Red Shark

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

The Kilo 636, off Matsu Shan

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“Fat destroyed his own headquarters and now has withdrawn seaward.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.”

“Comrade Captain, the American has turned toward and speeded up. Speed twelve knots, range five thousand yards.”