Threat Vector

everyone down there in flight ops on USS Ronald Reagan wait.

“Power. You’re low,” the landing signals officer coached Trash in over the radio.

Trash had backed off the throttle too much. He goosed it forward again, which pushed his jet too high.

Too high meant he’d either catch the four-wire, the last wire on the deck, or he’d bolter, meaning he’d miss all four wires and roll down the deck. In the case of a bolter he’d fly right off the end, climb back into the soupy black sky, and reenter the landing pattern.

Too high would not be good, but it was a hell of a lot better than too low.

Too low, not catching the one wire but really too low, meant a ramp strike, which was carrier-ops speech for slamming into the back of the boat, killing yourself and sending your burning wreckage rolling across the deck in a fireball that would turn into a video to be used in carrier training curriculums as a bright and shining example of what not to do.

Trash didn’t want to bolter, but it sure as shit beat the alternative.

Trash was focused on the meatball now, the illuminated amber bulb in the center of the OLS that helped pilots maintain the proper approach angle down to the deck. As much as every human instinct told him to eye the deck itself as he approached it at one hundred fifty miles per hour, he knew he had to ignore his impact point and trust the meatball to bring him down safely. He was on the ball now, it was nice and centered in the middle of the OLS, indicating a good glide path, three-point-five degrees of descent, and he was just seconds from touching the deck. It looked like he was on his way to a safe three-wire, a nice landing considering the weather.

But just a few moments before his wheels and his tail hook touched down, the amber ball rose above the center horizontal green datum lights on the OLS.

The LSO said, “Easy with it.”

Trash quickly pulled back on the throttle, but the ball rose higher and higher.

“Shit,” Trash said between two heavy breaths. He came off the power even more.

“Power back on,” admonished the LSO.

It took Trash a moment to realize it, but that was only because he wasn’t a Navy pilot used to carrier landings. He had been lined up perfectly, but now the pitching deck was dropping away as the Ronald Reagan sank between massive ocean swells.

Trash’s wheels touched down on the deck, but he knew he was long. He shoved his throttle forward to the full power detent, and his speed shot up. He raced down the deck toward the impenetrable darkness ahead.

“Bolter! Bolter! Bolter!” called the LSO, confirming something Trash already knew.

In seconds he was back in the black sky, climbing over the sea, reentering the bolter/wave-off pattern with his plane as the sole aircraft.

If he could not land on this next pass, the air boss on the carrier, the officer in charge of all flight operations, would send him to gas up behind the F/A-18E that was circling around ahead and to the left of the bow of the Reagan.

Trash had a strong suspicion the pilot of the refueler didn’t want to be up here in this black soup any more than Trash did, and was probably wishing that a-hole Marine pilot would put his jet on the deck already so he could call it a night.

Trash concentrated on his instruments as he leveled out and began a series of turns that would put him back on final.

Five minutes later he was lined up on the carrier once more.

The LSO came over the radio, “Four-oh-eight, this is Paddles. The deck is pitching a bit. Concentrate on a good start and avoid overcontrolling in the middle.”

“Four-oh-eight, Hornet-ball, Five-point-one.” He watched the ball, it was just about the only damn thing he could see at this point, and he could tell he was high.

The LSO said, “Roger ball. High again. Work it down.”

“Roger.” Trash pulled back slightly on the throttle.

“You are high and lined up left,” called the LSO now. “Easy with it. Right for line up.”

Trash’s left hand twitched the power back again and he pushed the stick to the right.

He centered nicely on the deck ahead and below, but he was still too high.

He was moments away from another bolter.

But just then, as he crossed the threshold of the rear of the massive carrier, he saw the lights of the deck rising underneath him, he watched the deck push up into the black sky toward the bottom of his aircraft like it was on a hydraulic lift.

His tail hook caught the three-wire, and the arrester cable yanked him to a stop with the effect of bringing a loaded semi-trailer traveling at a hundred fifty miles an hour to a complete halt in under three seconds.

Trash jerked to a violent but welcome stop on the deck of the Ronald Reagan.

An instant later the air boss came over his headset. “Well, if you can’t come to the Reagan, the Reagan will come to you.”

Trash gave an exhausted chuckle. His landing would be scored; all carrier landings are scored. It would be judged fair, which was fine with him, but the air boss made it clear he knew that the only reason he’d not boltered again was that the boat had reached up and snatched him out of the sky.

But he was glad to be on the deck. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Welcome aboard, Marine.”

“Semper Fi, sir,” Trash said with a bit of false bravado. He took his gloved hands off the stick and throttle and held them up in front of his face. They shook a little, which did not surprise him in the slightest.

“I hate boats,” he said to himself.

THIRTY-FIVE

The office of SinoShield Business Investigative Services Ltd. was located on the thirty-third floor of IFC2, Two International Finance Centre, which, at eighty-eight stories, was the second-tallest building in Hong Kong, and the eighth-tallest office building in the world.

Gavin, Jack, and Domingo were dressed in high-dollar business suits, and they carried briefcases and leather folios; they fit in perfectly with the thousands of office workers and clients moving through the hallways of IFC2.

The three Americans checked in with the receptionist for the floor, and she called Mr. Yao and spoke to him briefly in Cantonese.

She then said, “He will be here right away. Won’t you sit down?”

They got the impression that several small companies shared the check-in desk, the receptionist, and all of the common areas here on the thirty-third floor.

After a few minutes a young handsome Asian man walked up the carpeted hallway into the common space. Unlike most Chinese businessmen, he was not wearing his suit coat. Instead his lavender dress shirt was somewhat wrinkled and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. As he closed on the three men in the waiting area, he ran his hands over his shirt and straightened his tie.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the man said with a tired smile and an extended hand. He possessed no hint of any accent, save perhaps a touch of southern California. “Adam Yao, at your service.”

Chavez shook his hand. “Domingo Chavez, director of corporate security.”

“Mr. Chavez,” Yao replied politely.

Both Jack and Ding recognized immediately that this kid was probably a great intelligence officer, and likely a hell of a poker player. Every last member of CIA’s Clandestine Service would know the name Domingo Chavez in a heartbeat, and they would also know the man would be in his middle to late forties. The fact that Yao did not bat an eyelash and let on that he recognized a CIA legend was a testament to his good tradecraft skills.

“Jack Ryan, associate financial analyst,” Jack said as the two men shook hands.

This time, Adam Yao did show genuine surprise.

“Whoa,” he said with a bright smile. “Jack Junior. All I knew about Hendley Associates was that Senator Hendley was running the show. I didn’t know you were—”