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

Medina shook her head in disbelief, though it was clear from the look in her eyes that this was exactly what she thought had happened. She reached for the notepad in front of Chavez. “May I?”

Yao scooted forward in his chair, looking at Chavez. “I may need to go to Huludao and take a look through the professor’s office.”

Medina shook her head. “No,” she said. “He kept everything important to him under the floorboards of his bedroom.” She looked sheepishly at the men. “I did not … I mean to say … he was my superior. There was nothing …”

“Bastard,” Ryan said again.

Yao patted the table. “We are not judging you for the actions of bad men. Now, do you believe he would have kept plans from his work in this secret spot?”

“I feel sure of it,” Medina said, scribbling on the pad. “He stored little at the labs, fearing others would steal his work and take the credit for it.” She got to her feet, carrying the pad as she walked, swaying with the motion of the truck to work off her anger, since there was no room in the back to pace.

“I must return to China,” she said.

“Not a chance,” Ding said. “We almost didn’t get you out.” He didn’t say it out loud, but he couldn’t help but think that Lisanne might well still lose her life on the mission to get Medina. He wasn’t about to let her return and risk falling into Beijing’s hands.

“Listen to me,” Medina said. “I can retrieve the files.”

“No,” Ding said. “I’m confident the professor’s home has already been ransacked by government agents a dozen times over.”

“I doubt they could find his hiding place,” Medina said. “He has an engineer’s mind. He knows how to build clever things. I would pit his intellect against the idiots from the MSS any day.”

“My friend is right,” Yao said. “We just prevented you from falling into Beijing’s hands. You are the key.”

“No,” Medina said. “The key is the plans for the Mirage propulsion drive, and that will be in Liu Wangshu’s home. I am certain of it.”

“Then we will go,” Ding said. Resolute. “Or, at least, I will.”

Medina looked stricken at the thought. “If anyone goes, it should be him.” She nodded at Yao. “You look Chinese, so you might be able to walk around Huludao for a time without being questioned, but even you will still need me to get past Auntie Pei. She is the neighbor across the street.”

“No,” Chavez said. “And that’s final. I may not be the person for the job, but you certainly aren’t. We’ll figure out another way to get around Auntie Pei.”

Yao patted the table again, harder this time. “Wait,” he said. “How long after you turned in your assignment with the design of the Mirage drive were you expelled?”

“That very evening,” Medina said.

“Did Liu tell you what components of the project he wanted you to correct?”

She looked up from the notepad. “He did not.”

“I don’t think there was anything for you to correct,” Yao said. “I expect he saw right away your plans were workable. If he’d needed your help with anything, he would have waited to have you kicked out.”

Chavez was nodding now. “So if the professor is somehow incapacitated on that sub, and the Mirage drive is damaged, then they want Medina so she can help repair it.”

“Could be,” Yao said. “It is more likely that they want to destroy the existing one to keep it from falling into our hands. If they have Medina, they can re-create a new one.”

Medina smiled. “And if Medina can re-create it for Beijing …” She tapped the side of her head with her pencil and turned the notepad toward them. “Then she can re-create it for you.”

Chavez thought for a moment, and then smiled at Yao, who walked to the back of the truck so he could get a good signal on the sat phone.

63

In the control room of the Indiana , Captain Condiff watched over Petty Officer Markette’s shoulder at the green “waterfall” on his screen that turned sounds into pictures that only sonar technicians could read.

The Indiana was at full stop, rigged for ultraquiet. The loudest pumps had been taken off-line, even if they were slightly more efficient than the quieter ones. Everyone not on station was in their bunk, to keep accidents from happening. Everyone spoke in whispers, not so much because the other sub would be able to hear them, but because it reminded them of their condition.

A half-hour earlier, Markette had “spotted” the new contact—another sub—diesel-electric probably, quieter than a nuke, but for a squeaky bearing in one of the pumps.

“Bearing two-seven-zero,” Markette said. “Two thousand meters. She’s going back and forth, hunting.”

“Captain,” the USS Indiana ’s communications tech said. “Incoming on Deep Siren.”

The lead F-35 pilot’s voice squawked over the radio in the Healy ’s control room.

“I think your company’s decided to RTB. We’ll be on station for a bit if you need us.”

Captain Rapoza chuckled. It wasn’t surprising that the Chinese icebreaker’s little Z-9 helicopter had decided to return to base with two American fighter jets paying the Healy a social call.

The Healy and the Xue Long found themselves in a standoff of sorts, both hove-to, facing each other, literally on thin ice. Open leads webbed the surface all around them. Drifting bergs bumped their hulls. A stiff wind blew in from the north, forcing both ships to work hard to keep from being pushed steadily southward with the broken pads of ice.

A second-class petty officer named Lilly came across the radio from the afterdeck. He was from outside New Orleans, and to Rapoza, he always sounded like he had a mouthful of food when he spoke.

“Communication buoy on the surface, Captain,” he said.

The Healy had contacted Indiana via Deep Siren, the Raytheon low frequency tactical underwater paging system. Though not deployed fleet-wide, even on Navy vessels, it made sense to station such a device aboard one of the only ships in the U.S. inventory that ventured out on the ice where submarines lurked below. If the Indiana was down there, as Pacific Command said she would be, then he’d get the message and respond. He’d done just that, deploying a tethered device called an X-SUB Communication Buoy that allowed for two-way communication. The Indiana , knowing much more about Healy ’s position than she knew about the sub’s, sent the buoy up twenty yards to port off the afterdeck. It was barely visible above the water.

“Very well,” Rapoza said, nodding at his XO. “Let’s get Captain Condiff on the line.”

The petty officer nodded. “Go ahead, Skipper.”

“Captain Condiff,” Rapoza said. “I am instructed to ask you to stand by for a call from the President of the United States.”

“President Zhao,” Jack Ryan said. “May I speak freely?”

Silence on the line as an interpreter repeated everything in Mandarin.

“Of course, Mr. President,” Zhao answered in perfect Oxford English.

The two men had a history, albeit a fiery one. It would cause Zhao to lose face if he admitted it, but Ryan and his people had averted a nearly successful assassination attempt on Zhao’s life. Ryan did not bring it up. A Chinese leader without face was no leader at all. As the previous president had demonstrated when he took his own life. Zhao was proving to be increasingly belligerent as he consolidated his power, but the two men could still talk—so far at least. The czar you know …

“Mr. President,” Ryan said. “I would appreciate it if you and I could speak … how shall I put this, off the record.”