by Don Brown
The two rushed in, weapons drawn.
Wang turned his attention to the beeping. It was coming from a canvas bag on the floor in a corner. He picked up the bag and looked in. He dropped the bag and jumped back. A cylindrical device was flashing and beeping.
“A bomb?” the sergeant asked.
Wang carefully opened the bag and studied the device. “No, I don’t think so. Looks like a homing device.” He tried pushing several buttons on the side of it. Nothing. “Get back.” He set the beeping cylinder down on the deck, over in a corner. He grabbed his pistol and worked the action. “Step out into the passageway.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wang took several steps back, trained his pistol on the device, and pulled the trigger.
The Situation Room
the White House
6:00 a.m. local time
Mister President,” Arnie Brubaker rushed back into the Situation Room, as he had been doing throughout the night. “I’m sorry for interrupting, sir, but MSNBC is advertising that Wylie Shepherd is about to go on the air live.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Surber said.
“Me neither,” Secretary Lopez said.
“Did they say why?” Secretary Mauney asked.
“They say major breaking news about the naval war in the South China Sea.”
“If he does what I think he’s about to do, I’ll kill him myself,” Surber said. “Put on MSNBC.”
“Yes, sir.”
The flat-screens around the room, displaying a satellite image of the South China Sea, switched to MSNBC. The desk anchor was speaking. “And now, with major breaking news from a rapidly escalating naval war in the South China Sea, a war which is pitting the United States against China, here’s MSNBC’s Wylie Shepherd.”
The screen switched to Wylie Shepherd standing in front of a map of the South China Sea.
“Thank you, Dick.” Wylie Shepherd looked into the camera. “That’s right. The Chinese president, Tang Qhichen, appeared on television last evening to describe events of what appears to be a naval war brewing in the South China Sea between the United States, Taiwan, and China.
“President Tang reported that China has captured a United States warship, the USS Emory S. Land, a submarine tender, which supplies materials such as food and weapons to submarines.”
A photograph of the Emory S. Land appeared on the screen.
“MSNBC has learned that President Tang’s claims about the capture of the Emory Land are correct. Moreover, this reporter has learned, and indeed has verified, that Ensign Stephanie Surber, the daughter of US President Douglas Surber, is an officer on board the Emory Land.” A photo of Stephanie in her dress white naval uniform flashed on the screen.
“I’ll kill him myself,” Surber said.
“Let me repeat. This reporter has learned, and indeed has verified, that Ensign Stephanie Surber, the daughter of US President Douglas Surber, is an officer on board the Emory Land. We do not believe the Chinese are aware that Ensign Surber is on board, as there has been no indication of that. No mention has been made of her presence. No demands have been made by the Chinese regarding the president’s daughter. President Douglas Surber is to address the nation at eight this morning. Stay right here on MSNBC for all the latest in this developing story. The president’s speech will be carried live on MSNBC at—”
A telephone on the conference table rang. Admiral Jones picked it up and spoke softly.
“Turn that trash off,” Surber ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Arnie said.
“Mister President, interesting news,” the admiral said.
“Let me guess. SEAL Team Six is on the way to take out Wylie Shepherd?”
“No, sir, but possibly to board the Emory Land.”
“Talk to me, Admiral.”
“Our satellites just picked up a homing beacon. It’s the same homing beacon that broadcast when Commander McCormick was lost at sea. Those devices sometimes shut down for hours at a time to save the batteries, then fire back up. We think that’s what happened. We got a fifteen-minute burst, and then it went dark again. But that was long enough to get coordinates. USS Shiloh is in the area, and we’re going to launch a drone to the coordinates to check it out. It’s getting dark over there right now, but if we can find the ship, we’ve got a shot, sir.”
Presidential Palace
Zhongnanhai Compound
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
6:05 p.m. local time
Mister President, big news out of Washington, DC, which I think you will find fascinating,” General Shang said.
“Surber is acquiescing to my demands and will exchange the Emory Land for the Shemnong?”
“Not yet, sir. But Surber might be more willing to negotiate after what we have just learned.”
“Out with it, General.”
“An American reporter on their television claims that President Surber’s daughter, Stephanie Surber, is an officer on board the Emory Land!”
“What?” Tang stood up behind his desk. “This is a trick! Why would a reporter reveal such crucial information to the enemy in the midst of a war?”
“Well, Mister President”—Shang stroked his chin—”many in their press corps are … socialist in their leanings.”
“Is this information true?”
“There is a woman officer on board who fits the description, but we cannot find her at the moment. The American reporter, Wylie Shepherd, is reporting that it is true! Said he has confirmed this information!”
Tang let out a belly laugh. “This is too good to be true. If I were not an atheist, I might believe in God! What a glorious opportunity! General, have the propaganda ministry prepare immediate press releases to all the American television networks that we have captured the Surber girl. And that unless Douglas Surber releases the Shemnong, the Surber girl will be executed!”
“But, Mister President,” Shang said.
“You have a problem with that, General?”
“No, sir. With all due respect, sir, my duties are to advise you on military matters. And the key to the successful prosecution of any military operation is managing the military conflict with careful proportional escalation.”
“Your point, General?”
“My point, Mister President, is that if we make mention of Surber’s daughter and threaten her execution, that would come across as inflammatory and would escalate the conflict with the Americans beyond what is necessary at the moment. Moreover, there are Geneva Convention concerns about threatening the execution of a prisoner of war.”
Admiral Zou nodded in agreement. But Tang, whose eyes bored into Shang’s, apparently did not notice the admiral nodding.
“My dear General.” Tang’s voice rose. His lips trembled. “Have you forgotten that the Americans have killed my only brother by their imperialist aggression? By interfering in our area of influence? Have you forgotten that?”
“No, sir.”
“And are you saying that the life of the daughter of the American president is more important than the life of the brother of the Chinese president?”
Shang hesitated. “No, sir. Of course not.”
“Then carry out my directive!”
“Yes, Mister President.”
Third-floor dining room
the White House
6:15 a.m. local time
Hope-Caroline Surber, fighting sleeplessness for the last three hours, walked into the third-floor dining room, the private dining room reserved for the First Family. She sat alone at a small mahogany table covered with a white linen tablecloth.
“How may I be of service to you, Madame?” Charles, the elderly black waiter, smiled at her.
“I need something to settle my stomach, Charles. Maybe ginger ale?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And Charles?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you turn on Fox, please?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
>
The waiter picked up the remote control, pointed it toward a flat-screen television on the wall, and pressed a button.
Tom Miller, in a light-blue dress shirt and wearing his traditional wire-rim glasses, appeared on the screen.
“This just in. Chinese authorities are confirming the report from earlier this morning that Ensign Stephanie Surber, a naval officer on board the USS Emory Land and the First Daughter of the United States, is not only on the ship but, according to the Chinese, she has been captured and is in the custody of the Chinese.
“According to communiqués received by the US Embassy in Beijing and copied to US media outlets, if President Surber does not order the release of the Chinese freighter Shemnong within the next two hours, then Ensign Surber and several other officers aboard the Emory Land will be immediately put on trial for war crimes.
“Again, according to the communiqué,” Miller looked up at the camera, “that war crimes trial could take place as early as today on board the Emory Land. A Chinese court would be convened aboard the ship. Anyone convicted of war crimes under Chinese law could be subject to execution, which sources say could be carried out aboard the ship … today.
“Still nothing from the White House, but we understand that President Surber is set to address the nation at eight this morning, in an hour and forty-five minutes.”
Hope-Caroline reached over and grabbed the remote control and flipped off the television. She prayed for the strength not to faint in front of the White House kitchen staff.
“Your ginger ale and tea, ma’am.”
She looked up and saw Charles standing nearby holding a silver tray with a glass of ginger ale and steaming hot tea.
“I’m sorry, Charles. I’ve got to find my husband.”
“I’ll be here for you, ma’am.”
Engine room
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
6:17 p.m. local time
Huddled in a semicircle, Stephanie and the others listened closely to Gunner McCormick as he spelled out his plan for retaking the ship.
“Here’s the deal,” Gunner said. “We’ve gotta hurry. They’ve got a whole lot more guns than we do. But thanks to this schematic diagram of the inside of the ship the senior chief provided, we know where all the ladders and compartments are. And they don’t. And that gives us a huge advantage.
“So here’s what we do. We split up and head up separate ladders, out of the main corridors. We’ll hide in the cracks and crevices of the ship, and when one of their Marines strays from the rest, we’ll pick him off. We’ll get ‘em, one by one. We’ll take the guns off the dead bodies and give them to our sailors. We’ll take this ship back. Now that their choppers are gone, we can do this.”
“Let’s move! … Ensign Surber, you stay here.”
“Commander!” Stephanie protested.
“No time for that, Stephanie,” Gunner shot back.
Gunner eyed each member of the small group. “Ready?”
“Ready!” they replied.
Stephanie could only marvel at the speedy recovery Gunner had made. He seemed so strong and confident for someone who just yesterday was suffering from severe dehydration.
He reminded her of Bobby Roddick, and tears threatened to spill. She bit her lip to regain her composure. Now was the time for strength. She would do this for the XO.
“Stephanie, be on your guard. We don’t need you to become a trophy. And no buts. Stay out of sight. There are plenty of places to hide. I’ll be back. But if anyone shows up before I return, you know what to do. Understand?” He put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll put a bullet between the eyes, Commander.”
The Situation Room
the White House
6:25 a.m. local time
President Douglas Surber listened to the debate raging among his national security advisers.
“This guy’s a nut,” Vice President Morgan said.
“Yes, but I think he’s bluffing about this war crimes thing,” Secretary Lopez said.
“But do we know he’s bluffing?” This was from Secretary Mauney. “I know that he’s crazy and therefore dangerous.”
“Admiral, any word on that homing signal we picked up?” the national security adviser, Cyndi Hewitt, asked.
“We’ve launched a drone from USS Shiloh to explore those coordinates. No news yet.”
“Excuse me, Mister President?”
Surber turned around. His chief of staff had just walked into the room.
“What is it, Arnie?”
“I apologize, sir, but the First Lady is outside. I told her that you were busy, but she insisted. She wants to see you.”
Surber checked his watch: 6:26 a.m. “Gentlemen, Cyndi, excuse me for a minute.” He got up and stepped out the double doors of the Situation Room.
Hope-Caroline was outside, accompanied by a Secret Service agent. “Doug, we need to talk.”
“Let’s step over here.” He put his hand on her back and they walked away from three Secret Service agents who were standing closest. “Give us some privacy, gentlemen.”
“What is it? I’ve got an international crisis.”
“Yes, I know. I heard Tom Miller say that they’ve got Stephanie, and that they’re going to kill her if you don’t release that ship.”
Her words felt like someone had dumped a bag of crushed ice all over him.
“Doug, this is our daughter! I don’t know why you captured that freighter … but …”—tears streamed down her face—”I didn’t sign up for this.”
He pulled her close to him. Her body shook. And now the sobbing overpowered her ability to say anything.
“Mark.” He motioned to one of the Secret Service agents who was standing off to the side.
“Yes, Mister President.”
“Please call Sarah down here.” He was referring to Sarah Edwards, Hope-Caroline’s personal aide.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
He held her tight, and as they stood there, the words of his own secretary of state, spoken just four hours ago, danced in his head: “With respect, sir, I agree with the secretary of defense. We don’t want Stephanie to become a pawn giving greater leverage to the Chinese. But if they discover that she is on board …”
Maybe they were right. Maybe God was giving him advice through his advisers. Maybe it wasn’t all worth it. Was he really going to stop these baby-killing atrocities by exposing the horrific evidence on board that ship? Maybe he should instruct Bobby Mauney to contact the Chinese and negotiate the release of the freighter. At least that might save the American lives on board, including his only child.
Sarah Edwards walked into the waiting area and came over to them. “Sarah’s here. I need you to go with her now.”
Sarah put her arm around Hope-Caroline’s shoulders and gently led her away.
With clenched jaw and insides shredded into a million pieces of confetti, Douglas Surber stepped back into the Situation Room.
Engine room
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
6:35 p.m. local time
Under bright fluorescent lights, crouching behind a steel drum off to the side of the engine room, Stephanie had a clear view of the passageway running down the middle of the spaces and of the port entrance to the engine room.
She was alone. Gunner had taken the senior chief and the two petty officers topside to hunt Chinese Marines, get as many weapons as they could.
She was not afraid to be alone, yet the sight before her, all the steel and wiring and flashing lights and haze gray paint, somehow hit a nerve, made her realize the extreme danger. Tears started streaming down her face.
The hatch of the portside entrance swung open and a Chinese Marine stepped into the engine room. She hunkered down a little tighter and aimed her pistol for a clear shot. Just then a second Marine walked in. And a third.
She slid down farther behind the huge steel drum. Her heart pounded as she calculated
the math. One pistol with fifteen rounds versus three assault rifles with at least forty-five rounds, and that was in the first wave. They could reload. She could not.
For this to work, she had to be fast … and accurate. If she missed or took out only one or even two of the three, a .45-caliber pistol versus an assault rifle could be suicide.
Should she wait it out? Wait for them to leave? Stay hidden?
No. Not a good idea. The Chinese had attacked the ship. They killed Bobby. Yes, she was outnumbered, but she still had the element of surprise—which might be gone if she didn’t act now.
She heard them talking. Their boots clicked on the deck. They were coming closer. She figured they would fan out and search the engine room. If she was going to fire, now was the time before they got spread out too far.
She eased around the drum and saw them, standing together. She drew a bead on the head of the first one.
She squeezed the trigger three times and ducked back down behind the tank. The deafening blast of gunfire echoed against the labyrinth of steel beams and pipes.
She heard a harrowing primordial scream.
Thump. Thump.
Then … silence. The only sound was the roar of the ship’s engines, the wash of the sea against the steel hull. Her heart was pounding.
She thought she had hit two. Still no sound. Maybe all three.
She waited, then, gun leading, she crawled to the end of the steel drum for a look.
The head of one Chinese Marine came into view. Her bullet had hit him right between the eyes. Blood had pooled under his head. His eyes and mouth were frozen open.
Staying low, she crept a bit farther. The second Marine was over the leg of the first, face down.
Where was the third?
A shot rang out!
Hot pain seared her left arm. She fell back. She’d been hit!
Her gun? Where was it?
There! On the deck!
She lunged for it and rolled, then looked up.
The third Marine was standing almost over her, his rifle aimed right at her head. The front of his uniform was soaked with blood.
The explosion of gunfire slammed her head back against the steel deck.
US Navy “Fire Scout” MQ-8B robotic helicopter