China Dolls (eBook)

4

DRESS WHITES

A pale sun rose and shimmered on the horizon. A thin line of stratocumulus clouds faded into the distance as the weather front moved on. White foam curled away from the bow of the U.S.S. Carl Vinson as she cut through the South China seas.

The consensus among the officer group of Carrier Strike Group 1 was mild surprise.

“Basically, it’s an invitation from the People’s Republic of China.”

“Yeah, quote, ‘a sign of the sound relationship between the two countries and the warm accord between our militaries and our nations.’”

“Since when?” The skepticism hung thick in the air. Nevertheless, hours later four ships of the carrier group made port in Hong Kong harbor.

Before today, the prettiest girl in town had been the Lucky Lady. This was a gleaming white, 460-foot luxury yacht outfitted by Pierre Jean design in Paris, settled now at a Hong Kong pier. Lucky Lady was a knife blade in the water, a knife blade wrapped in glass-reinforced plastic. She did 26 knots with a range of 5,000 nautical miles. She was built on the body of the British Navy frigate Endeavor, and rumor said Lucky Lady carried armaments that made her just as formidable as her forebear. She was owned by Zhang Enterprises, a firm that knew better than most that celebrity was an evanescent commodity.

Judging from the press and the crowds on hand today, everyone now wanted to gawk at the harbor’s new debutante—the Vinson—all 1,092 feet of her. The four-and-a-half acre deck bristled with fighter jets and helicopters. As she passed by, she literally threw the Lucky Lady into shadows. The Vinson was nothing if not an exercise in potency. True, Sea Sparrow missile launchers, 20 mm. phalanx guns, rolling airframe missile systems, and roughly 7,000 seamen from the carrier group all were standing down for the moment. But how long is a moment?

Those of the Vinson’s crew with shore leave were all excited but still intent on minding their p’s and q’s. They bantered—carefully—with news media reps standing on their toes and sputtering questions.

“That Bin Laden thing that made us notorious—and his burial at sea—we can’t talk about that,” said one sailor to a reporter.

Another chuckled, “Sure, the bigwigs have a party tonight. But, honestly, I’d rather be me for the next 48 hours.”

The United States consulate general had organized a cocktail reception. Security was tight all around Fenwick pier. Guests would be given a ship tour and entertained in the best Navy tradition. Consulate spokesmen said the guest list could not be disclosed publicly for security reasons but added it was “a cross section of people from Hong Kong, including officers of the People’s Liberation Army.”

“Look who’s coming to dinner,” cracked the first mate, scanning the list.

His executive officer, Brian Partridge, thoughtfully tapped a pencil on his desk. Partridge had a crop of close-cut gray hair that sat like steel wool above lined forehead and penetrating blue eyes. “Captain wants those guests to be met by our best and brightest,” he said. “Don’t look at this like it’s your high school prom. We need people who can make nice, but more important we need people who can listen for detail . . . something dropped carelessly in a conversation that might be meaningful. This is still the Navy, and this is priority stuff. Put some of our China Team on it. And make sure, like the Captain says, that they’re our best and brightest.”

When the news was delivered to Cody Cochrane, she was not happy. The Navy had helped with her education. That was for sure. But the Navy didn’t seem eager to help her put it to use. She had been looking forward to seeing Hong Kong—not only for the tourist delights like taking the tram up to Victoria Peak or wolfing her way through the dim sum restaurants, but because, as an academic who was interested in ethno-feminist research, she would be able to search for references to the vanished boat people of Hong Kong. Seventy years ago, crowded sampans were thick in Hong Kong harbors, lying bow to stern like so many logs backed up at a lumber mill sluice. The matriarchal clans that lived on the sampans were some of the last indigenous people in what had rapidly become a city dominated by expats—British, Indian, Malay, Vietnamese, and, lastly, mainland Chinese.

She put her sunglasses back in the drawer and sighed. “Really,” she said to herself, “It’s all Navy, all the time.” She pulled her soft brown hair back into a bun. It was part of dropping back into the hyper-professional world of government intelligence.

Her stint with the Vinson was a long way from her days as a PhD candidate at NYU. Back then she dashed off a vitae statement with confidence. It read, “Constance ‘Cody’ Cochrane is a Ph.D. candidate in International Relations with an emphasis on Asian Culture and Rhetoric. She received her BA in Asian languages from Hampton University in Hampton Virginia, and an MA in economics from Penn State University. Her scholarly interests include ethnic rhetorics, feminist history, political theory, cultural studies.”

She knew who she was then. Who was she now? According to OPNAV Instruction 5300.12 from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, she was “part of a cadre of officers, enlisted, and civilian professionals who possess extensive skills in information-intensive fields. This corps of professionals will receive extensive training, education, and work experience in information, intelligence, counterintelligence, human-derived information networks, and oceanographic disciplines. This corps will develop and deliver dominant information capabilities in support of U.S. Navy, Joint and National Warfighting Requirements.”

Was she still competing with her older sister, she wondered? It had been hard to escape the shadow of someone who seemed perpetually taller, faster, stronger. Her older sister was someone who seemed always to know the answers to problems Cody was confronting for the first time. Her sister had achieved, as a doctor, a conventional kind of success. But it had taken a toll. Her sister had grown more distant as an adult, less willing to share confidences. Her natural reserve had stiffened as the mortality rates in her pediatric oncology unit rose. It seemed that their sisterly relationship also had been one of the victims.

At 1800 hours there was a knock at her door.

“Ms. Cochrane?” The man saluted. “Good evening. I’m Lieutenant James Purdy. I’m to be your escort for tonight’s affair.” Evidently he wasn’t comfortable with that phrasing. He dropped his Annapolis formality and cracked a boyish smile. “I guess we’re to work as a team.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I don’t need a bodyguard.” Cochrane gave him an appraising glance: six-one, 180 pounds, tan, with lines around the eyes that said he had seen things, maybe done things, that most men had not.

“No. It’s not that,” he said. “I’m with the China Team, too.”

This time he didn’t salute. He extended his hand.

Still wary, Cochrane took it in hers and felt the rough, strong clasp. “Very pleased to meet you, Purdy. But if you’re not a bodyguard. . . .” She offered a small, tart smile, “What exactly do you bring to the party?”

“Oh,” he shrugged. “I’m interested in Chinese political and military development—technology, mostly.”

“This should be interesting,” she said. It was the consummate noncommittal response. “Trust the Navy to arrange a blind date.”

As Cochrane and Purdy approached the designated reception area, the buzz of cocktail chatter lifted a full two decibels at least.

“Must be bouncing off the steel walls,” Cochrane said.

Those thoughts were gone, however, literally in the blink of an eye. Cochrane found herself suddenly struggling to see in the rich, refined twilight of a room gone from carrier gray to white, gold, and red. Here and there, as if some interior decorator were playing with the nuances of Feng shui, the room was lit with candles. Meanwhile, a strobe light froze moments of time at the champagne fountain. The bubbly seemed to leap in the air briefly, clearly, and then freeze in a gallant swoosh upward, a graceful stroke downward, and an artful dash.

“Like Chinese calligraphy,” Cochrane smiled to herself.

Two massive lions cut from blocks of ice towered over tiers of canapés and cascades of flowers as if they were guardians at a temple gate.

Cochrane squeezed Purdy’s arm. “Is there nothing the Navy cannot do?”

“Just another day on the U.S.S. Vinson,” he deadpanned.

They mingled, nodding and smiling to guests. Conversation bubbled around the familiar and the ordinary.

“Welcome aboard.”

“Well, welcome to China . . . and to Hong Kong.”

“Your ship is so big . . . so impressive.”

“The same could be said of your city’s skyline.”

They did the social waltz around the island of hors oeuvres, bibbed with brilliant white napery. Each of them glanced at the edible artwork on display.

“Hungry?” Purdy asked.

“Well, not so much hungry as curious. Everything looks so good . . . and so exotic. What do you suppose those things are that look like little red bullets?”

“Hmm . . . basil...