Onslaught

by David Poyer

  Tomlin thanked her. “Now, if this happens … if they come across the strait … what do we have to meet it with?”

  A force-balance slide gave the answer. Blair shook her head as she added the numbers.

  Clayton said, “Not enough. Our single carrier in the region was immobilized by mines. We have a makeshift surface task group more or less plugging the gap until the Franklin Roosevelt battle group gets there. But we’re also facing a North Korean threat. If the PRC crosses the strait, well … leaving aside whether we’re obligated to intervene, there seems little available to respond with at the moment, aside from long-range B-2 strikes from Guam.”

  Blair began to feel uncomfortable, and not just from the hot needles of pain being driven into her hip. She raised a hand. Tomlin nodded. “Blair Titus, correct? Question?”

  “Correct. You’re saying, we expect to lose this battle?”

  Tomlin made a face. “I wouldn’t put it that way. But … J-3’s fully occupied fighting the current campaign. They can’t plan for what happens if they lose. Not at the same time. Also, there are political implications in having the combat commanders plan for downside possibilities. It’s more palatable if that takes place outside the DoD structure. At least we can start to formulate options the National Security Council can consider, if the eventuality arises.” He paused, then added, “Ultimately, too, we must establish phase lines beyond which our national interests demand an escalatory response.”

  “We’re going to try to contain this war,” someone said, and Blair flinched at a familiar voice. “But not too hard.”

  Dr. Edward Szerenci was in a light gray suit and pale blue tie, with an American flag pin in the lapel. His hair had gone platinum at the temples; his eyes, behind professorial horn-rims, were a hunting hawk’s. Two men in dark suits stood behind him, arms folded, gazes roving the room. The national security adviser had come in quietly, at the back, while Tomlin was speaking. Blair tensed, remembering the last time they’d met. In an elevator in the Russell Building, on the way to her husband’s testimony before the Armed Services Committee.

  Szerenci had said then, “War now could be better than later, with a more powerful adversary.”

  Now he came forward, and handed a memory stick to the aide at the computer.

  Two jagged lines, red and blue, with an intersection point. Along the bottom, decades, from the 1980s to the 2030s. The blue line dropped steadily, decade after decade. The red line climbed, its slope slowing from time to time, but always rising.

  “This shows the nuclear force balance, in total warhead megatonnage. As you can see, the recent breakout, if continued, will shortly place us in an inferior position. Our antiballistic capabilities may push that into the out years—I emphasize the word may—but I do not intend the United States ever to be in an inferior position. Therefore, our major goal in this conflict has to be to restrain, cap, and if possible, eliminate Chinese nuclear strike capabilities.” He let that hang, then added softly, “We have to set clear red lines, and enforce them. If they want to test our resolve, we’re ready.”

  Someone breathed, “‘Red lines’—‘test our resolve’—you’re talking about a nuclear ultimatum.”

  Szerenci said gravely, “Let’s not cherish illusions. No weapon’s ever been invented that wasn’t eventually used. This conflict may be lethal. Resource intensive. And bloody. But if the unthinkable should happen on our watch, I want us to be ready for it, survive it, and win it.” He nodded. “This isn’t a disaster. It’s a historic opportunity.” He looked to Tomlin. “I’ve got to get back to the Eighteen Acres. We need your output fast, General.”

  “Within the week, Doctor.”

  Tomlin waited until the Secret Service men closed the door. “So, there you have it. If Zhang invades, there’s a good chance Taiwan will fall. Some of that’s out of our hands—it depends on the fighting efficiency of the army, the resolve of the government. And so forth.

  “But the question we need to focus on is, if the worst happens, where and how can we seize the initiative again, and sustain that effort to end the conflict on acceptable terms?” Tomlin nodded at the professor. “Dr. Glancey happens to be an expert on war termination. We need to think ahead of the current hostilities, and envision a postwar settlement both sides can live with.”

  “Which is probably not going to satisfy anyone,” Glancey put in.

  After a moment, an older man, probably one of the retired generals, said, “We’re being asked to plan how best to surrender?”

  Tomlin said quietly, “If you see an open discussion that way, sir, maybe this isn’t the right committee for you.”

  “I don’t see why not. If you’re discussing options, isn’t that one?”

  A murmur ran around the room. Hands shot up. Blair raised hers too and, when Tomlin nodded, stood. “What about the forces currently in theater? If as you say we can’t hold. We do … what? Write them off?”

  Tomlin made a wry face. “Unfortunately, that may be forced on us. We had to write off the Asiatic Fleet, and the garrisons on Bataan and Corregidor, early in the last major war. The distances are too great. Our reserves, too thin. We need time for regeneration, resupply, rebuilding a logistics chain. And the other side’s going to do everything they can to slow us up, deny us bases, deny parts and fuel and access. How do we shore up the breach? Or, failing that, how do we come back?”

  He looked at his watch. “You heard Dr. Szerenci; the pressure’s on. We’ll split into subcommittees—strategic, logistics, information warfare, diplomatic, cyberwar. A Red Team, to game enemy countermoves. First session will be eight to noon. Staff will research the issues you surface and work up the notes in the afternoons. We’ll do a night session from six to ten.

  “I want to wrap and deliver by the end of the week. A reminder: please sign your SF 312s in the back before going to your subcommittee. Again, nothing can be removed from the working areas. If you want to keep notes, mark them as ‘working papers,’ date them, and hand them to a staffer for secure storage between sessions.

  “All right—let’s get to work.”

  Thunder rumbled outside. She sat hunched as the meeting broke up, as a staffer announced room assignments for the subcommittee deliberations. Wincing at the hot pain in her hip, as rain clattered against electromagnetically shielded glass, and the sky darkened with an advancing storm.

  12

  USS Savo Island

  THE master-at-arms brought Peeples to Aisha’s cabin after noon meal. The Engineering Department chief, McMottie, had told her he couldn’t break him out till then, not with the ship at Condition Three.

  The girls on the mess decks, as well as the exec, had mentioned Peeples as the guy who liked to flip off women in authority. Which put him on Aisha’s short list for the rape. He must have sensed this, since he was sweating even before she sat him down and introduced herself. Toan, the master-at-arms, leaned against a bulkhead, seeming to melt against the steel. Peeples was white, with concrete-gray hair, heavy stubble, and hooded eyelids. He wore blue camo utilities instead of coveralls. His knee jiggled. His nails were dark with dirt or grease. He reeked of the fuel these smaller ships ran on.

  Aisha leaned back, pretending to review his record, though she already had. Machinist’s mate seaman. Sometimes rowdy on liberty, but basically a solid sailor. Supervisors’ testimonials always read the same. As far as shipboard justice went, having a rep as a hard worker went a long way, whatever you were up for. In the most recent incident, he’d called his female petty officer a “hucking skunt.” They’d charged him under Article 134: using indecent language to a senior, to the prejudice of good order and discipline.

  She glanced up from the file. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I’m not.” The leg stopped jiggling.

  “Good. Please tell me what happened with Petty Officer Scharner. In your own words.”

  The tremor resumed as he wiped his face. “Well, she … she always gave me the shittiest jobs. Down in the fu �
� down in the bilges. Cleanin’ out the head. Chipping voids. I just lost it. Just once. Never meant nothing by it. I was sorry when they found her dead. From the Crud, I mean.”

  “I’m sure you were. It sounds like that took quite a toll. Did you get it too?”

  “Shit yeah. Fucked me up royal. Still got to drag myself around.”

  “What exactly is a ‘skunt,’ Peeples?”

  He sucked air. “They ain’t no such word. I made it up. Told the chief that. Told the skipper, too. He understood. Reamed me out, but hey. I get it, you gotta go through the motions.”

  “What was the punishment?”

  “Sixty days’ hack, half pay for three months, suspended for six months.”

  “That seems … light. Since there’s no liberty anyway.”

  “It did to that lieutenant too.”

  Aisha frowned. “What lieutenant?”

  “The Indian. ‘Armpit’ Singhe.” He grinned, showing scraggly teeth.

  “She was at your mast? She’s not in your chain of command, is she?”

  “Duh, no! She just showed up, out of the blue, and tried to argue the CO into upping my punishment.”

  “Why do you think she’d do that?”

  “Fuck if I know. She’s got a hard-on for the enlisted girls, what I think.” He started to say more, but halted, squinting up at the overhead. “I said enough. Ain’t my fuckin’ business, izzit? But it ain’t fuckin’ fair, z’all I’m sayin’.”

  “I see.” She glanced down at her notes, wrote Singhe+enlisted women? “You’re a machinist. Ever go down to the supply spaces? Or up around the bridge area?”

  “I pretty much stay down in the hole.”

  “How about electrical work? Do much of that?”

  “Machinist’s mates don’t do electrons. Atoms, that’s us.” He grinned. For a moment the hooded eyes danced, and he was almost attractive. The bad-boy type …

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Seaman?”

  “Back home. On and off.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “West Texas.”

  “A long way from Texas.”

  “You’re a long way from Harlem.”

  Scuttlebutt traveled. She should’ve remembered; nothing that happened on a ship stayed secret long. Which usually helped an investigation, but so far it hadn’t aboard Savo Island. She consulted her file again. “Ever played Gang Bang Molly?”

  “Heard about it. Never played. We got real work to do, down in the black gang. Especially, long’s we been out. We’re trying to rebuild pumps, valves, should be done in the yard.”

  She squinted at him. Was he … No, “black gang” was just what snipes called themselves. From the days when coal dust had covered everything. She asked a few more questions, about where he stood watch and when, then nodded to Toan that he could go.

  * * *

  IN a little space off CIC, a chief in coveralls positioned a chair in front of a screen. He was blond, with an unruly cowlick and an infectious, slightly mad grin. Younger than the other chiefs. Wenck. Terranova’s supervisor, whom the new CO had brought with him when he’d taken over. Like Carpenter … She sighed and dropped into the seat. “These are the gun camera tapes?”

  “Well, what we got. For that date. Red said you wanted to review them.”

  “Red?”

  “Chief Slaughenhaupt.”

  To her surprise, Slaughenhaupt had sent her a message. He’d located the tapes for the day she wanted, and would make them available when she had time to go over them. “They’re from the aft Phalanx,” Wenck said, leaning past her to press keys. She smelled something spicy, and a memory suddenly lit. She said, too sharply, “What’s that you’re wearing?”

  “Huh? Just some aftershave.”

  In her first interview, Terranova had said she’d noticed a smell like lemons. This wasn’t exactly lemon, more like cinnamon, but … “Where did you get it? Ship’s store?”

  “Had it for a while. Bought it back when I was at TAG.”

  “TAG?”

  “The Tactical Analysis Group. Little Creek. Must’ve been, at the exchange. Why?”

  “No reason, I just like it. Maybe you could tell me the brand?”

  “Sure, I’ll look.” He bent over her again, and brought up a screen.

  She recognized it at once. The same circular reticle as the old sonarman had shown her. The same field of view, looking out over the hangar onto the flight deck. Only this was no still. The horizon slanted up and down. A blue, brilliant day. Sun flashed off the wake. A time/date readout pulsed. She checked the date, but it was clear from the way people were strolling back and forth that this was a day off. Steel Beach Picnic, someone had called it. The Iron Beach was the next level up. They lined up before grills, cradled paper plates, sat around in groups. Some sprawled in the lowered nets. A shoving match broke out, horseplay, guys grab-assing around. An older man moved in and broke it up.

  “Want me to fast-forward?” Wenck hovered behind her. Another hint of the scent. Not Old Spice, but like it. “What are you looking for?”

  To see you, climbing the ladder to the top of the hangar, she thought but didn’t say. “Were you there? At the picnic.”

  “Me? No. Crappy ship’s hamburgers and GSA chips. We’re pretty much full-time trying to keep Alice happy.”

  Aisha frowned, trying to place the name. Did he mean the exec? Wasn’t her name Carol? No, Cheryl. “Who’s Alice?”

  “Not Alice, ALIS … used to mean Aegis Leap Intercept, but now it’s the software that drives the TBMD programming. CFA’s hinky, and we got issues with the switch tubes. Signal rate return’s below par. Doc Noblos is always riding our asses about performance against benchmarks.”

  Too technical. “Noblos is the civilian scientist? I met him briefly.”

  “You won’t see him much. He’s helping us tune, but we never had the training the follow-on ships in the pipeline are getting. Hampton Roads and Monocacy.”

  During this she’d been watching the screen. Someone was obviously on the controls of the camera. It zoomed out as if looking for something. It stayed there for some minutes, panning back and forth along the horizon line, jagged, distant. The back of her neck prickled. If it was Wenck behind the assaults, she was alone here with him. She twisted. He lingered in the doorway, studying her. “Yes?” she asked. “You wanted something?”

  “Got any idea who did this yet? I really hate to think of bad shit happening to the Terror. She’s good people.”

  The words were right, but those pale eyes didn’t meet hers. Someday NCIS would issue them a computer that would read voices, or eyes. Be able to tell a lie from the truth, a half lie from an evasion. Until then, though, she needed hard evidence. Such as an image caught on magnetic tape …

  As she glanced back at the screen the field of view shifted suddenly, jerked, then dropped. To the scene she’d already glimpsed.

  The crosshairs pointed aft now, at women on blankets and bright beach towels. In colorful swimsuits, they lay on a dark gray deck in bright sunlight. The aiming dot hunted restlessly. Her skin crawled; it was so much like Hollywood depictions of a sniper’s field of view, before taking out the victim at long range. The dot searched out splayed thighs here, a slick curve of oiled buttock, a deep V of cleavage. One woman sat up, tossing her hair back, shaking it out. The unobserved grace reminding her of a Degas painting she’d been riveted by at the Met. The lens dropped to search again. This time it found a pale heavy girl in a bright green bikini. The top was pulled down, half exposing her breasts. The white bulge of her belly looked sad, vulnerable. The dot explored her intimately, lubriciously, almost a rape in itself. She recognized Carpenter’s screen shot.

  She was inspecting the edges of the frame again, for a lurker, a shadow, when she winced. How could she miss something so obvious? “Um, who recorded this?”

  “That’s after Phalanx camera.”

  “I mean, who was at the joystick? Someone was moving it in train and elevation, staring a
t these women. And enjoying the hell out of it. Chief Slaughenhaupt told me that. So, who was pointing the camera just then?”

  Wenck shook his head, came back to peer over her shoulder. “No way to tell. There’s three different places you can control those cameras from. Local, remote, CIC. Oh … you also got access from the LAN. I’d have to look into it, but you got somebody digital-savvy, he could probably figure out how to control them from his own terminal.”

  “Really. Anyone who had access to the LAN?”

  “Maybe,” Wenck said, gaze distant, as if processing his own software behind those opaque eyes. Like you? she wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  She watched for another half hour. Saw Petty Officer Terranova finally pull up her top, rise, shake herself, wrap up in a towel with a beach scene. The girl stared out at the wake, holding the towel to her chest. The plowed trail of disturbed sea unrolled behind the ship, glittering in the bright sun, so that now and then the pixels blanked, fried by the glare.

  Then the young woman turned, and picked her way among the other bodies, toward her appointment inside the hangar.

  * * *

  RYAN seemed to be unavailable. Aisha could find her way to the wardroom by now, to CIC and the bridge, but she needed a guide to get anywhere else. Plus, she wasn’t supposed to wander unescorted. She typed up her interview, and thought about revisiting the scene of the rape. Something could jog her memory. But it would be smarter to do so at night. As close as she could get to when the crime had occurred. Make notes on who used the passageway, went up and down the ladder. See who was around, who had access.

  The corpsman finally came by to pick her up for dinner. “Sorry, they got us crazy busy down there getting set up for mass casualties.”

  Aisha tensed. “Mass casualties?”

  The girl’s eyebrows lifted. “You know where we are, right? The Chinese are attacking Taiwan with missiles. Invading the islands north of it. We’ve got to be ready to take a major hit, and care for casualties.”

  Aisha fidgeted with her head scarf. “I’ve been focusing on the investigation.”