“Yes. Precisely. But the loss amounts to very little. Are the Iranians towing her in?”
“Yessir.”
“And the tanker at the end of the Malacca Strait?”
“Our Kilo hit it with a torpedo and vanished. Apparently it was a good choice. Nice and big, and nice and empty.”
“Excellent. Have the Americans panicked?”
“I’m not certain, sir. But they just diverted yet another CVBG toward the Indian Ocean. It’s on its way through Suez now.”
“And the carrier JFK?”
“Plainly on its way to Diego Garcia, taking a southerly route — a long way south from its normal route up to the Japanese Islands and Taiwan.”
“Which leaves them where?”
“With FIVE carrier battle groups either in, or heading for, the Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia or Hormuz.”
“And the Ronald Reagan Group? Still in San Diego?”
“Yessir and nonoperational for a good two months yet. My guess is they’ll call the JFK back for Taiwan.”
“Then we’ll have to deal with her, I suppose. But I don’t think that will be beyond us. Not with our Kilos.”
“Nossir.”
It was a very Chinese relationship. Formal to a degree when the subject involved the Navy’s business, Commander-in-Chief to the biggest chief. But when the conversation slipped from report to discussion and opinion, it instantly lapsed into the kind and understanding conversation of two lifelong and beloved friends.
“And now, Jicai, do we see any improvement in our amphibians’ capacity?”
“Not really, sir. I think we have to accept eleven thousand.”
“And are we ready?”
“Nossir. But we are preparing every day.”
“Where do you see our critical paths?”
“Certainly the Kilos, sir. We will have them routinely overhauled and ready. Most other ships are on standby. Airborne troops I understand are training with some success but with more to learn. The infantry commanders have forgotten nothing. Tanks are ready. In the air, I fear, it will be costly.”
“Do we have a date?”
“I’m looking at ten days, sir.”
“A feint to the outer island first?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Are you confident, my friend?”
“With great reservations, sir.”
“That’s good, my Jicai. All commanders must be a little bit afraid.”
And with that Admiral Zu walked to the door of the little room, and he called softly to his friend, a member of the twentieth generation of the family to own this library.
And moments later, the librarian returned and handed each of his guests a small porcelain cup, containing sweet, heavy Shaoxing red wine, served warm.
“A toast, Jicai,” said Admiral Zhang. “To the immortal memory of the ruler of all the seas, Admiral Zheng He.”
Arnold Morgan wanted answers. And he wasn’t getting any. At least not from Admiral David Borden. The Acting Director of the NSA was unable to grasp how urgently the Big Man in the White House wanted to know who had hit the tanker in the Malacca, and with what.
Admiral Borden actually said, “Sir, we do not I believe have any proof the tanker was hit at all.” Which was tantamount to telling Evander Holyfield that nobody had just bitten a hole in his ear.
And Admiral Morgan was furious. He banged down the phone, just as news came in that Brent Crude had gone to $78 a barrel in London, on rumors of a worldwide strike by the masters of the big tankers. Right now America was looking at $5 for a gallon of gasoline at the pumps. Worse yet, if things did not shake loose very quickly, there could be shutdowns at some of the nation’s major electricity generators, which ran on fuel oil, or natural gas.
“KATHY!!”
She came in through the open door, closing it hastily in case someone else heard the anger of the President’s top military adviser.
“Get George Morris on the phone right now.”
“Arnold, he had surgery early this morning. You know that. He must be asleep.”
“Well, wake him up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t wake him up. He’s very sick.”
“He’ll be a whole lot sicker if the goddamned lights go out and his iron lung shuts down.”
“Arnold, they do not use iron lungs in modern surgery anymore.”
“Try not to bore me with this high-tech crap. Electricity is the lifeblood of all hospitals, including George’s. Okay…okay…don’t wake him up till later, but tell him to get into Fort Meade tomorrow and kick that asshole Borden out of his office.”
“Arnold, I guess you could arrange to bomb Shanghai, but you cannot instruct the head of surgery at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda to discharge probably his most important patient.”
“Kathy, forget all that I’ve just said. But please ensure I speak to George the moment he regains his senses. Because this clown in Fort Meade is unlikely ever to regain his.”
“Yessir. Meanwhile, anything I can do right now?”
“Yes. Get that good boy, Jimmy Ramshawe, on my private secure line. And hop to it — don’t tell me he’s asleep or anything.”
“Of course I may murder you one day, my darling,” she said, stalking out of the room, head high, trying not to laugh.
Lieutenant Ramshawe’s phone rang angrily, reflecting precisely the general demeanor of the caller.
“Hello, sir. Yup, this is Jimmy…Sir, I’ve been on it since I got here at three this morning. You want my opinion?
“I think the Chinese fired a torpedo into that tanker from one of those Kilo-Class submarines.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Sir, I’ve had full coverage of those coastal waters, all the way down from the Rangoon Delta to the northern headland of Sumatra, right down from the Nicobar islands. And I’m here to tell you there’s not been a warship in sight in those waters all through the weekend, and then suddenly…BAM! Another tanker goes up at six-thirty local time. And where does it go up? I have it at six-ten-north, ninety-four-fifty-east. That’s six miles southeast of Point Pygmalion, the southern headland of Great Nicobar.
“It’s also six hundred miles south of the Chinese Navy base in the Bassein River — I’d say less than three days running for a Kilo moving at twelve knots through waters without a serious Naval presence. At least nothing that’s looking for them. They don’t even have to be careful.
“Anyway, sir. That’s not all.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, I got two satellite shots right here showing a Russian-built Kilo on the surface, heading right for the Mergui Archipelago…that’s right off the Burmese coast….”
“I know where the hell the goddamned Merguis are, for Christ’s sake…. Keep going….”
“Yessir.”
Arnold Morgan smiled to himself.
“She’s about one hundred eighty miles from the burning tanker, and that’s fifteen hours from the hit. So she could have done it, but they don’t seem to care too much who knows.”
“Very strange, Jimmy. What do you make of it?”
“Not a great deal, sir. I can’t see the point of it, except to cause chaos. All I know is, this does not look like casual maritime vandalism.”
“Keep thinking, Jimmy. Write your reports, and keep me right in the game.”
Ten minutes later, Admiral Morgan was standing in the Oval Office informing the President of the United States that the Chinese had, without question, been responsible for yet another tanker explosion, the fourth. And as far as he could tell, there was no reasonable motive for harming any of them. Except to cause a massive hike in world oil prices, which would damn nearly bankrupt Japan and knock the hell out of the USA’s burgeoning economy.