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

young woman walked into his room after knocking. He was about to reluctantly tell her she must have found the wrong patient when he noticed a somehow-familiar man with her. Then he recognized the guy.

TJ Dillon.

“Dillon!” Ward shouted. “Last time I saw your sorry tail, you were in South America heading downriver as fast as you could paddle that canoe chasing after some low-life son of a bitch.”

The CIA agent nodded and grinned.

“Bingo! It won’t surprise you to know your old man told me the same thing not so long ago. And in almost those very same words.”

“And now, here you are, in a hospital room in Singapore. I’d say you took the wrong exit off I-10.”

Ward smiled at the beautiful Asian lady with him. The room grew considerably brighter when she tossed back one of her own.

“TJ, for a southern boy, you are certainly lacking in manners. You haven’t introduced me to your friend.” Ward extended a hand. “I’m Jim Ward and am in no way associated with this dude here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Commander. I’m Li Min Zhou,” she answered, again smiling as she shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “You certainly resemble your father, Jim. And you are both very direct. But I have to say I find you a bit more charming.”

“You have me pegged, ma’am,” Ward shot back.

“You got time to chat a few minutes,” Dillon interrupted.

“Well, there is a show coming on TV in a minute about how to properly prepare pepper crab...” the SEAL jokingly began.

But Dillon was no longer grinning. Neither was his lovely friend. This visit had just become a business meeting.

17

Yon Ba Deng nodded curtly as the guards saluted him and swung open the heavy oaken doors for his passage. He stepped into the small but ornate conference room. As nothing more than a rather junior Party official, his assigned seat was one of the uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs that lined the walls.

Each time Yon was in this place, each time he sat in one of the straight-backed chairs, he imagined himself instead claiming a seat at the big, solid table. No, not just at the table but at the head of the table.

Soon, soon, he told himself. And the occurrences over the next few minutes might determine just how soon that would be.

As befit a junior official, he had arrived at the meeting ahead of the Politburo members. Even so, all of the other seats around the wall were already filled, each man sitting as if at attention, with no conversation or pleasantries between them. Yon Ba Deng had just sat down in the lone remaining open seat when the doors at the other end of the room swung open again. Twenty-three senior Chinese leaders paraded in, single file. Last to enter was Tan Yong. He was attending this particular meeting as the Head of the Party Committee for Internal Security, though everyone present was quite familiar with his other titles. He was also Communist Party General Secretary and President of the People’s Republic of China. Most of the world knew him for the latter role.

Tan Yong took his place at the head of the large conference table and signaled for the doors to be shut. Then he took his time opening a chilled bottle of sparkling water on the table before him and pouring himself a glass half full. He took a sip and appeared to approve.

Finally, the president turned and glared directly at Yon Ba Deng for a full ten seconds before speaking. It was a well-known tactic, designed to throw his underlings off kilter.

“As we all are well aware, some hostilities are occurring on Pratas Island. What our misdirected brothers from Taiwan insist on calling Dongsha Island. It would appear that these hostilities might be the result of some unauthorized actions from members of our Navy. In light of these developments and their potential ramifications, we will now hear the report from the Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters.”

Yon Ba Deng swallowed hard. He stood and faced the group. What he said in the next few minutes, how he said it, and the Committee’s reaction to both would determine whether he was on a trajectory to the highest levels of leadership or immediately on a painful trip to a dark prison cell and, sooner or later, termination. That is if he was fortunate enough to make it out of the meeting alive. There had been many rumors of bodies being carried out of this very room only to be unceremoniously dumped alongside the freeway.

The assistant vice deputy stood tall and launched into his explanation.

“Tongzhui, comrades, and thank you for the opportunity to relay the information we have gathered to this point. I will tell you that reports are still being received concerning this matter. What is confirmed so far is that two of our submarines were dispatched by South Fleet Command to transport a Jiaolong Team for a deployment aimed to conduct a simple and routine armed surveillance of Pratas Island, just as we have done for decades. As you are all well aware, Pratas Atoll is the legitimate territory of the People’s Republic but remains illegally and belligerently occupied by the rebels on Taiwan, and that includes a garrison of armed troops.”

Yon attempted to gauge the reaction thus far from the faces of everyone in the room. No indication. Each remained stoic, expressionless. He went on, choosing every word carefully, just as he had rehearsed at length before the mirror in his office.

“A Taiwanese destroyer was lying in ambush, waiting for the arrival of the submarines. Despite our vessels being in our own territorial waters, the warship attacked without provocation while our submarines were surfaced for the purpose of launching the surveillance teams. The submarines correctly and bravely defended themselves and China’s sovereignty. In the process, the aggressor ship was sunk.”

Perhaps a flicker of pride on the president’s face. Heartened, Yon went on.

“I regret to inform