Power and Empire

Ryan sat in a chair across the table and leaned back, thinking. “I don’t understand,” he said. “There are so many methods to stay under the financial radar. Cryptocurrencies, cutouts, middlemen, and offshore banking. Why would anyone conduct business this way if they wanted to hide it?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. President,” Dr. Miller said. “I wish I could tell you that my amazing photographic memory cracked this case for you, sir. To be honest, I might have done it a little more quickly than others could have, but any good forensic accountant would have found these connections once they knew where to look. If someone was trying to hide these transactions, they didn’t do a very good job of it.”

53

Dave Holloway, skipper of the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Research Vessel Meriwether, was a civilian now, but his time in the Navy had taught him to believe in the rule of threes.

Three bad events or circumstances, no matter how seemingly minor or unrelated, warranted a hard look at declaring a no-go.

Strike one: His crew was green. But for himself, the navigator, and the mechanic, the ten souls on board were scientists, not sailors. Only five had even minimal experience on blue water. Strike two: The maintenance records for the converted eighty-nine-foot fishing trawler left much to be desired. Oh, the boat ran, all right, and the logs showed no recent problems, but maintenance issues had a way of rearing their heads in the darkest parts of the sea. Strike three: His bosses at the Joint Functional Component Command for Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance were in too much of a hurry. There were times to rush, but launching a boat with a new crew and poor records was not one of those times. The guys at JFCC–ISR praised his seamanship, played up the talents of his crew and the beauty of the little boat. He’d returned their cajoling with Warren Buffett’s sentiment that “no matter how great the talent or efforts, some things just take time. You can’t produce a baby in one month by getting nine women pregnant.”

He wanted a month to assure himself that the boat and the crew were ready, but the folks at Anacostia gave him three days. They did not believe in the rule of threes.

At fifty-three, Holloway was a fourth-generation sailor, and as such, he knew how to follow orders. If the bosses said go, he noted his concerns in the log, and then gave a sharp “Aye, aye, sir” before going.

The typhoon worried him at first, but it had turned northward, leaving Holloway and his little boat to their duties of gathering signals intelligence from any PRC or DPRK subs plying the waters of the East China Sea. Masquerading as a fishing research vessel, Meriwether ran a zigzagging surveillance run out of Naha, heading for Taipei to refuel before making the return trip back to Okinawa.

It should have been a straightforward mission, but now the storm track had changed again.

“I don’t like the look of this,” his navigator, a nautical engineer named Rockie Bell, said, tapping the radar screen on the console at the helm. She was sharp, a graduate of the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, and one of the few real sailors on the boat.

“I know,” Holloway said. “Damn thing’s moving west again. We can duck into Keelung City on the north end of Taiwan if need be.” He nodded to the forecastle. “I’ll be out on deck a moment.”

Holloway left the pilothouse through the side door and made his way forward. Instruments were all well and good, but he preferred to look at the waves and sky for important information. He didn’t particularly like what he saw.

The muggy air was clear above, but a line of black clouds to the east made him clench his teeth. The sea was already heaping up and a stiff wind blew at least thirty knots, carrying with it the heavy smell of rain and ripping foam and spray off honest eight-foot waves.

Holloway turned to walk back inside, but a sudden jolt, like an earthquake rippling along the deck, nearly threw him off his feet. He looked through the pilothouse window at Rockie, who shrugged.

A rogue wave, maybe?

Holloway felt Meriwether shift under him as the stern swung around, broadside to the wind. They were slowing.

Stumbling back inside on the rolling deck, Holloway glared at his navigator. “What the hell just happened?”

“I’m trying to raise engineering now,” she said, microphone in hand. She tapped the instrument panel on the console. “Engine temperatures are through the roof.”

The fire klaxon sounded a half-second later, followed by the voice of Don Patton, the twenty-six-year-old ship’s mechanic, halting and breathless.

“Scavenge fire in the diesel… crankcase explosion,” Patton said.

“Steam it out,” Holloway ordered.

“I’ve done that, Skipper,” the mechanic said. “Fire’s under control.”

“Are you hurt?”

“A few burns,” Patton said. “But not as bad as the diesel.”

“How long until you can get her running again?” Holloway asked.