10

2340 LOCAL
YELLOW SEA FLEET HEADQUARTERS

Alone in the conference room, General Syng drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he waited for his call to Qindao to go through. Captain Zahedi’s report had not been as surprising as the man’s outburst. He was uncultured, as most Iranians were. They were only a generation or two beyond their desert nomad heritage. It had been only political chance that had allowed an Iranian navy officer to attend Perisher. That, and Iran’s purchase of four Kilo submarines from the old Soviet Union some years ago, before the DPRK could do the same, gave them the advantage in experience. But only a temporary advantage. Admiral Losan reported that his people were learning very fast. They had the proper motivation: Learn or die.

This deal brokered by Pakistan was clearly to North Korea’s advantage. Payment was in hard Western currencies—U.S. dollars, British pounds, and Swiss francs—which North Korea desperately needed. And the Yellow Sea Fleet’s submariners were gaining much needed experience.

In the meantime, ISI General Asif’s warning that the Seawolf might follow Revered Leader here, of all places, had worried Syng more than he let on to anyone except the Dear Leader himself.

He was given the authorization to approach their allies for help, and Beijing had agreed immediately.

Vice Adm. Wang Jiying, commander of the PRC’s North Sea Fleet, had jumped at the chance to corner an American submarine in such shallow waters.

“It will be my pleasure to provide assistance to our friends in the struggle,” Jiying had promised.

And he was as good as his promise. Lying just offshore, in ultra-silent mode that no passive sonar in the world could detect, were four PRC Han class nuclear submarines. They were slow and leaked radiation, but they were deadly warships all the same. And four against one were good odds, especially when the American boat would be hampered in her ability to operate in such shallow waters, and hampered in her political will to fight a most-favored-nation trading partner.

The call finally went through and Vice Admiral Jiying came on the line. “You would not be calling at this hour unless your situation has actually developed.”

“Yes, thank you, Admiral Jiying, the situation may have developed as we had forseen.”

“I know, General Syng. My on-site commander, Captain Chou Hua, informed me two hours ago. I ordered him to stand by until we heard from you.”

Syng wanted to leap through the telephone and take the stupid old man by the throat. If the Chinese had called two hours ago the North Korean navy patrols could have been alerted. He calmed himself.

“Yes, thank you, Admiral. Will you be ready to strike once the hare is flushed to your hounds?”

“Send him to us and we will kill him,” the admiral said. “I guarantee it.”

Syng managed a thin smile. “Then we will bait the trap and you can spring it.”

After the connection was broken he sat for a few moments contemplating the ramifications of what they were going to do. Killing an American warship with a large loss of life would have major political ramifications. But the situation could be turned to North Korea’s advantage.

Syng got his cap, went downstairs to his car, and ordered his driver to take him to the quarters of Minister Chan Do-Sang, across base. Do-Sang was the civilian political adviser to the fleet. He was a man used to being in complete control, and being informed at all times.

NAMPO DRY DOCK

The shooting had finally stopped and the dry dock’s huge doors were safely secured. Now, nothing could get in and wreak more havoc.

Nor, Zahedi thought with pleasure, could anyone caught inside escape. Once the pen was pumped dry he hoped to see the body of at least one American intruder.

The lights inside the pen were on. Zahedi stepped out onto the walkway to which his boat was secured. There were bodies near the bow of 2606, and there was a splash of blood on deck opposite the forward loading hatch.

The lieutenant of the guard unit that had responded to the alert gestured for Zahedi to hold up.

“Pardon me, Captain, but this area is not secured yet,” the small, runt-faced officer warned. “I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“Whoever was aboard my boat is either dead or already gone. Don’t you see the blood on deck?”

“It might be from one of the welders, or one of your crewmen. You said you left crew aboard?”

Zahedi had been so worried about his boat that he had momentarily forgotten about Stalnov and the five others aboard. He brushed the lieutenant aside and made directly for the boarding ramp. He pulled his Russian PSM pistol from inside his tunic, stepped aboard, and went to the open hatch.

At first nothing seemed amiss. His boat was quiet, just as he had left it.

“Captain, please wait, sir—” the lieutenant called from the walkway.

Zahedi blocked the man out. Something small and dark was lying on the passageway grating below. He cocked his head to see it from a different angle. Then he knew. It was a footprint, and Zahedi knew exactly what had been stepped in to make the print.

It was blood. Someone aboard had been injured. And someone had tracked the blood to the escape trunk ladder.

Zahedi hurriedly climbed down into his boat. He held up at the base of the ladder. Lieutenant Nam’s body lay in a heap near the laser power transfer panel in the control room. Nothing moved, and there was no noise except for the soft whir of air-circulating fans and the distant sounds of the sirens outside.

He had to assume that whoever had come aboard his boat had gotten what they had wanted, killed his crew aboard, and left. But what exactly was it they wanted to find out?

Zahedi went aft, stopping only long enough to make sure that Lieutenant Nam was dead. He stopped at his compartment and looked inside. His eyes went immediately to his bunk. The pillow had been moved and his Koran was missing.

For a second Zahedi drew a blank, but then his breath caught in his throat as if he had just smelled something disagreeable.

He had been ordered to take nothing on this assignment that would identify him as an Iranian. But inside his Koran he had written notes about the births of his seven children. In Tehran.

It was the Americans. Probably a SEAL team from the Seawolf.

He continued aft, finding the bodies of the two engineers mates. The laser had apparently not been touched. At least it did not appear to be damaged. But Stalnov was nowhere to be found.

Zahedi stared at the laser for a long time, trying to imagine what had happened here. Trying to figure out why the Americans had not only taken the huge gamble of bringing their submarine into such shallow waters, but then putting a team aboard.

They had probably kidnapped Stalnov, which was proof that a Russian was helping to destroy American spy satellites. They had stolen his Koran, which proved that an Iranian was the commanding officer.

And what else?

Theft. Kidnapping. Sabotage?

Had they placed explosives aboard that could destroy his boat?

Zahedi raced forward to the control room. He snatched the shore phone from its bracket and got the base operator. He needed to get his crew aboard right now. They had to find and disarm the bombs before it was too late.