Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“So it’s just cargo ships,” Foley said. “Under what flags?”

“Panama, Liberia, the Marshall Islands, Cyprus, and Moldova. Owners can avoid union wages and Western labor and environmental regulations.”

“Not Chinese-flagged? Or Russian?” the SecDef asked.

“Not to my knowledge, though several carried goods manufactured in China. One vessel was carrying a shipment of Chinese antibiotics.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. That was a sore subject with him, and one he’d been raising with the American pharmaceutical industry over the last year. Nearly eighty percent of all pharmaceuticals globally were now made in China, including prescription drugs, antibiotics, and over-the-counter medicines, along with the chemical precursors needed for just about everything else. Not a single penicillin factory existed in the United States anymore.

“So why not Chinese- or Russian-flagged ships? Is it just because our pirates don’t want to pick a fight with a real fighting navy?” Ryan asked. “Or does the fact that Russia and China haven’t been hit make them our leading suspects after all?”

—

“Wait a sec,” Ryan said. He turned toward the admiral. “Didn’t you say Glazov put to sea six weeks ago? And it’s still out there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what kind of underwater endurance does it have?”

Talbot pulled up a file on Glazov and flashed its photos and specs on a monitor.

“Our estimate is that they can stay under for two weeks without surfacing, and have a patrol range of forty-five days before they need to restock and refuel.”

Ryan jumped to his feet. He marched over to the other monitor still displaying the locations of the sunken ships in the South Pacific.

“Okay, let’s assume just for the sake of argument that the Glazov is our culprit. If it’s operating in this area and it’s at the end of its forty-five-day endurance, where the hell does it resupply out here in the middle of nowhere? There aren’t any Russian naval bases in the area.”

“Good question,” Talbot said. He stared at the map for a moment. “There’s gotta be a sub tender in the area.”

“Is there?” Ryan asked.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Can you change back to the live screen and zoom in here?” Ryan pointed at a spot in the remotest part of the South Pacific.

“Roger that.” Talbot pulled up all of the ships broadcasting AIS signals.

Ryan touched one of the arrowheads with his finger. “What’s this?”

Talbot put his pointer on the arrowhead. A text box appeared. “That’s the Penza . It’s Russian-flagged and registered out of Vladivostok.” There weren’t any other specs on the readout. The Penza AIS only put out what it wanted to communicate.

“Give me just one minute,” Talbot said as he snatched up his tablet and tapped a few virtual keys searching a database. When he slid his finger across the tablet it threw a still photo of the Penza onto another wall monitor. A black-and-red rusted cargo ship. The white multistory bridge stood on the aft end. The deck featured two powerful cranes.

“The Penza ’s a multipurpose vessel. One hundred meters long, nearly eleven thousand tons’ displacement. Transports wet and dry cargo. You can see the two twenty-five-ton derricks for lifting.”

Talbot’s face broke into a wide grin.

“Son of a gun. That’s the tender.”

Ryan nodded. “And if that’s a tender, then the Glazov is our boat.”

—

“What are our chances of finding a ‘Black Hole’ boat like the Glazov ?” Ryan asked the admiral.

“The Glazov is relatively small and optimized for silent operations. We’d have a better chance of pulling a winning lottery ticket once a day for seven days in a row than we do finding it. But you know what they say—you can’t win if you don’t play.”

Ryan smiled. “Then let’s play. Where are the Theodore Roosevelt and CSG-9 right now?”

“The Roosevelt carrier strike group is one hundred and fifty miles southwest of Hawaii.”

“That’s Admiral Pike’s command, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. David’s top drawer.” Talbot was pleased but not surprised that his commander in chief knew the names of his most important commanders in the field.

“How long to get them to the area in question?”

“At thirty knots, I’d estimate three days.”

“Unless you can think of a reason not to, let’s send them that way. Putting seventy-five-hundred pairs of eyes on the situation can only be a good thing, not to mention the ASW capabilities they’ll bring with them.”

“Roger that, sir. Admiral Pike will jump all over this. A French attack sub sank his boat and most of his CSG off the coast of Florida in an exercise in 2015. The French bragged about it on Twitter until we made them pull it down. He’s never gotten over it. He’ll be glad for the rematch—in real time. May I make one other suggestion?”

“Shoot.”

Talbot highlighted another arrowhead sailing halfway between Chile and New Zealand. “That’s the Luzon, a Ticonderoga -class cruiser, one of our newest. She has ASW capabilities, including two Seahawk helicopters. We can divert Luzon into the area to start a search almost immediately.”

“Do it.”

The President crossed over to his chair and laid his hands on the headrest. “I think we’ve taken a pretty good first swing at this thing. Now we have to wait until the Luzon reports back. I wish this was the only thing on our plates today, but we all have other things to attend to, so I’m calling it for now. Thank you all again for your time and input.”

With the meeting declared over, Ryan’s team shuffled out. Before the SecState exited the room, Ryan called after him.

“Scott, a word, if you don’t mind? I have one other idea.”

23

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?” SecState Adler said.

“Scott, I want you to set up an appointment with that new Russian ambassador ASAP.”

“You mean Christyakov? The one whose credentials you haven’t accepted yet?”

“Yeah. That one.” Ryan rolled his eyes. The chief of protocol had vetted the man. Christyakov was apparently no more odious or problematic than the other ambassadors in Yermilov’s diplomatic corps. Ryan wasn’t eager to accommodate yet another crony of the Russian president, even if he was Yermilov’s most important diplomatic officer.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why the change of heart? And why now?”

“I want his rear end in a chair across from the Resolute desk so I can get the measure of him. If the Russians really are up to something in the South Pacific, he might know something about it, and with any luck, I can shake it out of him.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Yermilov had just appointed the nephew of Russia’s largest petroleum conglomerate, GazNeft, to the American post, a man with no diplomatic experience whatsoever. That was fine with Ryan. He was more than happy to steal candy from a spoiled Russian baby.

“My people on the Russia desk say there’s more to him than meets the eye. He might be harder to rattle than you suppose.”

“A diplomatic credential does not a diplomat make.”

“That’s just the thing. He’s not like most diplomats.”

“Then it should be an interesting conversation. If a Russian sub is behind all of this mess, I intend to find out, and convince him to tell Yermilov to back off. Frankly, Scott, I’m worried about the bigger picture here.”

“Are you referring to the Snow Dragon exercise next week?”

“Yeah. And that’s just one piece of a larger puzzle.”