Rules of Engagement

by David Bruns

  “It’s possible, sir,” the woman said. She had a throaty growl in her tone that might have been appealing if she actually smiled. “The fleet was infected with a computer virus that started from this ship.”

  “You’re sure?” Merville said.

  The woman did not answer him. He flicked his gaze to the XO. Karrick’s round face was flushed red, and his walrus mustache quivered.

  “I’m sorry, Weston, but it was Petty Officer Jurgens.”

  Merville’s vision went out of focus for a second as relief swept through his body.

  “Jurgens, sir? A spy? You’re sure?”

  The man spoke finally. He held out a photocopied paper with three dates circled in red. “It happened on one of these three days, sir. Probably during a maintenance period on the night shift. Jurgens was the only watch stander on the night shift all three days with system admin access.” He paused. “Unless you know differently.”

  Merville studied the paper with steady hands. “No, that’s correct. Petty Officer Jurgens always takes that shift when we’re in port. He’s going to school, uses the time to study.” He handed it back. “You know he’s off today, right?”

  Agent Mincer nodded. “We have him under surveillance, hoping he does something we can use as leverage. Before we picked him up, we wanted to let the command know what was happening. See if there’s anything you can add.”

  Merville shook his head, his face a mask of concern. “Jurgens is a good sailor. I’m having a hard time believing he did something like this. How good is your case against him?”

  “Circumstantial,” Mincer said. “We’ve had to backtrack through logs and reconstruct events. The original virus disappeared after being uploaded, which is why we’ve had such trouble pinpointing the origin site. We may need your expertise after we question Jurgens, sir.”

  “You’ve got it, Agents. Whatever I can do to help.”

  When the NCIS agents were gone, the XO collapsed in his chair. “I can’t believe it, Weston. Jurgens? A traitor?”

  A sudden thought struck Merville. He’d taken care of the video logs and the record of the cipher lock on the computer space being opened, but what about Jurgens himself? He would tell them Merville had been alone in the server room. Would he remember the keyboard on the system admin computer being down?

  * * *

  Merville stayed just under the speed limit all the way home. Pre-rush-hour traffic was light, and he checked his rearview mirror frequently to see if anyone was following him.

  He needed to think, maybe even run. At least he needed to be in a position to take action. The plan was to pick up his go bag and spend the night in a cash-only hotel under an assumed name from a fake passport. If things went south, he needed options.

  In the morning, assuming all was clear, he’d just show back up to work as if nothing had happened.

  He pulled in to his garage and immediately lowered the door. The house was silent and stuffy, since the timer on the air-conditioning hadn’t kicked in yet. He dropped his keys on the table and bounded up the steps to the spare bedroom.

  In spite of the danger, he felt a thrill of excitement. Sometime over the last week or so, his fearful thoughts had shifted to dreams where he was the hero, a Bond-like character who had every detail planned out, staying one step ahead of his less-capable pursuers.

  In the bedroom closet, he pulled up the carpet and pried up the square of plywood he’d cut out of the floor to create a space to hide his go bag. In there, he had it all: cash in multiple currencies, a forged passport, clothes, even a wig and glasses in case he needed a disguise.

  Merville drew in a sharp breath. The space was empty.

  He reached his hand into the opening, grasping at air, still not comprehending the situation.

  Merville scrambled to his feet and ran into the hall. He needed to get away. Now. He descended the stairs two at a time into his kitchen.

  NCIS agent Mincer stood behind his kitchen table, the contents of his go bag emptied onto the wooden surface. Behind him, the air-conditioning kicked on. Mincer’s lips flexed, and she spoke in her husky voice.

  “Lieutenant Commander Merville, you are under arrest for treason.”

  CHAPTER 41

  North of Fiery Cross Reef Spratly Islands, South China Sea

  There was nothing better than seeing the sunrise from the cockpit of a fighter plane, thought Lieutenant Liu Wen. He nudged the stick, and the aircraft banked in a long, sweeping curve to starboard.

  He and his wingman had just been ordered to monitor another US Navy aircraft that had violated China’s sovereign airspace off the Spratly Islands to the west of the Philippines. Wen didn’t really follow politics, and the Spratlys seemed an awful long way from the Chinese mainland, but whatever gave him an excuse to fly was fine with him.

  The warning from the land-based crew on Fiery Cross Reef came across his radio: “United States Navy aircraft, you are in violation of the territorial waters of the People’s Republic of China. Reverse course immediately.”

  The American response came back immediately. “This is US Navy aircraft. Be advised we are operating in international airspace. We intend to maintain course and speed.”

  A message from the Ground Control intercept station on Fiery Cross Reef flashed on Wen’s heads-up display. Flyby on US aircraft is authorized.

  Wen acknowledged the order. Ground Control had left the mission parameters up to him, so in his mind, supersonic was a viable option. At least, they hadn’t said it wasn’t allowed. Besides, what were the Americans going to do about it? Complain to his wing commander?

  He glanced out the window at his wingman and keyed his radio. “You take port, I’ll take starboard side. Match my speed.”

  He steered toward the blip on his radar and hit the afterburners, grinning as the g-forces crushed him back into his seat. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Dang, his wingman. He had his sun visor snapped down against the glare of the new morning. His oxygen mask hid the matching grin Wen knew was there.

  He spotted the American aircraft on the horizon, a P-8 Poseidon, really just a glorified 737 commercial jet. Nothing like the sleek, powerful weapon of the sky that he commanded.

  He and Dang rocketed by the Poseidon at a closing speed well over Mach 1. He imagined he glimpsed the shocked faces of the US Navy pilots as his plane broke the sound barrier right next to their cockpit. Over the radio, he heard Dang laughing.

  The US Navy pilot came back on the radio, his tone angry, almost shouting his message. “We are a US Navy aircraft operating in international airspace. Please refrain from supersonic flybys. Such moves are dangerous and could cause the loss of both of our aircraft.”

  Ground Control started in with their standard script. Wen put his aircraft into a wide turn. “We’ve got the fuel. How about we go again, Dang?”

  His copilot agreed. Wen laid in a course and was just about to punch the throttle when his heads-up display pinged him with another message.

  Weapons release authorized. Destroy enemy maritime patrol aircraft.

  Wen blinked and reread the message. What the hell? Those bastards in Beijing must have lost their minds. This was peacetime. In most cases, even doing a supersonic flyby was enough to get you called up in front of the wing commander. He’d only risked it because things seemed to have gotten a little looser of late.

  He keyed his radio. “You got this engagement message?” he asked Dang.

  “Yeah.” Right now, Dang was probably glad he wasn’t the mission commander.

  Wen punched in a response. No hostile intent with US aircraft. Request you confirm engagement orders.

  The confirmation came back within seconds. Far faster than he would have expected military bureaucracy to move.

  Destroy enemy maritime patrol aircraft.

  Wen keyed his radio. “Attack order confirmed. On me.” He punched the arming sequence on the PL-21 air-to-air missiles slung under his wings. His pulse thundered in his ears as the full impor
t of the order hit home. He was about to shoot down another aircraft. For real. Be calm, he told himself. You’ve done this exercise hundreds of times in simulators.

  The Poseidon, twenty miles ahead of him, had not deviated from its prior course and speed. Wen eased his aircraft into a trail position and energized the EOTS-86 fire-control radar. He could imagine the panic in the American crew when they heard the warbling of the deadly radar.

  The fire-control system issued a flat tone, indicating a lock. Wen toggled the first missile. The jet gave a slight lurch as the long projectile dropped from the wing; then the missile’s booster kicked in, and it shot forward in a trail of fire. “Missile one away.”

  He repeated the sequence. “Missile two away.”

  He felt … nothing. He’d completed those actions so many times he could have done them with his eyes closed. “Time to impact: thirty-eight seconds.” Wen kept one eye on the radar, the other on the horizon. The system registered two hits. A gray smudge appeared on the clean line that defined the border between the sea and the sky.

  Wen keyed his radio. “Let’s go in for a look.” He eased the throttle forward, feeling the jet respond to his command.

  The Poseidon’s port engine was gone, and she had a gaping hole in her starboard side. The plane was depressurized and the control surfaces on the port wing were hardly functional, but somehow the pilot had managed to keep the plane in the air. Wen was impressed.

  His radio squawked. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is US Navy patrol aircraft—”

  “Dang, finish them off,” Wen ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Dang never called him “sir.”

  Wen watched as first one, then a second PL-21 missile streaked off the rails of Dang’s jet. They crossed the distance between their position and the foundering Poseidon in seconds. The first missile passed directly through the fuselage, exploding in a spectacular ball of flame. The second missile only added to the carnage.

  Chunks of fire rained down on a slate-blue sea. Smoke formed a dark cloud in an otherwise pristine morning. It was already starting to dissipate.

  There were no parachutes.

  Lieutenant Liu Wen messaged back to Ground Control.

  Target destroyed.

  CHAPTER 42

  USS Gerald R. Ford (CVN-78) 100 miles south of Taiwan

  Admiral Manolo reread the flash message. The Japanese destroyer Sawagiri had fallen off the comms network a few hours ago and was now designated as lost at sea. The Japanese had already started a search for the missing ship and were asking for American air assets to join in. Most troubling of all, they were blaming the Chinese.

  He handed the message to the lieutenant running the BattleSpace display. “Show me these coordinates.” The man snapped down his VR goggles and manipulated his right hand in space. The 3-D display loomed out, then collapsed in on the new coordinates.

  “What range, Admiral?” the operator said.

  Manolo chewed his lip. “Hundred-mile radius on the last known position.”

  There were three Japanese UH-60J search-and-rescue helos crisscrossing the display, and two JMSDF warships. A red pin pulsed at the last known position of the Sawagiri.

  “Show me all historical activity in the area for the last eight hours, Lieutenant.”

  BattleSpace took a long time to update. “The only activity in the database is a Chinese flyby about five hours ago, sir. Looks like four Chinese Shenyangs out of Yiwi. The quality of the information is pretty spotty because the system was offline for part of it. I’ll play out what we have.”

  The four red tracks entered the BattleSpace display on an intercept track for the Sawagiri, then stopped about twenty-five miles short. “That’s all we have, sir,” the operator said with a note of apology in his voice.

  When BattleSpace first entered the fleet, it had been nicknamed the BS system for the quality of the information it provided. As command and control networks advanced, so too did BattleSpace, until it was the primary decision-making tool for fleet commanders. This kind of poor coverage was like a throwback to the old days. Manolo fretted that his staff might not know what to do without their holographic view of the world.

  He studied the high-tech display. Would the Chinese be stupid enough to start a shooting war over a few rocks in the middle of an ocean? Up until the last week his answer would have been an emphatic no. But now … his gut told him otherwise.

  The air wing commander, Captain Diane Henderson, loomed out of the dimness of Flag Watch. “Sir?”

  “Yeah?” Manolo managed to tear his eyes from the BattleSpace display. Henderson’s look told him that more bad news was coming.

  “Sir, we’ve lost contact with a P-8 we had en route from Okinawa to Singapore. FONOPs mission through the Spratlys.” She motioned to the operator to reconfigure the 3-D display.

  The table zoomed out, then dropped in on a block of water near the Spratly Islands, southwest of the Philippines. Another red pulsing pin showed on the display. “What do you mean lost contact?” Manolo said.

  Henderson fidgeted. “We’re still having major comms issues, so it could be nothing. Still, they should have checked in an hour ago.” She hesitated. “There’s more, sir. We were tracking a Chinese CAP, two J-20s, in the area before we lost contact with the P-8. There’s no evidence the two incidents are related, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Manolo felt his jaw tighten. First the Sawagiri mysteriously disappeared, then a Poseidon didn’t check in, and the common denominators were communication issues and Chinese fighter aircraft. “Get Gutterman in here,” Manolo said.

  Captain Jim Gutterman, CO of the Ford, was standing in front of his boss within five minutes.

  “Jim, I’m hearing a lot of chatter about comms issues. What’s going on?”

  Gutterman’s prominent jaw was rough with salt-and-pepper stubble. “I wish I had a good answer for you, sir. I’ve got every man jack working on it, but frankly it’s kicking our ass. As soon as we think we’ve got the problem solved, it seems to jump to a new system. Even my best people have never seen anything like it. We’ve had to resort to cold-starting every hour.”

  Henderson showed up again, lines of worry carved on her face. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got unconfirmed reports of a navy Poseidon sending out a Mayday off the Spratlys.” Her face went tight. “It came in off the internet, so I’m not calling it real—yet. But it’s too much of a coincidence that we’re missing a P-8 and rumors start showing up…”

  Manolo let a blast of anger show. “I will not run the goddamn navy from fucking Twitter. Get me some facts. Now.”

  Henderson nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Manolo turned to Gutterman. “I don’t like this situation one goddamn bit, Jim. I’m putting the strike force at general quarters.” Manolo barked at his Flag Watch team. “Get me Seventh Fleet on the horn ASAP.”

  Manolo experienced the communications issues firsthand over the next fifteen minutes. After three tries using the secure military EHF, he was forced to speak to his boss using an Iridium commercial satellite phone.

  He stepped onto Vulture’s Row and looked down on the flight deck of the Ford as he briefed the Seventh Fleet commander on the situation.

  “First the Japanese destroyer missing and now a Poseidon possibly lost—it’s just too much of a coincidence for me, sir. I’ve put my carrier strike force at GQ. But I wanted to make sure we’re on the same page in terms of response. This could get ugly real fast.”

  “I agree, Manny,” his boss replied. “The new rules of engagement give us much more leeway. From here on out, you will interpret any Chinese provocations as hostile, understood? If the destroyer and the P-8 really were attacked, then this has already turned into a shooting war and we just don’t know it yet. Use your fire-control radars. If they shoot, you blow them out of the water, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And get your comms outages fixed. We’ve got a navy to run.”

  C
HAPTER 43

  USS Key West (SSN-722) 110 miles southeast of Hong Kong

  Lieutenant Commander Cremer yawned, stretched, and gulped his third cup of coffee in the last hour. At this rate of caffeine consumption, they’d be peeling him out of the overhead by the end of the watch. He stared at the waterfall sonar display. The wide white line running down the side of the display was the USS Ford carrier strike group, still nearly fifty miles away.

  Cremer made a circuit of the control room watch standers: diving officer, fire-control technician, quartermaster, and the three-man tracking party. The officer of the deck was one of their more promising junior officers but only recently qualified, hence Cremer’s presence as a senior adviser while the submarine was in trail of a Chinese sub.

  Trailing another submerged contact was like playing a game of 3-D chess blindfolded—a delicate dance of staying hidden in the other submarine’s baffles, the acoustic blind spot behind their screw, but still remaining close enough to hear their target. Since they relied entirely on passive information, it often took precious minutes to gain a clear picture of the tactical situation. That lag had drawbacks: if the submarine you were trailing had just reversed course, you might not know it until he was right on top of you, the so-called Crazy Ivan maneuver from the Cold War. Understanding a complex tactical situation was a lot of responsibility to put on the shoulders of a newly qualified, twenty-four-year-old lieutenant junior grade.

  “Conn, Sonar, contact aspect ratio is changing … he’s turning, sir. Possibly clearing baffles.”

  Cremer bit back his automatic response, allowing Lieutenant (j.g.) Dawkins to respond with “Sonar, Conn, aye.”

  “What’s your next move, OOD?” Cremer asked.

  As Dawkins studied the sonar display, Cremer prompted him. “Let’s think about the big picture here.” He led the junior officer to the tracking chart. “This guy is obviously in transit. He’s not running drills, he clears baffles on a set schedule every hour, he’s just driving straight. When was the last time he went to PD?”