by Don Brown
“But this is our daughter!” She threw the sheets off her legs. “I want to know what’s going on!”
“I understand. But there are about thirteen hundred other parents with sons and daughters on that ship, and I’m responsible for their lives too.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I gotta go. Pray for Steph.”
Fantail
USS Emory S. Land
1:00 p.m. local time
Under the blazing sun, in whipping winds, they lined up in four rows of twenty, from highest to lowest rank, and were surrounded by armed Chinese Marines.
Stephanie stood at attention in the back row as a newly minted ensign with the most junior of the junior officers, six other ensigns, and the ship’s warrant officers.
The USS Emory Land had eighty-one officers on board, and now, with the death of the XO, there remained eighty.
“I am Captain Wang Ligin of the Marine Corps of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy.” The short, stocky officer was in front of the first row, pacing back and forth. Stephanie saw his head appear and disappear and then appear again in between the heads of the officers in the three lines in front of her. His English was broken, but understandable. “You are in the custody of the People’s Republic of China. Our decision to attack your ship and to take you into custody was made after your president ordered a civilian freighter flying the sovereign flag of the People’s Republic seized, and after your Navy shot down aircraft of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy—”
A wind gust interrupted the officer’s explanation.
“We Chinese are compassionate people. If you cooperate with us, you will live, just as the crew of the P-3 Orion that invaded our airspace in 2001 was allowed to live. But if you disobey us or take any action which interrupts good order and discipline, you will be shot on the spot—” Another wind gust. This one nearly blew Stephanie’s cover off her head. “You will be led to your staterooms,” the Chinese Marine continued, “row by row, starting with the higher-ranking officers first. Each row will be assigned two armed Marines.
“Your captain will accompany our Marines to ensure that each of you arrives in your stateroom. When you arrive in your staterooms, you will remain there pending further orders from me. Raise your hands over your heads and keep them there until you are in your staterooms. If you fail to do so, you will be shot in the back! Now, first row! Hands up! Let’s move!”
Office of the President
Zhongnanhai Compound
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
1:05 p.m. local time
Mister President, two urgent items demand your attention,” General Shang announced.
President Tang peered across his desk with the angry eyes of a hissing snake. “You are not going to tell me that the Americans have shot down any more of our aircraft are you, General? Because if you are, I may decide not only to fire both you and Admiral Zou, but perhaps I will have you both shot on the spot and promote someone who can handle command of the armed forces of the People’s Republic. Perhaps I will even promote young Captain Lo here as my minister of national defense.”
Shang glanced at Admiral Zou, who was sitting a couple of feet away in the other chair in front of the desk of the president. And it seemed, based on the look on Zou’s face, that both senior officers were thinking the same thing. The Raging Dragon was about to become uncorked.
“So, General,” Tang continued, “please tell me that I am not going to have to first fire you both, and then shoot you both, and then promote young Captain Lo to do your jobs for you because of your continued professional incompetence.” The Dragon stood up, crossed his arms, and shifted his gaze from first the general, then to the admiral, and finally to the young officer.
Several weeks ago, even before the execution of Operation Lightning Bolt, Shang had begun to worry about the president’s mental fitness to serve as commander in chief in the midst of actual military hostilities. Not that he questioned the president’s genius or his charisma. But he had noted an odd response. It made him uneasy. Nothing he could explain. And history showed that sometimes genius and ambition while in command of a great military machine could brew together in a recipe of colossal disaster. Alexander. Napoleon. Hitler.
Shang suspected that Admiral Zou was thinking the same thing, although he had not dared mention his thoughts. At least not yet.
“The good news, Mister President, is that I am pleased to report to you that Operation Counterpunch has been completed, and it is a resounding success.”
The scowl on Tang’s face dissipated, then morphed neutral, and then his lips curled into a smile. “Are you telling me our forces have captured the Emory Land?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Shang said. “Our Marines are on board the ship. Their captain has surrendered, and their officers have been placed under arrest and are being sequestered even as we speak. The ship was damaged by our missile attacks, but she remains operational, and we can steer her anywhere we would like. Congratulations on your command of another successful operation, Mister President.”
“Excellent! Excellent! Now perhaps we will have some leverage with the Americans. And not only leverage, but also respect!” Tang pumped his fist.
“Unfortunately, we won’t have much time to celebrate, Mister President. There is another issue that calls for your immediate attention, sir.”
“What is it, General?”
“It is the Taiwanese flotilla, sir. The lead ship is now about one hundred miles from the Shi Lang. If we are going to interdict the Taiwanese, it is time to act, Mister President. And we cannot afford to spare any planes chasing the Vicksburg. We will need every plane in the Shi Lang’s arsenal to deter a flotilla of this size.”
“Very well,” Tang said. “General. Admiral. Deploy all of Shi Lang’s firepower against the Taiwanese flotilla. Send all six of those ships to the bottom of the sea.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.”
“And as far as the Emory Land is concerned”—he leaned back, interlocked his fingers across his belly, and smiled—”this is our most significant war trophy in a hundred years!” He stood. “Don’t you agree with me, gentlemen?”
Admiral Zou raised an eyebrow.
Capturing a lightly armed ship, even an American ship, was hardly an event that would be marked as one of the brilliant tactical maneuvers in the annals of military history. Still, General Shang wasn’t about to spoil the boyish enthusiasm of the Raging Dragon. “Mister President, the success of this operation is a testament to the professionalism and precise execution of our naval air forces, under the command of my colleague Admiral Zou, and, ultimately, a testament to your vision and leadership in rebuilding our Navy, sailing under its magnificent flagship, the Shi Lang!”
“Yeeeeessssss!” The president sat back down, with a look of smug satisfaction. “Gentlemen, this victory marks a historic turning point. While the capture of the American P-3 aircraft in 2001 was a forerunner of things to come, in that our military embarrassed the Americans and forced them to apologize, this capture of this great ship will be earmarked by the historians as the pivotal moment on which history turned!” He pounded his fist on his desk. “The moment of emergence of the Great Dragon! The moment of decline for the fading Eagle!”
Tang was not finished. “We must make this a moment of national celebration. I am ordering the Emory Land to be taken to Hainan Island, the same place we took the P-3. I will go there and make a speech from the deck of this ship. That will make a statement of tremendous proportions, historically, that will rival MacArthur on the battleship Missouri at Tokyo Bay!”
Still more glances between Shang and Zou.
“Mister President,” Admiral Zou said, “may I make a suggestion?”
“What is it, Admiral?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I do not believe that it is a good idea.”
“What do you mean?” the president snarled.
General Shang said, “Mr. President”—there was no point in letting Admiral Zou ta
ke the heat alone—”perhaps the admiral is suggesting that Hainan Island may be among the first places the Americans would search for the ship. Their satellites photograph our bases there every two hours. Perhaps he is suggesting that we may be able to maximize our leverage against the Americans if we move the Emory Land to a place that makes it difficult for the Americans to find her.”
The president’s expression changed to a look of curiosity. “What do you suggest, gentlemen? Surely their satellites are watching all our ports.”
“Would you like to address this, Admiral?” Shang waved at his Navy colleague.
“Certainly, General.” Zou looked back at the president. “Mister President, the easiest place to find a ship is in port. The hardest place to find a ship is at sea. I suggest that we move the Emory Land farther out to sea, under armed escort, and keep her away from any port until we decide how we will dispose of her.”
Tang scratched his chin. “Mmm. I can see the strategic logic of that. However, I do not want to pass up the historical significance of this. The world must know that we have captured one of America’s great ships.”
Shang, Zou, and young Captain Lo said nothing. No one was willing to give Tang advice on his attempt to gain propaganda from a sensitive military situation.
“I have made a decision!” the president announced. “General Shang. Order CCTV to set up in my office in two hours. I will announce to the world on live television that we have captured the Emory Land. And”—he held up his right index finger—”I will have a special message for President Douglas Surber.”
CHAPTER 29
Fantail
USS Emory S. Land
Get hands up!” the Chinese Marine barked in broken English.
Under the broiling tropical sun and breezy blue skies, the American officers began raising their hands.
Stephanie wanted to puke. The thought of surrender cut against the core of her being. Like her father, she was a born fighter. But now she was surrendering because her commanding officer had ordered her to. Reluctantly, she raised her hands.
They were down to the last row now, the row with the most junior officers on the ship. Only Captain Auclair Wilson remained out on the deck with his junior officers. The skipper was being held by the Chinese at gunpoint, forced to show the armed Chinese Marines where all the officers’ quarters were located.
Stephanie was the second most junior of all the ensigns, senior in rank only to the older warrant officers, and thus was in the very center of the last line.
“Turn to your left and prepare to move to your staterooms.”
Stephanie shuffled in behind Ensign Bob Mason, a junior ensign who had graduated from the ROTC program at the University of Wisconsin. They had taken three or four steps across the hot steel deck when the Chinese Marine screamed from the front of the line, “I said raise your hands!”
“Go kiss off, Commie!” The thick New Jersey accent revealed the voice of Ensign Steven Lapuro, a recent Rutgers ROTC grad with the reputation of a hothead. Lapuro was four officers ahead of Stephanie in line. She could not see him because Mason was blocking her view. But Lapuro’s thick accent was distinctive.
“I said hands up now!”
“I’m an American naval officer!” the New Jerseyite snapped. “I don’t raise my hands for no Commie!”
The Marine pulled a pistol from a holster, aimed it straight out, and fired.
“Aaaaaaaaah!”
With a thud, Lapuro’s body slumped to the deck, his head bouncing against the steel deck, bleeding.
“Corporal! Sergeant! Throw him overboard.”
Two Marines picked up Lapuro’s body. With one holding Lapuro under his arms and the other holding his feet, they stepped to the back of the fantail and chucked Lapuro over the stern, into the churning water in the wake of the ship’s propellers.
“Who else wishes to challenge my authority?”
The Lincoln Bedroom
the White House
1:20 a.m. local time
Hope-Caroline Surber couldn’t sleep. She had known something was wrong even before that call from Irwin Lopez. Doug thought she was sleeping. He was wrong.
This whole harebrained idea of Stephanie going to the Naval Academy had made her sick from the beginning. But who could tell Stephanie anything? She was bullheaded. Just like her father!
Why couldn’t Stephanie have been a Tri Delt? Why not a sorority girl in search of a successful husband, like Hope-Caroline had been all those years ago?
She leaned over and flipped on the lamp to the left of the bed.
Inside the gold eight-by-ten-inch frame, in her choker white naval uniform, her hand resting on her hat, and sitting in front of the American flag, her baby girl smiled with a radiance that filled the room, even from her image in a picture frame.
The Navy was what Stephanie wanted. The Navy was what she had achieved. And now, Hope-Caroline felt it in her stomach, the Navy would take her life at all too young an age.
All of her prayers in her lifetime had been answered, it was just that sometimes the answer was “no.” Why could she find no peace about this? Why was her prayer for Stephanie not calming her soul?
Here she was, the most popular woman in America, living in the best-known house in the world, surrounded by servants, guards, and staff members ready to jump at her very command. But in the midst of all of it, she felt supreme loneliness. None of it mattered now. Not the power. Not the popularity. Not the pandering nor the pampering. Nothing could remove the sick feeling that her only child was about to die.
She had already lost one child. She could not bear to lose another.
She rolled over, then rolled back again. She reached over to the ornate nightstand beside her bed, pulled open the drawer, and pulled out the family Bible that had been her grandmother’s. She opened it. And it opened to the thirty-second chapter of Psalms.
“You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.”
“That’s fine, Lord.” She closed the Bible. “But it’s not me I want you to protect. It’s my daughter! Please protect her.”
Officers Country
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
1:25 p.m. local time
As they stepped into the air-conditioned passageway, which was a stark contrast to the searing heat on the fantail, Stephanie held her hands high in the air, prodded by the gun barrel jammed in the middle of her back.
“Her stateroom is the last on the right,” Captain Wilson said as they arrived at her door. Stephanie had wondered if she was going to get shot in the back before she ever got to her stateroom, which was off by itself, far down the passageway from the others. Or perhaps she would be forced into her stateroom and gang-raped by a half-dozen thug Chinese Marines.
Thank God, they hadn’t recognized her, she thought.
“In the room!” The Marine rammed the gun barrel harder into her back.
“It’s going to be okay, Stephanie,” Captain Wilson said. “Just go in and stay put.”
“Yes, sir.” She put her hand on the steel knob, turned it, stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
With her back pressed against the closed door, her heart pounded like a bass drum as she caught her breath. Thank God, they had not shot her like they had Lapuro.
Stephanie stood there for a few seconds, then, feeling more under control, she stepped away from the door, toward the back of the stateroom.
A hand grabbed her from behind! Gripping her mouth! Another hand and arm was around her waist!
The Chinese bastards were going to rape her!
She tried jamming the man’s rib cage with her elbow. But his grip was too tight.
“Shhhhhhhhh!!” The command was blown into her ear.
She tried kicking him.
“Quiet!” An angry whisper. “Shhh! It’s me, McCormick! Keep your voice down!”
She exhaled, and he let go.
She turned aro
und. “How did you get in here?”
“Keep your voice down. I saw your name on the door. You saved my life, so I thought you might like the company.”
“You know what’s going on?”
“I figured it out,” he whispered.
“Be careful,” she said. “They wanted all officers on the fantail, and now they’ve ordered us to quarters. If they find out you’re here, they’ll shoot you. They just shot one of our ensigns in the head. Threw his body overboard. The XO was killed during the attack.”
Gunner winced. “Roddick’s dead?”
Stephanie wanted to cry at the very question. But she could not. Adrenaline would not allow it. “Yes. And it looks like you’re the only officer on board not accounted for.”
“And I’ll bet I’m the only officer with one of these unaccounted for.” He pulled out the .45-caliber pistol and held it straight up.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Sick bay.”
“You can’t use it. If they hear that go off, they’ll track you down and shoot you in the head.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But at least maybe I’ll take a few of them with me.”
“You’re crazy, sir.”
“So I’ve been told.” He stuck the pistol under his belt. “First off, we’re going to lay low for a while. Then I’ve got a plan. But it’s risky…. It’s dangerous.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Sir, if you’re having to think about protecting me, please. Sir, we’re at war.” She stared him straight in the eye. “The XO and Ensign Lapuro did not have the benefit of protection.” She touched his arm. “It doesn’t matter whose daughter I am. We’re naval officers. Do not give me special protection. We are one and the same.”
He winced. “Okay. We still have to wait an hour or so. Then I’ll tell you the plan.”
“Aye, sir.”
Situation Room
the White House
Washington, DC
2:30 a.m. local time
Sitting at the end of the conference table, President Douglas Surber felt like his abdomen had been invaded by an octopus with a hundred tentacles squeezing his insides. He waited for Admiral Jones to finish a telephone call, hanging on every word the admiral was saying.