“Good job,” Scott said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chief Brodie twiddled his comms gear. “Skipper, I’ve got Deitrich. They’re gonna up-anchor and move in close to pick us up off the beach. He’ll raise an infrared beacon for us to home in on. We should be able to wade out and meet them and—”
“Holy shit!”
Scott looked where Jefferson pointed — at the White Dragon, nosing toward the beach, her diesels throbbing softly.
It took a split second to register and for Scott to bellow, “Take cover!”
The SEALs dove into the mangrove as Scott bellowed again, “Chief, raise Deitrich, tell him to stay put—”
A heavy burst of fire erupted from the White Dragon’s Vulcan cannon. Bright green golf-ball-sized tracers and 20-millimeter rounds streaked into the pier, smashing the motor launch to kindling and starting a fire.
“Incendiaries!” Jefferson barked. “He’s firing goddamn incendiaries!”
Incendiary rounds walked up the beach into the stacked drums of fuel, which exploded in a gigantic ball of orange fire, a deafening roar, and a wall of searing heat.
Pieces of flaming debris pinwheeled into the air, rained down into the sea, onto the beach and into the mangrove, ripping off branches and igniting the foliage. A huge funnel of black, oily smoke rolled skyward. Secondary explosions went off as the flames reached paint cans and lube oil stored in lockers under the pier.
“Where the fuck did he get that toy?” Jefferson shouted above the Vulcan’s hammering.
All Scott and the SEALs could do was keep their heads down and hope that the barrage Fat was laying down didn’t sweep the beach in their direction and mow down the mangrove. Fire from the Vulcan, at 3,000 rounds a minute, continued to pour into the island and up the bluff into the villa. Raked with incendiaries, the sprawling structure roared into flame.
Scott heard a yelp. He turned and saw Van Kirk writhing in the sand, clutching his side. Scott belly-crawled to him and saw a dark red stain where a piece of hot metal debris had lacerated Van Kirk’s rib cage.
“Jesus Christ, that hurts,” Van Kirk rasped, his face contorted with pain.
“I’ve got him,” Caserta said. He ripped open a dressing and parked a syrette between his teeth, ready to plunge it into Van Kirk. “Lay still, will ya?”
“How bad is it?” Scott said.
“Can’t tell yet.”
“Not bad,” Van Kirk said through clenched, chattering teeth.
“Just shut up,” Caserta told him and jabbed the syrette into Van Kirk’s hip.
The ground shook with the might of the Vulcan’s destructive power, its heavy rounds pouring in from the White Dragon, pounding the villa, setting the garden and cabanas afire, smashing to bits anything in their path.
Like a giant funeral pyre, flames, smoke, and burning debris from the villa lifted high on the wind across Matsu Shan and fanned out to sea, where it would soon draw ships and planes from miles around. When the Mainland Chinese and Taiwanese governments got word that someone had annihilated Fat’s army and that Matsu Shan had been burned down to water level, they’d want answers fast and might start looking for them in Washington. Scott hoped that Radford and the president would have some good ones ready.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped. Over the crackle and pop of burning fuel and timbers, Scott heard the White Dragon’s diesels raise their voices: Fat, having completed his work, and with his private army decimated, was hauling out to save himself.
Scott cautiously rose to a knee and looked around: The motor launch and what was left of the pier burned bright orange; the villa was a mass of flaming, blackened joists and rafters and shattered masonry.
“Do you believe this?” Jefferson said as he stood beside Scott, surveying the wreckage.
“It’s going to draw a lot of rubberneckers,” Scott said. “Let’s get packing.”
The wind had blown smoke off the beach, leaving clear their escape lane.
Jefferson looked up at what was left of the villa and just shook his head.
“You might want to check on Van Kirk,” Scott said.
“Right. I’ll do that,” Jefferson said and moved off.
Scott located Brodie. “Chief, tell Deitrich to stand by to take us aboard. And give the Reno a heads-up. Tell them what happened, but make it quick. Oh, and tell them to keep an eye on Fat. I don’t want him to get away.”
22
Zemin had watched in utter amazement as the White Dragon, after raking the island with cannon fire, stood out to sea.
“Fat destroyed his own headquarters and now has withdrawn seaward. I don’t understand why he would do such a thing.” He turned the periscope over to his first officer.
Puzzled, Zemin pored over the track chart on which he’d marked the positions where, he’d thought, both the U.S. 688I and the ASDS might be found. He checked his calculations again: They confirmed that the ASDS had to be somewhere in a triangular-shaped area less than a mile square, just off Matsu Shan’s southern coast in shallow water.
Zemin remembered how his grandfather, a hunter all his life, had taught him that a hunter who employed patience and cunning could sometimes flush a bird by threatening its brood. Find the brood, he’d preached, and the mother bird will come to their rescue.
“Comrade Captain.”
Zemin glanced up at the slaved video monitor.
“Sir, the White Dragon has cleared Matsu Shan at ten knots.”
“Commence tracking.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helm, steer new course one-six-five.” A heading of 165 led to the triangular-shaped search area Zemin had marked on the chart. “I think that with a little luck we will find both the 688I and her ASDS in under”—he glanced at the chronometer—“thirty minutes. You may start the backup clock.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helm, secure creep motor; main motors ahead a half together.” He scanned the MGK-400 EM’s monitors. “Combat systems officer.”
“Sir?”
“Full sweep and range on magnetic sensors,” Zemin commanded.
The officer acknowledged the order and threw various fixed-function switches on his console to activate the MAD gear housed in a chin blister under the Kilo’s domed bow.
Zemin remembered his grandfather’s second edict: First, step easy like the cat; next, step hard like the bull. When the ground shakes, the mother bird takes wing. Well, Zemin thought, the ground might not shake, but he was certain that the bird would take wing.
“Conn, Sonar, I’ve got Sierra One bearing three-two-zero, making turns for eight knots. Range approximately five-eight-zero-zero yards.”
Deacon, standing by the lowered scope, looked slightly stunned by the eruption he, too, had witnessed on Matsu Shan.
Sonar broke the silence in the control room. “Sir, Sierra One—”
“Right. That son of a bitch Kilo must have a MAD contact on the ASDS,” Deacon said. “Comms.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Who’s pilot? Deitrich or Allen?”
“Deitrich, sir.”
“Feed him our data. Tell him to hold course for rendezvous but be prepared to wait for our beacon. Say it may be a little while, that we’ve got some housekeeping to do.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Sonar, Conn. Sierra One still closing?”
“Yes, sir. Speed still eight knots.”
“Rus.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s give the Chinaman something to think about. All ahead one-third. Come to course zero-four-zero. We’re going to run interference for Scott. Let’s hope he and the SEALs are still in one piece.” He shook his head. “Hell, even if they’re not, that Chinaman had better back off or he’s going to take one up the nose.”