Red Shark

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

Key Largo, Florida

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.”

“Yes, sir. What about Beijing? They sure as hell will ask us what’s going on.”

“Stall them. What else can we do?”

“I have a thought,” Radford said.

“Let’s hear it, Karl,” said the president.

“It’s still possible that the Taiwanese may think it was a local issue, a shoot-out between drug-lords.”

“That’s not going to hold up for very long,” said Friedman.

“But it’s better than nothing.”