Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) by Don Keith (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📗

Jian. Readly was the first man to fast-rope out of the hovering bird to the ship’s deck below. A dozen heavily armed Marines followed him down.

What they found was a research ship manned with mostly sailors, technicians, and engineers. No one offered any resistance. Most actually seemed relieved to see the Americans.

The research vessel’s Stanford-trained chief research engineer, who introduced himself as Sun Ryn, hurriedly ushered Readly into the mission control module. There he explained that he had a serious problem. There was a DSV with three people aboard. As far as he could determine, it was on the bottom, but they had lost all communications with it. He had no idea of what might have happened to not allow the little submersible to return to the surface.

But there was one thing. They had heard an emergency pinger. It had been actuated ten thousand meters directly below them. The men down there needed help. Needed rescue.

The DSV only had enough life support for twenty-four hours submerged. As of now, they had already been down for almost twelve hours.

Readly thought for a half minute, then did the only thing he knew to do.

He made a call back to Joe Glass on the Chesty Puller.

27

The fog of unconsciousness in Yon Hun Glo’s head slowly gave way to some semblance of lucidity. Groggy as he was, he was certainly aware of a pulsing pain at the back of his head. He reached back to feel.

It was sticky wet. Blood.

Then there was the blindness. The admiral was certain his eyes were open, but everything was completely dark. There was not the barest glimmer of light anywhere. Could it be that he really had been blinded in the tossing and turning they had just endured? Or maybe he was not even awake at all.

He groaned and tried to move from the awkward, painful position in which he seemed to be stuck. That was when he heard another dreadful growl from someone nearby. Then that someone moved. It was the pilot.

“I believe I am awake,” the pilot said weakly. “Which of you is that?”

“It is I, Admiral Yon Hun Glo. What are you doing?”

He could feel the man fumbling about in the tight, dark space, looking for something. Then a small light clicked on.

When their eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, they could see that the interior of the DSV was in shambles. It was now obvious that the mudslide—or whatever had slapped their vessel so hard—had tipped the Fendouji over onto its port side. The little view window on that side was useless, completely covered with silt.

The equipment operator lay still, jammed up against one of the control panels. A faint trickle of blood seeped down from his nose and dripped onto his coveralls. Yon Hun Glo reached over and searched for a pulse. If there was one, it was so weak that he could not feel it. At least not with his cold, numb fingers.

It did not really matter. There was nothing they could do for the operator. Not down here. Not until they got this machine back underway and to the surface. There they could see to him. But, more importantly, they could also determine how much of the load of gold they might have managed to hold onto in the turmoil.

The pilot was already fiddling with his controls, but he was also shaking his head and mumbling in frustration.

“Admiral, we do not have any propulsion at all. I am unable to make the vessel move. It does appear that the life support systems are working as designed. And the battery is showing about half charge.” He suddenly hit the control panel in frustration. “But I am unable to get it to move. Not even a millimeter!”

Yon Hun Glo looked at the pilot and calmly told him, “You must remain calm. Do you understand me? You are the only one who knows how to drive this thing. We will simply tell the Zhang Jian of our problem. They will figure out something and get us back up to them at the surface. Remember, they, too, will have a share of the gold and ample motivation to rescue us. They will get us up once we inform them that we have run into difficulties.”

The pilot offered only an ugly laugh. Then he snorted and laughed even louder, bordering on maniacal.

“That’s the rest of our problem, Admiral,” he finally said. “The data link and acoustic comms systems are both out of order. We do not have any communications with the surface. They likely have no idea of the seriousness of our situation. They only know they have lost communication with us.” The pilot glanced at a gauge on his panel. “And here is the really depressing news. We have a bit less than twelve hours of air remaining.”

“Twelve hours?”

“You are a submariner, Admiral. You know what happens when the air begins to run out. When it has become mostly expelled carbon dioxide. When the air you have left to breathe is so bad your lungs refuse to accept it, you gag, you cough. When you feel as if your head will explode and your fingers and toes turn blue and your lips…”

“Stop it! Stop that kind of talk.” Yon resisted the impulse to slap the frantic pilot. Instead, he eased back down and tried to find a comfortable place to rest while he considered their situation.

“There is one bit of good news,” the pilot said.

“Please share,” Yon Hun Glo responded irritably.

The pilot pointed to the equipment operator, now clearly not breathing.

“We will have a third more air to breathe than we would have if Wang Wei had not just died.”

The admiral gave the pilot a hard look. The man’s insubordination would not go unpunished. Then he glanced at the air gauge on the instrument panel.

Peering sideways at the pilot, Yon asked, “So, what you are telling me is that we may not be able to get this first load of gold up to the