Golden Buddha

Stone pushed a button and a loud whooping noise filled the Oregon.

Belowdecks in the sick bay, Gunther Reinholt heard the sound and sat up in bed. Swiveling to one side, he slid his feet into a pair of carpet slippers. Rising to his full height, he reached around and tightened his hospital gown around his body. Then with one hand on his IV drip, which was hanging from a stainless-steel rack with a wheeled base, he began to shuffle from the sick bay to the engine room.

Reinholt knew that if the Oregon went to war, they would need every hand on station.

32

THE captain of the Chinese navy hydrofoil GaleForce, Deng Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots. Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still a distance away, but the gap was closing.

“Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?” he asked his second in command.

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

“Once we draw closer, I’ll want to send a volley over their heads,” Ching said.

“That should be enough,” the second in command agreed.

LANGSTON Overholt sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. On his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the admiral in command of the Pacific theater.

“Presidential directive four twenty-one,” he said to the admiral. “Now, what do you have nearby?”

“We’re checking now,” the admiral said. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being tied to the U.S.?”

“Understood, Mr. Overholt,” the admiral said. “Force from afar.”

“That’s it exactly, Admiral.”

“Leave it to the navy,” the admiral said. “We’ll come up with something.”

The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke to Cabrillo.

“Hold tight, Juan,” he said quietly. “Help’s a coming.”

“Fair enough,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

IN the movies, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.

Reality is somewhat different.

Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy—it can lead to detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles–class attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports from his crew with practiced ease.

“Electric check completed on packages one and two,” an officer reported.

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

“Boat rising to optimal firing depth,” the driver reported.

“Excellent,” Farragut said easily.

“Countermeasures and detection at one hundred percent,” another officer reported.

“Perfect,” Farragut said.

“Sensors report clear, sir,” the chief of boat said. “We appear to be alone out here. We can commence operation inside of eight, repeat eight, minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

The great beast was rising from the depths and preparing to bite if necessary.

ADAMS burst into the control room of the Oregon. He was dressed in a tan flight suit that he was zipping up as he approached.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, smiling a blindingly white smile, “what can I do for you?”

Cabrillo pointed to one of the computer screens. “George, we have a situation. We have the two Zodiacs along with seven of our people trying to get out of Macau waters. We can’t turn to pick them up because we’re being pursued ourselves.” Cabrillo pointed to another screen. “You can see they also have a tail. You need to provide support.”

“I’ll mount the experimental weapons pods Mr. Hanley designed for the Robinson. That gives me mini-rockets and a small chain gun, so I can cover their exit.”

“What about the extraction system?” Cabrillo asked.

“I can’t pull seven people aboard,” Adams said, “I don’t have the payload.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Cabrillo said. “Let me explain.”

CAPTAIN Ching stared at the radar screen. He had been told the ship he was supposed