Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

Working on the fantail of the ship moving at full speed was not an easy task under the best of circumstances. Operating under blackout conditions with night vision goggles made it a surreal sight. The view was slightly distorted, and the sky was now lit by thousands of stars the naked eye could never spot, but the sea remained black and cold.

Despite the conditions, the crew operated smoothly and efficiently, with Paul stepping up to work the heavy crane himself.

The XO soon joined him. “The quick-release hooks have been set. Feel free to lift away. Also, per the specs, the Angler should be fine dropping into the water at this speed.”

“Expected nothing less,” Paul said, “considering Joe Zavala designed it.”

Joe was a top-notch engineer, he tended to overbuild, making things far stronger than they had to be. A fact that had saved NUMA crews on more than one occasion.

The crane came to life and the white-painted submersible with a broad red stripe across its back rose up off the deck. As the boom extended, Paul noticed a problem. “We’re going to get creative with the launch.”

“How so?”

Paul pointed toward the rail. “If you look over the side, you’ll see that the slipstream of the bow wave curls back toward the ship at our position. If we drop the Angler straight down, it might get caught in the slipstream and be slammed back into the side of our hull or even get swept into the propellers.”

Paul extended the crane to its maximum length and began to raise it up, increasing the angle to thirty degrees.

“I’m not sure that’s going to help,” the XO said. “The sub is up higher but also closer to the side of the hull.”

“Haven’t done much fly-fishing, have you?” Paul said.

“You’re not serious?”

Without answering, Paul retracted the boom a few feet and then extended it. The Angler swung in and then out, moving farther each time Paul manipulated the controls.

“I don’t know about this,” the XO said.

“Trust me,” Paul said, timing his motions perfectly.

He used a flashlight to signal one of the crewmen, who picked up a phone and called the bridge. Paul had already set up the plan with the captain. Upon receiving that call, Callahan would idle the props. They would reengage thirty seconds later. The reduction in speed would be almost unnoticeable. But with the props idled instead of spinning, a bulge of water would deflect off of them and out instead of being drawn through them.

A subtle change in the vibration told Paul the propellers had been feathered. The stern rode a little higher. The wake was smoother.

Paul pulled the controls back once more and the Angler swung toward them like a four-ton bob on a pendulum. The crane groaned, and the strain on the boom was noticeable, but it was designed to hold three times the weight.

Paul allowed one more arc and then, just as the Angler was swinging outward, he hit the release button. The cable disconnected with a sharp crack and the fish-shaped submersible flew outward, seeming weightless for a second, before dropping down.

It hit the water fifty feet from the ship’s hull. A baritone thud resonated and its impact drew up a tower of water that spread out and splashed down behind the ship.

As the spray fell and the impact zone disappeared behind the Catalina, the engine vibration picked up once again.

The First Officer was standing with his mouth open. “Very impressive. Crazy but impressive.”

Paul grinned. “It’s all in the wrist.”

By the time Paul had retracted the boom, the ship was turning east and the multimillion-dollar submersible they’d dumped out behind them was nowhere to be seen.

Twenty miles behind the Catalina, a figure stood on the top deck of a small vessel made up to look like a fishing trawler. Tall, for a Chinese woman, though no more than five foot six, her black hair fell straight to her shoulders and cut across them in a perfect horizontal line. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair, and the skintight clothing she wore made it easy to see the lean, muscular build of a distance runner. Her given name was Daiyu, which in Mandarin meant Black Jade. She was twenty-eight years old and already a skilled and experienced operative for the Ministry of State Security. She was also one of the “children that were never born.”

It was an awkward euphemism given to her and others who were victims—or perhaps beneficiaries—of China’s drastic stand on procreation. Amidst the fervor of the infamous “one child” policy, most couples who conceived second children were strongly encouraged, if not forced, to endure abortions. If they skirted the state rules and hid the pregnancy, punishments were harsh and lasting.

When officials in Guangdong discovered that Daiyu’s mother was pregnant for a second time, they initially insisted on the standard remedy: threatening prison for the deception if an abortion was not agreed to. Appeals for mercy fell on deaf ears until a mysterious man named Zhang arrived from Beijing carrying special paperwork and grantin

g them an exception at a very high price.

It was a mixed blessing. By signing the papers, Daiyu’s parents would be allowed to carry the birth to term, but only under the harshest condition imaginable: the child would be taken from the family at eighteen months and raised anonymously in a government orphanage.

With little choice, her mother and father had agreed to the terms. A year later—six months earlier than they’d agreed to—Zhang had returned to her village and taken Daiyu away.