Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,10
their mettle. I think they—”
BOOM!
The ocean in front of the small boat burst skyward as a 100mm cannon round struck the water. The small boat launched off the resulting wave and cut through the mist, landing on the other side. King cut to starboard, but with the Volgaeft moving away they were exposed. If not for the boat’s small size and speed they would be an easy target.
“You’re looking good,” Deep Blue said. “Keep your current course for thirty seconds.”
“Easier said than done,” King replied.
BOOM!
The second round struck just behind them, pitching the boat up and forward, bringing the engine out of the water. If not for the quick thinking of Rook and Bishop, the team’s two giants, who threw themselves to the stern deck knocking the back end back down, the bow would have caught water and flipped them too soon.
“Wait for the next round,” King shouted. “Then—”
BOOM!
The round struck just off the port side. The small boat became lost in a plume of seawater. When it cleared the boat appeared—capsized and immobilized.
Rather than apprehend the pirates involved, the Chinese destroyer tested its aim on a still target.
BOOM!
The small boat shattered and burst as the massive round, powerful enough to sink the multi-hulled Volgaeft, struck home.
Thirty feet below the explosion, five bodies descended, unmoving after the shock wave struck. Then a hand flashed up.
Hold position.
A dark shape loomed below. Waiting. Listening.
King gave the crewman monitoring the hydrophone inside the submarine a moment to recover from the impact and explosion above. Then he shouted, expelling the last of his air, “Open the damn door.” The message was garbled by the bubbles escaping King’s mouth, but it was received. The side dry dock of the still-classified HMS Wolverton opened. All five swam inside. The doors closed as the small cabin pressurized and filled with air.
The Chinese searched for the remains of the pirates they’d wiped out, but found only debris of the small boat. Regardless, the front page of China’s most popular newspaper, the Southern Metropolis Daily, heralded the encounter as a bold Chinese naval victory. And despite the pirates’ best efforts, the only losses were minimal damage to the Volgaeft and the total destruction of one container destined for Iran, reported full of toys donated by a charitable Russian organization.
FOUR
Catoctin Mountain—Maryland
A BRISK PACE.
That had been his campaign motto. It was catchy, to the point, and reflected the kind of lifestyle led by Tom Duncan, the president of the United States. Not only was he a proponent of whirlwind reform on everything from abortion to taxes, but in his foreign policy as well. Some called the ex–Army Ranger and Desert Storm veteran ruthless, and at times he was, but he preferred the term “efficient,” like a surgeon cutting away the world’s cancer. In the three years he’d been president, he’d put massive dents in three terror organizations including Hamas and Hezbollah, which brought the opportunity for establishing peace in the Middle East. But his tactics and in-your-face brute force policy brought criticism from several world leaders who feared the president’s “efficiency” might turn in their direction. But when push came to shove, no one denied that the world was a safer place with Duncan in the Oval Office.
And his pace never slowed, not even while jogging, which his security team knew all too well.
Duncan checked his pulse and then the time on his wristwatch. He was thirty seconds faster than his best time and felt far from tired, though his army green T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He could hear the heavy breathing of the two Secret Service men following behind him as they struggled to keep up with the most physically fit president the United States had ever known. He didn’t drink, never smoked, and ate less sugar than a diabetic. And his good looks reflected his health. His short cropped brown hair, though balding slightly, when combined with his wry smile, drew swoons from the female press corps and graced the covers of very un-presidential magazines. It was theorized that his good looks had helped win the female vote and squelch the notion that a single man could never win the presidency. He was a modern American hero in his prime and a shoo-in for the next election.
But these things were far from his mind on this summer day. The scenery of the wooded trail that wrapped its way around Camp David had been a favorite walk of Roosevelt, Bush Jr., and occasionally Clinton, but not one of