Two Peasants and a President (46 page)

A sailor with headphones tethered to the sonar display had been wis
h
ing he had a hot cup of coffee when the speakers in his headset suddenly erupted.  The sonar contact was distant but distinct.  An anti-ship cruise missile had been launched from a submerged submarine almost thirty miles away.  The combat information center erupted as sensors picked up, then attempted to track the missile.  When the projectile broke the surface and its solid rocket booster ignited, it presented a vivid image for the ship’s sensors, but within less than a minute the booster had detached and the missile leveled off at slightly over ten meters above the waves.  The YJ-82 missile’s turbojet engine was now pushing it over the sea at almost the speed of sound. 

The
Dinh
Tien
Hoang had been shadowing the two container ships at 19 knots, their best speed, but it now increased to its full battle speed of 29 knots in an effort to place itself and its defensive systems between the levi
a
thans and the missile, which was closing at 600 mph.  Two jammers and a PK-16 countermeasures rocket launcher were immediately switched on along with an AK-630 6-barreled, 30mm point defense gun.

The jammers saturated the area in front of the missile with powerful signals designed to disrupt the missile’s guidance system, but the YJ-82 cruise missile had its own powerful anti-jamming capability and bored through the electronic noise.  The frigate then began launching countermeasures rockets, hoping to distract the missile’s lock, but the missile’s target was almost thi
r
teen hundred feet in length and with its flat sides and zero stealth characte
r
istics, it was more than an easy target.  Now only the 30mm Gatling type cannon waited for the missile to come within range.  Switching on its te
r
minal guidance radar, the missile ducked to only four meters over the water and began to jink, its hit probability a proven 98 percent. 

Sailors on the bridge of the container ship saw the stream of 30mm projectiles streak across the water before they saw the missile, just four se
c
onds before it struck their ship.
The
missile’s 165 kg semi-armor-piercing anti-personnel blast warhead easily pierced the ship’s side and exploded in the engine space, killing all the crewmen there and starting a raging fire.  In less than five minutes, the giant ship was listing and taking on water. 

A Ka-27 anti-submarine helicopter lifted off the stern of the frigate and headed for the submarine’s last known position but was recalled when the ship’s radar detected two Chinese J-10 fighters taking off from Hainan.  

Without power to operate its pumps, the container ship continued taking on water until, more than three hours later, it rolled over and sank, leaving dozens of containers bobbing in the sea.

An American reconnaissance satellite had recorded the attack and less than twenty minutes later, Thomas Benedict and several analysts were watching it at Langley.  The message was clear: China had upped the ante.  Rumors drifting out of Beijing indicated that Ma
Wen
had had a heart attack and was not expected to live.  The hardliners were now virtually unopposed. 

Vietnam had two choices: send more force to protect its convoys or use a southerly route.  A southerly route added precious time and expense to shipping each container, which would make it financially impractical.  E
m
ploying more warships for escort duty could be trumped by China’s more numerous naval assets.  The fact that shortly after the attack, China had again sent patrol craft into the area meant that the stand down was over. 

******

Li
Guo
Peng
sat comfortably in an overstuffed chair across from Chen Lei, his closest ally in the PLA.  The attack had proceeded precisely as planned. Once again a hidden submarine had sunk a foreign ship and made an important point: China intended to control the South China Sea by force, if necessary
, but
at least for the time being, using stealth. 

Sheng
Guangzu
had been sidelined and Ma
Wen’s
name would soon be added to the history books.  Ma’s doctor had been given two choices, both unpleasant.  He had chosen the one which allowed him to live.  Now only one man stood in the way of China’s destiny and he would soon be dealt with.  

6
1

The Chinese restaurant was Molly’s idea.  She and Ping had been sharing the cooking and cleaning and, while Ping ate what Molly cooked with a smile on her face, it seemed a little forced.  To most Orientals, American food is a bit on the bland side and, given their choice, would rather eat something from their homeland.  After waiting more than a week for Virgil to find an open evening, they had picked a restaurant that everyone assured them served the most authentic Chinese food in the city. 

The owners obviously hadn’t blown a lot of dough on décor, but they offered a menu in Chinese as well as English and the look on
Ping’s
face told them they were off to a good start.  In fact, they decided to let her order the meal, which she did with relish.  When the steaming plates arrived, the waiter said something in Chinese to Ping and she replied with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.  While neither Virgil nor Molly recognized what was on the plates, the aromas were far too inviting to hesitate long enough to ask.  At least there were no eyeballs staring up at them. 

It was soon apparent that not only
had Ping done an excellent job;
it was some of the best Chinese they’d ever tasted.  When they were finished, Ping asked if she could speak with the owner.  A few minutes later a man wearing an apron decorated with what looked to be a bit of everything on the menu and hair resembling a clothes brush, appeared at the table.  When he spotted Ping, his overlarge ears seemed to pull the corners of his mouth into a wide, gold-toothed smile.  The man looked as though he’d been introduced to a Hollywood star.  It quickly became clear to Virgil and Molly that their Chinese lessons were still embryonic as Ping and the restaurant owner commenced an animated conversation in Chinese, scarcely a word of which was intelligible to either of the two Americans. 

When at last Ping and her new friend came up for air, he turned to Virgil and in an almost reverent tone thanked him for what he had done to help get the refugees out of China, and especially for taking good care of this one.   While the man professed to admire Virgil for his stance on US/China rel
a
tions, he could only shake his head when asked if he felt optimistic about the prospects for success.  

He also mentioned that Ping had asked about some ingredients so that she could make one of the dishes herself when they had their party.  He told her to let him know a few days before and he would see to it that she had what she needed. 
Ping’s
smile confirmed that not only the food but the opport
u
nity to speak with one of her countrymen had made her very happy.   As they were leaving, the waiter came over from another table and shook their hands.

On the ride back to the house, Ping tried valiantly to describe some of what she and the restaurant owner had talked about, but her still nascent English was so peppered with Chinese as to be indecipherable.  Nonetheless, Virgil and Molly listened politely, nodding and interjecting words here and there which they hoped would convey an impression of interest, if not co
m
prehension.  Suddenly Ping paused for a moment, looking from one to the other before bursting into laughter as it dawned on her that they hadn’t u
n
derstood a thing.  They were all still laughing several blocks later when they made the turn onto Elm. 

In the distance, they could see a Ford Crown Vic, looking like a sta
n
dard issue plain clothes police car, parked in front of Gladys’ house.  Gladys was standing on the porch, engrossed in conversation with what appeared to be two plainclothes police officers.  When the big Lincoln was almost even with her door, she glanced up and waived, but only perfunctorily, as though not wishing to be distracted from her duty to the neighborhood.  Though clad in a flowered smock and fluffy white slippers, the official guardian of the 300 block of Elm Street firmly stood her ground as though fully prepared to repel the charge of the light brigade in her slippers if it became necessary to protect her flock.

Virgil stifled a grin as he pulled to the curb to let Molly and Ping out.  Whatever it was that had again brought the police to the neighborhood, Gladys could be counted on to call and fill him in once the cops had left.
In the meantime, the big Sig Sauer .45 rode in the console next to him where it had ever since the tragedy.  He and Molly had debated telling Ping about what had happened to Doris since she’d only just escaped a nightmare of her own, but in the end they’d decided she needed to know.  They
’d
gone over household safety precautions and self-defense with her but tried to avoid any unnecessary overt display of firearms around the house so as not to worry her needlessly. 

After letting Ping and Molly out in front, Virgil pulled into the driv
e
way and before getting out slipped the Sig into his waste band.  Molly and Ping were already in the kitchen putting away leftovers when he came up the steps.  As he was closing the front door, he noticed that the police officers had left Gladys’ porch and were crossing the street.

“Senator Baines,” a voice called out.  There was no apparent haste in the men’s pace, no hurry up a the sight of someone waiting for them, rather a deliberate speed, as though it might provide an opportunity to check out the surrounding area.  But neither man looked sideways even once, their gaze focused solely on the senator and his house. 

As they mounted the front steps, Baines noticed that the men looked remarkably alike, not enough to be mistaken for twins, but roughly the same height, similar closed-cropped black hair and even suits that could have come off the same rack.  Both held themselves erect, like men who had stood at attention many times in a former life.

“Yes,” replied Baines.

“Detective Chambers, Sir, I wonder if we might have a moment?”  He flipped his badge case open perfunctorily and closed it again as though he expected the mere whiff of official leather and shiny metal to communicate sufficient authority.  Baines glanced at the other, expecting a similar intr
o
duction, but the second man proffered neither badge nor greeting, seeming to prefer a stone-faced countenance to command respect. 
A man of few words
, Baines thought to himself.  Ping, for whom the sight of police officers was never an auspicious event, hurried upstairs to her room. 

“What can I do for you, officers?”

“There’s been a report of suspicious activity in the neighborhood, Sir.  I wonder if we might come in and speak with you about it?”  The senator opened the door  But rather than express a broad welcome with his left arm outstretched, he allowed it to vaguely describe the floor of the entryway, as if to say that at least for the time being, they were to only be accorded a prob
a
tionary stay just inside the front door. 

Baines noticed that Gladys had turned her lights out, having apparently gone to bed.  He would have been less surprised to see her in the window, binoculars in hand, watching the cops or surveying the neighborhood for trouble or standing with hand poised over the phone, ready to share whatever news the officers had brought, along with the usual opinions and instructions for her flock.  That she had retired early seemed unusual. 

******

Gladys was feeling a bit miffed.  One minute she’d been having a nice conversation with the two police detectives and the next they’d rudely turned and headed across the street to the senator’s home. 
It was, after all, they who’d decided to pay me a visit
, she thought to herself
. 
Then, more char
i
tably: 
Well, I guess it was the senator’s house where the murder occurred,
not mine.  I suppose they’ve got more reason to be over there than here.  Who’d want to murder an old busybody, anyway? she thought.  
She locked and bolted the front door and re-armed the alarm system before heading to the kitchen to warm some milk for Cecilia. 

“Here Cecilia.  Here kitty, kitty; it’s time for your milk,” she said, expecting the cat to awaken from her latest nap in whichever stuffed chair she’d chosen and come bounding into the kitchen. 
Isn’t that strange
, she thought,
that cat’s practically got a wristwatch when it comes to meal time and milk. 
“Here, kitty, kitty.”  Gladys scooped the bowl off the floor and set it on the counter.  She had just started to open the refrigerator door when she felt herself being jerked backward so roughly that her feet were pulled out of the fluffy white slippers.  The next thing that wrenched its way into her consciousness was the sudden terrific pain in her neck.  It happened so fast that at first she didn’t associate the pain with the wire digging into her win
d
pipe. When she desperately reached up to loosen it, she was horrified to see blood suddenly spray her hands.