “Anyone got anything else?”

  Another technician called out, “They’re arming torpedoes, sir! Running them in!”

  Chervenko whirled to the radioman. “Call the abort! Abort!”

  The communications technician bent to his mike and yelled, “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

  The Zodiac pounded through the sea to within only a few feet of the towering steel side of the Empress. For the SEALs, it was like looking up at a skyscraper, except that the skyscraper was moving at a fast clip, while they were moving toward it and trying not to be sucked in, caught in the turbulence, or slammed against the side. Disorientation and surprise twists from the sea killed many. Still, Kozloff was accustomed to disorientation, and his brain was well trained to calculate exactly how to approach the looming freighter most safely, without cracking up against it.

  He inched the Zodiac closer. Cold spray hit his face. The stink of oil and metal was oppressive. Without needing an order, the SEAL who was responsible leaned far out and clamped the magnetic docking device to the Empress on the first try. Water surged up over the Zodiac’s sides, drenching them. At the same time, the point SEAL activated his magnetic hooks and began to climb, a spider scaling a monolith. Soon the next SEAL climbed, then the next.

  Kozloff watched proudly. The safety of night . . . the diversion by the chopper . . . the nearly perfect anchoring . . . everything told him that this vital operation was going to be successful.

  He allowed himself a smile as he activated his magnetic climbers and attached them to the hull. Instantly he felt the pull, the sense of safety. The damn things really worked. He launched upward, just as the first SEAL reached the ship’s deck.

  Suddenly his minireceiver screamed in his ear, “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

  With a wrench of his gut, he forced himself to reverse his drive to push onward. He made himself believe the incomprehensible: Success was withdrawal.

  He flipped the switch, opening the line to his men. “Abort! Come back! Abort, dammit. Abort! Get your asses back down here on the double!”

  The men dropped down the wall, sliding quickly by reducing the magnetism in their hand-hold and foot-hold units. He worried about the top man, who had disappeared onto the ship. From the Zodiac, he stared upward, unconsciously holding his breath. Where was his point man?

  When the point SEAL appeared, he was like a fireman on a greased pole, dropping straight down the hull, his expression pissed and trying to hide it. As soon as his feet touched the Zodiac’s side, one SEAL yanked him aboard, while another released the magnetic anchor. Kozloff turned the boat away from the freighter, fighting waves and the drag of the sea that tried to suck the Zodiac into the ship’s screws.

  His people watched the hulking Empress without talking. They could still be seen.

  When no searchlight appeared, Kozloff took a deep breath of relief. The only good thing as far as he was concerned was at least that part of their mission was successful—The Dowager Empress had not spotted them.

  As he accelerated back toward the Crowe, the Empress thundered onward, leaving the Zodiac to pitch and yaw in the rough wake. Now that they were safe, his men began grumbling.

  “What in hell happened?” asked the point man.

  “We could’ve made it!” complained the anchor man.

  Kozloff silently agreed, but he was also commander. “Orders, people,” he said sternly. “We had orders to abort. We don’t question orders.”

  Commander Chervenko leaned over the shoulder of Hastings, listening to the submarine. He stiffened as he heard the enemy vessel slow. Had he heard right?

  Hastings swallowed. “The sub’s easing up, sir. Falling back.”

  The radioman called, “Bridge says the Zodiac’s home. It’s signaling off the starboard bow. Commander Bienas says he’s slowing to pick up the SEALs.”

  His voice radiating relief, Hastings added, “Looks like the sub’s dropping back to its original position behind us, sir.”

  Chervenko inhaled. It was the most emotion he allowed himself in front of his men. He was drained by the last few hours. As he looked around at the tight faces, he knew they were even more so. At least he had years of experience under his belt buckle. “All right, let’s figure out how in hell that sub knew to threaten us just when our SEALs were about to board the Empress. Hastings?”

  “No way they picked up the Zodiac or the Seahawk on sonar, sir.”

  “The Empress saw the Seahawk hovering,” OS2 Fred Baum suggested. “They put two and two together.”

  “That could’ve been it,” Chervenko agreed. “Good work everyone. Keep your eyes and ears open. Call me if there’s anything else.”

  As Chervenko hurried down to his quarters to report to Washington, he knew there was no way The Dowager Empress could have detected the unloading of the SEAL team far ahead in the nighttime ocean. The Empress knew they had been hassled by the Seahawk, but that was all. The only way the Chinese sub would have known to move ahead to threaten the Crowe so the SEAL raid was stopped was if they had been warned in advance. Someone had warned the Chinese submarine. Someone in Washington.

  Saturday, September 16

  Washington, D.C.

  The president stood at the windows of the Oval Office, looking out over the Rose Garden, his back to the distraught Admiral Brose. “They failed?”

  “The Chinese sub moved in.” Brose’s voice was wooden. “It loaded and armed torpedoes. Commander Chervenko thinks they knew the raid was coming and guessed the chopper overfly was the start.”

  “Someone here warned them?”

  “That’s how it looks.” The admiral’s remark suggested the president might know more than he did. The admiral had not been included in the recent information about the leaks. No one but the DCI and Fred Klein were tight in the loop.

  “All right, thank you, Stevens.”

  The admiral stood, but he did not leave. “What now, sir?”

  The president turned, his hands clasped behind, his tall figure framed in the window. “We go on as before. Make sure all the services are ready and that we have a strong presence in Asian waters on a war footing.”

  “Then, Mr. President?”

  “Then we wait for China’s move.”

  “The Empress should reach Iraqi waters Monday evening our time. Tuesday morning theirs.” Brose’s hard gaze fixed on the president. “Today’s Saturday, so we’re talking just one and, maybe, a half days. Things were bad enough when we still had almost a full week.”

  “I know, Admiral. I know.”

  The admiral heard the unspoken criticism and nodded slowly. “My apologies, Mr. President.”

  “No apology needed, Stevens. Go see that your people are taken care of. Were any hurt?”

  “We don’t know yet. When I talked with Chervenko, the Crowe hadn’t picked them up yet. I thought you’d want to know about the abort as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. I did. Thank you.”

  When the admiral left, President Castilla remained standing. At last he let out an agonized sigh. He picked up his blue phone, the direct, scrambled line to Covert-One headquarters.

  Fred Klein answered immediately. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “The SEALs had to abort.” The president repe
ated Brose’s report. “The Chinese were warned. Commander Chervenko is sure.”

  “Was it Secretary Kott?”

  “No. I sent him on a special mission to Mexico to keep him out of Washington. He’s completely off the page, and the CIA’s watching him, just to be sure.”

  The president paused, feeling again his outrage and disgust at Kott’s misuse of power. His leaks had caused devastating damage, and the president intended to hold him accountable. But not yet. It was too early to tip his hand.

  He continued, “I’ll tell Arlene Debo that a leak here in Washington may be the source for the sub’s aggression on the Crowe. Obviously, we can’t lay that one on Kott. Have you heard from Jon Smith?”

  “Afraid not,” Klein told him. “Another hour, I activate my people.”

  “We’d better both pray they find him and the manifest. He’s our last chance.”

  “What does Arlene say about McDermid? Any news from Agent Russell?”

  “More bad news. Russell has disappeared, too.”

  PART THREE

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  Hong Kong

  Two Chinese men dragged a struggling peasant woman into the L-shaped room and flung her to the floor near where the man slumped in a chair, his hands tied behind, his face bloodied, his feet naked. The room was airless.

  “Take a good look,” one told her in Cantonese. “When you’re questioned, remember—that’ll be you if you don’t answer.”

  Dressed in loose pajama trousers and shirt, the peasant woman cowered on the floor and blinked in the way of someone who has not understood a word. The man shook his head, beginning to worry. He looked at his partner, and they left.

  Randi heard the door lock behind them. Her black eyes flashed angrily, and her gaze swept over the room, analyzing it. The two wide windows, one front and one back, were covered by drapes. The morning light penetrated only in thin lines around them. She did not move, concerned she was being observed from somewhere. She studied Jon and the knots that tied him to the chair. Silently, she swore. Damn. They had him, too, and they had been tuning him.