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

a bunch of nagging questions about where the flotilla of Chinese boats was heading and why.

“Officer of the Deck, come to periscope depth for communications,” Edwards finally ordered, the reluctance heavy in his voice.

“Captain!” ST1 Hannon suddenly called out. “Detecting eleven hertz tonal on the TB-29. Reciprocal bearings zero-three-one and one-four-nine. I think we have regained our Yuans.”

“Hannon, first port call, your beers are on me,” Jackson Biddle promised the sonar technician.

“That’s cutting it way too close,” Edwards growled. “The SOBs must have been hiding between Cagayan and Calusa, just in case somebody was tailing them. No way they know we’re that somebody. Lesson learned. In case we didn’t know it already, these guys are sneaky and good.” He allowed himself a long sigh of relief. “Okay, now we have something worth telling the boss. Let’s do it before Hannon decides we’ve spotted a pod of migrating whales with digestive problems.”

Ψ

President Stan Smitherman impatiently waved the briefer to hurry through his slide deck. The president had an important golf outing scheduled with a pair of key benefactors. He was looking forward to some time on the links, but more importantly, this pair was promising to donate fifty million dollars to his campaign. With money like that on the line, they needed his full attention. And all this economic crap had long since given him a massive headache.

Secretary of State Sandra Dosetti leaned over and whispered, “Mr. President, you really should listen to this next part. It is extremely important.”

Smitherman snorted. “Get on with it, then. But know I am in one hell of a hurry.”

The briefer shifted over to a discussion of current gold prices. Smitherman squirmed in his seat and thumbed impatiently through the briefing notebook, looking for the end. Dosetti knew the signs well. The presenter had maybe thirty seconds before the President of the United States exploded and tossed him out of the conference room.

“Mister President, recent gold finds in the deep waters of the Pacific, if the projected volume proves out, could severely and negatively impact the price of gold,” the briefer droned on, flashing up a series of graphs. “It is located in international waters, and economical recovery of the gold is very problematic, but if someone should decide it’s worth it, go get it, and dump it on the market too quickly, the projected tonnage could affect the underpinnings of our economic model. We are already seeing some impacts on the gold mining stock futures market.”

“What the hell is he saying?” Smitherman shouted to no one in particular. Nor did he really expect an answer. “Look, don’t give me fancy-pants State Department bullshit. Give it to me in plain English. And, by the way, what the hell is this about ‘tonnage?’ I have sense enough to know that gold is always priced by the ounce.”

“Now, Stan, calm down and listen for once,” Dosetti coolly told her boss. “It’s all pretty plain. There’s a shit-ton of gold down there, enough that if we can figure out how to get it to the surface, the law of supply and demand will pull the rug out from under gold prices. That would tank the world economy like nothing else in history has done. But, on the positive side, no one seems to be taking a lot of interest yet in chasing this motherlode. That is, except for the two-bit potentate of Tonga. He is trying to claim everything as his, but there is no way on God’s green earth that he can recover any of the stuff. He would need a real sugar daddy to do this thing.”

Smitherman’s face reddened for a moment, then he nodded a couple of times. “Okay, how do we get on top of this? Or, better still, how do we leverage it to our advantage?”

“We already have a small naval presence in American Samoa. Those sailors can protect our claims there,” Dosetti answered. “And we already have a company working on a method to mine the stash and do so at a carefully controlled level.”

“Carefully controlled level?”

Dosetti grinned. “Yes, controlled at a level that doesn’t affect the market, but fills our coffers up quite nicely. I think that we will have plenty of funds to support your re-election. And you wouldn’t even have to pretend you know how to play golf.”

Ψ

Jim Ward blinked awake. The bright lights were blinding.

It took the young SEAL-team leader a few seconds to realize where he was. Or at least what kind of room he was in. The helicopter flight down to Hanoi and then the next hop to Singapore on some kind of smaller fixed-wing aircraft was mostly a blur. Now he could tell that he was in an antiseptically white hospital room with a couple of nurses hovering over him.

But the first voice he heard was a familiar gruff male one.

“Son, you really need to learn to keep your head down.”

“Dad?”

Jon Ward stepped over to the bedside, into Jim’s range of vision. “You know your mother is losing her patience with these late-night calls about hospital visits. She...”

“How’s Jase?” Jim interrupted.

“He’s still in the ICU. Look, it’s been touch and go for him, but he’s finally turned the corner.” Jon put his hand on his boy’s shoulder. “You know you saved his life out there. No doubt about it.”

Jim smiled through dry, cracked lips.

“Where am I anyway?”

“We flew both of you down to Singapore,” the elder Ward explained. “You’re in Changi General Hospital. Doctors told me that you lost a lot of blood, but that the bullet passed clean without hitting anything you need to keep functioning. Your left side’s going to be sore for quite a while. Don’t plan on any triathlons in the near future.”

Jim tried to sit up, only to grunt in pain. His dad and one of the nurses helped him up while the other nurse plumped the pillow behind his head. Out the window, he could see a palm tree swaying in a gentle breeze.

“How long?”

“Before your