Keith Douglass
Island Warriors
ONE
Ku K’ai-Chih stared straight ahead as the water crept up his torso. It was cold, around fifty-five degrees farenheit, but his insulated dry suit made it more a pressure than a temperature change. Water continued to pour into the small lockout chamber of the submarine at a rate that would have panicked many men, but Ku had done this too many times to be concerned. Another few minutes, and he would no longer have the option of breathing the air that was rapidly hissing out through the exhaust tubes. Then, the lockout procedure itself: undogging the hatch by forcing the heavy wheel to turn, and swimming out in the black, featureless water.
The first few seconds were always the worst, the shock of going from the dim red lights of the lockout chamber into the utter blackness of the ocean. The sub would be shallow, and reaching the surface would not take long.
The weather predictions called for a mostly cloudy night, with even a slight chance of rain. The moon was a mere sliver, its pale light blocked out by the cloud cover. It would hide him from prying eyes, from anyone who might wonder what a swimmer was doing out in the middle of the ocean.
Not that they would wonder for long. Not if the submarine realized they were there. A sailboat might sneak by, but anything with an engine would be picked up by the submarine’s sonar.
It was a shame, really, but some innocent fishermen might have to die simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But such are the fortunes of war. The innocent always suffer along with the actual military forces, and indeed, with every Chinese man serving a two-year tour in the armed forces and then a lengthy reserve commitment, the line between military forces and civilians was virtually undetectable.
He wondered how it would be, to be on such a fishing boat. Perhaps they had had a good day, drawn their nets in, and were quietly transiting to a new fishing area. Most of the crew would be asleep, only a small duty section on watch. Someone to guide the ship, perhaps an engineer — no more than two or three.
They would not even have time to wake the rest of the crew. A very alert lookout might catch a glimpse of the torpedo in the water, but probably not. It would travel through the water submerged, leaving the wake that could be detected only under clear conditions, and probably not at all at night.
Ku smiled slightly at the thought. All those innocents, asleep, believing themselves as safe as anyone ever was at sea. Perhaps they would be dreaming of their families, of the end of the voyage when they would return home marginally richer, or at least with sufficient funds to put food on the table for another few weeks. They would live mainly on fish and rice, supplementing it occasionally with a few vegetables bought in those ridiculous markets.
Or maybe they would have bad dreams. Perhaps someone would be tossing in his bunk, contemplating getting up and taking a turn around the deck to settle his head. Perhaps he would even be walking along the weatherdecks, staring up at the cloud cover and wondering why he couldn’t sleep.
Perhaps, indeed. In a way it might be better to remain below decks, where death at least would be swift and certain, if decidedly unpleasant. No, someone wandering the weatherdecks would have a chance of surviving at least the initial explosion.
The torpedo would intercept the keel of the fishing boat, which would be deep in the water. Fishing boats were like icebergs, with most of their mass out of sight. It would easily penetrate the old wooden hull, passing through several layers of bulkheads quite easily. Once it had reached several meters inside the hull, it would detonate, immediately shattering strakes, bulkheads, and every other structural member of the ship. How long the ship would stay afloat after that would depend on which part of the hull the torpedo hit, but the conclusion would be inevitable. The frigid sea would crash in, breaking down any barriers between storage holds, immediately flooding the lower regions and going to work on the upper. The boat would be dragged down, perhaps by its stern.
Inside, the crew would have only moments to do anything useful, and the odds of anyone managing to deploy a life raft or small boat in time were virtually nil, if indeed they even carried such equipment.
Even supposing that they did, the chances of surviving for more than ten minutes was nonexistent.
It was the government’s fault, wasn’t it? Ku considered this question again as the water filled the remainder of the lockout.
Sun Yat Yat-Sen was across from him, another veteran of lockouts. It had become their habit not to talk during lockout. He wasn’t certain exactly why, but they’d fallen into that routine many years ago, and neither one wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Yes, if fishermen died, it would be Taiwan’s fault. They were Chinese, rightfully a part of a great nation. Just as the islands to the north, the Kuriles were, which had lived for so long under the oafish Russians’ domination. And to the south, the Spratley Islands, with their oil-rich seabed floors. Yes, by marriage or conquest, over the centuries, all of this part of the world was properly a part of the Chinese hegemony.
And soon Taiwan would return to the fold. It had been carefully explained to him. Indeed, Taiwan would have rejoined the mainland many decades ago as one united nation had it not been for the continual interference of the United States.
But now, ah, now… it was time to strike. With most of America’s forces deployed to the Middle East, quelling the constant conflict there, and her mightiest carrier, the USS
The diplomatic protests would be a mere formality. Both Taiwan and the United States had been lulled into some degree of complacency by the missile tests in the past. Prior tests had skirted Taiwan by a large margin, and at least half the time the missiles failed to launch at all. Yes, it had been a long and careful plan of deception.
This time, it would be different. The missiles would fly on schedule and begin their trajectories just as every other test had in the past. But at some point, the missiles would turn south and burrow into the city of Taipei, destroying the treasonous rebels by the thousands, if not millions. And the most delicious part of the entire scheme would be that the United States would believe Taiwan was at fault. If Ku carried out his mission successfully, he would be single-handedly responsible for severing the relationship between the U.S. and China’s wayward province.
Ku glanced at the waterproof pack at his side, and looked over to double-check Sun. The homing beacons were advanced, the best that China could produce. During the next missile tests, the missiles would veer off course “accidentally”—on purpose, of course — and strike several military targets. There would be plenty of evidence in the electromagnetic spectrum to show that Taiwan herself had caused the disaster.
The water covered his face now, as the last of the air hissed out. He waited another few seconds, and nodded at Sun. His massive partner reached up and easily turned the locking wheel, opening the connection between the sea and the lockout chamber. For just a moment, Ku felt a surge of nervousness, which he quickly repressed. Six hours, that was all. Then they would be back at the submarine, safely extracted, and on their way back to China. No one would even know that they’d been there — although they might suspect after the next test went so terribly wrong.
Ku stretched one last time, feeling his muscles and bones crack. Then he pulled himself up the ladder, fluttering his leg slightly, and swam out into the cold dark sea.
Once they were ashore, the mission went without incident. As had Ku and Sun’s stealthy approach on the hospital, and the actual planting of the laser beacon. Now, with everything done, he was tempted to relax. But no, that would not be wise, not until he was back on the submarine.
Still, despite his best intentions, he found his concentration slipping. Part of it was from the sheer physical
