Lin Bao had never met the Defense Minister General Chiang, but that face was as familiar as his own. How often had he seen it hung in one of those hierarchical portrait collages that adorned the anodyne military buildings in which he’d spent his career? It was the minister’s smile that set him apart from the rest of the party officials who so assiduously cultivated their dour expressions for the photographer. His habitual courtesy, which could have been interpreted as weakness, was the smooth sheath that contained the force of his office. Minister Chiang gestured toward the silver platters spread across the conference table. “You haven’t touched your M&M’s,” he said, barely suppressing a laugh.
Lin Bao felt a sense of foreboding. If he assumed that Minister Chiang and the Central Military Commission had recalled him for a debriefing, he was quickly disabused of this belief. They knew everything already, including the smallest of details. Every exchange. Every gesture. Every word. Down to a single comment made about M&M’s. This was the point of the platters: to let Lin Bao know that nothing escaped their attention, lest he come to believe that any individual might assume an outsize role in this enterprise, lest he ever think that any one person could become greater than a single cog in the vast machinery of the People’s Republic—their republic.
Minister Chiang reclined in his plush office chair at the head of the conference table. He gestured for Lin Bao to sit beside him. Although Lin Bao had served nearly thirty years in his country’s navy, this was the first time he’d ever met directly with a member of the Central Military Commission. When he’d studied at Harvard’s Kennedy School as a junior officer and later at the US Naval War College in Newport as a mid-level officer, and when he’d attended exercises with his Western counterparts, he was always fascinated by the familiarity so common among senior- and junior-level officers in their militaries. The admirals often knew the first names of the lieutenants. And used them. The deputy assistant secretaries and secretaries of defense had once been Annapolis or officer candidate school classmates with the commanders and captains. The egalitarian undercurrents ran much deeper in Western militaries than in his own, despite his country’s ideological foundation in socialist and communist thought. He was anything but a “comrade” to senior officers or officials, and he knew it well. While at the war college in Newport, Lin Bao had studied the Battle of Kursk, the largest tank engagement of the Second World War, in which one of the great flaws of the Soviet army was that only command-variant tanks possessed two-way radios. The Soviets couldn’t see any reason for subordinates to speak up to their commanders. The subordinate’s job was solely to follow orders, to remain a cog in the machine. How little had changed in the intervening years.
The screen at the far end of the conference table flickered to life. “We’ve won a great battle,” explained Minister Chiang. “You deserve to see this.” The secure connection was perfect, its sound clear, and the image as unfiltered as if they were staring through a window into another room. That room was the bridge wing of the carrier Zheng He. Standing center frame was Ma Qiang.
“Congratulations, Admiral,” said Minister Chiang, showing his small, carnivorous teeth. “I have an old friend of yours here with me.” He gestured to Lin Bao, who awkwardly leaned into the frame so that he might nod once respectfully.
Ma Qiang returned the gesture, but otherwise ignored Lin Bao. He launched into a situation update: his carrier battle group had sunk two American destroyers, which they’d identified as the Carl Levin and the Chung-Hoon. The former had suffered a massive explosion in its magazine, leaving few survivors among the crew of nearly three hundred, while the latter had taken all night to sink. In these first hours of the morning, Ma Qiang’s ships had picked up a few American survivors. The final ship in the flotilla, the crippled John Paul Jones, was taking on water. Ma Qiang had already called for the captain to surrender, but she had flatly refused, replying with an expletive-laced transmission that, at first, Ma Qiang’s translator hesitated to put into Mandarin. The Zheng He Carrier Battle Group had been on station for the last thirty-six hours and Ma Qiang was growing increasingly concerned that the Americans, having heard nothing from their flotilla, might send a contingent of ships to investigate. He sought permission to strike the fatal blow against the John Paul Jones. “Comrade Minister,” Ma Qiang said, “I have no doubt as to our success against any American naval reinforcements, but their arrival would lead to the escalation I’ve been instructed to avoid. I have a flight of J-31 interceptors ready for launch against the John Paul Jones. Total mission time with recovery is fifty-two minutes. We’re awaiting your order.”
Minister Chiang rubbed his round and very smooth chin. Lin Bao watched the screen. In the background, beyond the hurried comings and goings of the sailors on the bridge, he could see the horizon. A haze hung about the ocean. It took Lin Bao a moment to understand what had caused it—this haze was all that was left of the Carl Levin and Chung-Hoon. And it would, he suspected, soon be all that was left of the John Paul Jones. Ma Qiang’s concern was merited, Lin Bao thought. This operation from its inception had always been limited in scope. Its objective—the final, uncontested control of the South China Sea—could only be undermined in one of two ways: first, if their forces failed to destroy this US flotilla; and second, if through a miscalculation this crisis escalated beyond a single, violent demonstration.
“Admiral,” Minister Chiang began, addressing Ma Qiang, “is it your belief that the John Paul Jones can be saved?”
Ma Qiang paused for a moment, spoke to someone off screen in a hushed voice, and then returned his attention to the teleconference. “Comrade Minister, our best estimates are that the John Paul Jones will sink within three hours if unaided.” Lin Bao could see that the Zheng He was turning into the wind to be in the most advantageous position to launch its aircraft. Suddenly on the distant horizon a stitch of dark smoke appeared. At first it was so faint that Lin Bao mistook it for an imperfection in the teleconference’s connection. Then he understood: it was the John Paul Jones burning a dozen miles off.
Minister Chiang began stroking his chin as he weighed whether to order this final blow. A decisive engagement was essential, but he needed to proceed with caution lest a miscalculation cause the incident to spiral into a broader conflict, one that could threaten his nation’s interests further afield than the South China Sea. He leaned forward in his seat. “Admiral, you are cleared for launch. But listen closely; there is a specific message we must deliver.”
* * *
06:42 March 13, 2034 (GMT+4:30)
Bandar Abbas
“This fucking place stinks.”
The dank air. The putrid scent. If Wedge hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought he’d been detained in the public restroom of a Greyhound bus terminal. Blindfolded, he sat cuffed to a steel chair bolted to the floor. He couldn’t see anything except for the irregular permutations of shadow and ashy light that played around the room from what he suspected was a window near the ceiling.
A door creaked open, heavy on its hinges. From the sound, Wedge could tell it was metal. A set of uneven steps approached, like someone with a slight limp. Then a scrape on the floor as a chair was dragged over. Whoever sat across from him sat clumsily, as if the movement were awkward for them. Wedge waited for the person to say something, but there was only the smell of their cigarette. Wedge wouldn’t be the one to speak first. He knew the Code of Conduct for POWs, an exclusive club into which he’d been inducted only hours before.
“Major Chris ‘Wedge’ Mitchell . . .” came the voice across from him.
Then his blindfold was yanked off. Overwhelmed by the light, even though the room was poorly lit, Wedge struggled to see. He couldn’t quite focus on the dark figure across from him, who continued, “Why are you here, Major Wedge?”
Slowly, his eyes adjusted. The man asking questions was dressed in a green uniform with gold embroidered epaulettes of some significance. He had an athletic build like a runner and a hostile face with a l
ong, hook-shaped scar that traced from above his eyebrow to below his cheek. His nose was compressed into a triangle, as if it had been broken and reset many times. In his hands he held the name patch that had been Velcroed onto Wedge’s flight suit.
“It’s not Major Wedge. It’s just Wedge. And only my friends call me that.”
The man in the green uniform frowned slightly, as if this hurt his feelings. “When we finish here, you will be wanting me as a friend.” He offered Wedge a cigarette, which he refused with a wave. The man in the uniform repeated his question. “Why are you here?”
Wedge blinked his eyes. He inventoried the bare room. A single window with bars in one corner, which cast a square of light on the damp concrete floor. His chair. A metal table. And another chair where this man now sat. Based on his epaulettes, Wedge guessed he was a brigadier. In the far corner of the room was a pail, which Wedge assumed was his toilet. In the near corner was a mat, which he assumed was his bed. Above the mat a shackle with a chain was bolted into the wall. He realized they planned to restrain him while he slept—if they let him sleep. The room was medieval, except for a single camera. It was hung high in the center of the ceiling, a red light blinking at its base. It was recording everything.
Wedge felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He found himself thinking of his great-grandfather, the stories of gunsights marked in grease pencil on his canopy, and Pappy Boyington, the greatest of Marine aces. Pappy had wound up as a prisoner too, finishing the war in a Japanese POW camp. He also thought of his grandfather slinging snake and nape up north in I Corps while kids back home smoked dope and burned their draft cards. Lastly, and in some ways most bitterly, he thought of his own dad. Wedge feared the old man might hold himself responsible if his son wound up rotting in this prison. Wedge had always wanted to be like his dad, even if it killed him. For the first time he entertained the idea that it might.
The brigadier asked him once again why he was there.
Wedge did what he’d been trained to do, what the Code of Conduct demanded: he answered the brigadier’s question by giving only his name, rank, and service number.
“That’s not what I asked you,” said the brigadier. “I asked why you are here.”
Wedge repeated himself.
The brigadier nodded, as if he understood. He circled the room until he stood behind Wedge. The brigadier rested both his hands on Wedge’s shoulders, allowing the three fingers of his mangled right hand to crawl crab-like toward the base of Wedge’s neck. “The only way we can resolve this situation is to work together, Major Mitchell. Whether you like it or not, you’ve trespassed. We have the right to know why you are here so we can resolve this. Nobody wants things to escalate further.”
Wedge glanced toward the camera in the center of the ceiling. He repeated himself for a third time.
“Would it help if I turned that off?” the brigadier asked, looking up at the camera. “You could tell just me. Everything doesn’t have to be recorded.”
Wedge knew from his survival training that the brigadier was trying to ingratiate himself and build trust, and then through that trust to elicit a confession. The goal of an interrogation wasn’t information but rather control—emotional control. Once that control was taken—preferably by building rapport, but just as often through intimidation, or even violence—the information would flow. But something didn’t add up with this brigadier: his rank (he was too senior to be a first-line interrogator), his scars (he had too many of them to have spent a career in intelligence), and his uniform (Wedge knew enough to recognize that he wasn’t standard Iranian military). What Wedge felt was nothing more than his intuition, but he was a pilot, reared from a long line of pilots, all of whom had been taught to trust their well-cultivated intuition, both in and out of the cockpit. And it was his trust in this intuition that led him to go on the offense, to make a desperate attempt to gain control of the situation.
The brigadier asked Wedge one more time why he’d come.
This time Wedge didn’t answer with his name, rank, and service number. Instead, he said, “I’ll tell you, if you tell me.”
The brigadier appeared surprised, as if his reason for being there was obvious. “I’m not sure that I understand.”
“Why are you here?” asked Wedge. “If you tell me, then I’ll tell you.”
The brigadier was no longer standing behind Wedge but had returned to his seat across from him. He leaned curiously toward his prisoner. “I’m here to question you,” the brigadier said tentatively, as if this fact embarrassed him in some way he didn’t recognize until the very words had escaped his mouth.
“Bullshit,” said Wedge.
The brigadier came out of his seat.
“You’re no interrogator,” continued Wedge. “With a face like that you want me to believe you’re some intel weenie?”
And that entire face, aside from the scar tissue, began to turn shamefully red.
“You should be out in the field, with your troops,” said Wedge, and he was smiling now, with a reckless grin. He’d taken a gamble and from the brigadier’s reaction he knew he’d been right. He knew he had control. “So why are you in here? Who’d you piss off to get stuck with this shit duty?”
The brigadier was towering over him. He swung back and struck Wedge so hard that he knocked his chair out of the floor where it had been bolted. Wedge toppled over. He hit the ground lifeless as a mannequin. As he lay on his side with his wrists still bound to the chair, the blows fell on him in quick succession. The video camera with its solid red light, high up in the center of the ceiling, was the last thing Wedge saw before he blacked out.
* * *
11:01 March 13, 2034 (GMT+8)
South China Sea
They charged out of the east, two silvery flashes on the horizon, and made an orbit around the badly wounded John Paul Jones. Nearly half the crew, more than one hundred sailors, had perished since that morning, either incinerated in the blast from the pair of successive torpedo impacts or entombed in the flooded compartments belowdecks that their shipmates had been forced to secure with them still trapped inside. There were very few wounded, mostly dead, as was usually the case in naval engagements, where there was no battlefield for the injured to rest upon, only the consuming sea.
When the two planes didn’t come in straight for the attack, a collective silence fell over the crew, like a breath sucked in. Within that breath was a fleeting hope that these planes had been sent from Yokosuka, or perhaps launched from a friendly carrier dispatched to their aid. But as soon as the crew of the John Paul Jones glimpsed their wings, which were laden with munitions, and observed that the two aircraft kept a cautious distance, they knew they weren’t friendly.
But why didn’t they strike? Why didn’t they drop their ordnance and finish the job?
Captain Sarah Hunt couldn’t waste her time on speculation. Her full attention remained where it had since the first torpedo hit the day before. She needed to keep her flagship afloat. And it was, sadly, her ship now. Commander Morris hadn’t been seen since the second impact. Hunt hadn’t heard from the Levin or Chung-Hoon either. She’d only watched, helplessly, as each was crippled and then sunk. This was the fate that would soon befall her and the surviving members of her crew. Although they’d contained most of the fires on the John Paul Jones, they were taking on more water than they could pump out. As the weight of the water contorted the steel hull, it creaked mournfully, like a wounded beast, as minute by minute it came closer to buckling.
Hunt stood on the bridge. She tried to occupy herself—checking and rechecking their inoperable radios, dispatching runners for updates from damage control, replotting their position on an analog chart since anything that required a GPS had failed. She did this so her crew wouldn’t despair at their captain’s inactivity, and so that she herself wouldn’t have to imagine the water slipping over the mast. She glanced up, at the twin attack planes from the Zheng He. How she wished they would stop taunting her, th
at they would stop their impudent circling, drop their ordnance, and allow her to go down with her ship.
“Ma’am . . .” interjected one of the radiomen standing beside her, as he pointed toward the horizon.
She glanced up.
The flight of two had changed their angle of attack. They were darting toward the John Paul Jones, flying low and fast, staggered in echelon. When the sun glinted off their wings, Hunt imagined it was their cannons firing. She grimaced but no impacts came. The flight of two was closing the distance between them. The weapon systems on the John Paul Jones had been taken out of action. On the bridge there was silence. Her command—the hierarchy that was her ship and its crew—it all melted away in these, their final moments. The radioman, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, glanced up at her, and she, surprising herself, placed her arm around him. The flight of two was so close now, so low, that she could observe the slight undulation of their wings as they passed through the uneven air. In a blink their ordnance would drop.
Hunt shut her eyes.
A noise like thunder—a boom.
But nothing happened.
Hunt glanced upward. The two planes turned aerobatic corkscrews around each other, climbing higher and higher still, losing and finding themselves in striations of cloud. Then they descended again, passing a hundred feet or less above the surface of the ocean, flying slowly, right above stall speed. As they passed in front of the bridge, the lead plane was so close that Hunt could see the silhouette of the pilot. Then he dipped his wing—a salute, which Hunt believed was the message he’d been sent there to deliver.
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