Yang stared open-mouthed as the movie showed the submersible nearing the deck of the submarine. Men dived down the open hatch, their automatic pistols dropping the crewmen of the Korean submarine as if they were cardboard targets. Then the final minutes as the commander set the ship to begin sinking, rushing to get out of the hull. When the screen showed the submersible hatch popping open to a panorama of the sea, Yang started clapping and cheering. Feng and Loen followed suit, all three bursting into wide smiles of approval.
But the presentation was not yet over. The screen burst to life again. The face of a news reporter from Shanghai flashed up, reporting that the Korean submarine Dai Gu had been lost with all hands, the only trace of it the floating buoy that had broadcast a distress signal.
The clip again faded to black. Auditorium lights came back up dimly as a spotlight opened on the podium.
A navy commander stood there, resplendent in a dark uniform, gold stripes on his sleeves, ribbons on his chest.
“Good afternoon. Chairman Yang, General Feng, and Admiral Loen. My name is Commander Chu Huafeng. The last time you saw me I was requesting funding for the submersible you have just seen succeed in hijacking a submerged underway nuclear submarine.”
“I won’t bore you with any further comments on the operational test mission of the Red Dagger. However, I do want to mention one development to you.”
“In ten days six advanced-technology Japanese Rising Sun-class nuclear attack submarines will put to sea out of Yokosuka.” Chu looked over at Mai Sheng, who smiled back at him. “I propose to deploy the Red Dagger and the other submersible units and take command of the Rising Sun submarines. Once we have captured them, we will station ourselves in the East China Sea, where we will keep the West from assisting the Whites. With control of the East China Sea assured, the ground forces of the PLA should be able to take back Hong Kong and Tsingtao and Shanghai.”
Chairman Yang stared at the navy commander, a hard frown coming over his face. As he rose to his feet the frown became a black thundercloud. He walked slowly, menacingly up to the podium. To his credit, the commander returned the Chairman’s gaze steadily. When Yang was within striking distance of the commander, he suddenly pulled Commander Chu into a bear hug, slapping his back and laughing. The tension in the room immediately evaporated, and the only sounds were the clapping and cheering of the flag officers and Mai Sheng.
“Commander Chu,” Yang said, his voice sonorous in the huge room, “as of this moment you are no longer a mere commander. You have proved yourself to me and to your nation. I hereby promote you to the rank of Rear Admiral. Congratulations.”
Chu looked over at Lieutenant Mai Sheng, who nodded solemnly at him, her dark eyes shining. Despite his modesty, Chu suddenly felt that victory had just been conceived, and that he was the one who would deliver it to the people in this room.
Chapter 2
Wednesday October 23
Admiral Chu Hua-Feng dozed in the pilot-in-command seat of the Tupolev TU-187 seaplane, his hands crossed over his taut abdominal muscles, leaning far back in the reclined seat, a black blindfold strapped over his eyes.
The seaplane rocked gently in the calm sea. The only sound was the slight blowing of the ventilation system, which pulled in the salty, fishy-smelling sea air.
In Chu’s dream he was walking with his father in a sepia-tinted image, the deck of his father’s destroyer under their feet, the Saturday morning sunshine making stark shadows on the ship’s decks. Chu’s five-year-old voice was asking one question after another, questions that would seem odd now, but in his little boy mind had seemed vitally important. Questions like, what’s a missile launcher, what’s a missile do, why do we need missiles?
The elder Chu answered each one patiently, steadily, as if being questioned by a government official, except that the answers were filled with endearments, which for his father meant calling him “my little warrior” and “fighter Chu.”
But suddenly his father, then Lieutenant Commander Chu Hsueh-Fan, turned to him in the open space between a missile battery and a torpedo launcher, dropping down to one knee, his face so close to young Chu’s that he could smell his father’s cigarette-smoke-tinged breath and see the bloodshot lines in his eyes.
“Young warrior, there is danger below. You must hurry. You must finish quickly. If you stay too long, they will come for you, and they are strong.”
“But, Father, what do you mean?”
“Hurry, my son. Finish quickly. Do not linger.”
“But I don’t understand,” Chu whined.
“There is a satellite update. Admiral,” his father said, his face beginning to change in shape, becoming unfocused.
“What?”
“A satellite update. Admiral,” the voice said. “Are you awake?”
Chu pulled off his blindfold and blinked several times.
The face of the copilot was close in his vision. Chu pushed him back and yanked the lever of the seat, bringing it upright.
“Say that again,” Chu said, the dream already gone, with no trace of it left in his memory. He knew he’d seen something he should remember, but it had slipped away.
“We have a satellite update. Admiral. Commander Lo has the data at the console aft.”
Chu wrenched himself out of the command seat and hurried aft, his body unsteady from being awakened suddenly, in addition to the rocking of the aircraft floating in the sea.
At the console, Lo Sun sat in the seat inside the wraparound panels. Chu crouched down to look at Lo’s display.
It was a high-definition still photograph, taken from the air, focused downward on a harbor. Three ships were clearly shown in the center of the deep channel, their wakes white across the darkness of the calm water. The ships looked odd, without pointed bows and square sterns and flat decks. They were cigar shaped, dull gray, in minimal contrast to the surrounding water. The picture was a photograph of his future ship. Soon it would put to sea, and soon after that he would board it and make it his own. Together he and that ship would make history.
The blue laser locked onto the hull steaming slowly in front of them. The heads-up display pointed in the direction of the vessel, the range indicator showing the target only two hundred meters ahead.
Chu throttled up and the submersible accelerated until he felt the shaking of the craft in the wake of the big submarine. The screw, more of a water-jet propulsor, put an incredible amount of turbulence into the water, even at this slow speed. The enormous amount of horsepower required to push eight thousand metric tons of submarine through the ocean stirred and churned up the water for miles astern. Chu was careful to approach the ship from its port rear quadrant rather than directly astern. There a collision could occur from the unpredictability of the wake vortex, an unexpected swirl able to toss his small craft into a rudder and slice open his hull.
Still the wake current pushed him downward, then upward, the computer correcting the ship’s attitude.
Above Chu’s head in the hemispherical view port the blue Pacific waves washed gently across his field of vision.
The target ship was still not visible despite the clearness of the water. He had no need for the high-intensity spotlights so close to the surface, but although visibility was up to fifty meters, he still could see only blue haze ahead.
The blue laser range count came steadily down to a hundred meters, then eighty, soon sixty. Chu strained his eyes looking for the stern of the submarine. As his eyes began to water, Chu blinking it away, he thought he saw something, but it was not above, where he’d expected it, but deeper. He swallowed, staring at the sheer size of the hull approaching in the blue fog around him.