The rewards of using a rebreather were many. Because a diver needed less gas, he could swim longer at one time and go deeper. Except during an ascent, rebreathers produced no bubbles. Bubbles could give away a diver’s position while swimming in enemy territory. Bubbles also created noise, making it harder to listen as closely. The rebreather minimized the amount of inert gases in the mix and therefore minimized the decompression needed later. In other words, the diver didn’t get the bends as easily. There were other rewards. In an open-circuit cylinder, the cold breathable gas became uncomfortable over time and caused dehydration. The rebreather air was warmer and moister. Lastly, as a regular scuba diver inhaled, the expanding gas entering his lungs caused him to rise slightly and then lower as he breathed out. He lost his neutral buoyancy. In a rebreather, this didn’t occur.
Keeping a constant speed on the T-9 and straining to see in the darkness, Ru endured the lonely voyage. He understood the mission’s parameters, but he had little feeling for its importance. The Siberian oilfields under China’s control combined with offshore drilling and domestic production had turned her into the largest oil-producing nation in the world. China had more than enough energy, but with her teeming population, she lacked enough food. Despite her superpower status, stiff rationing was practiced throughout the country. Ru had listened to lectures concerning the return of a small ice age and harsher weather patterns, but he’d usually fallen into a daze during them. Crop yields were down all over the world, although a few southern countries had increased food exports. America was the leader of the new Grain Union of Canada, Argentina, Australia and others, and China demanded preferred status. Her chief bargaining chip was oil, the limited resource that still ran much of the world’s industries and the majority of the transportation systems.
America had grain and China needed more. The Party leaders would do whatever they had to in order to feed China’s hordes. Ru shook his head in disgust. Grain. Oil. What else did he need to know other than the government had lied to him? Men with marriage permits were supposed to be exempt from frontline service. They had told him he was the best frogman and China now desperately needed her favored son to save the nation in this bleak hour.
First checking the instruments, Ru brought the T-9 toward the surface. He had been doing so slowly throughout the voyage. Even with rebreathers, their bodies needed time to adjust to the nitrogen levels in their bloodstreams. If they rose too quickly, the nitrogen would expand in their blood, giving them the bends.
Finally, Ru’s masked head broke the surface and then his body as the T-9 moved through the ocean like a fast-floating log. He switched the set/air valve and breathed the cold atmosphere around him. With a flick of his fingers, he shut down the caged propeller so they glided to a halt.
The torpedo-shaped vehicle soon rode a mighty swell. The mass of water hissed around him, while the stars glittered above in amazing profusion. After a week underwater in the submarine, the stars were a glorious sight. In Shanghai, Lu May and he liked to walk in the park at night gazing at the constellations.
A pang squeezed Ru’s chest. He had the terrible feeling that he would never see his wife again. His wife would remarry. A Chinese woman had no choice about that. If his unborn daughter wasn’t aborted first, she would gain a stepfather and she would never know he’d existed.
Ru tried to control his anguish. He was the best frogman in China. He would survive and he would return to Shanghai. In several weeks, he would hold Lu May and shower her face with kisses.
Ru shifted in his saddle-seat as Soldier Rank Kwan slowly drove his T-9 near.
A big ocean swell passed underneath him and Ru’s T-9 sank into a watery trough. Another swell barreled toward him, with tiny phosphorescent plankton glowing like ghosts in the water. It was so peaceful here, almost surreal. Yet he had come to attach explosives to an oil platform.
The Americans had sonar and radar on their oil platforms. Secessionist terrorists had attempted sabotage on various oilrigs in the past. Security details now accompanied the deep-sea workmen. It was the reason the attack submarine had released the White Tigers so far from target. It was why they used ceramic-plate T-9s, and it was the reason they would swim the rest of the way. No one must ever realize that Chinese soldiers had attacked Americans.
By hand, Ru signaled Kwan. They hadn’t attached any communication wires to each other yet, nor did Ru use his mask’s speaker. He liked the silence and the four of them knew what to do.
Shutting down his T-9, Ru set the timer to the directional emitter. If they were to survive the combat swim, they would have to return and find the T-9s. He switched the set/air valve, tasting the rebreather’s warm mixture again, and slid into the water.
The four of them shoved and dragged the vehicles beside each other, using clamps and lines to attach them. When they were finished, the others gathered around Ru.
Kwan held up his hand. Ru frowned. Kwan pointed north. Ru heard a motorboat then. At this distance, he didn’t know how big the boat was or who it belonged to. They watched, seeing lights. The motorboat headed west. Had someone spotted the submarine? That was bad, but there was nothing they could do about it now.
Ru pulled out his compass. The others knew what it meant. They must continue with the operation. Ru submerged and reentered the dark waters, a human seal in the womb of the endless sea. After riding for so long, it felt good to use his thighs. Ru kicked in a steady rhythm, propelling himself to the target. Every time he glanced back, he saw the other White Tigers following, their faceplates aimed at him. He glanced several times into Kwan’s hard eyes. That tightened the muscles in Kwan’s face.
The White Tiger Commandos were unique to the Socialist-Nationalist government ruling China. That government had risen to power in 2021 under the present Chairman. The White Tigers had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. They had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. After several years, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the
Bai Hu
led the way.
Many kilometers later, Ru’s head and shoulders broke out of the water. Like sea otters, the others soon surfaced around him. Ru pointed. There in the distance was the giant oil platform, with its bright lights shining in the night. The Americans had built it several years ago. According to the briefing, it had taken a special act of Congress and fierce debates among the environmentalists of the country. The Americans needed oil, and they were breaking long-held taboos to acquire it wherever they could. This new platform was supposed to be the first of many in the Californian coastal region.
Ru took out his binoculars, which could switch to infrared scan. A dark chopper swooped around the platform, and he spotted a patrol boat. The Americans took security seriously. The oil companies used reliable Blacksand mercenaries for the job.
First signaling to the others, Ru submerged once more. It was a long swim. He heard the motor first as a tiny sound. The sound grew as he neared the giant oilrig. According to his briefing, the patrol boats carried armed mercenaries and heavy machine guns. The patrol boats were equipped with APS radar. Normally it was used as a fish-finder, but for a short distance, it could detect swimmers.
Ru headed down into the darkness, down, down, down. Flicking on a heel-light, Ru looked back. Other heel-lights appeared, three of them. With a nod, Ru resumed his dive. The temperature became steadily colder. Even after years of training, this was an uneasy experience, the knowledge that hired killers patrolled above, seeking to find and destroy him.
Ru and the others carried high explosives, and they each had a TOZ-2 underwater pistol. It was similar in design to the SPP-1 pistol developed in the old USSR. Ordinary-shaped bullets were inaccurate underwater and extremely short-ranged. Therefore, their pistols fired a round-based 4.5mm steel dart 115mm long. Each dart weighted 12.8 grams, and each dart had a longer range and greater penetrating power than a speargun’s spear.
The TOZ-2 had four barrels, each holding one cartridge. None of the barrels was rifled. Each dart was kept in line by hydrodynamic effects. It meant that the TOZ-2 was inaccurate when fired out of the water. Ru had practiced with the pistol. All of them had. The deeper one dove, the less range their pistols had. The effective range out of water was fifty to sixty-six feet. In water twenty feet deep, a steel dart could kill at one hundred and thirty feet. In water fifty-six feet deep, the steel dart’s range shrank to sixteen feet.
By using his compass and rangefinder, Ru unerringly reached the oilrig. He switched on a lamp and used the light to scan the darkness. A wahoo darted before him, a scombrid fish like mackerel or tuna. Fish densities around an oil or gas platform were twenty to fifty times higher than the open water. It told Ru he was near. Then a great stanchion appeared. Although the oilrig was new, the stanchion was already encrusted with sea-growth.
Using a depth-gauge, Ru adjusted his range and used his combat knife to scrap and pry away marine-growth from the metal stanchion. Each time the blade touched, he heard a click and a scraping sound. Once he had a big enough area, Ru slipped the CHKR-57 from his chest and secured it to the stanchion. Once finished, he set the timer.
They did this four times, the others securing their explosives to different stanchions.
Ru grinned. Even Kwan managed a soft smile. Then they swam away, keeping at this deep level but heading for the rendezvous point. It was easier swimming without the explosives. Now Ru merely had to find the T-9s and then the submarine. Afterward, he would be on his way home to Shanghai and Lu May.
The sound of the American patrol boat dwindled. When all he could hear was the sound of his breathing, Ru slowly surfaced. He used his compass and rangefinder, and in time, he turned on the directional device. He waited, watching. There, a pulse from the T-9’s emitter showed on his tiny screen. With joy in his heart, Ru swam near the surface all the way there.
Soon, the four Commandos unclamped the T-9s, climbed onto the saddle-seats and started up the propellers. The T-9s sped into the Pacific Ocean for the rendezvous point with the
Pao Feng
.
This time they remained on the surface, riding over the swells. The kilometers dropped away as Ru followed the compass toward the chosen heading. He was going to see Lu May again. He would see his baby girl being born and watch her grow into a fine young woman. Surely after this, the military could not ask more from him.
Lost in his thoughts, Ru was surprised as his partner dug a knuckle in his back. It took a moment as Ru turned on the speaking unit attached to his mask.
“
Wei
?” he shouted over his shoulder.
The man pointed left. Soldier Rank Kwan drove his T-9 beside them, water splashing up from the nosecone.
“Where’s the buoy signal?” shouted Kwan.
Ru checked his rangefinder. His eyebrows shot up. How could he have missed this? He checked the receiver set to the buoy’s signal. The captain of the submarine was supposed to have launched a buoy twenty minutes ago to guide them back. Ru double-checked the receiver. There was no light, no signal, no nothing.
“We should be over it!” Kwan shouted through his speaker.
“Cut your drive,” said Ru.
Soon, the T-9s floated together. It was still dark, the stars shining brightly overhead. It was two fourteen a.m., Pacific Time. Ru checked battery power. It was low, with maybe another thirty minutes left of drive power. The excellent Japanese batteries had been the major limiting factor of their range. Despite years of low funding and neglect, the American Navy was still dangerous, one would think especially so in their territorial waters. There must be no hint of Chinese involvement to their terrorist act, the key reason why the
Pao Feng
had tried to remain well out of American sight.
“How long do we wait here?” a Commando asked.
“An hour and eighteen minutes,” Kwan said. “Then we must head deeper into the ocean.”
“What happened?” Ru’s partner asked.
“The patrol boat we saw earlier,” said Kwan. “The captain has strict orders not to let anyone detect the submarine. He might have left.”
Ru understood the logic to Kwan’s answer. They had all been instructed on the importance of remaining hidden. If they failed to make pick-up, they were supposed to sink the T-9s and divest themselves of every article of Chinese manufacture. That meant the TOZ-2 underwater pistols, knives, rebreathers, everything that could link them to the White Tigers. Then each Commando was supposed to swim west into deeper waters, drowning rather than accepting possible rescue from the Americans. A White Tiger Commando gave his life to China as his final act of obedience and love for his country.
Not caring for such logic, Ru repeatedly flicked the switch to the receiver. He tapped the console with his finger. “You will work, damn you,” he declared.
After shutting off the T-9s, they sat there for an hour and eighteen minutes, no one talking, all of them dreading the possibility that Kwan was right.
After the time has passed, Kwan shouted through his full-face mask’s speaker, “We are White Tigers!”
Ru looked up in desperation.