The Secret Cardinal (10 page)

“For eight years, I
was
native Chinese. During that time, I built several cells of agents in various government ministries and businesses. My agents produced volumes of intelligence on the actions and intentions of Beijing, information that even led to the disruption of a network of Chinese agents working in the United States.

“In China, I also built a personal life and formed relationships with many people who played no part in my work. I even fell in love and was engaged to be married. I became the person I pretended to be, lived the role as if I'd been born to it, as if Roxanne Tao of California was a fiction and Chen Mei Yue of Beijing was real. In living with the fear that the government could arrest me at any time, I was no different from most ordinary Chinese. The people of China have lived for thousands of years with a government-induced form of paranoia.

“I spent most of my last year in China on the run, my cover blown, my Chinese life in ruins. Many of my cells were exposed, my agents arrested
and killed. Some sacrificed themselves to ensure my escape. A few of my people remain in place, dormant, living in dread that the next knock at the door will either be the police, or perhaps me.”

Kilkenny studied Tao as she spoke and sensed equal amounts of anguish and relief. The rules of secrecy with which she lived meant that eight years of her life had to be kept separate, repressed in her memory as something she didn't truly own and could never admit to possessing.

“The very success of Roxanne's operation in China set the stage for her undoing,” Barnett added. “The Chinese knew something was afoot but had no way to gauge the extent. So, being well versed in the teachings of Sun Tsu, they found an
inward spy
here at Langley who accepted their generosity in exchange for information. The career of the gentleman in question as a mole didn't last long enough to spend even a fraction of his ill-gotten wealth, but the damage he caused in human terms was immense.

“Chen Mei Yue is a known spy of the United States. The Chinese have photographs of her, fingerprints, probably even DNA because she fled her apartment just moments ahead of the police, leaving everything behind. Chen is a wanted fugitive, and the Chinese are still looking for her. Asking Roxanne to return to China is tantamount to asking her to commit suicide.”

“Nonetheless, I'm going,” Tao declared.

“I can't ask you to do that,” Kilkenny said.

“You can't ask me to remain behind, either,” Tao countered. “Not now that I know what you're after. It may be a danger for me to go, but how much more of a danger is it for you to go without me?”

“Roxanne,” Barnett said, “I caution you against returning.”

“I'm going in surrounded by a team of meat eaters,” Kilkenny added, “all big boys who can handle themselves if the
merde
hits the
ventilateur électrique
. You don't have to go.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” Kilkenny asked softly.

“My fiancé was an underground Roman Catholic. I was the spy, and yet Ming kept his secret from me for years. At first, he hid his faith to protect himself, but as our relationship grew he maintained the secret
to protect me. Eventually we shared our secrets and planned to have our marriage blessed by a priest. I was raised a Christian but was never very religious until I fell in love with this man. When my cover was blown, Ming hid me in the community of his underground church. He could have saved himself, in fact I urged him to, but in the end he died to protect me.

“What I learned from Ming and the others who sheltered me when I was on the run was the fierce loyalty the Roman Catholics in China have toward one another. I asked Ming why this was so, and he said it was Bishop Yin. Yin stayed with his people when he could have fled. He lived the words he preached. Ming followed that example, and I am alive because of his sacrifice.” Tao's eyes brimmed with tears as she dredged through her store of memories. “In any other case, I would agree with you both about the dangers of my returning to China, but for Ming and the others who saved my life, I
must
do this.”

As Tao spoke, Kilkenny recalled her boundless support in the days after his wife and son died. Family and friends offered heartfelt sympathy, of course, but in hindsight only Tao seemed to comprehend the depth of his grief and anger. What he had assumed was tremendous empathy he now realized was a wound they shared in common.

“I see there will be no dissuading you,” Barnett conceded, “so we must do everything possible to keep you off Beijing's radar.”

12

CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
October 16

Max Gates stood atop the dune surveying the carnage below. A stocky, barrel-chested man with forearms that would make Popeye proud, he was clad in a battle-dress uniform of woodland-pattern camouflage with the pants bloused into a pair of black Bates 924/922 boots. The master chief's sandy-brown hair had receded to nothing-ness long before it had the opportunity to turn gray, though what he lost on top he made up for in a pair of bushy eyebrows and a thick handlebar mustache.

Explosions and gunfire shattered the night, war in all its fury unleashed on a thin strip of sand along the Pacific Coast. The air was thick with smoke, the harsh smell of cordite strong and familiar to CMC Gates—the command master chief and senior enlisted adviser charged with the training of recruits for the Navy's elite SEAL teams.

The CMC stood next to Captain Hunley, the CO and an officer with as many years in the teams as the master chief. Both men were veterans whose vast wealth of experience in this particular brand of warfare was now employed to shape the next generation of naval Special Forces.

On the beach below, the instructors serving under Hunley and Gates set off grenade and artillery simulators, fired full-auto bursts from M-60 machine guns, and shouted commands at the increasingly confused and disoriented class of recruits. Push-ups, sit-ups, flutter kicks, and dive bombers—the instructors drove the recruits through a punishing regimen of physical training exercises, all while soaking the
young men with icy blasts from fire hoses. Sand coated every inch of the sodden recruits' bodies, working through their clothing and grinding in every crevice.

“Looks like Hell Week's off to a roaring start, Chief,” Hunley said.

“The men are making a fine batch of sugar cookies out of those tadpoles, sir,” Gates agreed.

Cold, wet, hungry, and tired—for the next five days, the SEAL recruits would experience these four sensations in extremes they could never before have imagined. And at every turn, their instructors would berate, goad, cajole, and tempt them into giving up.

“Hit it!” Petty Officer Portage shouted.

Portage's command sent a sand-encrusted boat crew of seven men into the cold surf for a plunge. One of the men straggled a bit behind his buddies, and the petty officer pounced on him.

“You ain't moving too fast, banana. You got sand in your panties?”

Gates and Hunley couldn't hear the faltering recruit's response as Portage hounded him into the water.

“Looks like Portage has our first bell ringer of the night,” Gates shouted over the din.

A boat crew in the surf lay in a foot of water, linked elbow to elbow, facing the shore. Portage stood at the water's edge, alternating bursts from an M-60 with tender words of encouragement to the shivering men.

“You embryos aren't getting outta that water until one of you quits!” Portage shouted. “Who's it gonna be? I only need one! There's a hot shower and a dry bed just waiting for one of you.”

A young lieutenant, the sole officer among the sodden boat crew, tried to shout over Portage's banter and encourage his teammates to hang together. A large wave crashed over the men, and one recruit broke away from the others. He struggled ashore and walked with leaden steps toward a brass ship's bell mounted atop a wooden frame. He rang the bell three times to signal his surrender and was taken away.

“That gets us down to forty-eight,” Gates said, unsurprised.

The class was in its fourth week of BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training—and already two-thirds of those who
started were gone. Only twenty-five percent of recruits in the initial muster of a typical BUD/S class completes the twenty-six-week course and earns the right to display the Special Warfare Badge—commonly known as the Budweiser—on their uniforms.

Despite appearances, the purpose of Hell Week is not to destroy a man but rather to prove to him that his body can do tenfold the work he ever thought possible. It also drives home the importance of team-work, because men acting as individuals cannot overcome the challenges faced in BUD/S. The recruits that learn these two important lessons through the catharsis of blood and sweat have the best chance of becoming SEALs.

“When do you leave?” Hunley asked.

“Later today,” Gates replied, “just as soon as I get a few things squared away. I should be back by the end of the month. The guys know the drill.”

Hunley nodded. Earlier that morning, the captain had received an unusually cryptic order that temporarily removed Gates from the active-duty roster. Though curious about this sudden reassignment, Hunley knew not to pursue a matter when the order was authorized by the commander in chief.

“Good luck, Chief.”

Gates saluted his CO, then climbed behind the wheel of a Hum Vee and drove back to his office on the main base. It was just past midnight, and the complex of buildings was dark except for those areas manned by the night watch. He parked in his designated spot, kicked the sand from his boots, and made his way through the instructor's building to his office. Gates keyed his password into his computer and logged into the base network. He glanced at the new messages in his inbox and was pleased with the responses he found from fellow warriors in the U.S. Special Forces community. He tapped into a secure A/V communications program and keyed in the address for Kilkenny at the Vatican. The two computers shook hands through the Internet, and a window opened into the catacombs workroom.

“Chief, right on time.” Kilkenny smiled.

“Early bird gets the worm, son. Though around these parts the early birds are trying to keep from getting their tail feathers shot off.”

“Ah, Hell Week,” Kilkenny sighed wistfully. “I still have vivid memories of dining in the demo pit, chowing on a box lunch, knee-deep in that cold putrid cesspool while the instructors lit off smoke grenades and tossed M-80s into the water. You going any easier on the new recruits?”

“Hell no. If it was good enough for you 'n me, it's good enough for them.”

“Glad to hear it. How are you coming with the team for my op?”

“Every spec warrior I polled has signed on,” Gates replied, referring to members of the elite special forces community, “so we should have a full roster by midday. Amazing how many guys will volunteer for something with so few details.”

“Must be the thought of your charming company.”

“Or the chance to see a crusty old SEAL strap on his fins one last time before he retires,” Gates said in a slow Oklahoma drawl. “Remember our last op?”

“Haiti? Like it was yesterday. Bet Admiral Hopwood was smiling down from heaven on us after that little foray into the bush.”

“Anytime you can rescue a bunch of hostages and send a steamin' sack of shit to hell—well, my friend, that
is
a good day.”

“This will be a good one to hang up your fins after, Max. Any thoughts on the plan?” Kilkenny asked.

“A few. About six or seven years back, you and I did a stint with the Night Stalkers. Remember those funky ultralights they were toying around with—the BATs?”

Kilkenny clearly recalled one night flight in which the pilot from the Army's 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) did all he could to get his Navy passengers to lose their dinners. Gates repaid the pilot with a little unscheduled underwater cross training.

“Bitchin' Airborne Things?” Kilkenny mused, recalling the unofficial acronym. “Think we can use ‘em?”

“They've come a long way since the Mark One Mod Zeros we played with. Take a look at the latest iteration.”

Gates uploaded an animation that quickly appeared in a window on Kilkenny's screen. The new BAT sported an open, lozenge-shaped fuselage made with curved sections of piping and seated four occupants
in a two-by-two configuration. Like a helicopter, the fuselage rested on a pair of skids, but any resemblance between the two types of aircraft ended there. Tubular tendrils sprouted organically from a slender, three-foot-long turbine engine mounted atop the spine of the fuselage above the rear seats. The tendrils flowed seamlessly like arteries that could draw energy from the power plant. The most distinctive feature of the craft was its wings—a pair of fabric-clad armatures with visible ribs and scalloped along the trailing edge like its nocturnal namesake.

“Looks like something Tim Burton and H. R. Giger might have dreamed up,” Kilkenny opined.

“It ain't a fighter jet, but it sure flies like a sonofabitch. Can turn on a dime, hover, and do moves in the air that are almost unnatural. I figure with three of these, we can jump across the Mongolian border and reach the outskirts of Chifeng in just a few hours. That'll save us a couple days of transit heading in and out—time that I'd rather use on the ground eyeballin' that prison.”

“As I recall, BATs were just for short-range hops.”

“For the most part, they still are. This beast is totally electric now, powered by a fuel cell. Given the juice it takes to put one of 'em into the air, round-trip range is a couple hundred miles.”

“We're going a lot farther than that.”