by Don Keith
Should this activity continue at the same rate for only a few hundred years, there would be a brand-new island in the South Pacific, centered on this very spot.
A brand-new island for the world’s nations to claim and fight over.
25
The Changcheng Shiba, one of Yon Hun Glo’s submarines, arrived in its newly assigned patrol area off the entrance to Pago Pago Harbor on the southeast side of the island of American Samoa. Once on-station, she came to periscope depth in order to watch for any interesting activity in the tropical harbor. Normally, they could expect to find the place to be little more than a quiet backwater, with only the occasional yacht sailing into or out of the harbor. The US Navy did have a presence there, but there was typically little of importance going on in this place, either. The high point of island activity was when the tuna fleet pulled in to dump their fishy load at the giant StarKist cannery on the north side of the harbor. Definitely nothing worth the submarine’s attention, but, by order, Shiba was bound to take a look.
But this time, the PLAN submarine’s first glimpse of the harbor showed things were quite different now. The giant, gray hulk of the Chesty Puller was plainly visible, anchored in the middle of the harbor. And the Portland was moored a few hundred yards further in. Yon Hun Glo had given the Shiba’s commander very explicit orders should he discover such warships this close to Tonga. First, he was to report any American naval vessels of this size that he might observe at anchor or leaving the harbor. Then, should it appear that any departing vessels might be headed toward the Tonga Trench area, he was to assume they were hostile, and he was to attack and sink them if he could.
But—and the orders were quite specific on this point—the most important thing was to make the report.
The submarine commander’s first reaction to the orders was consternation. Sinking an American vessel would have ramifications the Chinese skipper did not want to contemplate. But he also knew that whatever Yon and the wolf pack were doing out here was of utmost importance. And the Americans clearly could not be allowed to crash the party, even to the point of starting a shooting war if they appeared bent on doing it.
He would follow the orders.
The Shiba was still setting up, acclimating to the new patrol area, determining just how safe it was to patrol even closer to the harbor mouth, when the commander spied a small, gray warship steaming out of the harbor. And the vessel—clearly US Navy—was heading very nearly straight at him, proceeding rapidly and on a collision course.
Was it possible that the Americans had already discovered the Shiba? Did they have remote bottom sensors that the submarine may have tripped? Of course, they did!
More importantly, and of greatest urgency for the commander to determine, was it possible that this warship planned to attack and sink his submarine?
The commander hurriedly lowered the periscope and ordered his submarine to go deep. They were to rapidly maneuver away from the on-rushing warship. But the oncoming vessel was already so close, the range was so short, that the commander knew it would be impossible to evade even the most primitive ASW ship. And the American ASW ships were anything but primitive. Plus, he was now convinced sensors had already revealed their presence and position.
He would have to act quickly. Even as they diverted and went deep, the approaching vessel made a turn to apparently follow his submarine. The captain could only assume that the Americans had him in their sights. That they were preparing to drop hell on him and his ship.
The only option now was to attack immediately and hope his torpedo destroyed the American warship before they had a chance to launch their own weapons. Let the politicians and diplomats sort out the mess later.
It took a little more than one minute for the Shiba’s fire control system to spit out a solution on the American warship. To upload the solution to the YU-6 torpedo in the Number One torpedo tube. To launch the torpedo.
The weapon whooshed out of its tube. Its otto-fuel-powered engine ignited and quickly came up to speed, racing in the general direction of the US vessel.
After the torpedo had traveled about five hundred meters from the submarine, its active acoustic sensors started searching for its quarry, finding it almost instantly.
Once located, it would take little time at all to reach the target and do its maximum damage, almost certainly before the American ship and its crew knew what hit them.
Ψ
The Canberra cleared Breakers Point and came around to a course that would point their bow directly for the gold fields. Their orders were to get there fast, and speed was one of this type of warship’s primary advantages. The skipper ordered up a flank bell.
The two big General Electric 2500 gas turbines whined up to full speed, pushing thousands of gallons a minute of seawater through a pair of LJ150E Wartsila pump-jets while the two MTU diesels pushed the two LJ160E pump-jets. Crewmembers held onto whatever they could find as the LCS shot ahead, quickly coming up to her maximum speed of better than forty-five knots and doing so within a distance of only a couple of ship lengths.
The Canberra raced past where the Shiba lay without ever knowing the Chinese submarine was there. The US littoral combat ship was moving so fast that the PLAN YU-6 torpedo, even with a fifteen-knot speed advantage, could not catch up before it ran out of fuel.
The lethal torpedo soon slowed, then stopped, and immediately sank into the depths.
The LCS raced on, oblivious to anyone having just shot at her with the intention of sinking her.
Ψ
Yon Ba Deng was once again in a quandary. The reports from his brother, Yon Hun Glo, had so far been promising. He and his little armada were on their way out to the gold fields. There did not appear to be anything in his way. Nothing to hinder him from beginning to pull the stunning riches of Croesus from the ocean depths. And the world’s attention was now focused on Taiwan, with no interest at all on the Tonga Trench. Yon Ba Deng allowed himself a smile as a weak but appropriate metaphor came to mind: all appeared golden on that front.
But on the home front, just as he was so close to unimaginable wealth and power, events were not proceeding so much in his favor. He had not even moved into his new, well-appointed office in the Forbidden City. He had not yet met his new staff or called his first meeting to establish his power. And already things were falling apart.
All of his submarines that had managed to get to their patrol stations, to begin the execution of his crafty embargo plan, as approved by the president, had been immediately detected and attacked. Even those boats that had been delayed by one excuse or another had been found. So far, he had been unable to blame this debacle on someone else.
He, of course, had someone in mind. The perfect foil. But he needed that foil to do important work at the moment, out there in the Pacific.
Right now, he needed to solve a couple of vexing riddles. The submarines had been detected—every one of them, including those that were way off schedule and plan—when such a breach of stealth was almost impossible. Even a spy could not have predicted the positions of the submarines that had suffered mechanical troubles, yet the Taiwanese had located every single one of them.
Then, once detected, every sub had been damaged, not destroyed. It seemed as if the Taiwanese were taunting him, showing him that they could just as easily have sunk much of his submarine fleet. But they did not want to waste the effort or the explosives.
Yon’s brilliant submarine “embargo” had now become an international joke. Even the feeble effort to try to claim that this was all a complex exercise, a test of China’s fleet preparedness, had been the subject of mocking coverage in the world’s press. Especially when video of dozens of the PLAN boats being towed back into port with their screws shot off showed up everywhere from YouTube to most of the world’s cable news channels. And, of course, in intelligence briefings in most world capitals.
Yon Ba Deng was sure that it was only a matter of time. He would likely have no chance to defend himself. No
t even to place blame on his brother.
No, Tan Yong would soon demand his resignation. Or, worse, send the Guoanbu, the dreaded State Security secret police, to place him under arrest. There would be claims that he was a traitor, a saboteur, an enemy of the people. Then he would disappear into the same prison that held Soo Be Xian. That is, if he was allowed to live at all.
Just then, his private cell phone rang. He answered immediately. Few people had this number. He always responded to it when there was a call.
“Wei, nin hao!”
“Good! I got to you in time!” He recognized the deep, sultry voice. Li Min Zhou. “You must run. Now. The Guoanbu are already on their way to place you under arrest. The charges are treason against the people. You, of all people, know the punishment for such an offense.”
Yon Ba Deng gasped. Yes, he did. A very nasty public trial, followed by execution.
“But, I...”
“There is time, but not for argument,” she calmy interrupted. “And a way to save yourself. I have a jet waiting at Xijiao Airport, at the charter terminal. Leave right now. Do not go home. Do not try to pack a bag or take anything. Do not call anyone. Just drive yourself straight to the airport. With any luck, and with your adherence to my instructions, we may well get you to a safe place.”
“But why are you...”
The line went dead. No time now for questions or answers.
Yon Ba Deng, the head of the Chinese military for less than a week, was already heading out the door of his old office, never to return.
He left on his desk a half-finished cup of tea. And his favorite teacup. The one made for Emperor Shenzong of the Song Dynasty. A powerful monarch once considered to be the richest man in the world.
And thus, its most powerful.
Ψ
Night was upon them when Yon Hun Glo’s ships arrived at their position over the Tonga Trench. The Zhang Jian and the Pearl Moon had departed Tonga the previous evening and steamed across three hundred and fifty miles of open ocean. Restrained by the speed of the submarines, the Shijiu and the Ershi, which were traveling submerged on their AIP systems, the journey had been much more leisurely than Yon Hun Glo would have preferred. However, it was important that his ships have some hidden protection from the Americans or anyone else who might bother them.
But especially the Americans.
Still, waiting for over three hours past their scheduled arrival for the three Tongan patrol boats to show up had tried the admiral’s patience to its breaking point. When Yon found that the delay was caused by King Tofuwanga wanting to ride along on the gold hunt, he exploded. How could that obese, incompetent fool dare to risk everything for which he and his brother had worked so hard merely so he could go on a sightseeing cruise. There was one positive. Having the king along would give more credence to the pretense that this odd assemblage of vessels was, indeed, a Tongan-government-sanctioned mission. Even an air of legality. That realization was enough to keep the admiral from dispatching the bloated monarch right back to his miserable, mosquito-infested islands.
Now in darkness, the afterdeck of the research vessel Zhang Jian became a bustle of activity. Aided by brilliant, white, mercury vapor deck lights, the technicians scurried about, making last-minute checks and adjustments to the bright orange manned submersible, the Fendouji.
Alongside the Fendouji rested a squat, mist-gray, cylindrical vehicle that was joined to the manned submersible by a tow cable. The unmanned mineral recovery vehicle would be the means to haul the gold from the bottom on the six-mile vertical ascent back up to the Zhang Jian. The Fendouji had the tools that would be used to load the MRV, but because it was only a small research submersible, it had the capacity only for small samples on each trip.
The plan was for the Fendouji to tow the MRV down, load it up, and then guide it back up to the surface. The cargo bin on the MRV was not very large, only about a cubic meter. When Yon Hun Glo had questioned the engineers who built it, he was quickly informed that it would hold over twenty thousand kilograms of gold. A bit of quick math showed Yon that they were looking at an amount of gold equal to over one-point-one-billion dollars per trip at prevailing prices.
The full moon was high over the ship by the time all the preparations were complete. Yon Hun Glo donned a pair of deep blue coveralls and joined the Fendouji’s pilot and equipment operator in the little submarine’s cramped inner capsule. He also carried a small pistol in his pocket, just in case the other two men became greedy at the sight of their haul. Nothing would keep him from making this first dive, or getting it back to the surface.
Once the men were inside, the technicians lowered the Fendouji’s fifteen-centimeter-thick titanium hatch in place and spun the locking dogs to seal it. The water pressure where this little vessel was going would be unbelievable, over ten thousand kilograms on each square centimeter.
Yon Hun Glo watched through one of the polycarbonate viewing portals as the mini-sub was lifted from the ship’s deck and swung out over the relatively calm water. The sub settled into the dark sea and rested on the surface while divers disconnected the power umbilical and the lifting rig. As that was happening, the MRV was lowered alongside and the tow rig was connected between the two vessels.
Technicians and the crew completed a couple of last-minute equipment checks. Then the Fendouji and her tag-along companion, the MRV, slowly descended into the inky water. Yon Hun Glo sat back and tried as best he could to get comfortable in the cramped capsule. Even the veteran submariner was bothered by such close quarters.
It was over six miles to the bottom. Even with the four propulsors at maximum power, the trip would take the better part of three hours. Until then, there was nothing to do but relax.
Relax and think of over a billion dollars per roundtrip.
Yon Hun Glo had actually begun to doze off when the sub’s high-speed acoustic communications system chirped. He read off the report that had originated with his command center, the one hidden in the cargo containers on the Pearl Moon. Their radar had detected a ship approaching at very high speed from the direction of the American port of Pago Pago on American Samoa. And it was not transmitting on its AIS transponder.
It was almost certainly an American warship. Nothing else would be traveling that fast, and only warships were exempt by the International Maritime Organization from using an AIS transponder. Yon’s first question was how the Americans were able to get a ship out of Pago Pago without the PLAN submarine he had posted there seeing and reporting it.
The second was what was going to happen when the ship arrived. The meager Tongan patrol boats would be of no use against an actual warship, even if this area was supposed to be their territorial water and their responsibility to defend. He did have one surprise for intruders, but he could not be certain it would be enough, depending on the type of warship coming their way.
Yon Hun Glo decided he could not rely on the Tongans or his “surprise” to deflect the approaching vessel. Instead, he directed one of his submarines to attack the impertinent American ship.
But, unknown to Yon Hun Glo, there was other traffic in the area. The submarine Cheyenne cruised at periscope depth three thousand yards south of where the admiral’s little group of ships slowly circled. The officer of the deck could easily see through his ’scope the brightly lit Chinese research vessel and a larger container ship a thousand yards further. Three little gunboats, flying the Tongan flag, wove in and out around the pair of bigger ships as if on joyrides.
The sub’s sonar showed a little more complicated picture. In addition to the five surface ships, there were two submarines, one making wide, slow circles a couple of thousand yards to the west and a second doing the same a few thousand yards to the east. Both submarines were classified Chinese Yuan-class AIP boats. They were so quiet that they were only held on the TB-29A towed array. But they were definitely there. And not unexpected. The sensors in the ship channel had reported their passage, too.
Quieter still, barely a
blank spot in the ocean, the American UUV, ORCA One, was a few hundred yards astern of the eastern Yuan.
And well off to the north, but closing fast, they held a broadband contact that sonar classified an LCS, the Canberra. It seemed to be rush hour in this typically empty part of the Pacific Ocean.
“Conn, Sonar, picking up acoustic comms from the research ship. Sounds like a data link of some kind.”
Walt Smith, the Cheyenne’s XO and currently standing watch as the command duty officer, grabbed the 21MC microphone and acknowledged the report.
“Sonar, Conn, aye. Can you make anything out of it?”
“No, not really. Not something we have heard before. Got it on tape, though. Maybe the ACINT brains can make sense of it when we can upload. Hold on a second.” A brief pause. “Conn, Sonar, contact zig on the east Yuan, Sierra Five-Six. Looks like he has increased speed and changed course to the north.”
“Sonar, Conn, aye.” Smith turned to talk to the section tracking party manning the bank of computers on the starboard side of the control room. “Attention in the attack center. Confirmed target zig, Sierra Five-Six, turn away and speed increase. Set anchor range five-two-hundred yards. Continue tracking Sierra Five-Six.”
Smith turned to the officer of the deck and ordered, “Make your depth three hundred feet and move over closer to Sierra Five-Six. Get yourself to three thousand yards behind him, deep in his baffles. I don’t like where I think he’s headed. I’m going to get the captain.”
Smith had barely finished his orders when Bart Knox, the skipper, walked into the control room. “What you got now, XO? Sounds like things are picking up a bit.”
