“Firing point procedures on Sierra Two, stand by tubes one and two.”
Scott knew that two wire-guided Mk-48s fired down the same track, nose to tail, might home in on each other instead of the intended target and detonate prematurely. Scott agreed with Deacon that it was a risky tactic, and that two Mk-48 ADCAPs were overkill against a wooden-hulled junk, but it would ensure that no one aboard would survive to tell what had happened; at the same time, it would destroy whatever spy material Fat had swept out of the villa.
“Flood tubes, open outer doors,” Deacon ordered.
Kramer confirmed Deacon’s order and added, “Captain, got a good firing solution.” He rattled off the target’s course, speed, and range.
“Very well,” said Deacon. “Up scope.”
The Type-18 hummed out of its well. Deacon snapped the handles down, then put the crosshairs on the White Dragon. He pressed the red bearing transmitter button on the focusing grip. “Bearing — mark.”
“Zero-four-two.”
“Final bearing and shoot — tubes one and two.”
Kramer repeated and confirmed the command from the weapons-control panel, then ordered, “Fire One.” A moment later he ordered, “Fire Two.”
Forward, a surge of compressed air and a whine like two runaway buzz saws confirmed that the Mk-48s had surged out of their tubes.
“Tubes one and two fired electrically,” Kramer confirmed.
“Down scope!”
Like the classic shooting of fish in a barrel, Scott thought as he swallowed to equalize the rise in air pressure from the release of the two torpedoes.
“What’s the time to run?” Deacon asked.
“Under three minutes,” Kramer said.
Time inched forward. Deacon, who was worried that the torpedoes running in tandem might premature, glanced at Scott and said, “So far so good.”
Two minutes after launch, Kramer reported, “Both torpedoes have acquired Sierra Two.”
Deacon ordered, “Cut the wires; shut the outer doors.” He gave Scott a thumbs-up, then issued a command that swung the Reno away from the doomed junk.
Wu Chow Fat backed into a chair designed to accommodate his girth and sat down behind a rosewood desk bolted to the deck in the White Dragon’s main cabin. As big as a corporate boardroom, the cabin was outfitted with handwoven carpets, antique ceramics, porcelains, as well as all the latest electronic gadgets, including HDTV.
Fat drank chilled white wine and tried without success to calm down while he watched his two female consorts primp and preen for their arrival at Pearl Mountain, the private estate of his friend Heung Kim Wong. The assault on his compound by an unidentified force had left him badly shaken. Not pirates, not a rival, certainly not Chinese. Americans. His world was in tatters, and he had been lucky to escape alive! Fat glanced at the gleaming brass compass repeater mounted on gimbals by his desk. Its needle, hovering over the lighted compass card, indicated that the White Dragon was heading toward a cluster of small islands off Mainland China at Sensha Wan, where Heung Kim Wong would give him refuge. Fat had to warn Marshal Jin and Tokugawa, but not while at sea, where enemy ears had been pricked. Instead he’d use Wong’s overland network.
Fat turned his attention to the smashed micro air vehicle laying on his desk, along with two hard drives and a stack of mini-DVDs. He examined the MAV, turning it over in his hands, marveling that something so small could fly like an insect and capture video images while doing it. The perfect spy machine, he thought. And made in the USA. Friends of his in Beijing would pay a fortune to lay hands on it.
Then a curious thing caught his eye: Two brilliant, white-hot balls of fire had mysteriously blossomed in the center of the cabin. He had only a nanosecond to grasp their significance before they expanded and consumed everything in their path.
At the scope, Scott watched thick twin columns of water rise at least 500 feet into the air and then collapse. Two mighty explosions from the Mk-48s shook the Reno to her keel. The White Dragon had been vaporized, along with Fat, his consorts, his crew, his wine collection, his fine furnishings, electronic gadgets, and the MAV. There was now a steaming vortex where moments ago she had been chugging across the water.
All Scott saw were infrared traces from hot debris cooling in seawater, which, even as he watched, disappeared like the glowing remains of fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Minutes earlier, sonar had reported hearing two buzz saws, which Zemin had refused to believe were torpedoes in the water. He’d reprimanded his sonarmen for issuing a false report, but an instant later he heard the sharp, rising whine of props and knew there was no mistake. Zemin thought the torpedoes were aimed at him and almost panicked. Before he could issue orders to take evasive action, the trip-hammer double boom of exploding torpedo warheads rattled the Kilo. Only then did Zemin understand what had happened.
The sonarman, badly shaken, said, “Comrade Captain, I have a contact—”
“What?”
“Sir, a contact.”
“With White Dragon?…”
“No, Captain, an American 688I, clearing to the southeast at flank speed.”
Zemin wiped his face on the sleeve of his royal blue submarine coveralls, embroidered with three gold bands. “Is there any sign of the White Dragon?” he asked hopefully.
“None, Captain.”
Zemin stood in the utterly silent control room and tried to piece it together: The Americans had torpedoed Fat’s vessel and now were flanking it out of the area. First U.S. Navy SEALs on Matsu Shan. Now this. The Americans seemed determined to start a war in Chinese waters. But why? Why, when they were facing the possibility of war with North Korea? It made no sense, but then he was a warrior, not a politician. It would be for the leaders in Beijing to fathom what the Americans were up to.
“First Officer. Bring us to periscope depth. We’ll see if there are any survivors. Meanwhile, draft a message for transmission to Northern Fleet Headquarters. Explain what has happened and prepare to send it Urgent/Priority/Commander One.”
“Aye, Captain.” He gave the orders, then activated his electronic data pad and called up a standard message format to send on the PLAN’s highest-priority network.
“The Americans,” said, Zemin, “are crazy. And very dangerous.”
24
Paul Friedman watched the first lady in a white mini-bikini, doing laps in the pool. After a long moment he turned away from the sliding glass doors fronting the pool and back to Karl Radford on the SVTC set up in the Florida White House conference room.
“There’s no chance of a mistake, is there, Karl?” said Friedman. “You’re sure Marshal Jin is back in Pyongyang?”
“I’m sure of it, Paul,” Radford said, slightly annoyed that Friedman would question the SRO’s satellite pickups. “You saw the pictures; it’s definitely him.”
“They’re so… blurred, but I suppose it’s the best you can do.”
“Trust me, it’s him. As for the Taiwanese, they landed a special forces contingent on Matsu Shan to assess what happened. After all, there was no way to hide the fires and smoke.”
“Then we’ll just have to wait and see what the Taiwanese say,” the president interjected. “Paul, you and State handle it if their ambassador, Hun, starts asking questions.”
“Sir, he’s a prick and thinks we’re in cahoots with the Mainland Chinese to screw them.”
The president waved this away. “I know that, just do what you have to, to keep him off our backs.”