Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) Don Keith (red seas under red skies TXT) 📖

spy tried to concussively end his days with hand grenades exploding while Ward was underwater. Lucky to be alive. Even luckier to still be able to be a SEAL after that.

But at the moment, Jim Ward did not feel so lucky.

Then a second and third grenade boomed, even closer. The helicopter pilot had likely concluded that he could do more than simply hold the SEALs down until the surface warship got to the scene. A well-placed grenade might just send this interloper to the bottom forever.

A fourth grenade, this one extremely close to the SEALs. The mini-sub rocked sickeningly. Ward wrestled the control to keep her headed downward.

Enough of this! he thought.

“Break out the weapons, guys,” he ordered. “We’re gonna have to shoot it out with that bastard before he gets lucky with one of those firecrackers. We’ll surface. Concentrate fire on the cockpit. If we can take out the pilot...”

Ward reached down beside his seat to feel for his own SCAR-17 assault rifle. With the other hand, he angled the sub toward the surface again. He felt more than saw the team slide back the steel canopies above them.

Just then, another grenade exploded, certainly only yards away.

“This son of a bitch is giving me one hell of a headache,” Ward muttered just as the boat broke the surface into brilliant sunshine. Even as he set the controls to run on the surface, he heard the crack of outgoing rifle fire from the four SEALs behind him. He ripped off his diving mask and then stood with his SCAR-17, ready to contribute to the fusillade.

The Z-20 was only fifty yards astern. Maybe a hundred feet in the air, if that. Little wonder he was coming so close with his cherry bombs. As Ward put his laser site on the cockpit, he could already see several bullet holes pocking the plexiglass. His guys were good. He added his own firepower in the form of aimed, three-shot bursts.

The helicopter pilot had obviously been surprised by the sudden emergence of a mini-sub full of angry SEALs. And that they had come out of hiding, trying to shoot him from the sky. He pulled back on the collective, trying to gain altitude and distance. As the bird pitched up and away, a side hatch slid open and a pintle-mounted, 12.7mm machine gun swung out, a viper ready to strike. The first burst splashed a stream across the water in front of the SEALs. Ward felt the boat lurch as a couple of slugs pierced through the boat’s bow dome.

Ward immediately switched his aim over to the hatch and emptied his magazine into the hole. The gunner fell out, dangling from his safety harness, already dead.

Then, as the helicopter continued its upward pitch, frantically trying to escape the hail of bullets from the six SEALs, it assumed an impossibly steep angle, defying the laws of aerodynamics.

Suddenly, the bird lost its grip on the air and slid backward, falling, crashing into the water tail first. Its rotor continued to spin, splashing, flailing in desperation like a drowning swimmer, flames and debris shooting off in every direction as the helicopter exploded. Then it settled deeper into the sea, the gentle waves covering most of the smoking hulk.

It was a few moments before anyone in the mini-sub said anything. They stood there as the SWCS bobbed gently in the waves, then bobbed even higher when the swells from the chopper’s impact reached them. It was Tony Garcia who finally piped up.

“Skipper, we don’t want to be late for chow. Supposed to be pizza night and I don’t want the anchovy ones to be gone.”

Ψ

It always seemed to be rush hour in Taipei. If traffic was a measure of the success of the nation’s economy, Taiwan was on a roll. But at 2230 on a weeknight?

TJ Dillon stepped out of the Tonghua Night Market. Linjiang Street was jammed with traffic, as usual. He looked up and down the busy thoroughfare in front of the restaurant. No sign of his car and driver.

Admiral Ward’s dining recommendations had turned out to be superb so far. He touched his belly. The cho dofu had been delicious, if aromatic. It wasn’t called “stinky tofu” for nothing.

He really needed to stay in shape, just in case his employer required him to do something more strenuous than read reports and peruse data and keep track of the newly planted submarine sensors out there in the Philippine and South China Seas. Which, by the way, had so far shown little more than whale farts.

Now, where was Bo, his affable and helpful driver? Too helpful, sometimes. Bo kept telling Dillon he would be honored to take him to those places where he could sample every one of his nation’s pleasures. Emphasis always on “every.” Even when TJ assured him there was a Mrs. Dillon back in the USA, in St. Petersburg, Florida, and that he had chosen to remain true to her and his son, TJ Jr., regardless of the intensity of the temptation.

“Okay, but if you ever want, ours is a very open society. You can only imagine,” Bo would insist, with a sly grin and a quick wink to emphasize the possibilities.

Bo had texted, not three minutes ago, that he was circling the block and would pick him up right here. So, where was he? There was actually work to do on his laptop back in his hotel room.

TJ leaned out, trying to catch a glimpse of the maroon Mercedes. Not exactly the least ostentatious choice for wheels while he was here. Not for someone specifically trying not to be noticed.

Exactly what a rich American executive would arrange, Jon Ward had assured him.

Whack!

Something solid and quick sent TJ Dillon sprawling painfully, tumbling backward almost to the building that housed the restaurant. His head hit the cement sidewalk hard. His first thought was that he had been struck by a car. But then, as he struggled for breath, he heard the unmistakable cracks of gunshots—from