by David Poyer
A quick glance, a grin. “Yeah—Copperheads. Only this president’s no Abe Lincoln. The manufacturers, the Chamber, are saying that if we go to war, the economy will crash. Hey, that was the call I just took. Know who it was?” He snorted. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
“Anyway, that’s why we’re stalled on this goddamned resolution. Nobody can agree about what happens if it goes to shit, so we can’t decide on the legal language. What it would say, when we consider it, and who brings it forward.”
She sliced steak carefully, took a small bite. “As to the business base, I can interject a little history there, too. The Civil War, World War I, World War II—the Cold War—we came out of each with a roaring economy. I don’t like saying this, but historically, war’s good for domestic business. But … back to my campaign … this impacts it how?”
“Well, until we make up our minds, there are certain people who don’t want to back a hawk for the House.”
She gave him a grim ironic smile. “So I’m a hawk now?”
“Not my words.” Talmadge spread his hands. “But you were in Defense. And married to a fuckin’ war hero. Pardon my French.”
“All right, this authorization. No points of agreement?”
“Just that everybody agrees there has to be an authorization. But what’s gonna be in it, that’s the problem. Maybe … air and sea power, with a restriction on commitment of ground troops. Others say no, this time it’s gotta be a full-fledged declaration of war. The administration’s saying the Hill just can butt out, it’s within executive purview. Then there’s this idea all we need is time for the sanctions and blockade to work. That we don’t actually have to do anything.”
He banged the table suddenly, violently; Blair grabbed for a toppling glass. “Well, shit fire, if we let this goddamned White House make war on his own say-so, we might as well call the son of a bitch Julius Caesar and have done with it! We can’t sit around with our thumbs up our collective asses any longer. I’m gonna bring it up in Armed Services.”
“They’ll tear you down. Whatever it is.”
“Well, maybe it’ll get ’em off the dime.” He opened the worn manila folder, and she smiled. Vintage Talmadge: he reused everything. Even his letters to constituents were written on the backs of discarded government documents, all part of the “help your dollar make it across the Potomac” shtick he wheeled out at each Rotary meeting, union meeting, and VFW hall during campaigns. Pinching pennies in the office, while disbursing billions in the defense budget … “I’m gonna do it tomorrow.”
“That’s … sudden.”
“I had Missy, goddamn it, I mean Mindy, take a stab at it. This is what she got, but goddamn it if I’m real happy with it. Take a look.”
Blair leafed through three drafts, the latest stapled on top. Even with a quick scan … “This might have some holes,” she observed.
“No shit! ‘As necessary and appropriate,’ but ‘will prohibit ground combat operations.’ Now, how in the hell can you run a war without ground operations? Even if it’s just flyin’ airplanes, somebody gotta guard ’em. That’s how Westy got the Marines for Da Nang in ’65. Base protection.”
“Um, I’m not clear yet, Bankey … are you favoring use of ground troops or not?”
“You can’t fight without ’em.”
“So that’s a yes.” She made a note in the margin. “And this one-year limit—do we want to keep this, for a major war?”
“Goddamn right. That’s so if it does look like Guadalcanal, or Vietnam, we get a chance to debate it. No blank checks, not to that Szerenci fellow. He’ll have us in an atomic war before you can say Jack Straw.” He snorted, drained the glass, flourished it for a refill. “Missy, be a darlin’. Take this draft home. Write it up the way it should go. Then come sit beside me tomorrow.”
“Bankey, really, this is Mindy’s—”
The big head wagged. “Little girl’s cute as a button, Missy, but she can’t write legislative the way you can.”
In all modesty, she had to admit it was true. Drafting legislation demanded a suspicious brain, precise language, a lawyer’s eye for loopholes, and a comprehensive grasp of how the proposed policy solution would impact other players in the political arena, any of whom could knock the marble out of the ring.
Leverage? Maybe she had a little. “Um, I appreciate the compliment, Bankey. Really. But there’s this strategy committee, and I have to try to run my own campaign in between.… Oh, and back to my funding. I appreciate that you’re not the only one who has to sign off. And I might not be the candidate everybody wants. But, Jesus, you’re senior to all those other guys. And I need your support right now.”
Talmadge made a production of rolled eyes. “Squeeze my balls, why don’t you? Okay. Do this for me, and I’ll try to get that on the fast track. Small bills in a briefcase, that work?”
She almost laughed, then sobered; with the banking system choking, he might well be serious. “I don’t care. We just need the funding.”
Talmadge mumbled something, then tilted his head. “You mentioned Lincoln.”
“I think you mentioned him, Bankey.”
“Uh-huh, maybe so. But if we do get sucked into this thing in a big way … I just want to mention a possibility. Maybe a distant one. But I’ll mention it.”
“What ‘distant possibility,’ Bankey?”
Glancing away from her again, he said, “Remember what he said about public sentiment?”
“Who, Lincoln? Not exactly.”
“He said, ‘Public sentiment is everything. With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it nothing can succeed.’ If we do really go to war … to sustain the effort … we’re going to need public support. Which means, victories. Or if we don’t…”
She laid down knife and fork. Touched her lips with the napkin, frowning. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at, Bankey. If we don’t have victories, what?”
“Just sayin’ … remember Colin Kelly? Howard Gilmore? Guess you don’t. Well, how about Corregidor then?”
“I’m still lost. In plain English?”
“All right.” He was looking away again, never a good sign. “If we don’t have victories, at the very least, we gotta give the folks a hero. Even better … a heroic sacrifice.”
She was about to ask again what he meant, when the maitre d’ was beside them, wringing his hands. “Yeah?” said Bankey.
“Excuse me, Senator, but in case either of you arrived via the Metro—”
“I did,” said Blair.
“Well, it’s closed. Some kind of accident on the Red Line.”
“Accident?” another diner said, from a side table.
“Actually, a collision. Two trains, at Metro Center. Sounds bad.”
Blair frowned. Related to the troops she’d seen? “A terrorist attack? So the whole Metro’s—”
“Shut down. Sorry, ma’am.”
“We’ll get you a taxi,” Talmadge rumbled.
“How about you, Bankey?”
“Oh, I’ll just … Mindy’s got an apartment over by Stanton Park. Maybe she can put me on the sofa.” His eyelid twitched, as if he’d only just suppressed a wink. “Anyway, get me a Missy-draft of that resolution tomorrow. And I’ll see about getting you what you need. All right? Never mind what else I said. It’s all just Bankey Talmadge bloviating, right? Now, how ’bout some of that creme brûlée?”
* * *
THE credit card reader was down, of course. But the maitre d’ waved them off; the senator was an old customer; they’d take care of it later.
Outside, in a cold drizzle, waiting beneath the Monocle’s green awning, she found herself worrying again. Wherever Dan was, she doubted he’d be able to stay out of the thick of the action. Not with Savo the only missile-defense-capable ship in the Pacific. Wait. No, there was one other. But that still didn’t make good odds. And his fucking Naval Academy sense of duty … she still wasn’t sure if she admired it or not.
Go
od God. Could that be what Talmadge had been hinting at? About ‘a heroic sacrifice’? A cold edge, like steel, touched her spine. She shivered.
But some things were bigger than relationships. And, trembling in the cold rain, she could sense them on their way.
16
USS Savo Island
“YEAH. It’s coming,” Cheryl Staurulakis said late the next morning. “We just have to be ready. Unfortunately, it won’t be easy.”
Slumped in his command chair in CIC, Dan rubbed the top of his head. Was he starting to go thin up there? Ha. The least of his fucking worries … His mouth tasted like stale coffee—he’d been up all night, expecting the cross-strait assault. Instead, air activity had ebbed after midnight. This morning an occasional track glowed over the mainland, but almost none over the strait, except for shore-hugging patrols a few miles off both coasts.
“What exactly are you people putting together?” he grunted, pushing back from the command table.
“Sorry, Captain?”
“Never mind, XO. Talking to myself. I mean, sort of, talking to Beijing.”
Someone coughed discreetly. Dan looked up to a hovering Captain Fang. “Unfortunate news, I’m afraid,” the Taiwanese murmured.
“Hit us, Chip. Is it about the interoperability training we requested?”
Fang looked unhappy. “That does not seem possible to arrange. I suspect we are trying to catch our breath before the next development. I asked about antisubmarine training, but they tell me our subs are fully tasked. No aircraft are available either.”
“Well, damn it—”
“There is worse news.” The Taiwanese went on stiffly, as if delivering a memorized speech. “This morning, the Republic of China officially informed Washington it may not be possible to hold the island against a major attack. They request American air reinforcements, and American troops, under provisions of the Taiwan Relations Act and numerous presidential assurances of support.”
Dan started to rub his head again, but made his hand stop. He felt like a chocolate bar left on a hot dashboard. Sagging. Melting. Had to get some sleep soon, or he’d be worthless in the crunch. “And if we don’t reinforce you? What’s the plan then?”
“I don’t know that, sir.”
Dan stroked his chin, sensing a cliff edge crumbling beneath him. Korea News said the Philippines was debating its response to the Chinese landing on Itbayat. The piece speculated that China had warned Manila not to interfere with the occupation of the island, which commanded the sea and air-space south of Taiwan. If the Filipinos acquiesced, though, Beijing had promised that Itbayat would be returned at the close of hostilities.
But it might all be academic: Manila had no military to speak of, either to resist the occupation or to force the island’s return. Meanwhile, ROC air defense showed transports shuttling between China and Itbayat, no doubt bringing in more troops, construction equipment, and heavy weapons. The reality: Taiwan had been outflanked to the south, and the allies surprised and outmaneuvered once more. He tented his fingers. “I understand, Chip. Your backs are against the wall. But what if the U.S. doesn’t step up? Does your government plan to fight?”
Fang hesitated. “I possess little insight into the political realm, Captain Lenson. I personally believe we will fight. But if things get too bloody, well, it’s possible the government might consider asking for terms.” He smiled apologetically. “The one area where I made a little progress, I’m happy to report, is fuel.”
“Oh, good.” Staurulakis brushed a lank curl off her face and sagged against the Tomahawk console, every line of her body suggesting fatigue.
Fang turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Our only true tanker is tasked with supporting our destroyer fleet. But a civilian ship will be here tomorrow. We will have to discuss how the fuel will be charged off—”
“I’m not talking billing,” Dan cut in. “We’re here to protect your country.”
“Um, Captain, with due respect, Washington has yet to make that decision.”
“Funny. Explain to me, then, why I just shot down a missile aimed at your capital.”
Fang seemed about to argue, but looked away instead. He blinked up at the rightmost screen, which showed, at the moment, empty sea. Savo was still steaming slow racetracks in her defense-of-Taipei station. “I acknowledge your point. And we are grateful for that assistance.”
“You’re welcome. But is that from you, or your government?”
“Both, Captain. And we will make that plain to Washington as well.”
Dan rocked back, sighing. Personally, he didn’t care one way or the other about kudos for the shootdown, but it would give the crew a boost. He should get on the 1MC again, bring everyone up to date.
But first … “XO, a couple of days ago I asked for an emergency action plan on what we do if this, uh, Breath of the Dragon,”—He almost chuckled; it sounded like a bad mouthwash commercial. But it wouldn’t be funny, face-to-face with the dragon itself. “If they actually roll across the strait in force. What we can do to help.” He nodded toward Fang. “I know, but this is just me, not Washington. How ’bout it, XO?”
“Sir, that was only yesterday you asked.” Cheryl dug fists into her lower back, wincing. “We … to be honest, I haven’t had time to look at it yet.”
“Then put Amy on it. The strike officer. Mills. Win Farmer. Van Gogh, for navigational resources. Captain Fang, will you chair? It’ll give our second string a chance to do some operational thinking.” He glanced at his watch, and swung down. Even fifteen minutes in his bunk … or a shower … no, the bunk. “Let’s make it tomorrow, right after morning chow. 0700, here in Combat. I’m crashing, Cheryl, Chip. Unless it’s red hot, I’m getting my head down.”
He left them staring after him.
* * *
BUT the chief master-at-arms was waiting at his at-sea cabin. Behind him lurked the rotund, well-draped figure of the NCIS agent, expression hostile under her flower-embroidered head covering. He sighed. The passageway tilted as Savo leaned. “Sheriff. Special Agent,” he muttered reluctantly.
He half-reclined against the bulkhead as they brought him up to date. The reefer in sick bay broken into. The last shred of evidence destroyed. He closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “When?”
“During the night.”
“It wasn’t locked?”
“Doc said the outer office isn’t secured during wartime steaming,” Chief Toan said. “Just the back area, where he stores the controlled meds, and his records.”
“So anybody at all could have busted the padlock on the reefer and destroyed the swabbings. Or whatever you call them.”
Toan looked at the deck. “Essentially, yes sir.”
“Okay, it’s a blow, but spilt milk now, I guess. Special Agent? Anything to add?”
Ar-Rahim pursed her lips. “It’s what we found with the ruined sample, Captain. Your chief corpsman assures me very few people would know hydrogen peroxide decomposes the DNA in a sperm sample. That presupposes either medical knowledge, or access to medical books or online resources.”
Dan said, “Books, then? Because we’ve been in River City for quite a while.”
“Actually, a few people still have access,” she said.
“Who?” he asked, then answered the question himself. “You mean me. Correct? You mean me, Special Agent?”
She met his eye. “I didn’t make that accusation, Captain.”
He gripped the knob to his cabin. “Well, let me know when you need an alibi.” He couldn’t help making it sarcastic; he was just too fucking angry. “I’m sure between the bridge and CIC, my time has been pretty well accounted for over the last forty-eight hours. So, what now?”
Ar-Rahim cleared her throat. “With your permission, I’d like to cast a wider net.”
She explained the technique. He wasn’t sure he followed it all, but waved off her offer of a fuller explanation. “A questionnaire? If you think it’ll help. But, please, steer clear of the Chief’s Mess. You
r accusations aren’t helping you with them.”
“I’m accusing no one, Captain. Just trying to ascertain the facts.”
“Right.” He pushed past them. Got the door closed, nearly on Toan’s boot.
Alone at last. He sagged into the chair. His upper arms, neck, and back felt as if he’d been beaten with sticks by the entire Army lacrosse team. He eyed the bunk, but couldn’t muster the energy even to get up again and roll into it.
The dread had been growing all day, since the missile attack. The battle for the Senkakus was heating up now that the Japanese had landed. He wasn’t getting anything through official channels, but Aegis gave him the air picture, and he could eavesdrop on the electronic emissions.
A grim and grinding action, if limited in scope, seemed to be developing on those unpopulated islands. The Chinese had landed on the largest, Uotsuri. The Japanese had established toeholds on the smaller islets, to the southeast. Throughout the night, high-speed surface contacts had run in toward the respective lodgements from both directions. Low-level air activity had been almost continuous. Dan had no doubt there were corpses in the surf, small craft sunk or shot up as they tried to run men ashore.
A battle like that could flicker and smoke for a long time. Could kill a lot of good men, fed into the grinder a hundred at a time. But it wouldn’t decide anything.
He dragged himself up at last. Threw water on his face, and made a stab at brushing his teeth. His mouth tasted like the Dumpster behind a Starbucks. He pulled off his coveralls and collapsed into the long-desired haven. Stared up at a picture of Blair taped above his face.
So the war was on. At least China, Taiwan, and Japan thought so. But where was the American response? The dagger-thrust into the “soft underbelly” of the South China Sea that Op Plan 5081 had described? Surely the Chiefs wouldn’t hold that up for authorization by Congress. He covered his face with his hands, pleading with his brain: Stop, stop, go into sleep mode.… An attack in the Paracels might distract Zhang from the eastern island chain, confusing and short-circuiting his offensive.
He lay listening to the creak and sway of a ship in a seaway, both longing for and dreading the oblivion of sleep.