Ashes of Victory

— 27 —

President Cord Macklin stepped inside the Treaty Room with Hartwell Prost in tow and found a contraband McDonald’s lunch on his desk, courtesy of his crafty DNI. But before he could turn to that, he sat and asked, “Is there any reason to believe they got a message out before they sank?”

“Given the Chinese sub’s depth at the time, it seems highly unlikely.”

“And it’s confirmed that we lost one of our satellites.”

“Confirmed. A high-energy laser punched a hole right through it.”

Frustrated and angry with the leadership in Beijing, Macklin struggled to suppress his displeasure and hostility. “Dammit. What are the bastards thinking? And how should we counter this?”

“We just sank their new sub, Mr. President, with considerable loss of life. I’d say that serves the purpose.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I know you and Brad are into this ‘going downtown’ approach,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “But perhaps we should focus on de-escalating for the moment.”

The president studied his friend, then nodded. “Soon, Hart. Soon. But first we are going to extract another pound of flesh.”

“Yes, sir,” Prost said, “but let’s leave the bastards a chance to save some face. You know that’s important to them.”

The president nodded, then spoke again, “Speaking of bastards, are we set on the other thing?”

Prost nodded. “Happening real-time,” he said, turning on the screen at the end of the room in time for the White House press secretary to reach the podium and brief reporters that three torpedoes had been fired at Vinson, damaging it.

“I’m going to catch hell for this,” Macklin said.

“Technically it’s all true, sir. One of them did damage the carrier.”

“And Denny reported it’s already been fixed.”

“A minor detail that will be released after, sir. But it’s all part of the illusion… so we can bag him this time.”

“Yeah, in return for the immunity deal I signed,” Macklin said with a sigh, before adding, “if it ever gets out that I pardoned the motherfu—”

“It’s the head we’re after, sir,” Prost reminded him, “not one of its tentacles.”

“I know that, Hart… still. The bastards killed hundreds of sailors, wounded Stennis, and sank North Dakota,” Macklin said. I’m having a hell of a time wrapping my head around the fact I actually signed the damn piece of paper.”

Prost was about to reply when Macklin waved him away, feeling quite disgusted with himself. “I need a moment, Hart.”

His DNI promptly left the room, and the president just stared at his lunch, at the juicy burger and salty fries. He looked at the beads of condensation running down the side of his very sweet chocolate shake. But his all-time favorite comfort food, the one that he’d even sneak around Maria to eat, suddenly made him nauseous.

Pushing it all aside, Macklin just stared at the TV as his press secretary fielded questions from the media, piling up lies on top of lies.

Closing his eyes, he prayed that Prost and his team would make it all worth it and get it right this time around.

“But we already had an inspection.” Javier Ibarra waved the Recreational Boating Safety certificate he had been issued three days earlier.

“I realize that, sir,” said Petty Officer Second Class Mark Lassiter after reviewing it. He was a thin man in his early thirties with a wispy mustache. He and his team had just boarded the yacht from a Response Boat-Medium (RB-M), a utility Coast Guard vessel roughly half the size of Erasmus. “But we’re here on a PWCS,” he added, identifying the nature of his mission: Ports, Waterways, and Coastal Security.

Wearing a pair of white shorts, a blue T-shirt, and sandals, Ibarra made a face. “What does that have to do with us? We’re on a pleasure fishing cruise.” The PWCS was a far more thorough inspection than the RBS conducted by the cutter, which meant there was a risk that the inspectors might stumble onto the secret hatch for the compartment below the main salon — a risk he could not take.

“Just following orders, sir,” Lassiter said. “But we should be through in a couple of hours. Then you can be on your way.”

As the petty officer signaled two sailors to come aboard — each bearing the same model 9 mm Beretta 92FS hanging from Lassiter’s belt — Ibarra did his own signaling to his team.

Ever since his contact in Newport News had messaged Ibarra that she had to go dark after her cover was blown, the seasoned smuggler had noticed an increased level of activity on all the standard Coast Guard channels, as well as on his radar screen, indicating the possibility that the Americans might be onto them. Though the fact that Santo Erasmus had not been encircled by the US Atlantic Fleet — or just blown out of the water by a missile from an overhead drone — suggested to Ibarra that they did not yet know his vessel’s name.

For now.

That same radar screen had also told him that the Coast Guard RB-M was the only ship in the vicinity, and that, combined with the fact that dusk was less than three hours away, presented him with a unique opportunity to put an old smuggling trick into practice.

He shifted his gaze between the three armed inspectors moving across his yacht and the fourth sailor that remained on the Coast Guard RB-M, his arms resting on top of an M240B machine gun aimed his way. Ibarra then ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair.

It happened very fast.

A flash of orange and yellow flames from the RPG-32 Mario Mendoza had balanced on his right shoulder shot out toward the RB-M’s bridge with a muzzle velocity of 445 feet per second. The thermobaric shell engulfed the center of the Coast Guard vessel, including its gunner, in an almost blinding light as its warhead generated a very high-temperature explosion.

As Santo Erasmus rocked from the shock wave and a blast of heat swept across the deck, Ibarra produced a .45-caliber Sig P220 pistol from behind his back, where it has been pressed against his spine, and shot Lassiter in the back of the head, while Sammy Chen and Jorge Diaz handled the other two sailors.

After untying the mooring lines, Mendoza steered his boat away from the RB-M as the fire spread across the vessel’s stern. His crew tossed the three bodies overboard, and Ibarra ordered the diesels ahead two-thirds, on a bearing that would take Santo Erasmus toward the coast of North Carolina.

“There will be more coming, Javi,” Diaz said, pointing at the sky. “And they will fire first and ask questions later.”

“I’m counting on it,” Ibarra said.

Prince Omar Al Saud loved this enchanting gem of a city in the southwestern corner of the country, nestled in the Rhône Valley. A major center for financial activity, commerce, and the headquarters of many international organizations, it had been built in the classic pattern of many old European cities, radiating in an organized fashion outward from its original center.

Sitting on the large covered balcony of the penthouse suite of the luxurious hotel — just one of the rooms that had been reserved, along with the entire floor — Al Saud enjoyed a celebratory late-afternoon cappuccino while watching the news from America on an eighty-inch flat screen hanging from the wall. The White House press secretary stood behind a podium reporting on the damage done to Vinson. He smiled, imagining the chaos and destruction.

He shut off the TV and turned to look out the window at the mirror-smooth surface of Lake Geneva. The majestic Alps rose in the distance. He pondered the phone call he had had only two hours earlier with the Russian submarine captain.

To be honest, the Saudi prince could not figure out how the Russian had been able to badly damage one aircraft carrier, sink an attack submarine, and then disable a second carrier, with the latter operating on high alert in the crowded waters of the Taiwan Strait. And then he had managed to escape with only minor damage to the sub after enduring a night of depth charges.

Amazing, he thought, thinking about the press conference. Vinson was damaged, drifting in the Taiwan Strait, just as China continued its military buildup along the coast.

Al Saud had immediately transferred the promised funds to Sergeyev and his crew. After all, a deal was a deal. And besides, he probably could use their services again in the—

Someone rang the suite’s bell.

Al Saud turned at the intrusion, looking through the half-opened sliding glass doors that separated the balcony from the living area.

He motioned to one of the five guards scattered throughout his suite to check it out. Al Saud had another dozen men covering every access point to his top-floor retreat, three more in the lobby by the elevators, plus six more guarding his brand-new Bell 525 helicopter on the roof, with a pilot standing by. After the narrow escape from Azzam, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Holding a Mac-10 pistol in his left hand, the guard used his right one to inch the door ope—

And that’s when a cylindrical object flew through the opening, skittering inside.

Before his mind could register what was happening, the concussion grenade went off.

Al Saud fell to the ground stunned, half-blinded by the intense flash, his ears ringing.

He tried to move, to get up, to make a run for the stairs leading to the helipad. But instead, a figure forced him on his belly and secured his wrists and ankles with flex-cuffs, while another one placed a bag over his head.

“Stop… who… are you?” he mumbled, fighting the urge to vomit.

“Room service,” a man replied before hoisting him over his right shoulder with incredible ease.

“For one,” added another.

Then he felt the pinch of a needle and quickly lost consciousness.

Cmdr. Jake Russo hauled his high-value target up the stairs to the roof, followed by three other members of his SEAL team, and pushed through the door just as a Super Stallion thundered from the lake and took up a position hovering beyond the prince’s Bell 525. Two other SEALs waited there. The bodies of the prince’s guards and pilot lay near the helicopter.

The transfer took less than a minute, and before the authorities descended on the luxury hotel, the Sea Stallion was already back out over the water, cruising at two hundred knots on its way to Panzer Kaserne Marine Corps Base in Boeblingen, Germany.

Russo strapped the prince into a seat in the rear of the cabin before removing the black bag. He nodded to a navy corpsman, who took the prince’s vitals, and then gave him another injection.

Slowly the man’s eyes fluttered open. His head moved side to side as he tried to orient himself. After a minute, his gaze came to rest on the SEAL commander.

Russo watched the man’s face transition from surprise to anger.

“Do you know… who you just kidnapped?” Al Saud growled.

Russo smiled and then asked, “The biggest dick to ever walk the earth?”

Then he took an encrypted satellite phone from a cargo pocket and dialed a number. “Package en route,” was all he said before he hung up and turned to join his men.

“Look at the positive side, sir,” Lt. Cmdr. Robert Giannotti said. “Pretty soon we’re bound to run out of ammo and have to head home.”

“I’d settle for forty-eight-hour liberty in Subic Bay,” Marshon Chappelle chimed in from the sonar station. “Don’t know about you guys, but I’m starting to forget what a girl looks like.” Although the navy had allowed women on submarines since 2010, there were none aboard this tour of the Mighty Mo.

“Tired of your whales, Chappy?” Giannotti asked.

At the moment, Missouri cruised eleven thousand yards from the starboard side of Vinson at a depth of sixty feet. The high-definition cameras mounted on the photonic masts fed the flat screens with the surrounding surface activity — or lack thereof. Aside from the distant flattop silhouette of the carrier, he saw no traffic on the dark waters southeast of Kaohsiung, Taiwan, and nothing floating in the vicinity of the submarine. The stars were shining brightly, and the moon hung low in the western sky.

“Set our depth one-two-zero. Ahead one-third. Rudder amidships.”

Cmdr. Frank Kelly watched the crew carry out the order to get the submarine into firing position, and a few minutes later, he said, “Fire one.”

“Fire one, aye,” Giannotti repeated.

The weapons officer worked his keyboard before reporting, “Missile away.”

On the screen, a burst of cold gas shot the BGM-109 Tomahawk Land Attack Missile (TLAM) out of its Vertical Launching System forward of Missouri’s sail and toward the surface, before it accelerated to its cruise speed of 545 miles per hour in the direction of the lower coastline of China.

“Fire two.”

A second TLAM shot out of an adjacent VLS and shadowed the first one.

The eighteen-foot-long missiles stabilized in flight at low altitude as they streaked toward their target, relying on Global Positioning System for time-of-arrival control and navigation capability.

“Set depth three-zero-zero. Ahead two-thirds,” Kelly ordered before leaving Giannotti in command and retiring to his cabin, where he grabbed the five-by-seven photo and gazed into the smiling faces of his twin girls in a feeble attempt to avoid thinking about the souls that would be dead at his hand within the next ten minutes.

The three guards on duty at the missile site were enjoying an evening of freedom from their humorless sergeant of the guard, who had taken ill late in the afternoon.

The two corporals and a private first class were playing Da Bai Fen, a popular Chinese card game, while eating dried fish snacks and looking forward to breakfast.

The men were joking and laughing when they heard an odd sound in the distance and immediately stopped talking, carefully listening to the eerie screech. But none of them recognized the high-pitched noise.

The strange sound grew louder. The men looked at one another blankly before the obvious conclusion dawned on them, and they scrambled over one another to reach the nearby bomb shelter.

The first Tomahawk missile exploded in the middle of the compound, injuring the three guards and trapping them in the debris. In shock and disbelief, the three men heard the terrifying sound again. One of the men tried to crawl away, just as the second missile landed eight feet from the first point of impact, instantly killing the guards.

The back-to-back blasts, a combined two thousand pounds of high explosives, reached not only a dozen ballistic missiles on their fixed launching stations, but also an adjacent two-story concrete and steel structure fed by a small power station.

The fireball ignited the solid-rocket propellant in the missiles, triggering secondary explosions that licked the sky, the crimson glow of the resulting fire visible for miles. Sparks flew from severed electrical cables, and then the power station exploded, taking with it the entire structure it served: a state-of-the-art, ground-based anti-satellite laser system.