be happening.”
“You know what their real problem is?” said General Scannell thoughtfully. “They are bound and determined
“And, faced with imminent death, or normal life under an ultimately benevolent ruler on the mainland, there’s only one answer for Taiwan. And until China gets prepared to slam Taipei, she’s gonna be fighting a half-assed conflict, against a very proud enemy. And that’s gonna cost them a lot of guys.”
“Not that they care about that,” said Arnold Morgan. “But I’m with you. They have to
“And the longer they take to get their asses in gear at Keelung,” said the CNO, “the worse it’s gonna get. In my opinion, they’d be better off knocking down Keelung to save Taipei.”
“They might at that,” added General Scannell. “But one thing’s for sure: They can’t stay long as they are now.”
The second item on the news was just as serious. The conflict in Taiwan had again sent the world oil markets into a complete frenzy. The prospect of a war, into which the United States might be drawn, always does. And here was the CNN newscaster reporting another chronic rise in the price per barrel. Brent crude was up $10, back to $64, having subsided from its peak of $72 as the Pondicherrys did their work in the Strait of Hormuz.
But Americans in the Midwest were paying four dollars a gallon at the pumps. And Texaco was intimating this could go to five in the weeks ahead, while the world’s VLCCs struggled to replenish supplies. Now the latest “spin” being placed on the news of China’s war with Taiwan was frightening the markets all over again.
What if the Chinese somehow seized control of the Malacca Strait? What would happen to Japan if the price of their fuel doubled again? They were still the world’s second-largest economy, and they needed fuel for everything. What price would they pay to survive? And where would this put the West?
Essentially this was a newsroom’s dream, free rein to terrify the populace, ratchet up the ratings and look wise. There were frowns, set beneath perfectly coiffed hairstyles and — pieces. There were expressions of deep concern and superior learning from men who had zero firsthand experience of politics, the military or the world’s financial markets. Save as onlookers.
“The question is, Where is this all going to end?” asked one of the network anchormen. “And what is the U.S. government planning to do about it? That’s what’s concerning every American here tonight.” He said it as if he had just plumbed the very depths of Socrates.
“What a total asshole,” observed Arnold Morgan.
Nonetheless the oil crisis remained exactly that. And the situation in Taiwan was out of control. Admiral Morgan knew only one thing — the United States had to get China out of the Bay of Bengal. The U.S. Navy had to lead the way in freeing up the oil routes both to the east and to the west.
He stood up and walked over to the window, staring out into the darkness. And he mused to himself in the silence of his profound intellect:
Commander Donald Reid had temporarily handed over the wardroom in the recently arrived USS
Far from the steamy Bassein River Delta, their talk centered on a cool, sunlit afternoon in Maryland, two weeks previously, on Saturday, May 20, when a big gray colt named White Rajah had won the Preakness Stakes, by four lengths, over nine and a half furlongs, the second leg of the American Triple Crown.
White Rajah, bred in Kentucky by Rick Hunter’s father, Bart, raised from a foal under the supervision of Dan’s father, Bobby, thus joined the immortals who had thundered to victory in the 134-year-old classic: Man O’War won this, so did his son War Admiral. Then there were Whirlaway, Assault, Count Fleet, Citation and Native Dancer. Bold Ruler and his peerless son Secretariat, the greatest of all twentieth-century stallions, Northern Dancer, the Triple Crown winners Affirmed and Seattle Slew. They all won in Maryland.
White Rajah would retire to stud with a book value approaching $8 million. Breeders would line up to send mares to him at $50,000 each. And according to Rick there was a chance he would begin his new career at Hunter Valley Farms, the land of his forefathers, the land of his vicious grandpa, Red Rajah, who had once nearly bitten off the young Dan Headley’s arm.
“Been in touch with your dad?” asked the XO.
“Oh, sure. We fixed up some kind of a computer hookup right here a few days ago. I watched the race on one of the screens.”
“Hey, Ricky, that must have been really exciting.”
“Sure was. Even though I knew the colt had won. Christ! You should have seen him…heading into the last turn at Laurel Park…you know how damn tight it is…and it was a big field…bunched right up…the Rajah stuck in the middle…
“But they fanned out like always on that track, and there he was…two on his inside, three on his outside… holding his place…waiting for the split. Jorge hit him once, and he dug in…deep in the stretch he hit the front and at the eighth pole he was clear…drew right off…beat ’em by four lengths. No bullshit.”
“Fantastic, Ricky. Just fantastic. How ’bout the Belmont Stakes? They gonna let him take his chance in New York next week?”
“Dad says not. None of that family went twelve furlongs, and they think he only just saw it out at Churchill Downs. They don’t want to get him beat over a distance too far for him. I think they’ll put him away for the Travers at Saratoga, and if he wins take a shot at the Breeders’ Cup Classic. But they’re not gonna run him a yard over ten.”
“Yeah. Sounds right. The family really throws milers. But how come the owners don’t want to keep him and send him to stand at Claiborne?”
“Well, Dad’s put in a big offer, and of course he knows the bloodline. They been raising those big fiery bastards for years at Hunter Valley. I think the Rajah’s trainer thinks he’d be better among people who knew him as a foal. Guys who’re aware of the family’s tricky temperament. If he comes to Hunter Valley, the owners will probably hang on to four shares.”
“Guess so. And I guess my own daddy’s gonna end up in charge of him.”
“No doubt of that. And that’s gonna be real good news for you…if we get him, Bart’s giving your dad a breeding right to him. He told me.”
“One pop?”
“Hell no. Every year. First classic winner we’ve bred since 1980, and your dad gets to share the wealth. The Rajah hits in the breeding shed, your retirement is buttoned up safe.”
“Shit, Ricky. We gonna end up drinking cold beers in the bluegrass, singing the music, and raising the yearlings.”
“Nah…not us. We got bigger things to do. That’s an ole man’s game. You and me gonna run the goddamned United States Navy.”
“Well if we are, we better get this next sonofabitch right or we might both end up dead. ’Specially you.” Dan Headley looked pensive.
He stood up and asked the steward for more coffee. “Have you looked at this mess?” he asked the SEAL boss. “According to the chart, there’s no way in except on a fucking Jet Ski.”
Rick Hunter chuckled. He’d spent a lot of his life chuckling with, or at, the son of his father’s right-hand man. When they were kids, Danny had always been the funnier one of the inseparable pair, and when they were old enough to sustain an interest in girls, it had usually been Danny who had attracted them most. Until they realized the potential of one day becoming the chatelaine of Hunter Valley Farms.
