“Everyone dies, too,” Callie said acidly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready. I have a lot of good years left in me. I’m not going to be robbed of life by some hoodlum, not if I can do anything to prevent it.”
“That’s the rub,” Wu said softly. “Preventing it.”
The Luda-class destroyer, Number 109, came steaming west through Victoria Strait between the island of Hong Kong and the Kowloon peninsula. She had been ordered by the commanding officer of the naval base to sortie immediately and shell the rebels in the Bank of the Orient square, pursuant to the orders of Governor Sun.
Lieutenant Tan was the officer of the deck when the order was received, and he protested. The commanding officer was not aboard, the ship was not ready for sea. His protests fell on deaf ears. “Sail with the men you have aboard and shell the rebels as ordered,” the base commander said.
Of course, the base commander was having his own troubles. A riot had broken out in the enlisted mess hall, probably instigated by the rebels. The officers who attempted to turn off the base television system had been met with sticks and garbage pail lids. The rioting sailors were making threats against the officers’ lives.
Actually two destroyers had sailed, but Number 105 had gone dead in the water with an engine room casualty before it cleared the base breakwater. Sabotage, Lieutenant Tan suspected, but he didn’t say so with the quartermaster and helmsmen within earshot. These two were surly, doing their duty with the minimum acceptable professional courtesy. No doubt they sympathized with their rioting mates and perhaps with the rebels in the bank square.
Number 109 steamed on alone.
Lieutenant Tan began thinking about the professional problem he faced. The gun to use for surface bombardment was the twin 130-millimeter dual-purpose mount on the bow. There was a similar mount on the stern, but it was out of service for some critical parts.
The bow gun would do very well. Unfortunately in this ship the Sun Visor fire control radar that was designed for this gun was never mounted, so the gun had to be aimed visually. The gun had an effective range of eight or nine miles; that was no problem. In fact, the ship was within maximum gun range now.
The problem, Lieutenant Tan told himself as he stared at the chart of Hong Kong on the navigator’s table, was going to be putting the shells into the square. He was going to have to lob them in with the gun elevated to a high angle. Maximum elevation angle was eighty-two degrees.
If he missed the square and started scattering 130-millimeter, 33.5-kilogram high-explosive shells around the downtown, there would be hell to pay later. Regardless of what they said now, the governor and base commander would want pieces of his hide then.
Of course the designated gunnery officer was not aboard. Lieutenant Tan was the only officer qualified to lay the gun, and he also had to con the ship.
He was so nervous his hands shook. He laid the chart on the table so it wouldn’t rattle and consulted the range and elevation charts for the gun. Shooting at a hidden urban target was going to be a challenge, perhaps an impossible one.
He put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the buildings in the Central District. The ship was about five miles from the downtown, he estimated. Needless to say, the buildings did not appear on his chart of the area’s waters. If he could remember which buildings were which …
He asked the helmsman for the speed.
“Eight knots, sir.”
He was studying the chart, measuring, when he heard the lookout.
“Bogey on the starboard bow.”
What?
“Jet airplane, sir, looks like he’s lining us up for a low pass.”
Lieutenant Tan looked.
A fighter, two of them. They were completing the turn to pass the length of the ship, bow to stern. Dropping down, one trailing the other, not going too quickly, maybe three hundred knots …
Suddenly he knew. “Air attack!” he screamed. “Open fire!”
Flashes on the wing root of the lead fighter … the water in front of the ship erupted. Quick as thought, the shells began pounding the ship, cutting, smashing.
The glass in the bridge windows shattered, the helmsman went down, shrapnel and metal flew everywhere.
The attack ended in a thunderous roar as the jet pulled out right over the ship, and the next fighter began shooting.
Screaming … someone was screaming amid the hammering of the cannon shells …
Fire! Smoke and flame.
When the shooting stopped, Lieutenant Tan tried to stand. The ship was turning to port, out of the channel. The helmsman was lying on the deck, his head gone. Tan spun the helm to center the rudder, bring the ship back under control.
“Arm the see-whiz,” he shouted, meaning the CIWS, the close-in weapons system that the Chinese navy had purchased from the Americans.
Behind him he heard the talker repeat the order. The talker was huddled on the floor, bleeding badly from a wound that Tan couldn’t see.
Tan looked aft. Something was burning, putting out smoke. He rang for full speed on the engine telegraph, a bell that was answered. The ship seemed to accelerate noticeably as the gas turbine engines responded.
The jets were on a downwind leg, high out to the right over Kowloon.
“Forward turret, fire at will at the enemy planes,” Tan ordered. “CIWS on automatic fire.”
This time as the planes dove, the ship was going faster, perhaps twelve knots. The forward turret opened fire unexpectedly. Of course the gun crew was shooting visually, using an artillery piece to shoot at a fly, but the noise and concussion helped steady Tan. He huddled down behind the helm station as the fighter’s cannon shells slammed into the base of the mast and bridge area.
The noise had become beyond human endurance—the twin 130-millimeter mount was hammering off a shell every two seconds. There was a pause as the first jet roared overhead, then the gun began again. Despite that racket Tan clearly heard the chain-saw roar of the 20-millimeter Gatling gun of the Phalanx close-in weapons system when it lit off, spitting out fifty tungsten bullets per second.
Then, suddenly, the guns fell silent. Only the roar of a jet engine changing pitch, then nothing. Tan rushed to the side of the bridge in time to see a man ejecting from a stricken fighter. Then the fighter rolled inverted and dove into the choppy water of the strait.
Pulling out, climbing away after his second strafing run, Major Ma Chao also saw his wingman eject and the plane go into the water.
The destroyer was on fire, smoking badly from the area behind the bridge.
The crew would probably forget about the mission to shell the square as they fought to save the ship.
That was enough.
Ma Chao’s commanding officer had a bullet hole in a lung, and one of the squadron’s planes had been shot down—status of the pilot unknown.
And so we begin.
“A good beginning.” Rip Buckingham used those words as the title for the story he wrote for the Buckingham newspapers. He told the story as completely as he could, leaving out the Sergeant York robots, concluding with the surrender of General Moon Hok in the bank square. When the story was finished he printed it out, then went to his den. He had an antique cabinet in one corner, one that he hinted to the maid contained liquor, which was why he kept it locked.
Inside the cabinet was a shortwave radio, an unlicensed ham set, the existence of which was unknown to the Chinese authorities.
Rip plugged the radio into a wall socket and connected the antenna lead. He used the wire that held up the awning on the roof patio for an antenna. Rip checked the time and ensured that the radio was tuned to the proper frequency.
He plugged in a hand microphone, then pushed the key and transmitted. “Hey, Joe? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Got a story for you.”
“Wait until I get a pen and paper.”
The man who monitored the radio would take down the story in shorthand, transcribe it, and send it via
E-mail to Rip’s father, Richard. Tomorrow it would be in the Buckingham newspapers worldwide.
“I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Rip said, and began reading aloud.
The televised celebration in the bank square was still going on hours after General Moon’s surrender. Jake Grafton wondered why the giant block party had gone on so long because he knew that Cole and the rebels must prepare for the next battle, the real Battle of Hong Kong. What he didn’t realize was that the rebels had lost control of the crowd. It was now a mob.
Beyond the range of the television cameras, the mob began seeping away down the side streets, flowing toward City Hall, which was on the waterfront.
The four policemen in front of City Hall stood their ground when the rioters first appeared by the dozens. By the time the crowd numbered several hundred, they were nervous. Not a single soldier was in sight.
As the crowd swelled into the thousands and began packing the streets, the four policemen walked away. They merely took off their hats and gloves and walked off into the crowd.
The jets diving on destroyer 109 and the thunder of the guns galvanized the crowd, which had a ringside seat. When the pilot of one of the jets ejected the crowd fell silent, but when the destroyer, smoking badly and in obvious distress, turned and limped away to the east, the crowd cheered wildly.
As fishing boats along the shore rushed to rescue the pilot in the water, the television helicopter circled low over City Hall, transmitting the scene to the station on Victoria Peak, which broadcast it. Television stations in at least a dozen southern Chinese cities were still retransmitting the broadcast. Pictures of the mob around City Hall and the wounded destroyer retreating after an aerial attack, accompanied by Peter Po’s professional voice-over, stunned audiences that had been allowed to hear nothing of the civil troubles in Hong Kong.
An hour and a half into the pirate show the mob stormed City Hall. No one led it, no one advocated it, it just happened.
Governor Sun was not there, of course, but three prominent Communists were. One was a Beijing appointee to the Court of Appeals, the other two were officials in the government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. All three were dragged out of City Hall and beaten to death in the street as the camera filmed it from a hundred feet overhead.
Hu Chiang, Cole, Kerry Kent, and the rebel leaders were holding a council of war in the trailer in the alley when they were called to witness the storming of City Hall on television.
No one had much to say when they realized the crowd was beating the Communist officials to death.,
“I hope the world gets a good look,” Cole said to no one in particular.
“What do you mean?” Kent asked.
“That mob has just driven a stake through the argument that the Chinese are happier and better off under communism. We’ve heard the last of that crap.”
The defeat of Moon Hok meant that the PLA had to temporarily abandon all hope of reinforcing its forces on Hong Kong Island. PLA radio traffic revealed that they were well aware that the Cross-Harbor Tunnel was in rebel hands.
The New Territories garrison was frantically appealing to Beijing for help. The government had plenty of problems of its own, most of which had been created by Cole’s cyber-troops. Still, given enough time the Communists would move additional troops from mainland China to Hong Kong. Eventually overwhelming military power would be brought to bear on the rebellious population of the former British colony. Obviously the rebels could not allow time to become their enemy’s ally.
“We are in a life-or-death struggle,” Hu Chiang told the rebel leaders when they gathered again around the map of Hong Kong mounted on the wall of the trailer. “We must never lose sight of that fact even for a moment, or all is lost.
“As we speak the PLA is constructing fortified positions and strong points beyond our perimeter at the tunnel exit. Our watchers report that tanks are being arranged as a defense in depth.
“Despite this, we still expect the PLA to assault the tunnel entrance to see how strongly it is held. If the resistance is weak, we anticipate they will press until we crack. On the other hand, should resistance be stronger than anticipated, we believe they will drop back and wait for us to shatter ourselves on their strong points.”
Hu Chiang paused here, surveyed the faces of his audience. “The government in Beijing is pressing the local commanders for immediate action. The Communists see the revolt in Hong Kong as a political disaster that must be crushed before it spreads. Nor can we afford to wait. The government has an overwhelming military advantage and given enough time to marshal its forces, would crush us. We must convince the Communists that the real crisis is political, induce them to rush into action and fail to properly employ their military advantage.
“The fighter squadron at Lantau will keep the Chinese air force and navy off us for a few hours. While we enjoy air superiority, we will attack. Tonight, as planned.”
No one objected.
“Let us proceed,” Hu Chiang continued. ‘The York units will be moved through the tunnel and take up hidden positions outside our perimeter.” He indicated those on the map that hung behind him on the wall. “We have weapons for almost a thousand soldiers now, counting those captured today. We have a dozen heavy machine guns and several trucks full of tear gas canisters, if we need it.
“We are organizing our supporters into military units and using these units to reinforce our tunnel perimeter in Kowloon. When we are ready to push our entire force through the tunnel, we will open our assault by attacking the strong points with the York units. Are there any questions?”
Cole broke the silence. “The PLA might attack before we are ready.”
“They could. If a fireball like Wu Tai Kwong were leading them, they would. Fortunately, the division commander is dead and the deputy commander is our prisoner. I listened to their radio traffic, and I did not sense a burning desire to fight. They are being ordered to fight. Beijing is making dire threats.”
“How would you characterize the morale of the common soldier?”
Hu Chiang paused a moment before he spoke. “We have interrogated some of the soldiers captured this afternoon. They are not Communists. They want the same things every Chinese person wants—a job, money to feed and raise a family, a better life. Make no mistake, many will fight fiercely, and others will refuse to fight or defect. We hope the Sergeant York units sapped some of their fighting ardor. They are confused. Too much has happened too quickly.”
Cole grinned, and so did the others. “Let’s keep them confused, shall we?”
For Jake Grafton the tension was nearly unbearable, the waiting hell. Soon the sun would go down behind Victoria Peak and all of the Central District would be in shadow.
He paced like a caged lion and paid partial attention to the television while he worried about Callie. Was she still alive? Would Sonny Wong release her tomorrow when Cole paid off? Was hunting her tonight the right thing to do?
When Tommy Carmellini knocked on the consul general’s office door, Jake waved at him to come in. He sat on the couch.
“Did you swim the strait or what?”
“I persuaded a ferry captain to bring a whole boatload of folks over, kids wanting to enlist, mostly.”
“Did you bribe him?”
“A little bit. I think he would have done it for nothing, but I wanted him to have some drinking money.”
“Have you been through her desk and files downstairs?”
“A cursory look, yes.”
“Go look again. I want to know everything there is to know about that woman.”
Fifteen minutes later the telephone rang, and Jake jumped for it. Almost two hours had passed since he spoke to his aide, Toad Tarkington, in America over the satellite circuits.
“Grafton.” He spit out the word.
“You were right, Admiral,” Toad said with triumph in his voice. “There is an account belonging to an American woman, same age and physical description as
Kent, at the Hong Kong office of a London brokerage. Turns out the American woman has been dead for six months, but her passport has never been turned in.”
“How’d she die?”
“Traffic accident in Hong Kong.”
“Her name?”
“Patricia Corso Parma.” Toad spelled it, gave Jake the social security number, date of birth, and passport number. “She may be dead, but she opened the account four months ago and has been depositing money in hundred-thousand-American-dollar chunks.”
“The way I figure this,” Jake said, “Kerry Kent is somehow tied in with Sonny Wong. He’s the guy who kidnapped Callie and Wu Tai Kwong, the rebel leader. I’m going to sweat her, see if she knows where Wong might be holding Callie. If she doesn’t know, she might know somebody who does.”
“Okay, boss,” Toad said.
Jake looked up and realized that Tommy Carmellini was standing near the desk, looking out the window. He must have just reentered the room.
“If anything happens to me,” Jake said into the telephone, “I want you to make damned sure Wong and Kent don’t have fun spending any of this money. Have the CIA screw with their bank records. Okay?”
“You got it, boss,” the Toad-man replied. “But you be careful, will ya?”
“Yeah.”
“When you see Callie, tell her that she’s been in my thoughts, mine and Rita’s.”
“Yeah.”
“Take care,” was Toad’s good-bye.
When Jake replaced the telephone on its cradle, Carmellini tossed a passport on the desk in front of Jake. American, with the blue cover. He opened it. Patricia Corso Parma. Staring at him from the page, however, was an excellent picture of Kerry Kent.
“Where did you find this?”
“Taped inside the air return ducting in Kent’s cube, downstairs. I found a screwdriver in her desk and went looking for something to unscrew.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“We need to talk,” Jake said to Tiger Cole. He and Carmellini had just gotten through two circles of armed guards around the museum exhibit trailer and had been allowed to enter. Cole was watching the video from the York units, which were being positioned in preselected hiding places in Kowloon. Kent was at the main control panel. Beside her sat a Chinese student from Hong Kong University whom Cole thought brilliant.
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