Scott winced. Doc had shot Scott’s hand with anesthetic, and he started to dress a wound that Scott couldn’t recollect receiving. While the doc stitched, Deacon rattled off the information Fire-control had on both targets.
“Let’s get Radford on the horn,” Scott said. “I don’t mind starting a war with the Chinese, but let’s at least get his blessing before we do.”
Finished stitching, Doc departed. Deacon headed for the control room, but Jefferson stayed put. He waited a beat, then said, “Jake… what I said before, that it takes a shooter to lead a shooter…”
Scott, mute, his gaze planted on Jefferson, stepped into a pair of rumpled khakis. Jefferson, eyes cast down, ran a hand over his mouth. “Look, Skipper, what I’m trying to say is that…” He looked up. “Back on Matsu Shan, you were a hell of a shooter. The others, too, they saw what you did.”
“I just did my job,” Scott said, reaching for a shirt, “no more than you all did. Especially Ramos.”
“Yeah, Ramos. But what I said about Karst, that other shit—”
“Forget it. We’ve got more work to do. And it’s going to take more shooting.”
Jefferson thrust out a hand and they shook, two men who respected each other. “I owe you, Jake. Don’t hesitate to call it in.”
Scott nodded. “If I ever need to, I will. Bet on it.”
Radford said, “The president agrees that we can’t allow Fat to be given refuge by the Mainland Chinese, Taiwanese, or anyone else for that matter. If the discs and videos he has fall into Chinese hands, it will complicate matters beyond belief. Therefore, I’m issuing orders in the name of the president for you to destroy the White Dragon and everyone and everything aboard her. Totally.”
Scott glanced at Deacon, then Jefferson. “Understood,” he said.
“As to your question, Commander Scott, about a cover story, we will tell anyone who asks that we know nothing about the dealings between, shall we say, rival drug-lords. We all know that sometimes they fight over territory and that can lead to unforeseen consequences. Now, why a vessel would blow up and sink in the Taiwan Strait, well, Mr. Fat is a known dealer in armaments, which are sometimes dangerous to transport by sea. Especially explosives. People are careless. Ships sink.”
“Yes, sir, they do. Or will,” Jefferson quipped.
“Nevertheless, you will exercise all reasonable caution when taking action against the White Dragon. I don’t want innocent people killed or injured, or a foreign-flagged vessel damaged. If it can be done so there are no witnesses, all the better.”
“That may be difficult,” Scott said. “We’re operating in busy waters.”
“I understand. As for the Chinese, well, if they lodge a protest, we’ll play ignorant. We can exert some control over the Taiwanese and perhaps their press reports, if there are any, will reflect this. What’s the White Dragon’s current position, Captain Deacon?”
“Sir, she’s about a hundred klicks southeast of Matsu Lietao. We’re trailing and can take her out in under five minutes.”
Radford lit a cigarette. He squinted as he talked through a scrim of smoke drifting across the monitored scene from Crystal City. “Very well. The sooner the better.”
“General, what about the Kilo?” Jefferson said. “They’re watching every move we make.”
“Gentlemen, you will handle her with care. I don’t want an incident with the Chinese. Bad enough they’ve been dogging you and this operation. We may be able to paper over whatever it is they think we’re doing, but I can’t guarantee it. In any event, the president is quite determined to keep the Chinese out of our plans.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll do our best,” Scott said. “I should tell you, though, that we sent the Kilo a message.” Scott explained the game of chicken they’d played. “I expect the Chinese skipper will call home when we hit the White Dragon.”
“And that’s why you will high-tail it out of there after it’s done. Any questions? No? Then I want to bring on Ms. Kida in Tokyo.”
The monitor went to blue, then split in half. Scott saw Fumiko looking fresh and bright, and with a serious look on her face.
“Commander Scott, Colonel Jefferson,” she said, “congratulations on a successful mission. But I also want to express my deepest regrets that one of your men, Petty Officer Ramos, was killed.”
“Thank you,” Scott said, “I’ll tell the others. Ramos made it possible for us to return with intelligence material. I just hope that what we found will prove worthwhile.”
“The mini-DVD from their surveillance system. Have you viewed it?”
“No, I don’t want to touch it. Better our experts in Yokosuka examine it first.”
“Indeed,” Radford interjected. “Then I’ll want Ms. Kida and her people to view it and see what, if anything, they can determine. They have, as you know, first-rate computer software that might wring something of value from it.”
“And how do we get the DVD into Ms. Kida’s hands?” Scott asked.
“When your op is secure, you will break off and return immediately to Yokosuka.”
Radford was referring to the big base on Honshu, south of Tokyo, home of the U.S. Navy Seventh Fleet.
“After our people in Yokosuka have looked at the disc, Scott, you and Ms. Kida will deliver it to the Japan Defense Intelligence Headquarters in Tokyo.”
Scott saw Fumiko’s look soften. He was quite sure that he saw a hint of a smile on her lips as the video conference ended.
“That’s her, that’s Fat’s junk.” Deacon turned the periscope over to Scott, who had been watching an image of the White Dragon on the slaved video monitor. Now, for real, he saw in infrared the junk’s stubby outline and the glowing heat blooms from her twin diesels.
“I concur,” Scott said.
Deacon ordered, “Down scope. Clear baffles to port.”
“Clear baffles to port, aye.”
The Reno turned ninety degrees left to make sure no other ships, especially the Kilo, had crept up from astern.
“Sonar, Conn, report all contacts,” Deacon commanded.
“Conn, Sonar, report all contacts, aye,” responded the sonar supervisor. After a short delay he said, “I have four contacts, Sierra One through Four. I have Sierra One, the Kilo, bearing one-three-zero.”
The Kilo had approached from the southeast. That her skipper had kept his distance from the Reno convinced Deacon that the AN/SLQ-30 countermeasure had sent the warning he’d intended.
“Any commercials?” Deacon asked.
“Sir, I have Sierra Three and Four. Both are single-screw commercial vessels.” Sonar read their bearings, which Deacon noted as the quartermaster plotted their positions on the navigation chart.
“White Dragon?”
“Sir, I report Sierra Two, the White Dragon, making turns for ten knots. Bearing zero-four-two.”
“Very well, let’s take care of business,” Deacon said.
Scott knew what was going through Deacon’s head, that he had never fired a live warshot at a target other than in a training exercise and that there were people aboard the White Dragon who would be killed. Scott had once had similar thoughts about firing on one of Kim Jong-il’s destroyers bearing down on the Chicago, off the North Korean coast, but that had been another world and another mission. When it had come time to fire torpedoes, Scott hadn’t hesitated. Training made all the difference: When your own life, the lives of your crew, and a mission were on the line, a sub skipper never hesitated to pull the trigger.