As for the cruise missile, its course was completely controlled by its programming, its on-board computer taking constant sightings off of three or more GPS satellites at a time and comparing them with stored navigational data. Steered by the GPS system, a Tomahawk had an absolute targeting precision of ten feet or less.
Moonlight flashed and sparkled below as the missile's camera relayed the scene back to Virginia—and to the Roosevelt, to Yokosuka, and to offices in the Pentagon and at General Dynamics, the TACTOM's builder.
Something, a black rectangle, was visible against the brightly lit sea, far ahead on the horizon. The object grew swiftly as the missile closed the range. The men watching in Virginia's control room and on monitors elsewhere throughout the boat had an instant's glimpse of the structure — a kind of apartment building four stories tall, raised above the sea on stubby pylons, its roof forested with antennas.
Tracer fire — like bright yellow baseballs of light— floated toward the camera as antiaircraft batteries tried to lock in on the hurtling missile. An oncoming Tomahawk, however, presented an extraordinarily difficult target.
The scene shifted slightly as the TACTOM made a final course adjustment; the objective was in two parts — the apartment building to the south, the enclosed docking area to the north topped by a helicopter landing pad. The latter was the target.
In that final instant's glimpse, the watchers saw that the sliding doors to the dock area were open, the interior brightly lit. Within, a Kilo submarine lay alongside the pier, as workers, like tiny black ants, scurried for cover along the dock.
Flying through the open doors, the Tomahawk skimmed above the moored Kilo and slammed into a stack of crated supplies in the warehouse storage beyond. Half a ton of high explosives detonated, and the camera view from the missile abruptly went dead.
Control room personnel erupted with cheers. Garrett let them yell and congratulate for a moment, before saying, "As you were!" They needed the release.
There would be time for celebrating later. Now they needed to see to Virginia's security.
He wondered about that Kilo glimpsed inside the hangar. A second Chinese boat? Probably. What had Stevens said about delivering a message to Beijing? Message delivered….
"Take us deep, Mr. Falk. Set depth at five hundred feet. Rig for ultraquiet." Until Garrett was certain that other Chinese attack subs in the area weren't going to try to find Virginia and retaliate, he was going to maintain a very low profile.
The SEALs felt the explosion more than they heard it, a solid thud transmitted through the water. Again, Halstead surfaced, raising his head above the oily water, lifting his mask so that he could better see.
The north end of the Chinese base appeared to be in flames. A siren was wailing, and he could hear the clatter of booted feet running on the walkway overhead. Out to sea, the cordon of patrol boats was moving now, circling around to the north end of the structure, presumably to conduct rescue and firefighting operations. The base had been hit hard; they would need all their assets to preserve what was left.
Submerging only long enough to signal the other members of the team, Halstead then emerged from the water, pulling himself up hand over hand along a caving ladder attached to the pylon when they'd first reached the base. A shadow among shadows, he slipped up the pylon and onto the walkway — deserted now by guards who'd rushed off toward the damaged end of the structure.
The other SEALs emerged one at a time, dripping. Rebreathers, fins, masks, and other diving equipment were abandoned. Armed now with H&K MP3 SD5 submachine guns, they moved north a few yards to a ladder set into the side of the structure, an access point discovered earlier during their preliminary reconnaissance from the ASDS.
The ladder took them up four stories, to the flat roof of the building. Two PLA guards died there without even seeing the threat, and then the SEALs were racing toward a wide set of windows set near the center of the building.
They didn't have floor plans of the base, and it was far too large for nine SEALs to conduct a random search. However, careful observation from the LRMS earlier in the evening had identified those brightly lit windows on the north end of the main building as the probable office of the base commander. Monitored signals appeared to be originating in that area of the structure, and careful observation using the zoom capability of the LMRS's Photonic mast had spotted Chinese officers moving around inside or standing at the window. Rank hath its privileges even in the PLA, and the logical conclusion was that the base commander had his office there.
Even if they were wrong, it was obviously an electronic nerve center of some sort. And that was their target.
General Han Do Liu was talking angrily on the radio telephone. "No, you fools!" he shouted. "I tell you we are under attack! The Americans are bombing us!"
Sirens wailed and swooped in the background, making it difficult to hear the reply. "We have been tracking the American fleet, General. There has been helicopter activity west of you, but we have seen no sign of an air strike. We need to confirm."
"The submarine pen is in flames! What more confirmation do you need? More bombs could be on the way! I tell you, we need—"
The broad windows overlooking the moonlit ocean exploded in a shower of glass. Some were already broken, shattered by the blast a moment ago, but the remaining panes disintegrated with a splintering crash.
At first, Han thought another bomb had gone off… but then he saw the commandos, four of them, swinging through the smashed windows on ropes.
American SEALs or Delta Force, he thought. They'd somehow reached the base's roof, rappelled down the side, and blown open the windows. Instinctively, he reached for his sidearm, then froze as the four commandos raised their weapons.
Two covered other areas of the room; the other two trained their weapons on Han. When he looked down, he saw a pair of bright red laser-aiming dots dancing on his chest.
"Drop the weapon!" one of the invaders snapped in badly accented but intelligible Mandarin.
"I speak English," he said, his voice resigned, putting the phone handset down. Could they hear what was happening in Beijing? It hardly mattered. What could they do? Carefully, using thumb and forefinger only, he drew his sidearm from its holster, then dropped it with a clatter to the floor. "Don't shoot."
"The hostages," the American demanded, still speaking Chinese. "Where?"
"The floor beneath this one. They are safe…."
"They'd better be, mister," the other SEAL covering Han growled, speaking English, like him. "Order them brought to this room. All of them. And if your people so much as give any of them a harsh look, you are dead!"
Han nodded, reaching for the intercom microphone. He paused, though, before giving the order. "I am curious," he said, "how you plan to get them off of this base. I assume you arrived by submarine, since we saw no aircraft."
"Never you mind," the SEAL said. "Give the goddamn order!"
Han nodded again and gave the order, emphasizing carefully the need not to harm the prisoners. Two more SEALs, meanwhile, were lowering themselves on ropes down the outside of the building and swinging themselves inside, landing on the glass-covered carpet. How many of them were there?