Poseidon, a Boeing 737 passenger jet modified to Navy specifications for sub
hunting, was considered spacious by military standards. But military aviators
always want more information, and Darling regularly flipped through the
available sensor feeds on the cockpit screens to satisfy the craving.
“Time to head down and take a closer look?” asked Treehorn.
“No fair that they get to have all the fun today. If it’s a party, we should
have been invited,” said Darling. “Make sure to zoom in and grab shots of
that submersible; give the intel shop some busywork.”
“Registry says it’s a science expedition,” said Treehorn.
The P-8 dove smoothly down to five hundred feet, Darling banking the
plane in a steep turn that kept the vessel off the starboard wing. A plane that
big, that fast, and that low roaring overhead was disconcerting to any
observer. The crew of the Xiang Yang Hong 18 would be on notice now.
“X-Ray Yankee Hotel 18, this is U.S. Navy Papa-8 asking if you need
assistance,” said Darling.
“We noticed you are stopped just over a rather deep
hole in the ocean, not the best place for snorkeling.”
Treehorn started laughing, as did the rest of the P-8 crew listening in on the
comms.
Darling brought the plane back up to a thousand feet. “That’s good; now
maybe they can actually hear their radio,” said Treehorn.
“Got their attention, though,” said Darling.
“I’ll say. Check your screen. They’re hoisting the submersible and trying
to put a tarp over it at the same time,” said Treehorn. “One guy just fell
overboard.”
Then a voice came on the radio. Darling instantly recognized the command
tone of a fellow member of the military brotherhood.
“U.S. Navy P-8, this is Tzu-long, chief scientist of an official expedition of
the China Ocean Mineral Resources Research and Development Association.
We are in international waters, operating under scientific charter. Do you
copy?”
“We copy, XYH 18,” said Darling. “I don’t want to get into the legalities,
but these waters are protected U.S. Exclusive Economic Zone, as designated
by the Mariana Trench Marine National Monument. Stand by. We will be
vectoring a U.S. Coast Guard vessel to ensure that you are not engaged in
illegal fishing.”
“Negative. This is a scientific mission. We do not need authorization. Any further interference with this peaceful mission will be considered a hostile act
by the Directorate government,” said the voice. “Do you copy?”
“Well, that got nasty pretty fast,” said Treehorn to his pilot.
“Foreplay’s for chumps,” said Darling.
“Are we really calling in the Coasties?” asked Treehorn.
“Naw. I guarantee they aren’t fishing, but no need to start a war over it,”
Darling responded.
“We copy, XYH 18,” he said into the radio. “Papa-8 is leaving station.
You lost one overboard, don’t forget.”
Darling brought the P-8 up to three thousand feet and powered back the
engines, giving the big jet a near weightless moment. Then Darling brought
the P-8 around and pointed the nose down at the Chinese ship’s stern,
backing off the twin engines’ power even more, so that the almost ninety-ton
jet’s dive was nearly silent.
“We’re not done yet. I’m going to take her low, one more pass, and when
they’ve got their heads down, we drop a Remora two thousand meters off the
stern,” said Darling.
“Aye, sir,” said the weapons crewman. “Standing by.”
Xiang Yang Hong 18, Mariana Trench, Pacific Ocean
Lieutenant Commander Lo handed the radio’s mike back to the captain.
“This is taking too long,” said Lo. “We need to be gone before their
border-guard ship arrives. Dr. Tzu, do you have everything that your team
needs?”
“Yes, we could do more surveys, but it is —”
A roar shook the entire ship. Tzu hit the deck with his hands over his ears.
There was a flash of white as the P-8 went overhead at full power less than a
hundred feet off the starboard side.
Lo couldn’t help but admire the move. Spiteful, yet audacious.
The scientist felt like he might throw up.
As the jet’s thunder receded, one of the crew shouted, “Something in the
water, a torpedo behind us!”
“Calm down,” said Lo, standing with his hands on his hips. “If it was a
torpedo, we’d already be dead. It’s just a sonobuoy, maybe one of their
Remora underwater drones.”
“Do they know?” said Tzu.
“No, there’s nothing up here of interest. What matters for us is far below,”
said Lo, nonplussed, as he eyed the drone now following in their wake.
He turned back to the scientist. “And Tzu?” said Lo. “The leadership is
aware of your success. Enjoy the moment with your wife. And make sure the
submersible is secured.”
It was the first kind word he had ever said to Tzu.
National Defense Reserve Fleet, Suisun Bay, California
The sun rising over the East Bay gave the fog a paper-lantern glow.
“Torres, you sleep at all last night?” said Mike Simmons. The contractor
patiently scanned the water ahead of the battered aluminum launch, seeming
to look right through the nineteen-year-old kid he shared it with. His fist
enveloped the outboard motor’s throttle, which he held with a loose grip,
gentle despite his callused palms and barnacle-like knuckles. He sat with one
knee resting just below his chin, the other leg sprawling lazily toward the
bow, at ease but ready to kick the kid overboard at a moment’s notice.
“No, but I’m compensated,” said Seaman Gabriel Torres. “Took a stim
before I came in.”
Mike took a sip from a pitted steel sailor’s mug. His right trigger finger
had a permanent crook from decades of carrying his coffee with him eighteen
hours a day. He shifted his weight slightly and the launch settled deeper to
starboard, causing Torres to catch himself on his seat in the bow. The retired
chief petty officer weighed a good eighty pounds more than Torres, the
difference recognizable in their voices as much as in the way the launch
accommodated them.
“Big group sim down at the Cow Palace again,” said Torres. “Brazilian
feed. Retro night. Carnival in Rio, back in the aughts.”
“You know,” Mike said, “I was in Rio once then. Not for Carnival, though.
Unbelievable. More ass than a . . . how I got any of my guys back on the ship,
I still do not know.”
“Hmmm,” Torres said. He nodded with absent-minded politeness, his
attention fixed on his viz glasses. All these kids were the same once they put
those damn things on, thought Mike. If they missed something important,
