Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6)

by Don Keith

  Then, several squads of marines headed out to commandeer pickup trucks. Their purpose was more to sightsee and scrounge food and alcohol from the beachside cafes than to consolidate their victory.

  Ψ

  The sun had just plunged below the western horizon when the first blue-gray Chinese Shaanxi Y-9 turboprop transport aircraft touched down on Niue at Hanan International Airport, without benefit of assistance from the island’s air traffic controllers. Built in the early seventies to service a twice-weekly flight to Auckland, New Zealand, the tiny facility was not designed to handle the massive four-engine transports. Certainly not eight of them at once. The apron and short taxiway were quickly cluttered with parked aircraft. The last two to touch down were forced to find a resting spot on the runway itself.

  Over four hundred Chinese Marines were disgorged from four of the big birds. Six ZBD-3 tracked airborne fighting vehicles and a pair of FB-6C anti-aircraft vehicles rumbled down the ramps from several of the aircraft as the Marines lugged their gear off the aircraft and toward a large open field alongside the terminal and behind the telephone exchange. The ZBD-3s left a thick fog of acrid, black diesel smoke as they traversed Tapue-Porret Road, in the direction of Alofi.

  The Chinese Marines quickly and efficiently established a command center in the terminal building and a defense perimeter surrounding the airport, ignoring the questions and protestations of the few airport officials they encountered. All this was observed with much amusement by the Tongan Marines, who enjoyed their purloined cold beers while watching sleepily from their resting places under a nearby grove of palm trees.

  The sun was little more than a suggestion on the eastern horizon when the now-empty transport planes revved up, got airborne, and headed west. Toward Fua’amotu International Airport on Tonga, there to await whatever orders they might receive next.

  Ψ

  Chet Allison leaned against the BPS-15 radar set in the after part of control on the submarine Boise. It seemed like he and his second-in-command, Henrietta Foster, had been standing back here for most of the day, trying to get a handle on what might happen next after the shoot-’em-up and close call they had just been through. That included formulating answers to the seemingly endless “Immediate Attention, or the world as we know it will cease to exist” inquiries they were being peppered with, emanating from every possible layer of the chain of command. And many sources well outside that chain. Some of which Allison and Foster had never even heard of before.

  Carefully and diplomatically, they were now telling each and every functionary that they had already provided any morsel of information they had, every minor detail of the events they had just endured. That constant pressure and endless questioning as well as the gallons of coffee he had consumed had long since left Allison with a raging headache and a shaky stomach. Of course, some of that could also be attributed to the really hard bump on his admittedly hard head.

  Boise was at periscope depth at the moment, slowly circling a few miles south of Dongsha Island. “Slowly” being the operative word. They were now using the submarine’s secondary propulsion motor. The SPM was a little outboard motor that could be lowered out of an after-ballast tank and used like a slightly more powerful version of a trolling motor on a bass boat. More powerful but still barely able to move the big, heavy vessel at a speed of little more than about two knots. But it was their only propulsion until the engineers repaired the shaft seal leakage caused by the close-aboard explosion of the Chinese torpedo.

  Lieutenant Commander Tim Anson, Boise’s engineer, opened the after door and barged into the compartment, almost knocking Foster over as he did so. Everything that Anson did was full steam ahead. It was the engineer’s philosophy that any obstacle in his path was easier to go through than around.

  “Oops! Sorry, XO. Didn’t see you there,” the big bear of a man told Foster. “Skipper, I have an update for you.”

  “What’s the status, Eng?”

  “Well, the shaft seals are kaput,” Anson shot out in his usual rapid-fire manner. “My guess is that the carbon got cracked from the pressure surge when that torpedo hit the reef so close to us. The guys have been working hard and managed to snug up the emergency flax packing. So far, it seems to be working fine. I don’t recommend any speeds above ten knots or diving below two hundred feet or we could be on the inflatable boot. You know what that means.”

  Before Allison could respond, Foster chimed in.

  “Eng, I hear what you’re saying, but I believe the NAVSEA Tech Manual specifies a depth limit of three hundred feet and speed of twelve knots if you establish a leak-off rate of at least ten drops a second with the flax packing. And you would also need to station a watch to adjust it.”

  Anson pondered the XO’s words for a long moment. He had seen it before. Henrietta Foster had the uncanny ability to memorize even the most arcane facts. If she saw it, she had it stored somewhere in her brain and could find and recite it in a second. And often did so if it served her purpose.

  “Well, yes, ma’am,” Anson finally answered. “I did refer to the Tech Manual. I was just applying a safety factor to the tolerances. Believe me, I don’t want to go all the way home at two knots on the SPM.”

  “Skipper,” the leading radioman interrupted, passing Allison the red, top-secret message board. “You’re going to want to read the top message.”

  Allison flipped open the board and read the short message. Then he read it again.

  “XO, get the Nav up here to plot this out. Eng, get propulsion shifted back to the mains. We’ll use your safety-factor limits right now. But be ready to go to the NAVSEA limits if we have to. The ones in the Tech Manual.”

  Foster shot Allison a questioning glance.

  “We are to stay here on an ‘Indications and Warning’ mission until we get relieved by an Aussie diesel boat,” Allison told her. “Then, we are to make best speed back to Pearl Harbor.”

  “Indications and Warning” meant they were to continue observing all they could see and provide near real-time actionable information. Allison had worked long enough with Henrietta Foster to know exactly what that look on her face meant.

  Any actionable information they might deliver to the powers that be could possibly be the impetus for full-blown war.

  Ψ

  Jim Ward was at his wits’ end. Stir-crazy. Cooped up in a private room at Changi General Hospital in Singapore. Lying around simply was not the young SEAL-team commander’s style. One more soccer game or cooking show on the TV set in the far corner of the room, one more scorched glob of some kind of meat with a tasteless gray sauce, and he would be forced to extricate himself from this place by any means necessary. He needed to be up and moving around, but every time he tried to get out of bed, the pain would come rushing back at the wound site in his side and he would collapse back into his state of utter uselessness. Then, inevitably, within seconds of him disobeying his bed-rest command, an officious nurse/prison guard, quite properly dressed in a white uniform and pronounced scowl, would rush in, attempt to make him reasonably comfortable, and scold him roundly.

  Ward had vowed to locate and disarm the “patient confined to bed” alarm.

  He assumed his next dosage of not-so-gentle scolding and over-cooked scrambled eggs was arriving when the door swung open and interrupted his internal griping. Instead, though, a stunningly gorgeous young woman walked into his room after knocking. He was about to reluctantly tell her she must have found the wrong patient when he noticed a somehow-familiar man with her. Then he recognized the guy.

  TJ Dillon.

  “Dillon!” Ward shouted. “Last time I saw your sorry tail, you were in South America heading downriver as fast as you could paddle that canoe chasing after some low-life son of a bitch.”

  The CIA agent nodded and grinned.

  “Bingo! It won’t surprise you to know your old man told me the same thing not so long ago. And in almost those very same words.”

  “And now, here you are, in a
hospital room in Singapore. I’d say you took the wrong exit off I-10.”

  Ward smiled at the beautiful Asian lady with him. The room grew considerably brighter when she tossed back one of her own.

  “TJ, for a southern boy, you are certainly lacking in manners. You haven’t introduced me to your friend.” Ward extended a hand. “I’m Jim Ward and am in no way associated with this dude here.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Commander. I’m Li Min Zhou,” she answered, again smiling as she shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “You certainly resemble your father, Jim. And you are both very direct. But I have to say I find you a bit more charming.”

  “You have me pegged, ma’am,” Ward shot back.

  “You got time to chat a few minutes,” Dillon interrupted.

  “Well, there is a show coming on TV in a minute about how to properly prepare pepper crab...” the SEAL jokingly began.

  But Dillon was no longer grinning. Neither was his lovely friend. This visit had just become a business meeting.

  17

  Yon Ba Deng nodded curtly as the guards saluted him and swung open the heavy oaken doors for his passage. He stepped into the small but ornate conference room. As nothing more than a rather junior Party official, his assigned seat was one of the uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs that lined the walls.

  Each time Yon was in this place, each time he sat in one of the straight-backed chairs, he imagined himself instead claiming a seat at the big, solid table. No, not just at the table but at the head of the table.

  Soon, soon, he told himself. And the occurrences over the next few minutes might determine just how soon that would be.

  As befit a junior official, he had arrived at the meeting ahead of the Politburo members. Even so, all of the other seats around the wall were already filled, each man sitting as if at attention, with no conversation or pleasantries between them. Yon Ba Deng had just sat down in the lone remaining open seat when the doors at the other end of the room swung open again. Twenty-three senior Chinese leaders paraded in, single file. Last to enter was Tan Yong. He was attending this particular meeting as the Head of the Party Committee for Internal Security, though everyone present was quite familiar with his other titles. He was also Communist Party General Secretary and President of the People’s Republic of China. Most of the world knew him for the latter role.

  Tan Yong took his place at the head of the large conference table and signaled for the doors to be shut. Then he took his time opening a chilled bottle of sparkling water on the table before him and pouring himself a glass half full. He took a sip and appeared to approve.

  Finally, the president turned and glared directly at Yon Ba Deng for a full ten seconds before speaking. It was a well-known tactic, designed to throw his underlings off kilter.

  “As we all are well aware, some hostilities are occurring on Pratas Island. What our misdirected brothers from Taiwan insist on calling Dongsha Island. It would appear that these hostilities might be the result of some unauthorized actions from members of our Navy. In light of these developments and their potential ramifications, we will now hear the report from the Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters.”

  Yon Ba Deng swallowed hard. He stood and faced the group. What he said in the next few minutes, how he said it, and the Committee’s reaction to both would determine whether he was on a trajectory to the highest levels of leadership or immediately on a painful trip to a dark prison cell and, sooner or later, termination. That is if he was fortunate enough to make it out of the meeting alive. There had been many rumors of bodies being carried out of this very room only to be unceremoniously dumped alongside the freeway.

  The assistant vice deputy stood tall and launched into his explanation.

  “Tongzhui, comrades, and thank you for the opportunity to relay the information we have gathered to this point. I will tell you that reports are still being received concerning this matter. What is confirmed so far is that two of our submarines were dispatched by South Fleet Command to transport a Jiaolong Team for a deployment aimed to conduct a simple and routine armed surveillance of Pratas Island, just as we have done for decades. As you are all well aware, Pratas Atoll is the legitimate territory of the People’s Republic but remains illegally and belligerently occupied by the rebels on Taiwan, and that includes a garrison of armed troops.”

  Yon attempted to gauge the reaction thus far from the faces of everyone in the room. No indication. Each remained stoic, expressionless. He went on, choosing every word carefully, just as he had rehearsed at length before the mirror in his office.

  “A Taiwanese destroyer was lying in ambush, waiting for the arrival of the submarines. Despite our vessels being in our own territorial waters, the warship attacked without provocation while our submarines were surfaced for the purpose of launching the surveillance teams. The submarines correctly and bravely defended themselves and China’s sovereignty. In the process, the aggressor ship was sunk.”

  Perhaps a flicker of pride on the president’s face. Heartened, Yon went on.

  “I regret to inform you that neither of the submarines has reported in. They have now missed several communications windows, which does not bode well. We must presume that either they are lost or they have been too badly damaged to communicate.”

  Tan Yong held up a hand, interrupting Yon Ba Deng’s narrative.

  “You say the destroyer was lying in ambush. That would mean they had prior knowledge that our submarines would be in the area. That would imply that we have a security breach, that somehow the Taiwanese were informed of this mission in advance, including information that our vessels would be on the surface and vulnerable. Do you believe this to be the case, Assistant Vice Director?”

  Yon Ba Deng hesitated. This was precisely the inference that he wanted every man in the room to draw. Especially the president. And it was vital that everyone on the committee would make that logic leap on his own. Having the president help them do so was even more than he could have hoped.

  “We cannot discount that possibility,” Yon answered. “Only a very small group knew of this particular mission. It was a rapid tasking out of the Southern Theatre of Operations. Even my own staff was unaware of the details of the operation. I will, of course, order an investigation immediately, and we will learn if there has been a betrayal in the Southern Theatre.”

  There. He had just pulled the pin and thrown the hand grenade under Soo Be Xian’s insular little club of pet generals. Let them deal with the carnage when things inevitably blew up around them.

  Tan Yong again held up his hand.

  “Thank you, but I believe we will deal with such matters from within this committee. I anticipate you and your staff will be otherwise occupied in the near term. For example, as to the continued fighting on Pratas Island, what does the Navy recommend?”

  Yon Ba Deng had to concentrate hard to avoid smiling. This was going better than he had dared anticipate. He had suspected that the Party Committee for Internal Security might possibly insist on doing his dirty work for him. Clearly, that would now be the case. That meant that Soo Be Xian would soon be a toothless tiger and Yon would not have needed to risk anything to accomplish that goal. This also offered the perfect chance to use the same committee to keep his own necessary diversion in play, even if the submarines had botched things so badly for him.

  Looking directly at Tan Yong, Yon Ba Deng answered, “General Secretary, the unwarranted and unprovoked attack on our submarines by the Taiwanese is either a potential disaster or a potential opportunity. We have two options. We can turn our backs on our brave Marines and suffer the loss of face before the world should we kowtow to the Taiwanese. Or we can give an immediate and overwhelming response to them. One that sends an unmistakable message to the world. Pratas Island has but a small garrison. It is situated nearer to Hong Kong than it is to Taiwan. In point of fact, the atoll is of no real value to Taiwan. Despite the inevitable diplomatic bluster from t
hem and their allies, they will not risk an existential war to keep control of it. The People’s Liberation Army Navy recommends that immediate air and naval support be dispatched to rescue our beleaguered warriors, attempt to learn the fate of our brave submariners, and reclaim our rightful territory.”

  For the first time in memory, Yon Ba Deng watched as every person in the room looked to the president to assess his reaction to such a bold plan. It all hinged now on Tan Yong.

  The president remained stone-faced for a moment, as if he had heard nothing that had been proposed. Then, he smiled. There was no attempt to conceal his approval.

  “Yon Ba Deng, how quickly can these forces be deployed?”

  Yon felt dizzy. Still, he forced himself to remain calm, to not allow his glee to be obvious, to respond forcefully and confidently.

  “With your order, the first aircraft from Shek Kong Airfield can be airborne in less than an hour from this moment. Destroyers and patrol craft can depart Nyong Shuen Chau Naval Base within two hours. We can have overwhelming force around and over the island before the sun rises. They will be capable of quickly and effectively executing the plan.”

  Tan Yong nodded.

  “Let it be so.” He raised a hand and pointed directly at Yon Ba Deng. “But I must impress upon you, do not start a war with your little games or you will quickly learn how dry and desolate the Gobi is.”

  With that, the president waved Yon Ba Deng from the room and signaled to the others that the meeting was now completed. But he remained seated until the room was cleared and the doors had once again been closed by the guards.

  Only then, as he was rising, did Tan Yong speak quietly to his aide.

  “That one bears even closer scrutiny. He is not to be trusted.”

  The aide nodded. “Should I have him arrested?”

  “No, no. He has potential. We will make use of his talents, his ambitions, and his connections so long as they serve our purposes. But the bear must always watch the young tiger. The other one, Soo Be Xian, the one our friend here has so neatly stabbed in the back. Him, we will need to punish. Find or invent some corruption—I doubt you will need to be very creative or look far—and let the Guoanbu discover the evidence.”