He recalled that sled-carrying helicopters had cleansed the route with multiple counter-mining runs, but the water remained lethal due to the imperfections of minesweeping and the ability of mines to ignore a preset number of targets before exploding.
The helicopters had fooled five mines into harmless suicides, but he knew that surviving mines may have inched closer to their detonation count with each helicopter pass, while others may have escaped their sleds’ influence.
Based upon the expected density of mines Chinese aircraft had dropped, Renard calculated that four mines remained to threaten the patrol craft. An unknown mix of mines — some lurking below the surface but tethered to the seafloor to prevent drifting to international waters and others resting on the bottom to launch torpedoes — threatened the convoy.
He walked around bodies to his seat. Contemplating restraint, he smelled the room’s thick clouds of cigarette smoke and yielded to his life-threatening habit. He puffed the Marlboro’s tip into an amber glow with an instinctive flick of his gold Zippo lighter.
His finger caressed a mouse wheel, bringing the screen to life. He clicked the memorized Chinese icon that directed an encrypted hailing signal to the western edge of the Philippine Sea.
Awaiting a connection through the fishing vessel to the Hai Ming submarine, he stirred. His translator appeared from nowhere, proving his prowess in finding Renard with impeccable timing.
“Good morning, Mister Renard,” he said.
“Good morning,” Renard said. “Do you have a technician standing by? I doubt I’ll need him, but this is not the moment to be without him.”
“Of course.”
The translator lifted his arm and extended his fingers toward a corner of the command center. The white creases in his crisp white uniform moved with his lithe figure.
Renard stood and noticed four men with technical manuals and electronic diagnostic equipment in the corner.
“I see,” he said. “Out of the way, but ready.”
“Correct.”
Renard turned to his screen and saw Henri’s image looking back at him from the Hai Ming’s control room.
“Can you hear me, Pierre?” Henri said.
“Yes,” Renard said. “Status please.”
“Battery is eighty-five percent. Four drones deployed. I believe you have telemetry data on our location and those of the drones. We track no submerged contacts.”
Renard looked at his console’s upper screen which displayed sonar data from the Hai Ming’s Subtics system.
“I see,” Renard said. “I expect this is the calm before the storm.”
“There already was an air storm,” Henri said. “We heard much of it. I’m encouraged that most of the patrol craft survived, but it is a pity for those we’ve lost.”
“A pity indeed,” Renard said. “Let’s keep alive those who have survived.”
“I intend to, Pierre.”
Renard leaned into his screen.
“Remember one thing, my friend,” he said. “I need data immediately. This is atypical submarine warfare. This is a rapid reaction to the first verification of a hostile vessel. You are an information service. Your torpedoes are all but useless.”
“But they are ready, if needed.”
“I’m sure,” Renard said. “I expect that your first and only piece of targeting data may be launch transients and hostile torpedoes aimed at the convoy. Make sure Antoine distinguishes one torpedo from another and one launching submarine from another. The bearing rates on the torpedoes may be sufficient targeting data, and bearings to launch transients will confirm. Make sure you share your immediate acquisition data on the tactical net.”
“I will, Pierre,” Henri said. “And I have a man set up with a headset to press buttons for you at a dedicated console. We are ready.”
Renard puffed from his cigarette and leaned back. He heard a commotion behind him, glanced over his shoulder, and sensed history being set in motion behind him.
“I know you are, my friend,” he said. “Keep the line open, but excuse me.”
He slid his headset off, stood, and faced the navigation chart.
An aura of power and destiny enveloped the small form of Admiral Ye, his radiating cheeks lighting the room. He raised a finger, the room fell silent, and he uttered a command to an officer seated meters from the chart. His words carried restrained power, and the seated officer stirred under Ye’s will.
Lights flashed, a klaxon blared, and pneumatic actuators drove shut every door to the center. Ye barked another order, and an Air Force general beside him announced what Renard assumed was part of a memorized code to authorize the use of nuclear weapons. Three officers, huddled around a console, scribbled as the general spoke. Admiral Ye then vocalized his half of the authorization.
An officer tapped a sequence into a keyboard, informing Taiwan’s armed forces that were authorized to use nuclear weapons within predefined offshore coordinates.
Renard noticed a commander flanked by four armed sentries slide a briefcase — handcuffed to his wrist — onto a flat surface before Ye. Ye stepped aside for the general to punch in his half of the case’s combination, and then he stepped in to finish the sequence.
Ye stared with wonder, hesitated, and then withdrew a sealed, laminated card. He tore it open and let the general read it. The general announced characters followed by a memorized phrase that Renard estimated served as his formal command to launch nuclear weapons. Then Ye spoke, his words crafting a replay of the general’s effort.
A final man in a black suit seemed to slip from shadows and emerge next to the general. Renard recognized him as the Minister of Defense, his face dark under a furrowed brow. The Minister read the characters aloud and declared his concurrence of his nation’s order to use nuclear weapons.
An officer tapped a new sequence into a keyboard, broadcasting unlock codes to the patrol craft.
Renard felt a spark rise within him as the room held its collective breath. The pseudo-nation of Taiwan had just granted the young commander of the patrol craft squadron the trigger to nuclear arms. In the silence, Ye extended his palm toward the chart and uttered a single word.
Renard knew scant words in Mandarin, but he grasped the admiral’s utterance as if it were his native tongue.
He had said ‘begin’.
CHAPTER 21
Strafing bullets had punctured Lieutenant Commander Lei’s ship, but they missed sensitive equipment, passing through the keel or ricocheting off a steel reduction gear case. His crew had shored up the slow leaks, and welding teams were reinforcing the major wounds.
Through the bridge window, moonlight danced on the glowering wave tops of the Philippine Sea. His grieving for fallen comrades postponed, Lei turned his attention to the dangers of the looming minefield.
As he lowered his chin, the helmet strap under his communications headset tickled his neck, and the monitor’s useless illusion of calmness irked him. Blue triangles patrolled the sky, blue squares filed behind his craft, and inverted triangles marked the Hai Ming submarine and its drones. But unseen perils prowled below the swells.
He tapped a button on his headset.
“All craft, this is Lei,” he said. “It’s time. God protect us. All craft, all ahead flank.”
The ship lurched, and glimmering silver sea spray shot over the bow. While a bridge full of eyes scanned the water through binoculars, Lei focused on his monitor’s overhead rendering of his vessel sprinting toward a minefield’s invisible boundary.
Isolating Lei’s home island, the mainland had dropped mines along the ten-mile curve, leaving a margin of error to prevent stray mines landing outside the twelve-mile international waters limit. The screen showed an additional two miles of landward margin, and he respected the eight-mile curve as his keep-out zone.