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

that they could just as easily have sunk much of his submarine fleet. But they did not want to waste the effort or the explosives.

Yon’s brilliant submarine “embargo” had now become an international joke. Even the feeble effort to try to claim that this was all a complex exercise, a test of China’s fleet preparedness, had been the subject of mocking coverage in the world’s press. Especially when video of dozens of the PLAN boats being towed back into port with their screws shot off showed up everywhere from YouTube to most of the world’s cable news channels. And, of course, in intelligence briefings in most world capitals.

Yon Ba Deng was sure that it was only a matter of time. He would likely have no chance to defend himself. Not even to place blame on his brother.

No, Tan Yong would soon demand his resignation. Or, worse, send the Guoanbu, the dreaded State Security secret police, to place him under arrest. There would be claims that he was a traitor, a saboteur, an enemy of the people. Then he would disappear into the same prison that held Soo Be Xian. That is, if he was allowed to live at all.

Just then, his private cell phone rang. He answered immediately. Few people had this number. He always responded to it when there was a call.

“Wei, nin hao!”

“Good! I got to you in time!” He recognized the deep, sultry voice. Li Min Zhou. “You must run. Now. The Guoanbu are already on their way to place you under arrest. The charges are treason against the people. You, of all people, know the punishment for such an offense.”

Yon Ba Deng gasped. Yes, he did. A very nasty public trial, followed by execution.

“But, I...”

“There is time, but not for argument,” she calmy interrupted. “And a way to save yourself. I have a jet waiting at Xijiao Airport, at the charter terminal. Leave right now. Do not go home. Do not try to pack a bag or take anything. Do not call anyone. Just drive yourself straight to the airport. With any luck, and with your adherence to my instructions, we may well get you to a safe place.”

“But why are you...”

The line went dead. No time now for questions or answers.

Yon Ba Deng, the head of the Chinese military for less than a week, was already heading out the door of his old office, never to return.

He left on his desk a half-finished cup of tea. And his favorite teacup. The one made for Emperor Shenzong of the Song Dynasty. A powerful monarch once considered to be the richest man in the world.

And thus, its most powerful.

Ψ

Night was upon them when Yon Hun Glo’s ships arrived at their position over the Tonga Trench. The Zhang Jian and the Pearl Moon had departed Tonga the previous evening and steamed across three hundred and fifty miles of open ocean. Restrained by the speed of the submarines, the Shijiu and the Ershi, which were traveling submerged on their AIP systems, the journey had been much more leisurely than Yon Hun Glo would have preferred. However, it was important that his ships have some hidden protection from the Americans or anyone else who might bother them.

But especially the Americans.

Still, waiting for over three hours past their scheduled arrival for the three Tongan patrol boats to show up had tried the admiral’s patience to its breaking point. When Yon found that the delay was caused by King Tofuwanga wanting to ride along on the gold hunt, he exploded. How could that obese, incompetent fool dare to risk everything for which he and his brother had worked so hard merely so he could go on a sightseeing cruise. There was one positive. Having the king along would give more credence to the pretense that this odd assemblage of vessels was, indeed, a Tongan-government-sanctioned mission. Even an air of legality. That realization was enough to keep the admiral from dispatching the bloated monarch right back to his miserable, mosquito-infested islands.

Now in darkness, the afterdeck of the research vessel Zhang Jian became a bustle of activity. Aided by brilliant, white, mercury vapor deck lights, the technicians scurried about, making last-minute checks and adjustments to the bright orange manned submersible, the Fendouji.

Alongside the Fendouji rested a squat, mist-gray, cylindrical vehicle that was joined to the manned submersible by a tow cable. The unmanned mineral recovery vehicle would be the means to haul the gold from the bottom on the six-mile vertical ascent back up to the Zhang Jian. The Fendouji had the tools that would be used to load the MRV, but because it was only a small research submersible, it had the capacity only for small samples on each trip.

The plan was for the Fendouji to tow the MRV down, load it up, and then guide it back up to the surface. The cargo bin on the MRV was not very large, only about a cubic meter. When Yon Hun Glo had questioned the engineers who built it, he was quickly informed that it would hold over twenty thousand kilograms of gold. A bit of quick math showed Yon that they were looking at an amount of gold equal to over one-point-one-billion dollars per trip at prevailing prices.

The full moon was high over the ship by the time all the preparations were complete. Yon Hun Glo donned a pair of deep blue coveralls and joined the Fendouji’s pilot and equipment operator in the little submarine’s cramped inner capsule. He also carried a small pistol in his pocket, just in case the other two men became greedy at the sight of their haul. Nothing would keep him from making this first dive, or getting it back to the surface.

Once the men were inside, the technicians lowered the Fendouji’s fifteen-centimeter-thick titanium hatch in place and spun the locking dogs to seal it. The water pressure where this little vessel was going would be unbelievable, over ten thousand kilograms on each square centimeter.

Yon