And Arnold slyly congratulated himself on Kathy’s call to Ling’s secretary on Friday afternoon to establish the subtleties of the ambassador’s tastes. He had no recollection that Kathy had made the call without even asking him.
Anyway, the tea was delivered and poured by a polite and attentive waiter, and Arnold Morgan stepped up to the plate.
“Ambassador, there is much that cannot be said at this discussion — much, possibly, that never will be said. I have asked you here because I believe that you and I understand each other.”
“I think and hope that we do,” replied Ling in his impeccable English accent.
“Well, let me begin by saying that we are very well aware of China’s complicity in the placing of the minefield in the Strait of Hormuz.”
“Oh, really?” replied Ling. “I have not been so informed.”
“And I guess, if I wanted to, I could inform you myself of the origin of the mines, the date they left Moscow, the times of the refueling stops for the Andropov freighter that delivered them, and the date the PLAN assisted the Iranians in laying the fields.”
Ambassador Ling said nothing, betrayed nothing, not a flicker of understanding — the precise way all great ambassadors are supposed to operate under this kind of pressure in a foreign capital.
“But there is no need for me to do so, since we both understand the…er…rather heated game we are playing. But I would like to mention the fire that is still raging in the strait at the Chinese refinery. That, ambassador, represents the collective wrath of the entire industrial world. So I would warn you about the danger of writing it off as an accident and blithely rebuilding it.”
“Am I hearing an admission that the United States of America actually attacked and destroyed the ten-billion-dollar Chinese refinery in the strait?”
“No more than I am hearing an admission that China purchased hundreds of sea mines at vast expense from Moscow, and then tried to shut down the principal power supply of every oil-consuming country in the world. Damn nearly all of them, that is.”
Ambassador Ling said nothing.
And Admiral Morgan continued: “And so, my good friend, Guofeng, I would like to conclude with this piece of advice for you and your government. In our opinion, and in the opinion of all our allies, you have committed a crime of vast proportions in the Strait of Hormuz. And it is a crime that must not be repeated. It is therefore my rather sad duty to advise you”—and here his voice rose to its familiar growling quality—“to stay the fuck out of the Middle East oil routes.”
“And if we should insist on our right to trade in any international waters?”
“You would find no objection from us, because your ships are welcome to visit us at any time. But if you continue to put Chinese warships anywhere near the north reaches of the Arabian Sea, inside the Strait of Hormuz or indeed in the Gulf of Iran, we shall have no hesitation if it comes to sinking them. Your nation has committed a terrible crime, for reasons best known to your masters in Beijing. But the rest of the world will not permit you the leeway to repeat that crime. Ling, old buddy, your Navy is on its way right back to the South China Sea.”
“I shall indeed report your views to my government. But do I have your permission to inform them that the United States willfully destroyed the Chinese refinery?”
“No, Ambassador. You do not. You may tell them that the elimination of the refinery was in your opinion an act of retribution against your government for crimes committed by China in the strait. You may also say that the U.S. government was not unsupportive of the action against the Chinese oil. But as to who perpetrated the destruction, that may never be known. But if I had to guess, I’d say you should look to some of those Arabs who are currently unable to sell their oil because it’s all trapped in the gulf.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the ambassador. “How foolish of me not to have identified the culprit at once.”
“Well, for the time being, that would appear to be all. But heed what I say, Ambassador. Because I would not want things to become any more tense between us. And you guys have done quite sufficient damage for one month.”
“And, quite frankly, Admiral, so, might I say, have you.”
Hardly moving through the water, both Kilos waited silently, 10 miles apart, in the path of the carrier’s approach from the southeast. The JFK was clearly identifiable by her noise signature, and at 2215 the westerly Kilo assessed that the Americans would pass within 3,000 yards.
The Chinese prepared to fire, while the easterly Kilo decided to wait, just in case an attack by her consort should cause Big John to swerve her way. It is almost impossible to coordinate a torpedo attack by two submarines. Only one would open fire, since charging in at high speed would simply give the game away.
The westerly Kilo’s two torpedoes would come in from the carrier’s stern arcs on predictions from the last-known bearing. The big TEST weapons would be launched quietly at 30 knots, staying passive all the way, which at least gave them a chance of avoiding a full, frontal smash into the hull. The Chinese wanted only the shafts, and there would be nothing Big John could do. There would be no time.
2150. “Stand by one…”
“Last bearing check.”
“SHOOT!”
The Chinese torpedo came powering out of the tube, hesitated for a split second, then whined away into the dark waters.
“Weapon under guidance…” Kilo 636 was right on top of her game.
“Arm the weapon.”
“Weapon armed, sir.”
Ninety seconds go by. “Weapon now one thousand yards from target, sir.”
“Weapon has passive contact.”
“Release to auto-home passive.”
Moments later, Kilo 636 loosed off a second torpedo, which, like its colleague, was now streaking through the water toward the lights on the stern end of the carrier’s flight deck. It was a classic submarine attack, conducted with ruthless professionalism in a manner that would tolerate no comeback. There simply was no time.
Inside the ops room of the carrier, the sonar men picked up the torpedoes. At least they picked up one of them.
“Admiral — sonar. TORPEDO! TORPEDO! TORPEDO!..bearing Green one-nine-eight — Torpedo HE tight-aft…REAL CLOSE, SIR. REAL CLOSE…”
“Real close” now meant no more than 500 yards. Which put the lead torpedo 30 seconds from impact somewhere on the stern of the carrier. Firing back was out of the question. An 88,000-ton carrier is simply not built for close combat of this type.
Someone yelled: “DECOYS!” But that was about two minutes too late. The Combat Systems Officer alerted all ships that the flag was under attack. But before he could even utter the words “Chinese submarine,” the first TEST 71/96 smashed into the port outer propeller, blowing it off and buckling two of the four shafts.
Moments later, the second torpedo, undetected, slammed into the port inner propeller and blew up with staggering force, causing distortion to the starboard inner as well. Big John, even if she was still floating, was not going anywhere for a while.
The JFK was well compartmentalized, and she would not sink. But with her massive shafts damaged, she was no longer capable of operating aircraft. The great leviathan began to list slightly. Damage-control teams were right at work on the flooding. Engineers stared in horror at the extent of the harm done to the shafts.