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

had caused her to sit alongside the pier for five years, unable to dive or even get underway. That was followed by another five years stuck in a shipyard, undergoing a complete overhaul. Almost ten full years tied up while her sisters were out steaming on the open ocean.

Now, at long last, the Boise was free to ply the seven seas again, almost as new old-stock. As something of a reward, maybe, the sub was moved from the East Coast to Submarine Squadron Fifteen in Guam. As one of the four boats homeported in that most forward US submarine base, the Boise was part of what was termed a quick reaction submarine response force, or more commonly, “the tip of the spear.”

It had been less than a week since RADM Jon Ward put down the phone after speaking with COMSUBPAC, and now the Boise was clearing the breakwater off Apra Harbor and heading due west with orders to get down to the Spratlys and find out what the hell was going on out there.

Not nearly as exciting as the action typically portrayed in submarine movies, but everyone aboard Boise knew that snooping around, listening, watching without being detected, were things submarines did very well. And though she had been virtually forgotten for most of a decade, the sub’s crew were ready to get out there and go to work.

4

Yon Hun Glo stepped off the big blue-gray aircraft onto the hot tarmac. He stretched, trying to work the kinks out of his aching back. The interminable flight from the Yulin Naval Base on Hainan to Tonga had consumed more than ten hours of his busy life. Despite the Xi’an Y-20 being a very large aircraft and the most modern of its type currently being flown by the Chinese Air Force, it was still primarily a military transport. It had offered none of the creature comforts found on a commercial airliner. Even Yon Hun Glo’s shiny, new three-stars could not change that.

The heat and humidity were Yon Hun Glo’s first impression of the tropical island of Tonga. Fua’amotu International Airport, the kingdom’s major air facility, was surrounded by subsistence farms on the southern side of Tongatapu, the main island. At just twenty-one degrees south of the equator, the flat farmland broiled in the unrelenting sun.

A three-car motorcade pulled onto the tarmac from behind the ramshackle single-story building that served as the airport’s terminal. Two big, black, bug-spattered SUVs and a Mercedes limo, flying the red-and-white Tongan flag, came to a stop in front of the Chinese aircraft.

The driver jumped out of the limo and opened the rear door. A rotund, dark-skinned man emerged. He was dressed in traditional Tongan garb, a finely woven ta’ovala loukeha worn over a sarong-like tupenu that matched his tailored linen jacket. Though hardly dressed for the mid-day heat, this man was no doubt in charge. This was King Tofuwanga II.

The monarch smiled broadly as he ambled over to where Yon Hun Glo stood at the foot of the aircraft’s ladder, trying to find shade beneath the plane’s wing.

“Welcome to Tonga,” the king called out. “I trust you had a smooth flight, Admiral.”

The two men shook hands and Tofuwanga shepherded Yon Hun Glo back to his limo.

“Come out of the sun, my friend. We have air conditioning inside the car. Very refreshing. We will ride in comfort back to the palace. We have a wonderful island banquet prepared for you and then we will have much progress to discuss. But first, I want to take you up to Mua. That is where you will see evidence of how your country is helping my country build a deep-water terminal. It is a bit of a detour but well worth the trip.”

Yon Hun Glo smiled. Determining, in person, the progress in completing the terminal was the real reason for this long trip. China had proffered large loans to King Tofuwanga out of the Belt and Roads Initiative for the specific purpose of constructing the terminal and greatly expanding the “international” airport. Yon Hun Glo had already determined that there was no progress to see there. He could just make out through the weeds a row of survey stakes suggesting the new runway’s location, and that was the only activity put toward building anything there.

The man was not to be trusted. The admiral was well aware of the king’s derisive moniker, “King Two-for-One," bestowed by many of his subjects. China had loaned this potentate several billion pa’anga, the local currency. And the Chinese government had constantly made clear they expected the funds to be spent on the sea terminal and airport expansion, and to eventually be repaid, in full. So far, King Tofuwanga did not seem to be delivering on his promises.

That, of course, was no surprise at all.

The convoy swung out from the airport and onto the main road. It appeared to be little more than crushed coral instead of concrete or asphalt, but it was reasonably smooth. A sudden rainstorm blew in from the east as they charged down the narrow two-lane road, which remained devoid of traffic. It was as if the road had been cleared for the transit of the king, his special guest, and their motorcade. Nothing but small farm fields on either side of the road were visible through the downpour.

Then, after traveling only about six kilometers, the convoy swung off onto a wide, paved road. The rain squall blew past, revealing a broad turquoise lagoon spread out on their left. Ahead lay a small village.

“We are almost there, Admiral,” King Tofuwanga said, pointing to a turn-off with a large, impressive sign that read, “Future Home of Tonga International Shipping and Cruise Ship Terminal.” They turned off onto another crushed-coral roadway. A chain link gate barred the way, but one of the uniformed guards in the lead SUV hopped out and swung it open.

They drove on, into a huge, vacant, weed-infested lot. Except for a lone, rusty backhoe parked on a