Red Tide, стр. 7
But crippled though the carrier was, it remained afloat, and that was unacceptable. In order to win the battle, and the acceptance that Ko hungered for, he had to send the American ship to the bottom. And he had the means to do so.
Five shots had been enough to cook the railgun’s barrel. A new one was being installed. But the Sea Dragon was armed with 200 surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles. That’s why some officials referred to the cruiser as “an arsenal ship.”
The Sea Dragon’s vertical missile launchers were loaded and ready. Ko gave the orders: “Fire missiles 1 through 10 in standard sequence.” The sea-skimming YJ-91 anti-ship missiles were good, but with a range of only 30 to 75 miles, they weren’t comparable to the American Harpoons, some of which could strike targets more than 150 miles away. But improvements were on the way … Or so the authorities claimed.
Ko watched from above as seven explosions blossomed along the length of the Concord’s hull. The remaining destroyer rushed to rescue those she could, while tiny boats and rafts could be seen bobbing around the carrier.
Slowly, almost majestically, the Concord sank until what remained of its island disappeared from view. “We have a fix on the destroyer,” Shi said. “And we’re ready to fire.”
Perhaps it was the sight of fellow sailors struggling to survive. But for whatever reason Ko couldn’t kill any more. Admiral Wen might criticize his decision. But the goddess Tianfei would not. “Secure all missiles,” Ko ordered. “The battle is over.”
CHAPTER TWO
Istanbul, Turkey
After stepping onto the narrow passageway alongside the hydrofoil’s superstructure, U.S. Navy Commander Max Ryson paused to look across the moonlit Bosporus to Istanbul.
Most of the Turkish city was blacked out. But jewel-colored traffic lights twinkled, a police car flashed blue, and rectangles of buttery light marked windows where a shade was up.
Closer in, about a hundred yards away, boats of every possible description slid through the moonlit channel, their engines thrumming, as they journeyed east and west. The Bosporus strait was an important link between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea further east. That’s why human beings had been fighting to control it for thousands of years. And were about to do so again.
The air felt warm as Ryson made his way around the boat’s superstructure to the gangplank, and from there to the dock, where a sailor named Farley saluted. “Good evening, sir.”
Ryson returned the salute and paused. “Guard duty again? What was it this time?”
Farley grinned. “A bottle of booze in my locker, sir. The chief took offense.”
Ryson laughed. “Keep a sharp eye out Farley … Istanbul is full of spies and saboteurs.”
“I will, sir. Enjoy the party.”
Ryson nodded agreeably, but knew he wouldn’t. Ryson didn’t like parties, but British Admiral Jerome Canby did. And since Canby was in command of Special Sea Command 2, the group Ryson’s squadron was attached to, he had to attend.
People were filing off other boats as Ryson made his way along the pier. American boats, British boats, and Israeli boats. Ryson could hear the thump, thump, thump of bass and caught a glimpse of light as the door to the warehouse opened and closed.
A cyclone fence and gate barred the way. So the procession slowed as the party goers were forced to stop and show ID. A Royal marine checked Ryson’s card against a list. “Sorry about the delay, sir … But we have orders to keep the Russians out.”
It was supposed to be a joke but the jest contained a kernel of truth. English speaking members of Russia’s foreign Intelligence Service would love to attend Canby’s party.
Of course, the Russians didn’t need secret agents to inform them that an Allied attack was imminent. The concentration of naval resources in Istanbul was very visible to the naked eye and from space. Still, there was no reason to provide the Ivans with operational details regarding the coming attack. “Your card sir,” the marine said, as he returned it. “Have a good time.”
Ryson followed a French officer to a door where a woman was waiting to give him two drink chits. “There’s a two-drink limit tonight,” she said. “And that includes beer. Please stick to it.”
Had it been up to Ryson there wouldn’t have been a party or drinks. But Canby thought the gathering would boost morale. “Play hard and fight hard,” the mercurial officer said. But Ryson wasn’t so sure.
A blast of music escaped the warehouse as the group in front of Ryson opened the door and went in. He followed. Not surprisingly, the interior of the building looked like the inside of a warehouse, complete with harsh lighting, concrete columns, and yellow lines on the floor.
Ryson guessed that something like two hundred people were present, most of whom were Allied navy personnel, all wearing the cammies peculiar to their particular service.
Ryson couldn’t help but notice how egalitarian the crowd was. Both officers and senior enlisted people had been invited and were mingling in a manner typical of special operations units. And that made sense. If these men and women were going to die together, why not party together? Ryson’s respect for Canby went up a notch.
A temporary bar had been established against one wall. Thanks to the presence of six bartenders, the lines were short. Ryson began to work his way through the crowd. A Brit called his name. Ryson waved but kept going.
To Ryson’s ear the Europop music was loud and frantic. Not the sort of thing he wanted to hear on the eve of battle. But others felt differently and were dancing. Something he was completely unqualified to do.
After surrendering a chit, and collecting a gin and tonic, Ryson scanned the crowd. Where was Canby? His plan was to find the admiral, stage a short conversation, and exfil.
“Commander