Red Tide, стр. 25
***
After being relieved, Lieutenant Junior Grade Jev Jing made his way to officer country, and his shared cabin. The door opened easily and there was Political Officer Bohai Ang. “Aha!” Ang said. “Where have you been hiding?”
That was when Jing saw that his locker was hanging open and his belongings were scattered on the deck. The sight filled him with dread. Ang had sent and received half a dozen encrypted messages earlier in the watch. Had he discovered the keylogger? And the bank transfer? That seemed likely. “I was on duty, sir. I just got off.”
“I will check on that,” Ang growled. “Give me the password for your computer. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” Jing said, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing incriminating on his laptop. That stuff was on a password protected thumb drive, hidden behind the ventilator grill, in Stall 2 of the junior officers’ head.
Jing wrote his password on a scrap of paper and handed it over. Ang snatched it out of the junior officer’s hand, tucked the laptop under his right arm, and left.
Unfortunately, Jing hadn’t had time to page through Ang’s secret messages. But now, Jing told himself, you’d better make time.
***
Aboard the Allied transport Agger, in Manado Harbor, Indonesia
Ryson was somewhere, running from something, when the phone next to his bed began to ring. He reached for the sound and found the receiver. “Yes?”
“This is Warrant Riley. The Admiral’s steward would like to know if there’s anything you do or don’t want for breakfast.”
Ryson looked at the clock. Shit! It was 0713 and he was due to meet with Nathan at 0800. “Coffee please,” Ryson croaked. “And crispy bacon if you have it. Thank you for asking.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Riley replied.
Ryson swore as he put the phone down. What an idiot. He’d gone to bed without setting the alarm. What followed was a rush to shower, shave, and prep a summer uniform. Perhaps Admiral Nathan was a camo kind of guy. But maybe he wasn’t. And, as his grandfather had taught him, “It’s always better to be overdressed, rather than underdressed.”
In keeping with his rank Nathan was quartered in what had been called the “Penthouse Verandah Suite” prior to the war. It sat atop all the rest, with sweeping views of the harbor. An Australian Navy petty officer was there to receive Ryson and show him into a beautifully appointed cabin complete with sitting area and separate bedroom. “Breakfast will be served on the verandah,” a civilian steward said. “Please follow me.”
Ryson followed the steward out onto a sun splashed verandah where a white clad officer and a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair were sitting. “Good morning,” Nathan said, as he stood. “I’m Admiral Nathan and this is Special Envoy Kelsey Parker. She’s an expert on interisland shipping and works for our State Department.”
Nathan had a ruggedly handsome face, a slightly sunburned complexion, and a steely grip. Parker’s handshake was firm and cool. Her eyes were green and filled with what? Intelligence? Curiosity? Yes. And something else that Ryson couldn’t quite put a finger on. Calculation? Perhaps.
“Please,” Nathan said. “Have a seat. Your coffee is waiting. A whole pot of it! I’m a tea man myself. How was the trip? No, no need to answer … It was horrible. How could it be otherwise? Let’s dig in. We’ll talk business once our stomachs are full.”
As it turned out that was typical of Nathan. He had a tendency to ask questions and answer them himself. That would have been disconcerting but Ryson preferred it to the squinty-eyed interrogation he’d been expecting. And it seemed that Parker shared his opinion. She even went so far as to wink at him when Nathan asked her a question about Indonesian shipping and proceeded to tell her the answer.
“And so,” Nathan said as he put his fork aside, and allowed the steward to pour him another cup of tea. “Enough chatter. Let’s discuss the so-what of the situation.
“The Chinese have a new weapon. A semi-submersible cruiser armed with a railgun and hundreds of missiles. And, according to our intelligence blokes it was this cruiser, the Sea Dragon, that sank the Concord, not the carrier Henan. Even though the enemy’s propaganda machine claims otherwise.
“It isn’t clear whether the Chinese elites are trying to downplay the Sea Dragon’s capabilities, or are so focused on the mechanics of traditional sea power, that they don’t grasp how truly revolutionary the cruiser is.
“Not that it matters,” Nathan added, as he took a sip of tea. “What is, is. So, all of us are looking for the Sea Dragon, and with no luck thus far. She’s a stealthy bitch, with a lot of ocean to hide in. Perhaps they’ll spot her from space. Or a spy will deliver the goods. Or maybe Squadron 7 will hunt her down! And that, Commander Ryson, will be your primary task.
“But there are pirates to deal with, smugglers, and all sorts of other riff raff. Not to mention merchant ships to protect. Many belonging to Kelsey’s father. Isn’t that right, Honey?”
Suddenly Ryson understood. Nathan was a friend of Parker’s father who, as a shipping magnate, might be a political force. That matched what Master Chief Jensen had told him.
So, was something corrupt afoot? Or was it more a matter of common interests? The navy was supposed to protect Allied shipping. And if people knew each other, so what?
Parker’s eyes narrowed. Ryson had the feeling that she didn’t like Nathan’s use of the endearment “Honey.” “The admiral is correct,” Parker said. “My father’s company, our company, specializes in interisland shipping. Most of our vessels are only 200 to 300 feet long. Just right for small ports like this one. And they make tempting targets as well.
“But that isn’t why I’m here,” Parker added. “We