Red Shark

“Comms from Reno,” Brodie said, squinting. “Message is breakin’ up bad, hard to hear.” Then, “Jesus H. Christ!”

Scott had an uneasy feeling that things were about to get worse, if that was possible.

“Skipper, Reno says they’ve got the White Dragon underway. Fat must be aboard. Reno wants us to advise.”

“Tell them we’re hauling ass.”

* * *

Scott, Jefferson, Brodie, Leclerc, and Zipolski had assembled at the rally point on the beach by the mangrove thicket, around Ramos’s body, which was zipped into a waterproof remains bag. Caserta and Van Kirk trotted from the area of the pier and joined them.

“You were right, Skipper,” said Caserta. “The elevator tunnel exits at the foot of the bluff. We found a path leading from it to the pier.”

“The motor launch is still tied up,” Van Kirk said. “Fat must have used an inflatable boat to get himself aboard the junk.”

“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.