Tokugawa looked away, into a dark and sinister sea.
“Mistakes are made and mistakes are corrected,” Fat said, not unwilling to grovel to make things right. “Things will continue as they have.”
Tokugawa turned his gaze on Fat. “Excellent.”
They toasted, after which Tokugawa said, “Marshal Jin. How do you read him?”
“Confident. He is quite eager to meet with you. Whatever your arrangements with him are, I wish you great success. If it is a new business venture, I would like to say that my own arrangement with the North Koreans has always been cordial.”
“And mutually profitable.”
“They have products and we have lines of distribution and, of course, influence. Very profitable. But also dangerous. As you know, Beijing wants to exert control over the East and South China Seas. The Americans are trying to prevent this. Some day China and America will go to war to decide who controls what. Such a war would bring an end to my arrangements with North Korea, and thus with the Mainland Chinese and Taiwan.”
“There will be no war between China and the United States.”
Fat regarded Tokugawa with naked skepticism. “If you believe that, Iseda-san, then you must have the ear of powerful individuals. Marshal Jin, for one. And so I say with great humility that if I can assist your future dealings with the North Koreans in any way, I hope you will ask me.”
“I would not impose upon you further, Wu-san, nor on our friendship. You have provided both privacy and security, and that is sufficient to prevent others from intruding.”
“I understand. After all, I, too, loath the Americans. And despite past differences between our two countries, I commend the work of the Japan Pacific War Veterans Association. This new generation, ah, they look only to the future, to the next day, to the next hour. They have no connection to the past. No respect for history. None.” Fat waited for a response.
Tokugawa finished his wine. The wind had turned cold, cutting him like a knife, and he shuddered. Recovered, he recited, “ ‘In all things foreign, I come across a man who Does not forget our Empire.’ It was written by Akemi Tachibana. Let history record that the Americans forgot our empire, and that forgetting, failed to see the end of their own empire. Now I would like to rest. Perhaps there is a cabin I may use.”
Three hundred yards off the White Dragon’s port beam, a steel pole painted mottled gray-and-black camouflage, with a sea serpent’s eye at its tip, popped out of the water. Sixty feet below the surface, Commander Deng Zemin screwed his eye into the rubber buffer surrounding the periscope’s ocular and toggled to infrared. The White Dragon changed from a chunky black silhouette into a speeding bluish-green dragon with a glowing red heart — the heat bloom from her roaring diesel engines.
Zemin’s submarine, a Russian-built Kilo 636 diesel-electric attack boat, one of a dozen in commission with the People’s Liberation Army Navy, or PLAN, steamed a course parallel to the White Dragon while Zemin looked her over. The Kilo’s MGK-400 EM digital sonar had picked up the White Dragon’s snarking, sputtering diesels the moment she’d upped anchor in the roadstead off Chi-lung. Zemin had orders from North Sea Fleet Headquarters to monitor drug trafficking across the Formosa Strait, especially by Wu Chow Fat. He knew Beijing suspected that Fat was siphoning North Korean heroin to the Russian Mafiya, but that they had no proof.
While Zemin observed Fat’s activities, Zemin’s first officer watched the periscope’s video repeater and made notes with a stylus on a data pad, from which he could prompt the Kilo’s combat and command system’s computer for automatic fire control if needed.
Zemin’s inspection of Fat’s vessel revealed not only a pair of super-heated diesels but also an M-168 Lockheed Martin 20mm six-barreled Vulcan chain-gun, its snout poking from under a tarpaulin, and a pair of Browning .50-caliber heavy machine guns midships.
“Fat departed Chi-lung for Matsu Shan at high speed,” Zemin said. “I wonder what waits on his island that is so important.”
The first officer smiled. “Indeed, Comrade Captain, he has both throttles wide open.”
Zemin folded the periscope’s handles and stepped back. A sailor yanked a hydraulic lever in the overhead; the periscope hummed into its well. Zemin folded his arms and frowned while he considered options. He was a handsome man with delicate Mandarin features of the type favored by the younger members of the Central Committee, whose job it was to hand out choice commands within the PLAN. Zemin’s officers, handpicked by him, had been encouraged to think for themselves, a rarity in the PLAN.
“Perhaps, Comrade Captain,” said the first officer, “we should sprint ahead to Matsu Shan.”
“I agree. The ministers in Beijing might be interested in what we report. You may give the orders.”
The first officer swung into action. The stubby, teardrop-shaped sub sheared away from the plodding White Dragon and sprinted north.
“We will see what this powder merchant, Fat, is up to,” said Zemin.
10
Scott finished a workout, then showered. Dressed in fresh cammies, he sat at the small folding desk in his stateroom and pondered the mission. Jefferson was trouble. The man wanted to run the operation himself and didn’t want someone looking over his shoulder, perhaps believing that Radford lacked confidence in him by assigning Scott to the mission. Bad enough he had to deal with Jefferson’s bruised ego, Scott feared there was little time left to figure out what the NKs were up to. Were Marshal Jin and his henchman bent on launching nuclear weapons? If they did, U.S. Trident SSBNs would launch nuclear-tipped missiles against North Korea. It’s what we all train for, Scott thought, but you can’t train for the possibility that a maniacal general in North Korea will overthrow an equally maniacal dictator.
He thought about Tracy in Tokyo. What if she knew? Would she leave her toy, Rick, and come home? If she did, could they patch things up? Why did he care if he didn’t need her anymore?
The sound-powered phone chirped.
“Scott.”
Sam Deacon said, “We’re just about at point X-ray. Thought you’d want to know.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Scott found Deacon, Kramer, Jefferson, and the quartermaster of the watch huddled over one of the plotting tables in the control room.
Jefferson made room, then pointed to two marks penciled on the chart east of Taiwan. “Captain says we’re here and that X-ray is there.” X-ray was a prearranged holding box twenty miles northeast of Matsu Shan.
Deacon said, “We’ll have you in position to kick out at twenty-two hundred.”
Eight hours to go, Scott calculated. So far it was running like clockwork. “How’s the traffic upstairs?”
“Sir, like Times Square,” answered the quartermaster. “We’re tracking close to twenty targets.”
Ships of all sizes entering and departing Taiwanese ports posed a potential hazard to the Reno. To prevent detection and to avoid a possible collision as she crept silently toward X-ray, Deacon had ordered a depth of 500 feet.
Deacon said, “You should be launched by twenty-two-thirty latest.”
Scott turned to Jefferson. “Did you pre-flight the mini-sub?”
“Checked out and ready to go. We’ll run a final pre-flight, say, an hour before we kick out.” He came upright from the chart table and stretched. “How about that brief from the old man. About time, isn’t it?”