Istana Nurul Iman Palace
August 26
Peter was standing before the entrance to Guan-Yin’s apartment. Naturally, the door was locked. So far, he’d cheated the odds with minimal contact with others and no significant resistance. His options for breaching the entry were limited—shoot the lock out or try to break the door down by throwing his shoulder into it, repeatedly. The first option was likely to draw attention, and the second option had a high probability of failure if the entry was of robust construction—most likely the case given the importance of the person living there. And repeatedly pounding the door would only further injure the wound in his side.
With no other solutions coming to mind, he lowered the barrel of the rifle and fired a single shot into the latch bolt at the point where it would enter the wood frame, hoping to break the metal bolt and shatter the wood door frame. The report was deafening. But would it be heard a floor below in the control room? Probably not if Pehin had been truthful with his comment about the degree of soundproofing incorporated in the palace construction.
A small circular hole marked the point where the bullet entered, yet the door remained closed. Peter pressed against the handle… no go. He threw his shoulder into the door and was rewarded with the cracking of wood. He slammed into the door again, only harder this time, and the door swung open as if it was never latched in the first place. He nearly fell through the entrance, just catching his balance and managing to remain on his feet. Diesel followed him inside.
Fearful that the gunshot had drawn unwanted attention from the maids and perhaps other staff, Peter closed the door and quickly surveyed his surroundings. The room was generous in proportions and decorated with lacquered carved wood panels in various shades of red, brown, and black. Traditional Chinese tapestries adorned the walls, and beautiful pottery, demonstrating the pinnacle of Chinese artistry, rested atop wood chests and tables.
The apartment seemed vacant, as no one came running to investigate the break-in. Across the room, a staircase led downward. Peter and Diesel covered the distance and descended into Guan-Yin’s private office. To the left was another door. Making as little sound as possible, Peter reached the door and pressed his ear against it—silence.
With measured movements, he turned the latch and eased the door open just a crack. He peered through the slit. The reception area lay on the other side. The table and sofa that he’d hastily used to barricade the entry to the control room had been put back in place. He eased the door further, holding the rifle at the ready.
Standing with his back toward Peter was a man dressed in a green military uniform and wearing a black beret. In two long strides, Peter closed on him and pressed the business end of his rifle into the guard’s back.
“Don’t say a word,” Peter ordered. His voice was firm and commanding, but not too loud.
The guard froze, and Peter reached around to relieve him of his weapon. “Do you speak English?”
He hesitated a moment and then answered, “Yes. It is required.”
“Good. That will make this easier. On the floor, hands on your head.”
Not wanting to risk a rifle bullet in the back, the fearful guard complied without objection.
“Remove the laces from your boots.”
The guard stared back at Peter, not understanding what he was being ordered to do. “Your shoe laces,” and Peter kicked his foot. “Remove them, now!”
Reluctantly, he untied his boots and pulled the black cord, handing it over as instructed. Diesel was beside the guard, baring his teeth and emitting a low, threatening growl.
“Face down. Hands on your head. Legs together.” Then Peter proceeded to wrap one lace around the man’s ankles, knotting it securely. He bound his hands with the second cord.
Diesel remained only inches from the man’s face, putting on a very convincing threat display. His inch-long canines glistening white.
“I don’t know you,” Peter said conversationally. “But you seem like a reasonable guy. I imagine you are just following orders. So, here’s the deal. If you move or make a sound, my dog will eat your face. Trust me, you don’t want him to do that—very messy.”
Upon hearing this, the guard’s eyes widened in terror and beads of perspiration dappled his face. His lips parted, just a bit, as if he wanted to speak, but Peter interrupted him. “Ah. Not a word. Be absolutely still. He’s quite hungry—all he’s eaten in the last twelve hours is a granola bar. He’d much rather have meat.”
Satisfied the guard was terror-stricken and unlikely to attempt an escape, Peter turned his attention to the location of the hidden entrance. He recalled the motions Pehin had executed to open the door. Push this section of chair rail, and then…
The panel opened.
Peter rushed the opening. Two black berets were just inside the control room, their rifles slung over their shoulders. They were facing toward the interior of the center. Peter lowered his shoulder and rammed into the nearest guard. His body whiplashed as he was driven forward, his face colliding violently with a metal console. Unconscious, the man crumpled to the floor.
The second black beret started to unlimber his rifle when the seventy-pound canine collided with him. Sharp teeth ravaged his hand, and then the bones crunched as the jaws drew tighter. His scream of pain soon became one of horror as his mind focused on priority number one—survival. But the more he struggled and fought to free his hand, the more violent became the shaking of the muscle-bound canine head, serving only to lacerate more flesh.
Quickly, Peter regained his balance. His eyes swept the room, the rifle following his gaze. The Security Director, who had been leaning over an illuminated display, apparently in conversation with a technician, straightened his body at the sound of the commotion. Upon seeing Peter, his hand went to his holstered pistol.
Peter snapped off a single shot, the bullet passing through the Director’s forearm. His grip slackened and the weapon clanged on the floor.
Through a tight grimace, Pehin said, “That was a mistake. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
Peter shrugged. “Sorry, I missed.”
Two other guards were in the process of raising their rifles. “Stop there. Lower your weapons, or I will kill your boss.”
The men hesitated momentarily and exchanged eye contact with Pehin. Reluctantly he nodded and they placed their rifles on the floor.
Peter finished his survey of the control room and finally spotted Robert and Jade, sitting bound and gagged in a corner. He motioned to one of the guards. “Untie them.”
Robert rubbed his wrists as quickly as the bindings were removed. “Glad to see you again. What took so long?” He strode to the closest weapon and picked it up, checking the magazine and then ensuring the safety was off. While Peter kept a keen eye on his prisoners, Robert removed the magazines from the other rifles, stuffing one in his pocket and giving two to Peter along with Pehin’s pistol.
“There’s one more outside.” Peter cocked his head to the entrance and Robert went to strip the magazine from that rifle as well.
Peter eyed the pistol and then shouldered his M4 rifle. “Berretta model 92. You have good taste in firearms.” He pushed the slide back only a quarter inch, just enough to show the shiny brass 9mm cartridge case.
Jade rushed to Peter and threw her arms around him. She was weeping. “It’s okay now,” he said. But he knew it would take time to heal from the grief she was suffering. Her mother was dead, and her grandmother and cousin were responsible.
Jade felt Diesel brush against her leg. She kneeled next to the dog and rubbed his head and ears. Despite her tears, she smiled at the adorable face that once again appeared to be grinning at her.
“Where is Guan-Yin?” Peter demanded.
“She’s not here,” Pehin answered with a sneer.
“I can see that. Where is she? I came through her apartment, and it was empty.”
“I don’t know.”
Peter looked around and for the first time noticed a collection of four monitors mounted in a row on a long instrument console. The displays showed various images. One appeared to be a photograph taken from high altitude, perhaps from a high-flying plane or satellite. Another was graphical and had red and blue symbols overlaid on a regional map of the South China Sea.
“What is the function of all this equipment?” Peter asked.
Pehin returned an icy glare.
“You control the operation from here, right?” Peter pointed toward one of the screens. “Are these images in real time?”
Robert answered since Pehin refused to. “Based on what I overheard, its satellite imagery. Somehow they’ve tapped into one of our satellites, and they’re downloading data.”
Pehin snorted a contemptuous laugh. “Your arrogance has blinded you to logic and reason, causing you to completely underestimate your enemy.”
“Well then, please, enlighten us,” Robert answered.
Peter’s mind was racing, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. “India!” he blurted. “You bought a satellite and hired India to place it in orbit.”
“Very good,” Pehin said. “Two satellites, actually. One for detailed reconnaissance and one for guidance.”
Peter studied the screens again, squinting his eyes as he leaned closer. He pointed at the collection of blue symbols, still north of the Spratly Islands. “This is the carrier strike force that you attacked. It’s the same formation we saw on the tactical display onboard the Royal Seeker, just after they fired that missile.”
“Too bad you didn’t succeed,” Robert added. “The Gerald Ford carriers a helluva lot of fire power. Seems to me your little operation here is over.”
“Typical American. There is no limit to your over confidence. Look again.”
Peter and Robert turned their attention to the screens, trying to discern whatever Pehin had referred to. But nothing was changing. And then a series of red lights illuminated on the console.
Peter shot upright and turned to Pehin. His hand was pressing against the console he’d been standing next to. “What did you do?” Peter demanded.
“The terminal phase has just been initiated.”
“But you don’t have any more missile ships. We destroyed both of them.”
“Yes. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. From the outset, I knew it was only a matter of time before you discovered our ruse. Still, it served its purpose.”
Peter’s jaw fell agape as understanding set in.
“That’s right,” Pehin said. “Manipulating your national paranoia was child’s play. Naturally, your military and political leaders would draw the conclusion that it was China attacking your ships. After all, only China had both the motivation and the capability to do so. The disagreement over the Spratly Islands proved to be a convenient locus for your mutual mistrust.”
“The missile attacks…”
Pehin completed Peter’s sentence. “Only provided the provocation. It was never intended, by itself, to be a decisive action. We knew the United States would not withdraw militarily over the loss of a few ships. Instead, your resolve would be hardened. Your anger and lust for revenge would blind your leaders to the truth.”
“You want a war between the U.S. and China.” Peter paused, trying to think what the next move would be. Why was Pehin acting so confident? “But you failed. Our countries are not at war.”
Pehin smiled, reminding Peter of a serpent, as the pain from his gunshot arm seemed to vanish, replaced by the exuberance of knowing he had won. “That will change the moment one of your Harpoon anti-ship missiles sinks a Chinese warship. Those red markers—”
Peter studied the display again and quickly counted eight red symbols.
“That is the Liuzhou battle group. As you can see, they have been ordered to reinforce China’s military presence in the Spratly Islands. And they are just about to be within range of the American battle group.”
As a former Navy man, Robert stiffened his back at the perceived insult. “The U.S. Navy is extremely well disciplined. They would never fire upon that task force unless there was very good provocation.”
“Nevertheless, in about seven minutes, the Chinese radar will detect a volley of incoming cruise missiles. Their detection instruments will identify the radar seeker frequency as that of an American Harpoon missile. They should have enough time to report the attack before the first missile strikes. Naturally, having been fired upon, they will react in kind.” He pointed to a digital clock on the wall. It was showing seven minutes and eleven seconds, and ticking down in time.
Peter mumbled, “And the war will begin.”
“How do you know this?” Robert said.
“It’s the terminal phase of the plan,” Peter answered. “With enough money, anything can be bought on the black market, and Harpoon missiles are no exception. I’d imagine there are several new multimillionaires in India. But that wasn’t the only contribution purchased from Indian sources. The guidance system on the ballistic warheads came from India. The warheads themselves from Chinese technology. And the rocket motors, of course, were readily sourced from North Korea. Isn’t that right?”
“Very good, Mr. Savage. At any rate, while your intelligence resources were focused on finding and neutralizing our theater ballistic missile weapons, several fishing trawlers armed with the much smaller anti-ship cruise missiles have moved into location. There really is nothing you can do to stop it.”
He moved his hand a few inches on the console and turned a dial. The satellite image was enlarged, and as he continued to turn the knob individual ships appeared—it was the Chinese task force. Then the adjacent monitor showed a similar satellite image, only this was the Ford Battle Group. “You are welcome to watch,” Pehin said.
Peter focused his eyes back on the Security Director. He raised the Berretta and cocked the hammer. Then he punched several buttons on his cell phone with the thumb of his left hand. “Lieutenant Lacey. I want you to listen very carefully. We don’t have much time, only a matter of minutes to stop the outbreak of war.”
Although she wanted to ask a dozen questions, she had the discipline not to, and she listened as Peter relayed exactly what he’d been told.
Pehin’s face grew flush with hatred at the realization of what Peter was attempting to do. “No!” he screamed, and he charged Peter.
Boom!
The clang of the brass cartridge bouncing on the hard floor displaced the fading echo of the gunshot. The room fell into an eerie silence.
Pehin stopped in his tracks, a hand placed over the center of his chest. His face contorted in pain and the realization that assurance of victory had been snatched from his grasp. He fell onto his knees, and then his face, as the life force left his body.
“What was that?” Lacey asked. “It sounded like a gunshot.”
“It was. I’ll explain later. First, the Ford is sailing toward a Chinese naval task force. They must know that, so they’ll have armed fighters in the air, correct?”
“I would assume so,” she answered, her voice touched with confusion.
“Those aircraft need to intercept and destroy Harpoon cruise missiles that will be launched from fishing trawlers in…” he glanced at the digital count-down timer. “In just over five minutes.”
“Fishing trawlers? Where? We have to know the location of those boats!”
“I don’t know! But they must be in the general vicinity of the carrier battle group. The Chinese have to believe they are under attack from the U.S. That’s the only way this plan works!”
“Understood. The escorts will have the location of all nearby surface ships pinpointed. Hopefully, there aren’t too many. I’ll get the message out, flash traffic, but still it will take several minutes to reach the theater commanders.”
“You have to try…”
“Wait!” Lacey said before the call ended. “How about you?”
“Time to get out of here.”