Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6)

by Don Keith

  The Taiwanese doctor suddenly stood and stepped from his seat at the other end of the compartment, far enough away he could not have heard their conversation.

  “Please excuse me, but the pilot has informed me that we are fifteen minutes out from landing at Taipei Songshan Airport. I need to make certain that our patient is ready for landing.”

  The physician was already pumping up the blood pressure cuff on Ward’s arm.

  Li once again showed Ward those intense eyes that the SEAL had already classified as mysteriously alluring.

  “Get well quickly, Mr. Ward,” she told him.

  There was still not even a hint of another smile.

  20

  The moonless night had been especially dark as the USS Cheyenne glided silently past Breaker Point, which marked the mouth of Pago Pago Harbor. Even running on the surface, the submarine was all but invisible as it headed out to the open sea. She had quickly cleared the near-shore reefs before reaching deep water. There, Cheyenne had immediately dived and disappeared.

  The short run over to Niue took eighteen hours. As was typical in this part of the world, the sun set very quickly just as Cheyenne’s periscope broke through the smooth surface of the sea. Bart Knox, Cheyenne’s skipper, looked around only long enough to make sure they were alone in this patch of ocean. A few minutes later, a tiny Black Wing Submarine Launched Unmanned Aerial System popped up and rose vertically into the darkening sky. The SLUAS’s two X wings unfolded while the twin tails rotated upright and the device’s tiny pusher propellor sent the bird high into the air above the submerged vessel.

  Weighing barely four pounds and with a wingspan of just thirty inches, the drone was all but invisible against the night’s canopy of stars. Nearly silent, too. The battery-powered electric motor hardly made a buzz. For all practical purposes, for anyone who might be watching, the Black Wing was not even there.

  A fire control technician sitting in front of the command-and-control system module onboard the Cheyenne communicated with the Black Wing using a secure digital data link. The drone was directed toward the island of Niue’s south shore.

  The bird’s sophisticated EO/IR system could see through the gathering gloom of night even better than an owl searching for prey. Images of the Chinese marines and their Tongan allies popped up on the submarine’s large screens and were immediately relayed back to Naval Intelligence, to Jon Ward and his intel analysts in Washington, DC. The armored vehicles and the AAW missiles that had been brought ashore were also clearly visible, and those images were also sent at the speed of light to those in Washington who knew precisely what they were seeing.

  The little bird made several passes over Hanan Niue Airport before starting a thorough recon of the rest of the island, using a pre-programmed grid-search pattern. Four hours later, Jon Ward had a thorough idea of what US Marines would encounter should the decision be made to send them in.

  Since the Black Wing had completed its mission and its batteries were waning, the quiet little bird was headed back out to sea to crash in deep water where it would never be found.

  And Jon Ward had already conferred with the necessary people and was on the phone to Joe Glass.

  Ψ

  The KH-11 Advanced Keyhole satellite passed two hundred and fifty miles above the Western Pacific Ocean, sending its imagery to a geostationary communications satellite hovering twenty-three-thousand miles higher up, over the equator. From there, the data was linked back to the National Reconnaissance Office in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. The NRO then fed their images, at near real time—and as they were being simultaneously archived to several server farms around the world—to the White House situation room, buried deeply beneath the familiar building located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Inside that room, President Stanley Smitherman sat at the head of the table, intently watching the screen as the scene unfolded. It was from a small island in the South China Sea, eight thousand miles away from where the president watched and sipped his first whiskey sour of the day. There appeared to be nothing more than devastation. The buildings were all rubble, smoke still billowing from several of them. A burning truck sat in the middle of the runway on what he had been told was the island’s lone airfield. A couple of mangled missile launcher emplacements—again identified for the president by others in the meeting—were scattered around what was little more than an amoeba-shaped pile of coral and sand.

  Two of President Smitherman’s cabinet were present. Secretary of State Sandra Dosetti sat on Smitherman’s left, reading her notepad and ignoring the large-screen flat panel and its battle scenes. Secretary of Defense Harold Osterman sat on his left, closely watching every image that appeared on the screen.

  Two other monitors flanked the intel display. On the left-hand one, General William “Winking Willie” Willoughby, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat at his desk in the Pentagon. Willoughby got his nickname because of an eye spasm that caused him to appear to be winking, particularly when he was stressed or excited. Typically, he would have taken a quick car ride along the Potomac and attended the White House meeting in person. But the president was afraid the press might see military brass showing up at the White House and get all hot and bothered.

  On the right-hand display, Admiral Rufus Clark, Commander Indo-Pacific Command, leaned back in his big leather chair in his office at Camp Smith, in the hills above Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

  “Admiral, I saw the briefing binder this morning, but I don’t have time to read all that rigamarole they throw in there every day,” President Smitherman said, abruptly beginning the meeting. “Sum it up for me, if you will. From your vantage point, more or less on-scene, what the hell is happening with this China dust-up? I assumed if we ignored it the whole thing would be settled by now. But it’s still all we’re seeing on CNN. I know it’s serious stuff but it’s startin’ to affect my poll numbers. And we’re only five months from the Iowa caucuses, you know.”

  “Mister President, we are fifty-five-hundred miles from Dongsha Island and they are eighteen hours ahead of us,” Admiral Clark replied. “I really can’t say that we’re any closer to being ‘on-scene’ than you are back there in DC. We have a term for that out here. We call it the ‘tyranny of distance.’”

  Smitherman waved his hand. The geography lesson was over.

  The admiral took the hint and shifted to briefly relating what he knew of the situation. He was aware from previous presidential briefings that it was best to keep it a simple list of bullet points.

  “Firstly, the ROC troops, that is those from the Republic of China...”

  “Just call them Taiwanese, so I don’t get confused with all the ‘Chinese this’ and ‘Chinese that,’” Smitherman told him.

  “Yes, sir, Mister President,” Clark acquiesced, then went on without missing a beat. “The Taiwanese troops on Dongsha Island appear to have eliminated or captured all of the Mainland Chinese troops that were put ashore from their submarines. The last time the satellites picked up any combat that was actually occurring on the island was the day before yesterday.”

  “So, Admiral, if the fighting is all finished, then what the hell are we doing here? And the media keep harping on it?”

  Secretary of State Dosetti looked up for the first time and chimed in.

  “Precisely! I have an important political function that I’m missing in order to attend this dog and pony show.”

  “No, Madam Secretary, Mr. President,” Admiral Clark shot back. “That is definitely not the case. Ground combat appears to have been concluded. At least for the time being. But the Chinese air and naval forces are continuing to pound the island almost continuously. And the Taiwanese are giving as good as they get. Don’t know how they are doing it, but the ground troops are being re-supplied with both surface-to-air and anti-ship missiles. They have been getting their licks in. We have intel that there will be a Chinese amphibious operation shortly, in an effort to capture and claim what’s left of the island. However, so far our i
magery hasn’t detected any movement in that regard.”

  “I don’t understand,” Harold Osterman piped up. He was shaking his head, but his eyes had still not left the images on the display screen.

  “Admittedly, we don’t either,” General Willoughby responded. “From a military perspective, it just doesn’t make sense for the PLA...the Mainland Chinese military...to continue expending so many resources over that little speck of coral. There simply has to be some political reason they’re putting on this show.”

  Smitherman glanced over at Dosetti, who had already lost interest and was once again reading her notebook.

  “Sandra, this is why I requested State to attend this, to get the political aspect. You can plan your senatorial campaign when we come to some kind of conclusion here.”

  She shut her notebook in a huff.

  “How am I supposed to know why boys so enjoy playing with their toys? Maybe they just get a thrill from watching things blow up.”

  Admiral Clark interrupted the tirade.

  “Mister President, Madam Secretary, we do have perspective on this from a source that is feeding very interesting intel to the Office of Naval Intelligence. I was just read in on this operation a few hours ago. Sir, this source has access to the inner workings of the Chinese Politburo, something we have never been able to obtain before. And her information has been spot-on so far.”

  “Her?” the president blurted out, sitting up so quickly in his chair that he spilled a few drops of his drink on his tie. “This wonderful source of yours is a gal?”

  “Hey, what do we know about this source?” Secretary Osterman asked, still watching the screen.

  “Really about all we know is that she is native Chinese but eventually Taiwanese,” Clark answered, “and that she is remarkably well-connected. And very motivated to see that her adopted country is never taken over by the Chinese communists. She has developed these links over the years and uncovered some kind of internal Chinese power struggle that is clearly the source of all this recent belligerent action. The border skirmishes. Deadly attacks on fishing fleets. The continued claims on seemingly useless specks of land in the region. The mutual defense agreements with poor nations in the region and across the globe. And now, this open attack on Taiwanese territory. The current read is that some hard-liners are making a play to go ahead and finally take Taiwan while some moderates are working against them, mostly for fear it will upset the economic momentum China has been enjoying in the last decade. Then there is the infighting within the Chinese military, angling for more power. Bottom line, it seems to be a very fluid situation and that is about all the info I have.”

  The president swirled the ice around his mostly empty glass.

  “Why don’t we bring this gal spy in and see how much we can learn about her little network in Beijing?” Smitherman asked.

  Admiral Clark squashed that idea immediately.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, that would be a very bad idea. We do not want to risk this pipeline. And besides, she will not work with our normal intelligence agencies. Only the ONI. The Office of Naval Intelligence.”

  Osterman finally turned from the screen with a frown.

  “Why the hell is that?” he sputtered.

  “She hasn’t exactly shared that with us. But I’d guess she doesn’t necessarily trust some of them. Just ONI, and specifically Jon Ward. And a guy named Dillon who works with the CIA and, when needed, other agencies. We absolutely must—especially right now—let her do things her way.”

  Smitherman rubbed his chin for a few seconds as he thought. He was especially wary of anyone having the upper hand, regardless of the situation. But he had one other driving force that was even more powerful. Finally, he spoke.

  “Harold, y’all have a major Asian voting bloc out there on the West Coast. Chinese. Korean. Japanese. How does this mess play with them?”

  Osterman, the previous governor of California, replied, “Stan, you should be aware that ‘face’ is of the utmost importance to the Chinese culture. To most Asians. You need to always appear to be strong in attempting to save face with them. Particularly after that Tarbox fiasco. I recommend we get the Navy over there as a show of strength. We don’t necessarily need to go in with guns blazing. Just a bunch of ships and airplanes to look tough. It’ll raise your favorability among the Asian demographic by ten points, guaranteed.”

  Smitherman turned to the left-hand monitor and looked hard at Winking Willie. The general’s eye was blinking furiously.

  “General, what is your advice?”

  “I don’t advise getting involved in a shooting war over there, Mr. President. Or doing anything that might provoke such. Especially with all the firepower China can rain down on anyone within the ‘first island’ chain. But I do believe that if we use a reasonable show of force, with some very specific rules of engagement for our guys, it could work to defuse the situation. And especially if the moderates within the Politburo are able to hold sway. They do not want war. Neither, I believe, does their president.”

  Osterman stood and waved his arms to emphasize his point.

  “And it would give you a big boost in the polls, Mister President. Being tough when the cause is righteous. Always works with the voters when you can show some balls.”

  “Yes, balls are good,” Secretary Dosetti interjected sarcastically. “Right up until the first body bag with a dead soldier arrives at Dover.” But she was nodding approvingly. She was—as far as President Smitherman knew—planning to run for US Senator from Washington state. Being the cabinet member that preserved the sovereignty of Taiwan would look good on her resume out there in a state she had hardly visited in twenty years. Or anywhere if she ran for some higher office instead.

  Smitherman had a slight smile on his face. He always liked projecting the image of being a strong, decisive leader.

  “General, Admiral, send everything you have that floats to the South China Sea,” he ordered. “I want the Chinese to see that we stand for peace and freedom. But make damn sure that one of your swash-buckling commanders doesn’t try to start a real shooting war. Understood?”

  Willoughby and Clark both displayed a look of concern. And the same immediate thought. The Commander in Chief had just ordered them to send as much of the entire fleet as they could muster into dangerous, hostile waters, where ordnance was already flying. And to do so without clear guidance or a definitive objective. Throughout military history, many eventual disasters had started out with much better planning than this.

  But they had their marching orders.

  Ψ

  As it turned out, Mitch O’Donnell and Bill Bix were sharing a cramped, dank jail cell. Rex Smith was alone in the equally depressing one next to them. The rest of the male crew and technicians from Deep Ocean Explorer were all housed in the same cell block. When a couple of local drunks joined them the first night, they not only learned where the best party on the island was being thrown but also that this was the town’s only cell block and that they were all guests of the Neiafu Constabulary Police. There was no way to know where Sandy McDougall and the female crew were being held. That was a considerable concern, though O’Donnell offered that they should worry less about her and more about whoever her unfortunate jailer was.

  The patrol boat had taken the best part of two days to tow Deep Ocean Explorer and the prisoners to the island of Vava’u. Bix had been there before and recognized the winding coral channels that led to Neiafu’s public wharf. From there, the Tongan Marines had herded the crew on foot, marching them down the crushed-coral Kovana Road to the combined courthouse and city jail. Since then, no one had even visited the prisoners, much less attempted to interrogate them. There was no offer of legal counsel or an opportunity to communicate with the US Embassy in Fiji. It was as if they were totally forgotten.

  “I know it was like five a.m. on a Saturday in LA when I sent out the message about what was going on,” Bix complained. “But you would think someone would
have gotten the word by now.”

  Smith leaned on the bars separating the cells, mostly watching for the little man who brought them meals in the form of cold microwave dinners stacked on a little pushcart. And who refused to engage in any conversation whatsoever.

  “Maybe they have, Bill,” Smith said. “There’s no way for us to know what might be going on out there. At least until the cavalry arrives to bust us out. That could take a bit. They have to find out where we are first. Jump through some diplomatic hoops, I imagine. Then put a plan together. We need to have patience.”

  Bix gave a half smile.

  “I’d feel better if our hosts didn’t know about that geyser of money down there. That kind of thing could make otherwise sane people...” Bix stopped and looked at the two drunks in the cell across the way. They both seemed lost in deep sleep, though, in an effort to outlast their hangovers. “Well, providing they leave our vessel tied up down on the wharf, finding us should be the easy part. I left the AIS energized so she will show up on any AIS receiver that is looking.”

  The AIS—or Automatic Identification System—consisted of automatic transceivers carried on ships that constantly broadcast their position, course, and speed. The information was captured by other AIS receivers to aid in collision avoidance or search-and-rescue at sea.

  While the two were talking, they heard footsteps entering the cell block. Finally, undercooked Salisbury steaks and half-frozen mashed potatoes, but at least it was sustenance.

  However, it was not the little jailer with dinner. It was a young man dressed in a dark blue tupenu, the Tongan knee-length wraparound sarong, and a light blue, button-down, short-sleeved shirt. He was obviously attired for business.

  The man stopped in front of Rex Smith’s cell and introduced himself. Clearly, he was aware of who their prisoners were, though no one had requested identification from them.

  “Doctor Smith, I am Ahio Evaipomama. I am from His Majesty’s Ministry of Justice and represent the Lord Chancellor’s Office.” The man’s clipped British accent and official brusqueness screamed “bureaucrat,” even if his demeanor was calm and cordial enough. “You and your crew have been charged under Tongan statutes with violation of Tongan sovereign territory, attempted theft of Tongan natural resources, violation of the Customs and Excise Management Act of 2020, violation of the Minerals Act of 1949, and possibly other statutes. We are still researching the extent of your numerous crimes against the people of our nation.”