Red Tide, стр. 22
“I’m just in time then,” Moran said, as she took her seat. “Let’s jump in.”
Dorsey nodded. “The objective of Operation Red Tide is to find the Sea Dragon and sink her. The National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) is looking for the ship, but it’s difficult. You saw the satellite imagery. At least half the cruiser is underwater at any given time, and there are thousands of square miles to search.
“The sky spooks believe the Dragon is in port right now. But there’s no way to be sure. So they have to scan the South China Sea and the Philippine Sea just in case. And that takes a lot of person power and machine time.”
“How about our subs?” Ryson inquired. “I assume they’re looking as well.”
Moran was an ex-submarine skipper. She nodded her head. “We’re short of everything. Submarines included. But yes … We put additional resources into the area.”
“And one of them might nail the Sea Dragon,” Simmons said. “Let’s hope they do. But here’s the problem. In addition to being difficult to see, the Dragon is hard to hear, thanks to a nuclear-powered waterjet propulsion system. That’s what the Intel people believe, and for good reason. The Sea Dragon’s Chief Engineer is a Captain named Bohai Hong. He’s a longtime proponent of waterjet technology for surface ships.”
Ryson was quite familiar with waterjet technology since Class I and Class II PHMs were equipped with it. Hong’s face appeared on the screen. He was a handsome man with a high forehead, a long nose, and a well-shaped mouth. But most interesting of all was the look of calm determination in his eyes. “That photo was taken about a year ago,” Dorsey said. “At a meeting of the National People’s Congress.”
“And that’s where things become even more interesting,” Moran added. “Hong was there as a guest of his brother-in-law Premier Li Lau. And, according to some high quality humint (human intelligence), no love is lost between Lau and President Enlai. How that might impact the situation is unknown.”
So, the Sea Dragon was hard to see from space, and hard to hear underwater. That sucked. But for the life of him Ryson couldn’t understand why he was in the room. He looked from face-to-face. “No offense, but why am I here?”
Moran laughed. “Spoken like a true surface warfare officer. I like that. Here’s the deal Commander … Operation Red Tide has three components. They include satellite surveillance, subsurface surveillance, and surface surveillance.
“We believe that a multi-national squadron of high-speed patrol boats might happen across the Sea Dragon. Or develop Intel sources that will lead us to her.”
“But that isn’t all,” Dorsey added. “The squadron that Secretary Moran mentioned will have other duties too including, but not limited to, special ops insertions, anti-smuggling operations and counter terrorism missions.”
“And you,” Simmons said, “will be in command of Squadron 7. I don’t know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you.”
Ryson felt a wild mix of emotions. Excitement, fear, and uncertainty all battled each other for dominance. “Thank you, I think.”
The others laughed. “Time is of the essence,” Moran said. “We need to find and destroy the Sea Dragon as quickly as possible. So, there won’t be time for leave. I’m sorry about that. But this might put a smile on your face.”
Moran pushed a velvet covered box across the table. “Go ahead, open it.”
Ryson flipped the lid back and found himself looking at a Navy Cross. The United States Navy and the United States Marine Corps’ second-highest decoration—awarded for valor in combat. “You earned it,” Simmons said. “Congratulations.”
“Under normal conditions there would be a ceremony, the admiral would give a speech, and I would pin it on your chest,” Moran said. “But these aren’t normal times. May you have fair winds, and following seas.”
***
Luke’s Steak House, Washington D.C.
Ryson didn’t have time to go home to his grandfather’s house in Westport, Connecticut. But shortly after arriving in Turkey, Ryson had spoken with his grandfather by phone, and suggested a meal in D.C. And now, as he sipped a gin and tonic, the navy officer was watching the door. George Ryson was pushing 80. But, as he entered the room, the marine architect didn’t look a day over 60. He was tall, lanky, and burned sea-sun brown.
Ryson stood and waved. George smiled and made his way over to the table. “Maxwell! It’s good to see you Son … I missed you Boy.”
“Maxwell,” and “Son,” and “Boy.” Those were names George always used to address his only grandchild who, after losing his parents to an auto accident, had come to live with his grandfather at the house named “Sea Salt.”
“I missed you too Pops. You look good.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” George said, as he sat down. “But I have a lot of aches and pains. Old age sucks.”
Ryson smiled. “I think everyone agrees on that. How’s the boat?”
George and his grandson had constructed the twenty-six-foot sloop Serene with their own hands. A boat which George insisted on sailing almost everywhere while making minimal use of the Serene’s small inboard engine. “She’s a sailboat,” George liked to say. “Not a stinkpot.”
“She’s fine,” George replied. “I just had the bottom painted. I wish you could come up.”
“I wish I could too,” Ryson said. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me where you’re headed.”
“No, I can’t.”
“I saw a news story about the battle in the Black Sea. They aren’t allowed to mention names, but I knew the Pegs were in your squadron. How bad was it?”
“Bad.”
George nodded. “I’m sorry.”
The waiter arrived, took their orders, and departed. “I ran into Marisa a few days ago,” George said. “She asked after you.”
“That was nice of her,” Ryson responded.
“She’s single you know,” George said pointedly. “And pretty.”
“And she’s self-centered, too focused on money, and a social climber,” Ryson replied. “All the qualities my grandfather warned me about.”
George laughed. “Touché.”
The next hour was