Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6)

by Don Keith

  Beijing’s contrasts were always exciting to him. The juxtapositions. The anachronisms. That was what made living in modern China so invigorating.

  But not today. Yon Ba Deng’s rising excitement came from an entirely different direction this late-summer morning. He had to consciously calm himself. For that, he relied on his Taoist training, willing his racing pulse to slow, sending his mind in search of inner calm. He smiled slightly as he watched his own reflection in the car window. Another juxtaposition. The ancient Taoist precepts being employed as a tool to assist his bold grasp for power in modern-day China. The ancients would smile at the paradox that presented. But they would certainly appreciate how Yon found the yin and yang of the situation perfectly comfortable and quite a useful tool in his quest.

  The motorcade had just swung onto Lianhuachi West Road when Yon’s private cell phone buzzed, rudely interrupting his deep thoughts. The only people who had the number were his wife, who was back at home sleeping, his mistress, who was on holiday in Macau, and his administrative assistant, who never slept or went on holiday.

  Yon checked the encryption setting on his phone and answered, “Yes, Bing Dou. This must be important for you to disturb the peace of my morning commute.”

  His assistant was Yale-educated and had the knack—and the audacity—to always respond to his boss in his typical, somewhat sardonic, but classically honorific style.

  “Elder brother, the vice deputy’s office has called twice already this morning to inquire about your schedule. What should be my response?”

  Since he held the title of Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters, Yon Ba Deng ostensibly worked for the vice deputy, Soo Be Xian. But in the convoluted tripartite labyrinth of Chinese governance, titles did not necessarily denote hierarchy. In his case, Yon carried a similar title in the Communist Party’s Central Military Commission. Soo did not. That made them about equal in rank and power. However, neither official had so far tested the pecking order.

  When the lion prowls near the tiger, both are wary.

  “If Minister Soo’s office should call again, tell them that I am en route to the ceremonial offices at Zhongnanhai,” Yon answered Bing Dou’s question. “I will meet with the minister there. We can then discuss our next steps.”

  Yon clicked off. But always the obsessive-compulsive, he checked the phone again to be certain they were disconnected.

  Next steps, indeed. Steps long in preparation. Steps now ready for implementation.

  He tapped the partition between him and his driver.

  “Could we stop admiring the scenery and proceed to work? With some haste, please?”

  Ψ

  TJ Dillon took a sip from his cup of tea, but his interest was on the far wall of the room. Across the table from him, Professor Sun Shen clicked the remote control, changing the charts and images on a presentation playing out on the large-screen monitor that covered much of the room beyond the table. The two men were sitting in the professor’s office in the expansive glass-and-brick Central Weather Bureau offices in downtown Taipei, Taiwan. Traffic bustled past on the nearby Gongyuan Road, but the sound was little more than a distant hum, no louder than the projector’s fan.

  The screen revealed a chart of the island of Taiwan and the surrounding ocean in a colorful three-dimensional representation. A red dot appeared in the deep water, well to the east of the island. Then, as they watched, a series of concentric circles developed and radiated out from the dot.

  “As you see, Mr. Dillon,” the professor stated, “an earthquake happening in deep water sends a shockwave out that propagates at the speed of sound in water, roughly one and a half kilometers per second. Or in your American measurements, about a mile a second. Most of the damaging earthquakes we have suffered have had epicenters at one hundred to one hundred and fifty miles offshore. That gives us about a minute to a minute and a half before a tsunami would strike.”

  TJ Dillon shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Sure ain’t much warnin’, Perfessor,” he drawled, doing his best imitation of a Texan accent. “Reckon that’s enough time to make much difference?”

  Professor Sun Shen offered a wry smile and took a sip of his own tea before responding.

  “There might be enough warning to get some of the emergency procedures underway. To put the sea gates in place to help prevent some of the flooding. But the tsunami is not our biggest problem. The more serious issue is the earthquake propagation through the crust.”

  He clicked a button. Suddenly, the concentric circles developed and radiated out from the red dot at almost lightning speed.

  “As you can see, the tremors pass through rock at over five times the speed at which they travel through water. Where we had nearly two minutes’ notification for the tsunami, we only have about twenty seconds’ warning of the earthquake’s shock wave. That is especially problematic for a number of reasons. For example, it takes fifteen seconds for an emergency stop of the bullet train, the Gaotie High Speed Rail. Those trains have less than half a meter’s clearance when they are in the tunnels. At three hundred kilometers per hour, with this much distance between the train and the concrete walls...” Sun held his hands twenty inches apart. “And with so little warning of a powerful earthquake, you can imagine the catastrophe.”

  Dillon shook his head. “Wow! What you want us to do, then?”

  “Mr. Dillon, we think that your company’s experience in planting deep water seismic sensors can give us the additional warning we need to possibly prevent such destruction and terrible loss of life.” Professor Sun Shen searched through a high stack of papers on his desk, found the one he wanted, and pulled it out. “I would like for you to go talk to Ameri Wang. He runs a construction company out on Yong Chi Road called GroundMat. I think your two companies may be able to make this work for the benefit of all.”

  TJ Dillon took the offered slip of paper, shook the academic’s hand, thanked him for the presentation and the tea, and headed out. Back on the street, he watched the hustle and bustle all around with interest as he waited for his car. Dillon was once again impressed with the work ethic and efficiency of the people of this country, despite the constant threat from China hanging like a black cloud over them. He could not imagine what it must be like to live and thrive in the shadow of a massive and powerful nation, one that constantly maintained that they would one day take a step across the Taiwan Strait and stake their final claim on the island.

  Dillon pulled out his phone and quickly placed an overseas call. The conversation was short and terse.

  “We’re in,” he reported, now with no hint of a West Texas twang. “You have the sensor mods ready?”

  The voice at the other end replied curtly. “We’ll be ready in time. Just make certain you get the gig without risking blowing our cover.”

  “Easiest assignment you’ve given me in a long time, Boss,” Dillon shot back.

  He ended the call. Then, always a bit obsessive-compulsive, he double-checked to be sure he had cut the connection.

  Dillon’s car pulled to the curb and he hopped in.

  Ψ

  The sun was just rising to the east, peeking above the wavetops out beyond Molokai. A warm breeze from the west brought the sweet scent of tropical vegetation out over the deep blue waters of the Pacific. Colorful small boats played near the shoreline and the high-rises of Oahu to the north, while large merchant ships waited out in deep water for their turn to enter the Sand Island Terminal.

  Brian Edwards, captain of the US Navy’s nuclear-powered submarine George Mason, took it all in from his perch on top of the submarine’s sail. It was a time for calm reverie and relaxation before the hectic activity of entering a new homeport for the first time. A rare opportunity to enjoy the beauty, the pure peace and quiet of a dawn at sea.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Bill Wilson, the officer of the deck, called out. Always the interruption, Edwards thought. Always. “Messenger to the bridge with your coffee and the
message traffic.”

  Edwards nodded and returned to watching the distant horizon. Such vigilance was part submariner caution, the need to know about everything in his immediate world, and part fascination with the broad, open expanse of water that surrounded his warship. But he also wanted to keep an eye on something else going on at the moment. He occasionally glanced down into the bridge cockpit where Bill Wilson was busily teaching Ensign Sam Walters the intricacies of driving a submarine while on the surface. Walters was the newest officer in the George Mason wardroom. Fresh out of SUBSCHOL and the NUCPOWER training pipeline, he had reported aboard just as they were leaving Norfolk for the trip to George Mason’s new homeport in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

  The messenger with the coffee, Seaman Strutt, appeared at the top of the ladder. With the lookout and the two junior officers already in the cockpit in the sub’s sail, there really was not room for him to come all the way up into the daylight. He had to be satisfied with seeing the pale blue sky looking up from their feet. Strutt handed up the aluminum message board and cup of coffee for Edwards before taking one last glance at a clear sky and breathing in a deep draw of fresh air. Then he disappeared back down the ladder.

  Edwards was idly leafing through the admin traffic and sipping his coffee when the 7MC speaker blared, “Bridge, Conn, XO to the captain. We are in voice comms with Pearl Harbor Control. We are delayed an hour for on outbound carrier. Also, we will do a PERSTRAN at Papa Hotel. Commodore Glass will be riding into port with us.”

  Joe Glass had been Edwards’s skipper on Toledo when Edwards was XO of that boat. Now Glass was Commodore of Submarine Squadron Seven, based at Pearl. That once again made Glass his boss. Edwards smiled. It would be good working for Joe Glass again. And it appeared the commodore was looking forward to taking a very short cruise on a submarine again.

  But right now, they had an extra hour to kill while they waited for an aircraft carrier to exit the harbor. Free time while underway and on the surface was not to be squandered, even for something as enjoyable as sightseeing off Diamond Head.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Edwards called down to the pair in the cockpit. “Please call below and have the XO get Oscar ready for a swim. Then discuss man-overboard procedures with your eager trainee.”

  Wilson grinned. “Yes, sir. We’ve already discussed the Y-backing and racetrack maneuvers. I was just covering the Williamson turn now.”

  Edwards smiled as he watched the young lieutenant swinging his hands around, explaining to the even younger ensign the complicated maneuver for bringing the big submarine around one hundred and eighty degrees so that it steamed right back down the precise same track that it had just covered. That way, if they lost sight of Oscar, or did not know where Oscar fell overboard, they could retrace their steps across the vast ocean until Oscar appeared right off their bow. At least that was the theory.

  Seaman Strutt appeared at the top of the ladder again. This time he handed Oscar up to the lookout, who, in turn, gave him to Edwards. Oscar was, in reality, a large plastic trash bag with a crudely drawn face and the letters “OSCAR” written in magic marker. The bag was weighted so that it would float upright and not go skittering across the wavetops, all to adequately simulate some unfortunate crewmember who might fall overboard.

  Edwards threw the dummy off the sail. It bounced once on the main deck and then fell into the sea. Once sure it had splashed down, the lookout yelled, “Man overboard, port side!” and began pointing at the green trash bag bouncing along the submarine’s side.

  Ensign Walters grabbed the 7MC microphone and shouted, “Man overboard, port side! Left full rudder! All stop. Stop the shaft.” So far, so good.

  As the rudder swung over, George Mason’s stern pushed away from where Oscar floated as the pump jet propulsor spun to a halt, lest the poor "man overboard” should abruptly and tragically end his days by getting run through a giant Cuisinart.

  Oscar fell astern of the submarine as the 1MC blared, “Man overboard, port side. Man overboard party muster at the lockout trunk.”

  Chief Schmidt, the pilot, sitting at his station some twenty-five feet below the bridge, was reporting, “Passing heading two-seven-zero, my rudder is left full. No ordered course. Passing two-six-zero. No ordered course.”

  The sub began to sluggishly wallow in the waves as she slid to a halt. The 7MC blared, “Hold Oscar visually, bearing one-three-two, range three hundred yards.” The reports were coming fast and furious. Edwards squatted down so that he could more easily coach the now flustered ensign.

  “Mr. Walters, let the rest of the crew do their jobs. You just need to drive the boat. What do you think the pilot is telling you? Don’t you think he needs a course to steer?”

  “Oh. Uh...yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, let’s get some speed on and drive around to pick up poor Oscar,” Edwards suggested. “Why don’t you come to ahead full. When the heading comes around to sixty degrees off your old course, shift your rudder and order the reciprocal course. With this boat’s advance and transfer, that will bring us right back to where Oscar is impatiently treading water. Got it?”

  Walters nodded that he understood. Edwards was not entirely sure that was the case.

  “All ahead full.” Walters’s voice wavered slightly as he ordered the bell. The young officer was obviously working out his next order in his mind.

  “Coming to ahead full,” Chief Schmidt’s voice boomed over the speaker. “Passing two-four-zero. No ordered course.”

  “Lost sight of Oscar,” the lookout yelled. “I can’t see him anymore.”

  The wheels were turning in the ensign’s head as he quickly tried to do the mental calculations and give commands before they skated right past their “man” in distress. He had been on a course of three-one-zero when Oscar fell overboard. Skipper said to shift the rudder when they had swung sixty degrees, but that was two-five-zero, and they had already missed that. Better do something now, before it got even worse.

  “Shift your rudder to right full,” Walters ordered. “Steady, uh…uh. Steady one-three-zero.”

  Edwards nodded and encouraged the trainee. “Good. You swung past, but you can fix that. Just finetune it when you steady up. The navigator can help you with that when we come around.”

  “Oscar bears one-one-four, range seven hundred,” the speaker blared. “Losing visual intermittently in the wave troughs.”

  The sub’s executive officer in the control room below could still see the dummy using the photonics mast. But probably not for much longer. Oscar would soon disappear in the swelling waves.

  The George Mason picked up speed as the propulsor bit into the waves. She swung around in response to the right full rudder. White water shot high up on the submarine’s sail before washing back over the main deck.

  “Lost Oscar visually,” the XO reported. “Plotted bearing one-three-zero, range one thousand.” Old Oscar was in real danger of becoming chum.

  The wind coming off the island was picking up. Whitecaps now crowned the wavetops.

  “Oscar estimated position bears one-two-two, range one-one-hundred,” came another update.

  “Steady course one-three-zero, making ahead full,” Chief Schmidt reported.

  “Bridge, Navigator, hold you one hundred yards to the right of track.” LCDR Jim Shupert, George Mason’s navigator, was plotting their track on the sub’s electronic navigation system, the ECDIS. “Recommend you steer one-two-two to regain track.”

  Edwards leaned forward and quietly spoke to Walters. “See what Nav is doing? He’s easing you over to the old track so you get on line before you get to where we think Oscar is waiting for us.”

  “Oscar estimated position bears one-two-five, range nine hundred.”

  “We don’t want to go flying past our guy at a full bell,” Edwards whispered into Walters’s ear. “And you need to get the man-overboard party topside. At a full bell, you would certainly get the COB wet.”

  Walters nodded and ordered, “Ahead one-third.�
��

  The large bow wave dropped to little more than a ripple climbing up the sub’s rounded nose. The main deck was now high out of the water and would soon be dry.

  “Bridge, XO, man-overboard party is mustered. Recommend sending the man-overboard party topside.”

  Walters looked questioningly at Edwards, who nodded. The ensign ordered, “Control, Bridge, open the lockout trunk upper hatch. Have the man-overboard party lay topside.”

  “Bridge, XO, regained Oscar visual. Bearing one-one-nine, range seven hundred, ten degrees off the port bow.”

  The lookout swung his binoculars in that direction. “I see him!” the young seaman shouted, pointing toward the floating trash bag as it was lifted up on a wavetop.

  “Probably a good time to rig out the outboard,” Edwards coached, “and come to all stop.”

  The outboard was a small electric-driven outboard motor that could be lowered from the after ballast tanks and then trained to push the stern around when the sub was moving at slow speed.

  “All stop,” Walters ordered, this time with a bit more confidence. “Lower the outboard.”

  The submarine’s propulsor quit driving the boat through the water as the throttle valves on the main turbines shut. The big boat glided forward under its massive momentum. Back in number-five ballast tank, the outboard slipped down out of its housing and into the boat’s slipstream.

  “Answering all stop,” Chief Schmidt reported. “Outboard is deployed, trained to zero-zero-zero relative.”

  Oscar was now clearly visible, only a hundred yards ahead and just off the port bow, and so far, none the worse for wear.

  “Give her a few seconds of back-one-third to stop her,” Edwards suggested, “and then come to all stop.”

  “Back one-third,” Walters ordered, applying the “brakes.” George Mason shuddered mildly as the backing bell forced the big boat to slow its forward movement through the water. Just before the boat came to a halt, he ordered, “All stop.”

  Oscar floated serenely a mere ten yards off George Mason’s port beam.