Red Shark

Fat regarded Tokugawa with naked skepticism. “If you believe that, Iseda-san, then you must have the ear of powerful individuals. Marshal Jin, for one. And so I say with great humility that if I can assist your future dealings with the North Koreans in any way, I hope you will ask me.”

“I would not impose upon you further, Wu-san, nor on our friendship. You have provided both privacy and security, and that is sufficient to prevent others from intruding.”

“I understand. After all, I, too, loath the Americans. And despite past differences between our two countries, I commend the work of the Japan Pacific War Veterans Association. This new generation, ah, they look only to the future, to the next day, to the next hour. They have no connection to the past. No respect for history. None.” Fat waited for a response.

Tokugawa finished his wine. The wind had turned cold, cutting him like a knife, and he shuddered. Recovered, he recited, “ ‘In all things foreign, I come across a man who Does not forget our Empire.’ It was written by Akemi Tachibana. Let history record that the Americans forgot our empire, and that forgetting, failed to see the end of their own empire. Now I would like to rest. Perhaps there is a cabin I may use.”

Three hundred yards off the White Dragon’s port beam, a steel pole painted mottled gray-and-black camouflage, with a sea serpent’s eye at its tip, popped out of the water. Sixty feet below the surface, Commander Deng Zemin screwed his eye into the rubber buffer surrounding the periscope’s ocular and toggled to infrared. The White Dragon changed from a chunky black silhouette into a speeding bluish-green dragon with a glowing red heart — the heat bloom from her roaring diesel engines.

Zemin’s submarine, a Russian-built Kilo 636 diesel-electric attack boat, one of a dozen in commission with the People’s Liberation Army Navy, or PLAN, steamed a course parallel to the White Dragon while Zemin looked her over. The Kilo’s MGK-400 EM digital sonar had picked up the White Dragon’s snarking, sputtering diesels the moment she’d upped anchor in the roadstead off Chi-lung. Zemin had orders from North Sea Fleet Headquarters to monitor drug trafficking across the Formosa Strait, especially by Wu Chow Fat. He knew Beijing suspected that Fat was siphoning North Korean heroin to the Russian Mafiya, but that they had no proof.

While Zemin observed Fat’s activities, Zemin’s first officer watched the periscope’s video repeater and made notes with a stylus on a data pad, from which he could prompt the Kilo’s combat and command system’s computer for automatic fire control if needed.

Zemin’s inspection of Fat’s vessel revealed not only a pair of super-heated diesels but also an M-168 Lockheed Martin 20mm six-barreled Vulcan chain-gun, its snout poking from under a tarpaulin, and a pair of Browning .50-caliber heavy machine guns midships.

“Fat departed Chi-lung for Matsu Shan at high speed,” Zemin said. “I wonder what waits on his island that is so important.”

The first officer smiled. “Indeed, Comrade Captain, he has both throttles wide open.”

Zemin folded the periscope’s handles and stepped back. A sailor yanked a hydraulic lever in the overhead; the periscope hummed into its well. Zemin folded his arms and frowned while he considered options. He was a handsome man with delicate Mandarin features of the type favored by the younger members of the Central Committee, whose job it was to hand out choice commands within the PLAN. Zemin’s officers, handpicked by him, had been encouraged to think for themselves, a rarity in the PLAN.

“Perhaps, Comrade Captain,” said the first officer, “we should sprint ahead to Matsu Shan.”

“I agree. The ministers in Beijing might be interested in what we report. You may give the orders.”