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

to better help mankind understand the planet’s least explored territory, the oceans. Then he quickly headed back to his boat.

The submariner was not at all sure the scientist and the boat’s captain believed what Glass had just told them. And he did not blame them one bit.

One thing was solid, though. The US Navy would do all it could to protect the vessel. But Glass well knew that might turn out to be a much bigger job than he had led the scientist to believe.

Ψ

The old and much used Boeing 737 taxied up to the terminal at Vava’u Airport’s tiny single-story terminal building. The airplane, a secondhand gift from the People’s Republic of China, was painted in the red and white livery of Tonga International Airlines. Of course, it was TIA’s only jet, and the aircraft had only ever served one passenger.

The ground crew shoved the air-stairs up against the aircraft as the passenger door swung open. King Tofuwanga emerged from the interior and paused for a moment at the head of the stairs to allow his eyes to adjust to the brilliant sunlight.

No cheering throng of loyal subjects greeted the monarch. Only a few disinterested ground mechanics milled about.

All just as well, the king mused. He was here at this place, after all, to greet and then send his armed forces off on a vital mission. Secrecy and discretion were of some importance in such a matter.

An ancient jeep, probably left over from some long-forgotten cooperation treaty with this or that western country, wheezed up to the foot of the stairs and stopped amid a cloud of blue-black smoke. King Tofuwanga came down the steps, ignoring the salute of the jeep’s driver, who had jumped out to greet his king, and then carefully slid into the rear passenger seat, trying to avoid soiling his field marshal’s uniform on the grease and oil that festooned the vehicle’s side. Once he was seated, the jeep shot off toward the airfield’s back gate, leaving a trail of the blue-black smoke across the tarmac.

The ten-kilometer drive down Tiu Road ended at the piers in Neiafu, Vava’u’s principal village. The entirety of the Tonga Maritime Force, consisting of three Australian-built patrol boats and a Vietnam War-vintage landing craft, were tied up at the village pier. The entire Royal Tongan Marines—all three companies of them—milled about on the adjacent street.

When the jeep screeched to a halt at the pier, King Tofuwanga stood, prepared to address his troops. When they saw their king, the troops began to congregate around his vehicle, but still mostly managed to stay back in the shade of the nearby fish-cleaning sheds.

“Warriors of Tonga,” the king called out, his voice lost in the shrieks and calls of the seabirds congregating around the refuse from the sheds. Only then did the driver remember to turn on and hand to Tofuwanga a bullhorn. The monarch cleared his throat and started again. “Warriors of Tonga. Today you venture forth to right an historic wrong. As you are aware, the island of Niue and our brothers and sisters were wrongfully separated from us many years ago by the colonial powers of the West. Ultimately, they and the sovereign territory were given to one of the colonialists’ own, New Zealand, to protect. The white man calls this a ‘free association.’ But our Niue brothers and sisters are still not free. They still remain reluctant subjects of the English queen.”

“Warriors of Tonga,” he ranted on. “Our ancestors settled Niue in times before white man’s written history. Our legends speak of crossing the Deep Waters. The people of Niue are of our clan. We must return them to Tonga and finally please our common ancestors and honor the sacred mutual heritage of our people.” The king pointed to the waiting boats alongside the pier. “Go! Go, and with your bravery, restore pride and honor to all our people!”

The Marines gave a desultory cheer. Then, urged on by their officers, managed something a bit more enthusiastic. Finally, they formed up and marched toward the waiting craft.

Within a few minutes, the three patrol boats and the lone landing craft cast off and steamed away, down the winding channel, heading out for the open water.

King Tofuwanga stood and watched until they had eased away from the pier. Only then did he sit and direct the driver to take him back to the airport and his waiting jet.

Ψ

Yon Ba Deng frowned as he read the message a second time. Then he slammed his fist brutally on his desk.

“That pompous, fat fool!” he yelled. “He is going to ruin everything! Does not the idiot understand how delicate the timing is?”

Bing Dou had delivered the message and, having read it beforehand, prudently stepped back a safe distance. Experience had dictated that when bad news was revealed to the Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters, it was best to put some distance between himself and his chief.

“Elder brother,” Bing Dou said, employing his most placating voice. “It may not be so damaging as it might first appear. King Tofuwanga’s troops have at least a thirty-hour journey ahead of them. Their only landing craft is an LCM, what the Americans call a ‘Mike boat.’ It will be a struggle for them to make a speed of fifteen kilometers per hour. And it is five hundred kilometers across open water. I believe we have adequate time to take corrective measures.”

Yon Ba Deng nodded and calmed noticeably.

“You are right, of course, younger brother. We must remain calm and prudently adjust our plan.”

Bing Dou smiled and stood just a bit taller. This was the first time that Yon Ba Deng had ever used the honorific of “younger brother” toward him. Clearly, he had finally earned a hard-won place of respect. Respect and trust.

“I will remind you of what Master Sun Tzu said,” Bing Dou offered. “‘Victory comes from finding opportunities in problems.’ It will take six hours for our Marines to land on