by Don Brown
The secretaries of state and defense nodded in agreement with the VEEP’s suggestion.
“Okay. Why not?” Surber said. “Arnie, extend the invitation. Tell him we’ll send a car over for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Belowdecks
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
4:12 p.m. local time
About fifteen more feet up on the left,” Stephanie said.
“Ready your weapon, just in case,” Gunner said.
“Aye, sir.”
It was a good thing Stephanie was with him, Gunner thought. All the drab passageways belowdecks looked the same.
When they got to the entrance to the ship’s sick bay, the door was closed. If the Chinese were anywhere belowdecks, it might be in sick bay, especially if any of them had been wounded in the attack.
Gunner drew the pistol with his right hand and reached for the door latch with his left. “Wait here till I call you in,” he whispered.
He aimed the gun out in front and pushed the door open.
Bright lights flooded the empty space. Not a soul in sight. Except … except on the very cot that he had been lying on just a few hours earlier, a body, covered by a sheet from head to toe. Or was it a body? Or perhaps a ruse?
Gunner stepped toward the stretcher. He stood over it with his gun aimed at what appeared to be the head under the white sheet. With his left hand, he snatched the sheet back.
“Oh, my … Stephanie, get in here.”
“Oh, no!” Stephanie said. “One of the Chinese!”
“One of their Marines. Looks like he took a bullet to the neck. Might have been one of your bullets.”
“That means they’ve been down here. They know how to get here,” Stephanie said.
“Yes, it does.” He pulled the sheet back over the corpse. “They must’ve brought the body down and headed back up topside. But they know how to get here. Hold this for a second.” He gave her his pistol. “Close the door. If one of them shows up, put a bullet through his head.”
J-11 fighter jet (codename Cougar Leader)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
South China Sea
altitude 2,000 feet
course 375 degrees
4:15 p.m. local time
The descending sun was off to the left, casting an orange light in the cockpit of the jet as Senior Lieutenant Jong Jun checked his instruments.
Range to lead target … seventy-five miles.
Flying lead in the aerial assault against the approaching Taiwanese battle group was of highest strategic importance to President Tang and the People’s Republic.
This mission was potentially deadly. The assault against the Vicksburg had demonstrated the sophistication of American naval antiaircraft systems.
Of the six ships steaming toward Itu Aba, the three Kidd-class destroyers that Taiwan had purchased from the American Navy would be the most problematic, offering sophisticated jamming and antiaircraft missiles. The three troop transports were not heavily armed, but the ground forces that they carried would be more than enough to overwhelm the small Chinese contingent on the island.
While the Taiwanese destroyers did not possess the same level of antiaircraft sophistication as the American cruiser, there were more of them, and they were deadly accurate. The threat was enough to warrant having launched almost the entire air wing.
This attack would become the biggest test yet of the new Chinese naval muscle swirling around the great aircraft carrier Shi Lang and her battle group of escort ships.
The battle plan called for the first wave of thirteen jets, of which he was a part, to launch missiles and then peel off. The second and third waves of thirteen and twelve jets would do the same.
He again checked the target-tracking computer.
Range to lead target … sixty-five miles.
It was time. “Cougar Leader to first wave. Arm missiles. Prepare to fire on my mark.”
Jong reached down and flipped the switch arming his two anti-ship missiles, targeted for the lead troop carrier.
“Five.
“Four.
“Three.
“Two.
“One.
“Fire missiles!”
The J-11 jumped as two missiles shot out straight ahead, leaving white contrails in their wake. To his left and right, a battery of other missiles from the first wave streaked through the skies.
The Taiwanese would have their hands full.
Sick bay
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
4:17 p.m. local time
Where is it?” Gunner opened another drawer along the bulkhead just above the body of the dead Chinese Marine. This one contained surgical supplies, including several scalpels, knives, and sutures.
The long surgical scalpel might be helpful in the short run. He took it and stuck it under his belt. But the scalpel wasn’t why he had come. “What are you looking for?” Stephanie asked.
“My seabag,” Gunner said. “The one you put under my cot. Someone’s moved it. Probably a corpsman. There’s something we need.”
“You need me to help you look, sir?”
“No. Just guard the door. Crack it open and keep your ear peeled for any noise out in the passageway. I’ll check one other place. Then we’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Aye, sir.”
There was one other possibility. The coat locker was bolted to the bulkhead on the other side. Gunner hurried across the room and opened the locker door.
There! On the deck!
Gunner picked up the seabag and ran his hands through it. In the bottom, he felt it. Yes! The lost-at-sea transmitter was still there. He pulled it out and pressed the “transmit” button. Nothing.
“Come on, baby! Work!”
He pressed the button again.
Nothing.
“Come on!”
“Sir! I hear steps!”
Gunner dropped the transmitter back into the bag. He dropped the bag back in the locker and rushed over and pressed his back against the bulkhead, his shoulder next to Stephanie’s.
They lined up next to the hinge side of the door so that if anyone opened it, the door would block them from view for a split second.
The click … click … click … of boots against the deck grew louder.
Gunner felt for the handle of the scalpel. He whispered to Stephanie, “I’ll take him out by hand. But if I get into trouble, shoot him in the head.”
Stephanie nodded.
The door opened a crack, then swung open.
A Chinese Marine, his back to Gunner and Stephanie, walked toward the cot and stood over the body of his dead comrade.
Gunner charged forward, and the Marine turned with a startled look on his face. Gunner rammed the scalpel into his Adam’s apple.
The man staggered, grabbed at the scalpel in his throat, but as his black eyes crossed, he dropped to the floor, limp.
Gunner stood over the man and looked down. The eyes were frozen open and the mouth hung open. Blood spurted from the wound around the blade of the scalpel.
Gunner grabbed the stainless steel handle and pulled the scalpel from the man’s throat. He wiped off the blood against the man’s pants leg and stuck the scalpel-turned-dagger back under his belt. He picked up the Marine’s rifle and slung it over his neck.
That gave them two rifles, a pistol, and a scalpel. Still not enough against all those Chinese on deck. But better than nothing.
“Are we going to do anything with the body, sir?”
“Not enough time,” Gunner said. “They’ll be here soon and we need every second.”
“What about the transmitter? Shouldn’t we take it, try to fix it?”
“I’m an intel guy, not an electronics tech. Wouldn’t have a clue and don’t have any equipment even if I did. No, let’s leave it hidden. It would just be in the way, and we need to collect weapons. We’ve got to move.”
“Where to?”
“Aft engine room. If this is like every other ship I’ve been on, that’s as far away as we can get. And there are plenty of spaces to hide down there. Let’s get moving.”
J-11 fighter jet (codename Cougar Leader)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
South China Sea
altitude 2,000 feet
course 375 degrees
4:30 p.m. local time
Senior Lieutenant Jong Jun swung his J-11 attack jet in a wide loop. Off to the right, visible at a distance of two miles, three of the six ships in the Taiwanese battle group sat dead in the water, engulfed in orange flames leaping into the sky. Thick black smoke plumes billowed into the heavens.
Chinese missiles had destroyed two enemy troop carriers and one enemy destroyer.
The remaining three ships, two destroyers and one troop carrier, had broken course and turned away from Itu Aba.
With the three ships retreating, the mission had been a success. The assault, however, had not been without costs. Ten of the thirty-eight jets flying the mission had been shot down by antiaircraft missiles. When the remaining three ships changed course, the Shi Lang wing commander had ordered the jets to break off pursuit to avoid more losses.
It was a quick attack. Most of the twenty-eight jets that survived had already turned back to the carrier.
Jong’s jet, along with two other J-11s, remained on combat air patrol to maintain visual observation of the burning enemy ships.
Jong pushed down on the yoke, leveling the jet at 1,000 feet, turning in the direction of one of the troop transports. The ship’s bow was rising out of the water. The stern had already disappeared.
Jong brought the jet down to 500 feet and turned into yet another loop for a closer look.
There were dozens of them. Specks in the water with arms flailing, splashing desperately to stay afloat. These were the Taiwanese Marines and sailors who were to lead the assault on Itu Aba. Some had life vests. Many did not.
It did not matter whether they had life vests. The ones who did not drown would die from having their limbs and bodies ripped apart by man-eating whitetip sharks.
Jong put the plane into a climb just as the first troop carrier disappeared under the surface, a momentary bubbling marking the spot.
He switched on his radio frequency for direct contact with the carrier.
“Shi Lang Control. Cougar Leader.”
“Cougar Leader. Shi Lang Control. Go ahead.”
“Shi Lang Control. One of the troop ships just sank. The other troop ship and destroyer are burning out of control, under no propulsion, with all systems disabled. Be advised I’ve just observed a major explosion from the destroyer. Possibly from her magazine rack.”
Jong glanced over his right shoulder at the crippled destroyer. Two angry fires ravaged the ship, one being from the explosion in the aft section.
“Cougar Leader. Shi Lang Control. Excellent work. Break off patrol and return to the carrier.”
The White House
4:45 a.m. local time
The black Lincoln with the “US Government” tags rolled under the north portico of the White House, which was bathed in floodlights, making the old mansion stand out against the dark of the early pre-dawn.
This was not Wylie Shepherd’s first visit to the White House. But this was the first time he had been driven to the mansion in a government limousine, and now … yes … he was about to have his door opened by a United States Marine! Something was up.
“Good morning, sir,” the Marine, in sharp dress blues and white gloves, said as he opened the door for him.
“Morning,” Wylie said. He did not say, “Good Morning, Corporal,” or “Good Morning, Sergeant,” or whatever the Marine was, because frankly, he could not tell the difference between a corporal and a general.
“Mister Brubaker is waiting at the main entrance, sir.”
“Thank you, Officer …” Wylie stepped out of the car.
“That’s Sergeant, sir. Sergeant Melesky.”
“Sorry, Sergeant. I’m not familiar with Marine Corps officer ranks.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m not an officer.”
“Morning, Wylie!” The recognizable voice was that of White House Chief of Staff Arnie Brubaker, who was walking out the front door of the White House. “I’ll take him from here, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine said.
“Wylie, we’ve gotta teach you the difference between an officer and an enlisted guy in the Marine Corps.” Brubaker, the consummate politician, patted Wylie’s back.
“Arnie, you know I’m a hopeless lib. The only corps I know is the Peace Corps.” He cut to the point. “And it sounds like there’s not much peace going on right now in the South China Sea.”
“Walk with me,” Brubaker said. He led the reporter in through the front door of the White House, onto white marble, past two more stiff-looking Marines.
“Where you taking me?”
“Situation Room to meet with the president.”
“Must be serious.”
“I’ll let the president talk to you about it,” the chief of staff said.
Brubaker led the way down several hallways, past a small army of Marines, Secret Service agents, and White House policemen. Brubaker was carrying on and chatting with meaningless small talk, but all the time avoiding any mention of the South China Sea.
“You ever been in the Situation Room?” Brubaker asked.
“They never let me get past the press room, Arnie.”
“First time for everything.” Arnie pushed open the double doors, which caused the president, the vice president, the secretaries of state and defense, and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff all to rise, as if Wylie himself were the president entering the room.
“Thanks for coming, Wylie.” The president extended his hand. “Please sit here next to me.”
“Thanks for inviting me, Mister President.” Wylie sat in the swivel chair next to Surber. “Looks like you gentlemen are busy.”
“Unfortunately we are,” Surber said. “You saw Tang’s speech?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Well, part of what he said is true.”
“May I ask which part?”
Surber exchanged glances with the secretary of defense. “It’s true that things are heating up in the South China Sea. It’s also true that our navies have exchanged fire. We have shot down several of their planes.”
“What part of it isn’t true?”
“It’s not true that we captured that freighter for no reason. The freighter has evidence of crimes against humanity committed by the Chinese.”
“Crimes against humanity?”
“Yes. I’m going to go into more details about all that when I address the nation this morning. But I also want you to know that what you heard about Stephanie … that’s also true.”
Wylie studied the man’s face, looking for some sign of human emotion, a parental concern.
Nothing. Just a straight jaw and steely eyes.
“Mister President, why are you telling me this?”
“Because we don’t think the Chinese know that she’s aboard the Emory Land. This isn’t just about Stephanie. I’ve got hundreds of other parents and wives and husbands and children with relatives aboard that ship that I am responsible for. We think that if this information gets out, this jeopardizes our chances of saving the ship and the crew.”
Wylie thought about that. “Because, I take it, they feel they would have more leverage?”
“Precisely.”
“And … I take it you want me to sit on this information?”
“I can’t tell you to sit on it. This is America. As president I took an oath to defend the Constitution. Last I checked, the First Amendment is still in the Constitution. But I’m asking you to consider all the lives involved—American lives—that would be in much greater jeopardy if this leaks out.”
Wylie exhaled. “I can understand that, Mist
er President. But this is a big story. I have a responsibility to my viewers and to my network.”
“Wylie,” Secretary of Defense Lopez said, “how about if you consider holding the story about Stephanie being aboard until we’re able to rescue the ship. Then you and your network can be the first to confirm that she is on board. We agree not to comment on the issue and will give you first dibs on the story just as soon as we’ve rescued this ship.”
Wylie didn’t like where this was going. The opportunity to break a story like this was the type of thing that could propel him to network anchor. On the other hand, he was going to have to work with this president and his press secretary for the better part of the next three and a half years. A favor now might bring huge dividends in the future.
But how could he trust these people to keep their word?
“Tell ya what, Mister Secretary. How about if you all promise to give me first dibs, plus give me the first exclusive interview with Stephanie and the president if the ship is rescued and with the president and First Lady if the ship is not rescued.”
“Deal,” the secretaries of state and defense said at the same time.
“Mister President?” Wylie looked into Surber’s eyes.
“You have my word, Wylie.” Surber extended his hand.
“Okay, I’m not excited about it, but with your word that I get first dibs on the story and those interviews, I’ll do it.”
The president grabbed Wylie’s hand, squeezing it in a vice-like grip. “Thanks, Wylie. I won’t forget this.”
Presidential Palace
Zhongzheng District
Taipei City, Republic of China (Taiwan)
4:49 p.m. local time
How bad is it, Admiral Wong?” Taiwanese President Lu felt sick.
“The situation is dire, Mister President,” Admiral Wong Lu-Chen said. “We have lost two troop transport ships and one destroyer. We count ten Communist warplanes shot down, Mister President. The remaining three ships had to change course to avoid further risk.”