Shen’s crew knew something else: Changzheng 8 had unexpended warshot torpedoes and antiship missiles aboard, and they knew why. Our captain lost his nerve!
Shen’s decision to lay low on a shallow bank near Little Lanyu and listen for the screw transients of unlucky prey to present him a no-escape shot had not worked out as he had hoped. Remaining quiet in wait was prudent, but as time wore on and his crew showed impatience, he second-guessed his strategy. Then the ceasefire, and orders for a surface transit to the mainland! Shen felt the stares, the silent condemnation of his crew, especially when they learned that many of the People’s ships were sunk by the Americans, and in the near seas! Changzheng 8 had done nothing but hide during the slaughter of their mates.
Shen condemned himself more than any of his crew. Yes, his ship was old and the crew suspect, and they had ventured and struck—twice! — in the far seas and out to the second chain, farther than any PLA(N) vessel had in history. But the Peoples Republic had lost, and the surface transit was all the proof his miserable crew needed. Shen had built his strategy on hope, but also on the knowledge that his boat would probably be detected by the Americans if he maneuvered in the strait or outside it. He was lucky to have made it to the strait undetected, and who knew how long their luck could have lasted. The line between resolute courage and impulsive recklessness was a fine one. Shen was responsible for Changzheng 8 and 100 men; he could not carelessly risk their lives. But when was risk warranted? He didn’t know, didn’t have a clear picture of the situation on the surface or updates from Zhanjiang. Then it was over, the chance fumbled, too late, and the men he had spared convicted him. Guilty. Of cowardice.
It was rare for submariners, especially those on nuclear boats, to be on the surface and view a sunrise. Shen noted the eastern skies lighten, and realized it would probably be the last sunrise he would ever see underway. Maybe the last one ever, depending on the reception at the pier.
Running lights to the northwest drew closer, and in the gray twilight he saw the familiar lines of a corvette. It would join in escort as Changzheng 8 approached the sea buoy. Wishing to leave his ship with dignity, he hoped it would not send over a launch to take him now — before he was arrested.
A sailor manning the sound-powered phone took a call from the First Officer in the control room. “Comrade Captain, the First Officer requests permission to set sea and anchor detail!”
The seas were flattening, and the channel markers were visible. It was time.
“Permission granted.”
The order was passed and sailors in life jackets climbed out on the deck behind the sail. The corvette stabilized 1,000 meters to starboard, and he detected no effort to send over a whaleboat, for which he was grateful. Then it hit him. He would never submerge his ship under the sea again.
And he could not turn back the clock.
CHAPTER 64
As Admiral Qin Chung navigated the halls of the Defense Ministry, he sensed this would be the last time he ever set foot in it, certainly the last time in Dong’s office. If he were not arrested now, he would be exiled soon enough. He hoped he could leave Beijing for Guangzhou and a quiet life of oblivion on his terms. If arrested, his fate was still uncertain. He would not be executed yet, but after a hearing or show-trial he would be held for a period of time before the Party acted. For his years of service the Party would be lenient: poisoned food in a lonely prison cell or lethal injection. He read once that American criminal murderers were executed this way, in a sterile environment with the families of their victims as witness. He was little better, sending hundreds of the People’s sailors and airmen to their deaths in a vain attempt to sink one big ship and to defend Chinese territorial seas. He considered himself a criminal, and Dong Li would pass judgment. Then hand down his sentence. They would have to execute him in the Olympic National Stadium to accommodate the family witnesses of the victims of his failed command decisions.
He reflected that defeated commanders were still summoned by their superiors as they have been through the millennia. The Oriental mind called for summary execution. After cashiering them, the Occidental mind allowed them to languish in their own living hells inside a low-rent apartment or rural farm house, reliving their wrong decisions each day until they died of insanity. Which was more humane?
As a military man Qin would accept his fate with stoic resolve. Much had been given him in life, yet, when asked, he was unable to deliver victory. He would not run now, not that he could, but it was unthinkable, and when the thought did enter his mind, he discarded it as truly impossible. It was impossible not to face Dong Li and atone for his failure. He hoped the end would be quick and with a minimum of pain to his family, who would no doubt be resettled to the interior. Regardless, he was ready to meet the end.
He stepped off the elevator with his loyal aide who read Qin’s mood. He would go with his admiral and share his fate, whatever it was. Qin would not allow it. As they approached Dong’s office, Qin stopped outside the door.
“I will go alone now. You have been a good and loyal servant to the People’s Navy, and to me. You are relieved.” Qin’s aide nodded his understanding, and Qin took his combination cover from the aide’s hand. “May you live in interesting times,” Qin said with a warm smile, and turned to report, as ordered.
Leaving his aide, he placed the hat on his head and strode to the reception desk. The young woman behind it stood as he approached. “Servant of the People Admiral Qin Chung, reporting as ordered,” Qin said in an even voice, perhaps the last time with the aristocratic bearing of a senior officer in good stead.
The woman retreated behind a door, and a general, a brigadier in full dress uniform, appeared. “Comrade Admiral Qin, good day. Marshal Dong will see you now. Please follow me.”
Qin did so with his face set, expecting a phalanx of PLA generals and security personnel to greet him when he entered the Marshal’s office. To his surprise, Dong was at his desk, standing, and waiting for his friend.
“Comrade Admiral Qin, welcome. I hope your journey was pleasant.”
Qin, still covered, marched to Dong’s desk and came to attention as he snapped a rigid salute. “Comrade Marshal, Servant of the People Admiral Qin Chung reporting as ordered.”
Dong looked at him in amusement, and returned his salute. “Comrade, please stand at ease. No wait, let us sit here for a cup of tea.”
Dong led them to the sitting area where a pot of fresh tea awaited. An orderly appeared and poured two cups, and, without saying a word, retreated through a side door. Dong and Qin were alone.
“Comrade Qin, you must not blame yourself.” Dong said in a conciliatory tone. Qin could not look Dong in the eye as he responded with his rehearsed answer.
“Marshal Dong, I was the commander, entrusted by the Party, the Chairman, the People. I failed and my failures have led to great loss for the People. No less than a captain on the high seas is responsible for his vessel, I am responsible for the loss of the People’s forces and accountable for my failures. I am prepared to accept the Party’s punishment.”
Dong sipped from his cup and returned it to the saucer. “I know you are, Qin Chung. You were given an impossible task. Certainly all under heaven wish the American carriers were sunk and our outposts left intact. The reality is your forces came close, and, despite the damage to our forces, we have gained the respect of the Americans, and the Indians, the Japanese, the Russians. You bloodied their nose, Comrade Admiral, and they will not fight us in the near seas again.”