Pirate (50 page)

NEITHER HAWKE NOR THE CAPTAIN SAID A WORD DURING
the elevator ride to the ground floor. Nor did they speak crossing the lobby. Instead of taking the cruiser idling out front of the hospital entrance, they jumped into a cab at the corner of York and Seventieth Street and headed across town. It was Sunday night and the traffic was light going through the park. They pulled up at the passenger ship terminal, Pier 93, just after nine-thirty.

“Got any ideas?” Mariucci said to Hawke as they climbed out of the cab.

“Nothing yet,” Hawke said, “I was hoping you’d have one by now.”

Hawke handed the driver a twenty and joined the captain on the sidewalk. The upper decks of the enormous ship, illuminated, blocked out the sky above the terminal. She was, Hawke knew, two times longer than the Eiffel Tower was high, and four times the size of the
Titanic.
Hawke saw the word
Leviathan
stenciled in gold on her beautiful black bow. No doubt about it, she was monumentally impressive.

“Let’s go find the captain,” Hawke said.

They raced through the terminal and arrived at the deserted check-in area. The floor was still littered with streamers and confetti. The French Line had decorated the entire area with paintings, ribbons, and pictures of the great liners of the past, the
Île de France
and the
Normandie.
A massive oil painting dominated the scene. In the foreground of the painting, the largest ship ever built,
Leviathan.
In the background, almost hidden by the arcs of water jetting from the fireboats, the Statue of Liberty.

There were two desultory guards at the boarding door who barely looked up from their newspapers as Mariucci flashed his shield and barreled through. When they got outside on the dock, they couldn’t even see the ship. It was too close to the building. It looked like a black wall.

There was a gangway leading up the side of the black wall, its rails festooned with wilted red, white, and blue streamers. Hawke raced up, followed closely by Mariucci. There was an officer in white at the top with a clipboard. At the sight of two men running toward him, he put on a welcoming smile to hide his confusion. The passengers were all long gone and these two men didn’t look like crew.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer said.

“Yeah, how are you doing tonight? Listen, I’m Captain John Mariucci, NYPD, and this is my colleague Alex Hawke. Royal Navy. Mind if we take a look around?”

“I am so sorry, sir, but you see we do not allow tours or uninvited visitors. The ship is—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Mariucci said, moving right up into his face. “You are?”

“I am the ship’s chief purser, monsieur. And, I will have to ask you to—”

“Look, Alain, that’s what it says on your security tag thing there, you’re new, so let me explain how this all works. This is New York City, see. We have our own unique style. Like, I’m a cop here. I don’t have to be invited.”

“We’d like a brief word with your captain,” Hawke said. “Would you be so kind as to take us to the bridge?”

“Well, I—”

“After you, Alain. Lead the way.”

“As you wish.”

As it happened, the ship’s captain, Francois Dechevereux, was not on the bridge at all. He was standing alone on the open observation deck, high above the graceful curve of the bows, looking at the pristine New York skyline. He was a tall man, angular, and his white uniform hung on him the way a tent hangs on poles. Hawke noticed his yellow fingertips and the unfiltered cigarette that seemed a permanent fixture in the corner of his mouth.

“Beautiful ship, Captain,” Hawke said after they’d been introduced by the purser. “Magnificent lines.”

“Yeah, nice,” Mariucci said. “Big. But nice.”

Captain Dechevereux whispered something in the purser’s ear and sent him scurrying away. Then he turned to Hawke, removing his cigarette only to speak. He didn’t look happy to see them.

“Leviathan
is a wonder, Monsieur Hawke, a symbol of the new French Renaissance. Our great leader, President Bonaparte, has given her to France as proof of her restored glory.
La Gloire.
I am glad you appreciate her. I don’t mean to be rude. But, may I ask why you gentlemen wished to see me? Is there some problem? Some irregularity with our paperwork?”

“There certainly is a problem, Captain,” Mariucci said, “But I’m here to make it go away.”

“How can I help you?”

“It’s the mayor, Captain. Of New York. He’s a greenie, see? One of those tree-hugging environmental wackos, right? Hizzoner has never much liked the idea of a nuclear-powered vessel with a foreign flag zipping in and out of New York Harbor and—”

“He is anti-French,” Captain Dechevereux said with disdain, flicking his cigarette over the rail and immediately lighting another. “I have read this about him.”

“No, no. The mayor of New York loves France. It’s not that. He—”

Hawke cast a sidelong glance at Mariucci. “Captain,” he said, “I’ve heard you can do well over thirty knots. Staggering. Please tell me about your propulsion system.”

“Ah. The most advanced in the world, monsieur. Two pods, submerged under the stern, that can rotate 360 degrees. Driven by 4.2-megawatt thrusters controlled by a joystick.”

“Amazing. How many reactors? Four?” Hawke asked.

“Mais certainement.
Four nuclear reactors each generating one-hundred-thousand-shaft horsepower. We keep her speed confidential. In brochures we say ‘It’s sufficient.’”

“That’s great,” Mariucci said. “But look around you here. Pretty densely populated area here in Manhattan. People get nervous when they even hear the word ‘nuclear.’ You understand that.”

Hawke said, “Captain, I saw a poster depicting Alaska at the dock-side check-in. I take it you intend to sail in waters where there are strict environmental controls?”

“Mais oui.
But we are very conscious of the environment issues. President Bonaparte, who, perhaps, found it expedient to become a great conservationist, insisted she exceed every requirement. The ship is designed to operate—”

“Precisely why we’re here, Captain,” Hawke said, leaping through the opening. “Environmental issue. We’re going to need to do a thorough inspection of your reactor rooms. Immediately. I understand you’re sailing back to Le Havre tomorrow evening?”

“No.”

“No? That’s the announced schedule. A six o’clock sailing.”

“There will be an unfortunate delay. A mechanical problem—one of the propulsion monitors has shut down our reactors. The ship is to remain here indefinitely. It is not my decision.”

“Really? You being the captain and all, I’d think—whose decision is it?”

“The builder. He was a passenger on our maiden voyage. All over my ship, with his little notebook, writing and writing. Now, he says we cannot leave. He is flying in some more Chinese technicians to make the repairs, and who knows how long that will take? I’ve just learned all of this myself, Captain. The man was standing here not ten minutes ago. To tell you the truth, I am furious with this decision. It is an embarrassment.”

“The builder is onboard?” Mariucci asked, looking around.

“Mais oui!
You know what he said to me? That we have too many screws in the coat racks on the stateroom doors! Eh? Too many screws?” The captain was getting a little hot under the collar. Whatever was going on aboard this behemoth, the captain obviously wasn’t in on it. And he was pissed.

“Bonaparte had Baron von Draxis build this ship in Germany,” Dechevereux said. “The new
Queen Mary,
she was built in France. Many jobs for Frenchmen. But Germans built this great ship for our beloved President Bonaparte. Germans! Make sense to you? No. Go. Find him. He went to the Normandie Bar for a nightcap before turning in.”

“One more question before we go, Captain,” Hawke said. “Tell me about your keel design. Anything unusual about it?”

“No. It’s lead.”

“Nothing inside? No electronics? Side thrusters?”

“It’s a
keel,
monsieur. A dead weight. Please. Leave me alone. I am very upset at the moment.”

“Thanks for your time, Captain,” Mariucci said. “We’ll find our way to the bar.”

Under his breath, Mariucci said, “Von Draxis is faking some mechanical problem so his ship can remain in New York indefinitely. Like a permanent Trojan Horse.”

“Right. But I’ve an idea,” Hawke said as they walked quickly aft to find the builder.

“Don’t be shy,” Mariucci said as they entered the vast Art Deco lounge.

“We tell this von Draxis we’re here to save him, and France, a lot of embarrassment. Tell him Port Security was doing random samples and picked up a radiation leak.”

“I like that—look. That’s got to be him, headed this way. Looks like a friggin’ bull.”

“In a bloody China shop,” Hawke said, lowering his voice. “Remember, no inspection, his ship has to leave immediately. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Gentlemen, good evening! Zo, I understand there is some kind of problem. I am the proud builder, Augustus von Draxis. Perhaps I may be of service?”

The captain flashed his creds. “Mariucci, NYPD Anti-Terrorist Task Force. This is my driver, George.”

“Evening,” Hawke said, smiling.

The baron eyed Hawke suspiciously and said, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Pollution,” Mariucci said.

“Pollution? Ha! This is the cleanest ship afloat, Captain. A zero-waste ship.”

“Radioactive leak, Mr. von Draxis. One of my Port Security boats in the East River picked it up in a random sample. Just this afternoon. We’ll need to do an immediate inspection.”

“Inspection? Impossible. If there is a leak, which I doubt, we’ll find it and fix it ourselves.”

“I knew you’d say that. But, frankly, I can’t take your word for it. Two choices, sir. Allow my divers and inspectors and their mobile X-ray scanners aboard, or get out of Dodge. Your call.”

“This is ridiculous. In any event, we are scheduled to depart for Le Havre tomorrow.”

“But you’re not, right? You’re waiting for a powwow with some Chinese technicians?”

“Who told you that?”

“That would be your captain. Dechevereux is his name? Am I right, George? Dechevereux?”

Hawke nodded.

“This is insanity,” von Draxis said, the color rising in his cheeks. “My family has been building the finest ships afloat for four generations. And I am telling you there is no leak. I know her every bolt, every screw on this vessel! You know how some people talk to horses? I talk to boats! She is not leaking radiation. I will not tolerate this!”

“What a world, huh?” Mariucci said. “Hey, listen, Mr. von Draxis. I know it’s a royal pain in the ass. But save yourself a lot of bad PR, all right? We’ll be in and out of here in two hours, max. You don’t want to see your pride and joy on the news tomorrow with police barricades up all around it, do you? What do you say?”

The baron looked like he was about to detonate. “What exactly is it you people wish to see?”

“What we the people would like to see is your fat ass headed due east out of our fucking harbor. But what we will settle for is a complete inspection of your reactor rooms, your hull, your keel, and any other part of this fucking ship I want to look at. Got all that?”

The German, Hawke noticed, was balling his fists and rising up onto the tips of his toes. His thickly corded neck was bulging and his shoulder blades looked like tectonic plates shifting under his dinner jacket. But somehow he managed to control all this and not to take a swing at Captain Mariucci.

“The governor of New York will hear about this outrage. He is a close personal friend of German chancellor Gerhardt’s. I will squash you like a bug.”

“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way, pal. Come on, George. We’re out of here.”

“HERE’S HOW I LIKE MY BAD NEWS,” PRESIDENT MCATEE
said, striding into the Sit Room.

“Like a frozen rope, for you golfers: straight and to the point. For you baseball fans, I like a hard fastball over the heart of the plate. Let me have it, boys. Batter up.”

Wild Card, the top-secret, highly compartmentalized White House team devoted to the Chinese crisis, had gathered in the Situation Room. The team was now composed of a dozen men and women, including members of the JCS, CIA, National Security Council, and National Security Agency officers. You could read the faces; it wasn’t good news.

The long, narrow office had the air of a stale boardroom after a marathon meeting. One where all the details had obviously been sweated. The long burl table, with seats for about eighteen, was full. So were the few chairs along the walls. The far wall, which converted to a giant screen with real-time media capability, now displayed a brilliant four-color map of China and its troublesome neighbor, Taiwan. The mood was tense, but still informal.

As the president took his chair, the national security advisor, John Gooch, was the first one on his feet.

“Mr. President. We are now looking at three distinct threat scenarios,” Gooch said, nodding to the Marine who was manning the computer. “Number one—”

“Only three?” the president said with a smile. “That’s not too bad. Hell, that’s hardly enough for a full-blown global crisis.”

“Mr. President,” John Gooch said when the nervous laughter had died down, “I’m afraid the situation has sharply deteriorated since your last briefing.”

“Sorry. Go ahead, John. Can I get a Diet Coke?”

“One, the nuclear device in New York City has been confirmed. The—”

“Excuse me,” the president said. “Confirmed?”

“Yes, sir. We dropped a black ops team onto the roof of the Golden Dragon in Hong Kong Harbor. Surprise visit. We overpowered the resistance, took a few casualties. No sign of General Moon. Our boys hacked into the naval design computers.”

“And?”

“There is a device in
Leviathan
’s keel, sir. Twice the destructive power of those in the tankers.”

The president’s face went suddenly cold. All traces of humor disappeared from his eyes. All who knew him well saw the omnivorous intellect and distilled, probing presence that had propelled him to the very top of his party and the presidency.

“How bad is it?” McAtee asked, rubbing his chin.

“A fission bomb of sufficient size to take out half of Manhattan, sir. And flood what’s left of the city with dirty water. Seven years’ contamination, minimum.”

“I want Hawke and Mariucci to have whatever federal, state, and city resources they need. I’m giving them one hour to get that floating French flophouse out of New York Harbor. Okay? And do it without causing alarm. All right? That’s one threat. Give me another one.”

“Two, Mr. President. Beijing’s recent behavior is appalling. The relationship we thought we had has gone downhill in a hurry. As you well know, they passed a law authorizing the use of force against Taiwan. They encouraged anti-Japan riots in China. They’re using the Rape of Nanking to whip up the population. Now, they threaten to sink our currency if we don’t back off the French in Oman. Will they do it? I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s it?”

“The Cheshire Cat is showing us a new and totally unexpected face, Mr. President. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“That’s enough. Charlie?” the president said, swiveling his head to regard the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

“To hell with our currency. Right now they’re threatening to sink our ships. And invade Taiwan.”

“I was just coming to that, Mr. President. Number three, the presence of significant Chinese naval and air forces in the Taiwan Strait. By significant, I mean a battle fleet centered on their new carrier,
Varyag,
purchased from the Ukraine and carrying forty of the new Sukoi SU-30 fighter jets recently purchased from Russia. Questions?”

A hand went up. “Subs?”

“Right. China is fielding two Han-class and one of her Xia-class nuclear missile submarines recently launched at their shipyard near the Gulf of Bohai. Both carry twelve solid-fuel ‘Giant Wave’ model-1 missiles with a range of twenty-four hundred kilometers.”

“And that area includes?” the president asked.

“That includes Japan, Taiwan, Korea, and Alaska. In addition, a Song-class diesel sub is off Kaochung at the mouth of the Straits. She’s equipped with a new sonar facility that can simultaneously and automatically monitor and operate five combat targets.”

“No model-2 missiles?”

“We don’t know. That’s one reason I’m sweating right now. The model-2, as some of you know, has a range of eight-thousand kilometers. Any Chinese sub now operating in the West Pacific or Philippines with model-2 missiles on board can aim at and reach any target within Russian and U.S. territories.”

“Who gives a flying fuck about Russia at this point?” General Moore said.

“I do,” Gooch said. “We’re at the stage in the game where everybody damn well better give a damn about everybody else. We’re all on this goddamn planet together. The president just got off the phone with Putin. He called to say he had two Russian Victor III submarines in the theater and headed into the Straits. As I say, everybody needs to know everything. Or
almost
everything.”

“So what happens next? Charlie?” the president said.

“As you know, the CNO put the fleet on Level Three—canceled shore leave and ordered all units in San Diego and Norfolk to sea four days ago. CINCPAC has informed me through the CNO that the
Theodore Roosevelt
and her battle group have reached the Straits and await orders;
Kennedy
and
Nimitz
with their groups are a day out, moving at flank speed through forty-foot seas. Lead units from both are within three hours of the Straits.”

“Good news,” the president said, staring down at something he’d written on his legal pad.

“Yes, sir. The bad news is the tankers are having a tough time keeping up and we may have a fuel problem if things get really spicy.”

“Well, we’ll just have to handle that,” the president said. “How about the psyops? Director Kelly?”

The lanky CIA man put down the slice of cold pizza he’d been about to eat and got to his feet. His suit was rumpled and his eyes were red and swollen with strain. Like many of his colleagues, he’d gone a day and a half without sleep. He straightened his tie and addressed the president directly.

“Uh, right, on the psychological operations front, Mr. President, we have at your order, activated—sorry—may I just confirm, sir, that everyone in this room has a ticket for Wild Card? Please confirm by raising your hand and stating your name and agency…sorry, folks, this is just for my records…okay. Thanks. Sorry. Regarding Wild Card, sir. That went operational at 0800 hours this evening, EST.”

“Good. Tell them what it is, Brick.”

“How much can I say?”

“Just enough.”

“All right. Operation Wild Card is a ‘deep sleeper.’ It’s, uh, a contingency asset already in place inside Mainland China. A linked chain of our most powerful nuclear weapons. Deep inside one of their major cities. They know about it. They even know its name. They just don’t know where it is. What city, what time. That’s it.”

“Jesus Christ,” John Gooch said. “What are you going to do? Blow up Shanghai? Take out Beijing? Brick, you are talking about killing a couple of million people, for god’s sake.”

“It won’t come to that,” Brick Kelly said.

“I hope to hell you’re right,” Gooch said.

Kelly continued, “We put Wild Card on the table tonight through a deliberately careless radio operator in a transmission from Hickham Air Force Base in Hawaii. He used a code we know they’ve broken. The operator’s message was, ‘Wild Card is in play.’ We’re reading their traffic. They’ve intercepted our transmission. Right now, I would say there is something approaching tense discussion within the halls of the Politburo.”

“So Wild Card is working, Brick?” the president said. There was hope in his question. He’d originally been against the concept of the grievous, last-resort contingency asset. Then came his first post-inaugural briefing. The asset, deep inside Mainland China, would be impossible to remove without destroying the thin line of civility that had existed for some time between Washington and Beijing.

“Let’s just say we have reason to believe the Mandarins in the Forbidden City are rapidly losing their cool. In a severe crisis, their pyramid structure at the very top is hardly conducive to well-reasoned consensus management. You get the top five alone in a room, throw in Wild Card, and, hell, they’re bouncing off the walls.”

“Somehow, I don’t find that image very reassuring,” the secretary of state, Consuelo de los Reyes, said.

“Madame Secretary,” Kelly said to the secretary of state, “I understand your feelings. But Wild Card is the very best chance we have of preventing an all-out nuclear war.”

Consuelo de los Reyes, Cuban-born and Harvard-educated, was the person Jack McAtee was closest to in his administration. He smiled at her and said, “Conch, could you give us an update on what State is doing, please.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Two hours ago, Barron Collier, the U.S. ambassador in Beijing, demanded to see the Chinese foreign minister. Ambassador Collier just came out of that office twenty minutes ago. While there he presented a demarche to the Chinese government. Three demands: one, get the bomb out of New York Harbor. Two, get all French and Chinese forces out of Oman. Three, stop this bullying harassment of Taiwan.”

“And what, pray tell, was their initial response?” the president said.

“Knowing Collier as I do,” Charlie Moore said, “He probably found grounds for productive discussion.”

“Unfortunately he did not, General,” the secretary said, glaring at the former Marine. “The Chinese are playing us—which, to my mind, means they have a lot of equity in this and they’ve thought it through. Or, at least they think they have.”

“The bomb,” the president said as he looked up from his pad. “What did they say about the damn bomb, Conch?”

“China’s opening position is a remarkable display of plausible deniability. They said, ‘What bomb?’”

“Right. The bomb they put in
Leviathan
’s keel, goddamn it!” General Moore said.

“What about the Gulf?” the president asked.

“They say they aren’t in the Gulf. France is. Suggested we speak with Monsieur le President Bonaparte about Oman. He’s the one who ordered the French troops to invade.”

“And Taiwan?”

“Taiwan is their property. That’s the view. They actually quoted the Taiwan Relations Act. In an odd way, they seemed to be advising prudence on our part.”

“Prudence?”

“Just a feeling. That we should tread lightly.”

“Ah. And this veiled warning took place prior to the Chinese foreign minister knowing Wild Card was on the table, correct?”

“Correct, sir.”

“I just had a thought, Mr. President,” Gooch said.

“Go ahead,” McAtee said.

“This
Leviathan.
It’s been their plan all along. That ship is the Chinese attempt to check Wild Card.”

The room went silent.

“What does that mean, John?” the president said.

“Check. Checkmate.”

“How so?”

“Trigger one, trigger all. We initiate our detonation sequence, they initiate theirs.”

“I think John’s absolutely right. Only we know where their bomb is,” CIA Director Kelly said.

“That’s correct, Brick,” the president said. “We do know where it is. I just pray to God we get that damn thing out of New York before they pull the trigger.”

“Until we do, we’re in an undeclared state of war with Red China, Mr. President,” John Gooch said.