Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Chavez pushed the tiny boom mic away from his mouth as he spoke, using a natural voice, despite the racket in the chopper. Connected to his phone via Bluetooth, the Sonitus Molar Mic clipped to his back tooth easily picked up his end of the conversation while transmitting incoming sounds via his jawbone instead of his eardrum. The device was comfortable enough for Chavez to forget it was there—which is what sold him on it in the first place. It worked with the radio in his pocket as well, linked via the wire-loop necklace through the same near-field technology used with surveillance earbuds. More and more tech was moving to cell phones, but the radios worked virtually anywhere and allowed him to talk to the entire team at once.

“We’ve been operating inside the nine-dash line most of the day. I’m seeing a few Chinese patrols on the radar, but they’re way off. Looks like one of our Navy ships is conducting a freedom of navigation cruise eleven miles east, not far from the Vanguard Bank. That should keep any Chinese patrols from pestering us. Pilot says we’re less than five minutes out, with open seas between us but for a couple of fishing boats.”

“No pressure,” Clark said. “But I’m surprised you’re still at it.”

“Me, too. The first two rigs were squeaksville. Nada.”

“I thought you only had two rigs on the menu today,” Clark said.

“We did,” Chavez said. “But a very helpful roustabout on the second rig said he’d seen a bunch of old computers stored on DK454. Thought we’d pay them a surprise visit. Gerry’s friend was happy with us doing a last-minute audit, but it took a little longer than anticipated to get us set up with another chopper, such as it is.” Chavez looked around the cabin as he spoke, noting the odor of oil and something that he thought might be overripe bananas. “Anyway, we shouldn’t be more than two hours once we’re boots on the ground at this last stop.”

“Copy,” Clark said. “Head on a swivel. No such thing as a routine job in the middle of the ocean, especially when that ocean is disputed real estate.”

“Roger that,” Chavez said.

All the offshore drilling rigs they were visiting that day were located well within their Exclusive Economic Zone, or EEZ. They were also inside what the Chinese called the nine-dash line, a bulbous hanging loop on their maps indicating Beijing’s sovereignty over more than eighty percent of the South China Sea—including all the fish, shipping lanes, and, most important, the minerals beneath the seabed. Malaysia, Brunei, the Philippines, and Vietnam all took great umbrage with China’s map, since the line cut well into each of their respective EEZs. A court of arbitration had ruled that the PRC had no claim to the territory, their nine dotted lines notwithstanding. For her part, Beijing didn’t appear to give a rat’s ass about the court’s finding, and continued to build installations on the Paracel and Spratly Islands, dredging up the seafloor to build more islands and ramming vessels that got in their way. President Ryan strongly condemned this bullying behavior, which Ding thought was probably one of the reasons Gerry Hendley’s friend with Lone Star Oil had been persuaded to become a silent partner in DK454. The twenty-six trillion dollars of unexploited hydrocarbons beneath the South China Sea might have had something to do with their decision as well.

A joint Vietnamese, Russian, and U.S. venture in waters claimed by a hostile foreign power, Chavez mused. What could possibly go wrong?

Evidently, Lonnie Taylor, the CEO of Lone Star Oil, smelled something rotten, and called his old buddy Gerry Hendley to see if some of his investigators might conduct a forensic audit, snooping for any signs of industrial espionage or outright theft.

Clark’s voice came over the line again, buzzing against Chavez’s back tooth.

“Has Junior found anything?”

Most of the team was going to the rig, but Jack Ryan, Jr., had drawn the short straw and was stuck in the main office in Ho Chi Minh City, combing through files while Clark continued Lisanne Robertson’s training and the others got to load up for a scenic flight in this bucket of spinning bolts.

“A few anomalies,” Chavez said. “Lots of traffic going back and forth between the Rosneft people on-site and some unknown IP addresses in Russia. He anticipates being done about the time we are.”

“Okay.” Clark gave a low grunt. “Like I said, head on a swivel.”

Chavez stuffed the cell into the pocket of his slacks, reset the small boom mic from his headset so it brushed his lips, and double-checked with the pilot.

His ears told him they were beginning their descent.

The pilot, one of Lonnie Taylor’s men from Texas, gave Chavez a quick sitrep.

“Copy,” Chavez said, and then held up four fingers to confirm that the other three Campus operatives each knew they were four minutes from touchdown.

Directly across from Chavez, Dominic “Dom” Caruso gave him a thumbs-up and then turned to continue staring out the scratched window at the choppy waves a thousand feet below. Adara Sherman sat beside Caruso. The wiry blonde with a pixie cut leaned on Caruso’s arm while she scrolled through her phone. This was the closest they ever got to a public display of affection, though it was no secret that they were making a life together.

Former Delta Force colonel Bartosz “Midas” Jankowski sat on the same row as Chavez, staring out the opposite window, scratching his dark beard in thought. Without looking, he raised four fingers to confirm he was up to speed.

Like Clark said, there were no routine missions at sea, but this one appeared to be about as close as it got.

Forensic accounting amid uncooperative people fell squarely into Hendley Associates’ swim lanes.

Adara glanced up from her phone. “There’s a pho place we should try when we’re done,” she said. “It’s near the hotel.”

Midas chuckled, still not taking his eyes off the waves. His voice crackled across the intercom on the headsets. “I’m betting there are five hundred pho places near the hotel. They ladle that shit here like we serve french fries.”

Dom raised a brow at his girlfriend. “He’s not wrong …”

“I’m thinking steak,” Chavez said. “But let’s keep our heads in the game. Adara and Dom, you chat up the crew once we land, make some new friends. Midas and I will take a look at the hard drives—”

The pilot’s voice broke over the intercom, interrupting them.

“Looks like you have a welcoming …” He paused for a beat, then said, “That’s not good. I’m seeing smoke … It looks like they’re throwing out life rafts.”

The Chinese MSS operative dressed as a fisherman stood upright in the small fishing boat, shielding his eyes from the sun, watching the Russian helicopter approach. He lowered the cell phone and glanced at his partner, an older man, also dressed in shorts and the stained cotton shirt of a fisherman.

“What shall we do?” the first man asked. “The smoke will convince most of the roustabouts to abandon the rig, but we have always known there could be Vietnamese losses. The inspectors on that helicopter are Americans. That will surely raise a stink.”

The older man toyed with a sparse crop of chin whiskers as he watched the chopper descend toward the landing pad on the superstructure of the drilling rig. The noodles he’d eaten for lunch wriggled in his gut like so many snakes. He hated boats, and wanted this mission to be over so he could step back on firm ground.

“These idiots are not supposed to be here,” he said. “Collateral damage cannot be avoided.”

The younger man punched a number into the mobile phone with his thumb, and then looked up for final confirmation before hitting send.