36
West Philippine Sea
November 1, 8:00 a.m. CST
“I now take you prisoner,” George said.
He plucked my black stone off the board.
I scowled and George laughed. “Don’t feel bad. The game of Go is subtle and complex.”
“Like chess.”
“Only more so.” He dropped the stone in a round wooden bowl along with the other prisoners he’d captured from me. “Both games approximate the strategy of war. But Go has far more potential moves than chess. A popular saying is that there are more possible moves in Go than the number of atoms in the observable universe. While not mathematically precise, the comparison does offer a sense of Go’s complexity.”
“In that case”—I raised my hands, palms out—“I give up.”
But George turned serious. “Giving up isn’t an option. Failure, perhaps. But not surrender.”
George and I were sitting at a table on Red Dragon ’s forward observation deck. Lukas prowled nearby, scanning the horizon for our accompaniment of Chinese Navy vessels—whether or not the CCP was worried their prized asset might be kidnapped, we had an escort, just as Connor had predicted. The day was balmy, the seas calm, the ocean a bright mirror of the sky. Red Dragon motored in near silence. A breeze ruffled the tablecloth and rippled the waters of the infinity pool. The chief stewardess, a brisk and efficient Singaporean, had come through fifteen minutes earlier, bringing a fresh pot of coffee, croissants, and straightening already perfectly arranged pillows and cushions.
We were three days out from Shanghai, traversing far east of Taiwan and into the West Philippine Sea on our slow and roundabout way to the marine sanctuary at Apo Island. During the last two days, I’d found some of the tranquility I attained only at sea. Here, if I ignored our just-over-the-horizon escort, there was only water and sky and a perfect stillness that eased my heart. On the ocean I could imagine Cass still alive, as if the last few months hadn’t happened. I could imagine reconciling with my uncle. Even that Guy might seek treatment. I could imagine a future.
In my nightmares I saw Emily Tan. Frightened. Hurt. Dying. Men struggle for power, and civilians and innocents pay the price. Emily had betrayed Cass and George to protect her family, and it had come to naught. Her death haunted me.
I saw Connor only at mealtimes, which we took with George and the captain. At all other times he stayed busy in his room or on the bridge with Captain Peng. George had spent the first two days either pacing the length of the boat or disappearing for hours—he said he was tinkering in his lab, but on the occasions when I peeked in, the pristine laboratory rang with emptiness. I presumed he was with his family. The thought that crew members would grow overly curious about their reclusive yacht owner was one of the dark threads ruining my peace.
I wasn’t entirely sure where Li-Mei and the children spent most of their time. Perhaps only in the secret room and—when they could be sure not to be interrupted—in the master suite. But I suspected Cass had intended for there to be more than one secret room, and I had theories about that extra black-water tank I’d noticed on her floor plans. Spacious, tied into a supposed purification system that could instead be bringing in water and air, it would make an ideal hiding place for the family to sleep without risk of being spotted by a crew member. During the day, they would be able to steal up those secret stairs I’d glimpsed to George’s stateroom with little risk of being seen. How George and Li-Mei were managing to keep two young children confined on a yacht that surely begged for exploration was another worry. I half expected Yú Míng or her brother, Baihu, to pop up behind the buffet table to snatch doughnuts from a silver tray.
On this third morning, George seemed more settled. Perhaps his family was getting used to life in hiding. He’d brought out his game of Go—the wooden board and bowls were sculpted works of art—and offered to teach me.
I broke off a bite of croissant and eyed a board dominated by white stones. “Did you and Cass play?”
“She was too impatient.”
“What about an AI? Can your RenAI beat a human?”
“Excellent question.” He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen. On the napkin he jotted down the longest number I’d ever seen written out:
208,168,199,381,979,984,699,478,633,344,862,770,286,522,453,884,530,425,639,456,820,927,419,612,738,015,378,525,648,451,698,519,643,907,259,916,015,628,128,546,089,888,314,427,129,715,319,317,557,7,620,397,247,064,840,935
“That is the number of possible moves in Go,” he said, pinning the napkin under the sugar bowl. “Because of this, the game was called the holy grail of AI.” He placed a white stone on the board. “When Google’s AlphaGo beat the world’s Go champion in 2016, ten years before we thought a computer could do so, it was a watershed moment. Now beating a human at Go is nothing for an AI like Ren. A newer goal is for AIs to gain superhuman skills in situations like poker, where the play involves something called ‘imperfect information.’ That is, a player doesn’t know what cards remain in the dealer’s deck or are held by the other players.”
“Imperfect information. As in war and espionage.”
“Correct.” George nodded. “This is what disturbs my sleep. AIs trained on imperfect information will provide great strategic advantages to whoever controls them. Which is why the US and China are in an AI race. The winner of this race will have the edge in war, in politics, in economics.” His look grew pensive. “My fear is that as AIs grow more sophisticated, humans will cede more control to the machines. It isn’t an exaggeration to say our humanity is at risk.”
“Will it be a war, then? Man versus the machines?”
“Maybe. I believe the potential is there, and we’re getting closer by the day. Who knows what kind of world will exist when my children are grown.”
“Are they interested in AI?”
He smiled. “Right now, it’s more about Go and chess. And Pokémon, now that the government allows it.”
I filled George’s coffee cup from the urn. “Why did you name your AI Ren?”
“Ren is a central Confucian virtue. It means ‘humanness.’”
“That’s ironic.”
“Perhaps. But I have high hopes for Ren. That it—or she, as I think of her—will blend the best of humanity and technology. That she will outgrow her technical confines and truly integrate human virtues such as compassion and justice.”
“You’re talking about Ren becoming sentient. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It’s why we’re smuggling her out of China.”
“You trust the Americans?”
“I trust a more open society.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled at me, his expression transforming from melancholy to boyish. “These are dark thoughts for a beautiful day. Back to our game. We’ll try again.”
Compartmentalization. It’s how we manage our sorrows.
George swept the black and white stones into their respective bowls. “To be successful at Go, you must think in grand terms and be ready to sacrifice territory for your own greater good. Remain agile and keep your thinking fluid.”
I poured more coffee for myself. “Perhaps it’s a bit like designing a yacht. You start with an objective, but there are a thousand ways to get there.”
“Or a quinquagintillion.” He tapped the cocktail napkin where the sugar bowl held it from the wind.
Connor opened the sliding glass doors and joined us at the table. His expression was grim.
“We need to talk,” he said.
I nudged back a chair and offered him coffee. He nodded his thanks, but I’m not sure the coffee registered. He had a distant look in his eyes and a darkness.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not here.”
He turned and, leaving the coffee on the table, led the way inside.
We settled in what we unofficially called the war room: a windowless office in the center of the boat, featuring a table, six chairs, a coffee bar, and disconnected computers and routers. The room’s official purpose was a business center for guests.
Connor’s team swept the room every hour. We’d known from the start of the sea trials that at least one crew member was on the payroll of either the Second Department or Guóānbù, including the first officer. So far no secret communications had been intercepted. And I, in my job of maintaining normalcy while checking in with the crew, had seen nothing suspicious. But we could never let our guard down.
George and I sat.
Connor remained standing. He said, “Yesterday and this morning I received coded cables from our asset in Lijiang.”
“Trouble?” George asked.
“Potentially.”
“What is Lijiang?” I asked.
George glanced at me. “A village in southwest China where my family has a vacation home in the countryside. Once we started building Red Dragon , Li-Mei began taking the children there for weeks at a time, on the pretense that she was tired of city life. We arranged for them to appear to leave for Lijiang shortly before Red Dragon docked. Party authorities and the local police are operating under the delusion that the family is there now. I’ve put systems in place to make the home look occupied. It buys us time.”
“What kind of systems?” I asked.
George glanced at Connor, who nodded. George rested his hands on the arms of the chair and swiveled toward me.
“Weeks ago, I launched Ren into every element of my home. Lights, appliances, motorized blinds, sound systems, the television. Ren is checking my security cameras and motion sensors. She arranges for visits from the gardener, food-delivery services, a housekeeper. Ren also posts on social media, pretending to be my children. She can even handle short phone calls using voice skins. Phone records, utilities, social media, even the laundry and dirty dishes Li-Mei left behind—all of it suggests a family of three living in our home. Ren will continue this charade for two weeks before she self-destructs. I had hoped in this way to give us at least a week before anyone noticed something unusual. But Ren can’t conceal our absence if someone has eyes on the place for more than a few days.”
He turned back to Connor. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing, yet,” Connor said. “But my asset noticed a man sitting in a car parked down the road from your home. He’s there off and on. Sometimes he stays in the car. Other times he walks around nearby properties. We know Charlie Han is in Lijiang, and we suspect he’s the one watching the house.”
“Han knows about the hidden room. If his goal is to expose George’s family at sea, why is he wasting time watching the house?”
“Because he must be very careful and very sure,” George answered. “Especially with the navy watching Red Dragon . If he were to attempt to board and accuse me falsely, especially in front of military authorities, it could destroy him. Plus, Connor’s assets did a tremendous job concealing my family’s approach to the boat and making it look as if they’d gone to Lijiang. We’ve likely fooled Han for now.” He ran a finger along a line in the table’s wood grain. “Ren hasn’t reported anyone approaching the house.”
Connor checked his watch. “Han is too experienced to blunder up to your home until he’s confident he has good reason. He’ll be careful to stay out of sight of any cameras. My asset also spotted him talking to your gardener. We couldn’t pick up their conversation, but I suspect Han was asking him if he’d seen your family.”
George frowned and continued to trace the whorl of lines in the table. “I’d hoped it would take longer for our sham to be discovered.”
“For the moment, we’re still safe. We’ll arrive at Apo Island tomorrow afternoon around four p.m. and proceed as planned.”
“That means the ruse has to hold for another forty-two hours,” George said.
Connor knuckled his hands. “If Han departs Lijiang, my asset will notify me. We’ll have at least four hours before he can arrive in the Philippines, assuming he uses a military jet. If he flies commercial, we’re looking at six to ten hours. The good news is that what we’ve scooped up in SIGINT suggests Han doesn’t have much backing from his bosses, which means he won’t be permitted to come with any real force. They, too, are afraid of colliding with the Second Department. China’s general secretary trusts the military more than his foreign intelligence service.”
I’d been doodling dark marks on a pad of paper while I listened. Forty-two hours from now meant that in two mornings, at 2:00 a.m., something was going down.
“It’s probably time to tell me what happens at Apo Island,” I said.
“I was just getting to that.” Connor braced a foot on the tabletop and leaned in. “At two a.m. tomorrow night, the US Navy will begin what’s known as a freedom of navigation operation near the Spratly Islands, which are owned by the Philippines and unlawfully claimed by China. A US destroyer and an escort of half a dozen ships will exercise their right to make an innocent passage consistent with international law. The ships will travel within twelve nautical miles of four islands—Petley Reef, Sand Cay, Loaita Island, and Itu Aba Island—before exiting the excessive claim area and continuing normal operations in the South China Sea. The maneuver is a bit of a thumb of the nose at the People’s Republic of China. But perfectly legal in any court of law outside China.”
I cupped my chin in my hands. “You are hoping to entice our escort away.”
“That’s right,” Connor said. “Bringing the US Navy to the Spratlys is like waving a red cape at a bull. It will be almost impossible for them to resist. The party views all military maneuvers inside their territorial claims—their so-called nine-dash line—as a potential threat to their sovereignty.”
“Doesn’t moving US ships into that area risk escalation?”
Connor shook his head. “It’s not the first time US ships have traveled in that area to prove the right of innocent passage. And it won’t be the last. The Chinese grumble, but they know they don’t have a legal standing. And they aren’t ready for war.”
“The good news is that, according to 86.3 percent of the simulations we’ve run on RenAI,” George said, “every Chinese Navy vessel will abandon Red Dragon and head to the Spratlys.”
“This is what you meant earlier about imperfect information. We can’t possibly know what cards the Chinese are carrying or will play.”
George splayed his hands on the table. “That’s true. Ren can only calculate likely scenarios based on the current geopolitical and diplomatic situation as well as where US and Chinese Navy vessels are located. We do know that the Chinese will want a show of force, which suggests they’ll probably leave only a few fishing boats to keep an eye on us. We’ll have to watch for Chinese planes and drones, but this will buy us time before China realizes they’ve been fooled and races back to Red Dragon .”
“Buy us time for what?” I asked, then said, “Wait.” Understanding dawned almost before the words had left my mouth. “The Triton submersible. You ran a full systems check two days ago. That was to make sure the sub hadn’t been tampered with while we were in Shanghai, right? The sub is how your family will escape.”
George gave me a thumbs-up.
“When we’re sure our escort is safely away,” Connor continued, “a US Navy LCS—a littoral combat ship—will begin conducting reconnaissance patrols near Apo Island at the request of the Philippine government. We’ll sound the alarm to get most of the crew into the citadel. George and his family will use the submersible to reach the LCS, which will get them away before the sub’s launch has been detected by the militiamen on the fishing boats.”
“And what about any spies on board Red Dragon ? Won’t they report that the submersible has launched?”
“We’ll have another meeting to go over our hour-by-hour tasks leading up to the operation. But to answer your question, we’re still on sea trials,” Connor said. “We’ll be conducting a safety drill. All crew is to report to the safe room. Anyone caught outside the room without explicit permission will be disciplined by the captain and confined to quarters. My men and those among the crew whom we know can be trusted will be placed at key points. The bridge, engineering, the crew and common areas. The submersible’s garage.”
I turned to George. He appeared resolved. Even calm.
“How does it feel to be the face that launched a thousand ships?” I asked.
George’s lips crooked. “I’m not Helen of Troy. Ren is.”
I dipped my head in acknowledgment but said nothing. My mind was running through timelines and ocean depths and the weather. I scribbled on the notepad.
George pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stared blindly at them, and returned them to his shirt pocket. “I’ll have Ren post on WeChat as my son, saying that his sister has COVID. Ren will arrange for a pharmaceutical delivery of masks, COVID tests, a thermometer. Perhaps that will get Charlie Han to back off.”
“Perfect,” Connor said. “Illness will explain why no one has seen the family.”
I paused my calculations. “Won’t Han notice deliveries piling up if there’s no human to take them inside?”
“Ren gives instructions for the items to be left in the garage. She then sends a robot to sweep them into a storage area at the back.”
“Clever.” I swiveled restlessly in my chair. “Have the two of you looked at the extended weather forecast?”
“Typhoon Kiko,” Connor said. “We’re aware.”
“Then you know that if Kiko turns northwest, which typhoons tend to do in this area, it will bear down on the Philippines.” I recalled data I’d studied years ago, when Ocean House had subcontracted George’s submersible. “You can’t safely operate a submersible in a typhoon. And you can’t ride it out below, not in the shallow waters around Apo. Kiko will generate turbulence well below the surface and change the ocean currents. Which means—”
“Potentially destructive vibrations operating against the hull,” George said. “Not to mention reduced visibility due to silt and the risk of large objects getting kicked up that could damage the hull or the propulsion system.”
“Right,” I said. “It would also be dangerous to leave the submersible and attempt to board the littoral vessel. We either get your family off Red Dragon before the storm or wait it out and try when the weather clears.”
“We can’t risk moving the family until we’ve gotten rid of our escort,” Connor said. “That’s still more than thirty hours away. Longer, if the typhoon delays our navy. If the Chinese detect the submersible before then, they’ll intercept it.”
“On the other hand,” George added, “if we wait until after the storm, Han and the Guóānbù will have figured out Li-Mei and the children aren’t in Lijiang. They’ll come after us.”
I stood. “We have a typhoon. The possible arrival of Charlie Han. We don’t know if the Chinese will zip off to the Spratlys. We risk a change of heart from the commander of the US Navy Pacific fleet or, if we’re really lucky, from the president of the United States, should he decide this is too diplomatically risky. Does that about cover it?”
“Game strategy,” George said. “If it were easy, anyone could do it.”
“I hope you have a plan B.” I put my hand on the door. “I’ve never been much of a gambler. Not when people’s lives are at stake.”