by David Poyer
“Those ships are lost.” Clayton’s long fingernails scratched at the tabletop. “Seven thousand crew. Carriers. Destroyers. That … idiot … has nuked us. And there’ll be no restraining Szerenci now.”
Blair checked her phone. 9:01. She stood, raking papers into her briefcase. “We’re not going to continue to sit here any longer, are we? It’s in JCS’s hands now. I’m going over to the Senate.”
Tomlin held up a hand. Looked at the aide, who seemed frozen, still staring up at the screen, where the anchors were repeating the same information. “Alex. Alex! What about our report?”
She flinched. “Um, sir, yes. The report … the fact is, I’ve been activated too. National Guard. I’ll have to report in to my unit. This afternoon, I’m afraid.”
Clayton said that was all right, she understood. “What’s your MOS? Your specialization?”
“I’m an MP, ma’am. Virginia’s activating us, I believe to protect the nuclear plant at Calvert Cliffs.”
The general had the remote now. Fox was on again, a talking-head retired general saying this was another Pearl Harbor, another 9/11. Calling for resolve and vengeance. The streaming banner read “Stock market closed. Trading suspended by SEC. By presidential order.”
They were still watching, silent and appalled, as she let herself out.
* * *
THE streets were all but empty. Then she remembered: it was Election Day. But with this news, how many would turn out? Every flag was at half mast. She started to calculate whether a low turnout would help her or Beiderbaum, but made herself stop. Her worries seemed so petty, so selfish, in the face of what was happening.
PBS was streaming BBC World News. The soothing voice of Marion Marshall repeated what they’d just heard from the Pacific Command. Then reported that passengers on an Air Kiribati flight had witnessed a bright flash. The pilot turned away immediately, and the aircraft had suffered turbulence, but no damage.
Next Marshall read a release from Beijing. “Xinhua News Agency, the official press agency of the People’s Republic, reports that Premier Zhang has offered peace in the Pacific. Zhang is quoted: China has recently increased stability in Asia by the introduction of a new class of heavy intercontinental ballistic missiles. Fifty of these multiwarhead weapons, the equivalent of the Russian SS-19 or the U.S. Peacekeeper, are now fully operational, deployed in hardened bases proof against any attack.”
Marshall read on, “China desires stability and peace in Asia and throughout the Pacific. As the premier, General Zhang Zurong, has repeatedly warned, those who attempt to upset the balance will be met with force. This was the fate of the recent aggressive American move to threaten China’s coastal cities with a nuclear-armed carrier battle group.
“China regrets the loss of life. However, we must insist on respect for our role in the rimlands of the Pacific, the territorial integrity of the province of Taiwan, and those islands and sea areas that remain historically and geographically Chinese. The United States must withdraw from the Western Pacific and refrain from additional provocations. This more equal relationship is our only precondition to a full and complete restoration of a stable, constructive bilateral relationship, maintaining the mutually advantageous commercial ties that are so necessary to a return to global prosperity.”
That ended the communique. Blair braked hard, narrowly missing a barrier in front of the Capitol. Troops, not cops. A guardsman in BDUs, carbine slung, leaned into her window. “This road’s blocked, ma’am. No entry.”
“I’m a staffer.”
“I’ll need ID, ma’am.” The trooper stepped back and waved someone over from a group of uniforms near a hulking armored vehicle.
They insisted on searching her trunk before letting her pass. Fortunately, there was nothing in there but her spare, and the jumper cables Dan always insisted she carry. At last, they waved her on.
* * *
THE meeting area beneath the great dome was thronged. Apparently they were in a quorum call, which for most senators meant feeling free to leave their seats and even the floor. To mingle, discuss, try to reach compromises. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t see this as a good sign.
Blair blinked around, thinking what a great target this would make for a suicide bomber. She recognized senators. Generals. Executives from major defense firms. All seemed torn between the requirement to display grief and the necessity of conducting pressing business. Four men surrounded Talmadge, who was holding court beside the statue of Dr. King. He favored that location for photographs, to appeal to his sizable African-American constituency. A tall black man stood beside him, with several other men. She almost didn’t recognize Hu Kuwalay, the defense assistant.
“Missy.” Talmadge extended a palm, but his gaze darted here and there, examining, calculating. “You know Hu. ‘Bat’ Jingell, majority leader, from the other side of the building. And Tony Venezelos, from Archipelago Defense.”
She nodded greetings. “What’s going on, Bankey? Aren’t you voting?”
“Any minute now. That idiot woman from Seattle called for a quorum. Then we got word about the address.”
“What address? This is the authorization bill?”
“No, it isn’t,” the old senator said. Now she noticed he was perspiring.
Kuwalay said, “The president’s coming over.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Coming here?”
“He wants war powers,” Talmadge rumbled. “Wants that blank check. Should we give it to him? I don’t honestly know.”
“We’ve been attacked. There’s really no other response.” Jingell smiled down at her. She wondered why he was here. As far as she knew, the lower house didn’t have a dog in this fight. The Senate approved treaties and declared war.
Then she remembered. This was Election Day. By midnight, she’d learn if she was Congresswoman Titus, or just plain Mrs. Lenson. She thought of asking again about funding. She’d borrowed heavily for a last-minute ad blitz. But no, she couldn’t. Events were too big, moving too fast, to think about herself.
“Missy? You always gave good advice.” Talmadge took her hand. “I don’t want to send kids off to war. I went, to Korea. Fought the Chinese then. They’re not gonna be a pushover like Saddam. And that security adviser … he scares me.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what he’ll propose,” Blair told him.
“What’s that?”
“A nuclear strike on the mainland, in retaliation. I’ve heard him before. Do it while the balance still favors us.”
Jingell said, “But does it? With the new missiles they announced?”
“Doesn’t mean they’re operational,” Kuwalay put in. “It’s a bluff, to scare us off. We still have the advantage.”
Blair felt like gripping her head and howling. Did they have any concept of what all-out war could mean? She’d lived through 9/11. Barely. Nuclear exchange would be that, magnified ten thousandfold. “We don’t want to play nuclear dare, Hu. Millions will die. In the most horrible ways. The time’s past when we can isolate the homeland from the effects of a war.”
“You’re not saying let them have their way,” the majority leader said.
“No. But we can’t cave, either.”
A stir swept the dome. Someone called from a nearby group, “Good news. One of the ships reported in. Damaged, but afloat.”
A cheer rose, applause, then subsided. No one mentioned the other ships. She guessed they were still missing. And by now, presumed lost.
“The middle course is always tough.” Talmadge waved to someone over her shoulder. “The party was soft on this even after they invaded. I offered the authorization resolution, but we only had forty-two members in support. So I put off the vote.
“But this attack, sinking the Pacific Fleet … we can’t opt out. The country wants action. Demands it.”
“I believe you’re right,” Jingell said, but not very eagerly.
Blair squeezed the old man’s hand, not bothering to correct his military ter
minology. Knowing he wanted reassurance, not advice. But for once, the two were the same. “Zhang took this out of our hands, Bankey. He’s rolled the dice. Now all we can do is see what numbers come up.”
The old senator sighed. Before he could say anything else, an intern came trotting past. A live quorum had been called for. He gave her shoulder a squeeze, patted Kuwalay, nodded to the majority leader, and headed for the Senate antechamber.
* * *
THE closed-circuit monitor in the visitors’ center carried the floor proceedings. With two hundred others, packed shoulder to shoulder, she watched.
A hush. The president came in, flanked by Secret Service. Head down, he delivered a low-voiced, almost inaudible address that she caught only a few words of. “For the first time since World War II … unprovoked and dastardly attack … existential threat to national security … defend our allies to the utmost … topple the dictator, and bring democracy to all Asia.”
She tightened her mouth, sensing overreach. Hubris. Or maybe, just hyperbole. This president had never been noted for skill with words, or insight into the way to deal with foreign countries. But at least his speech was short. So short that she, and apparently the others around her, hadn’t quite grasped what was happening, by the time he stepped down.
“He’s asked for a declaration of war,” someone said.
“War … war…” The murmur eddied through the crowd. A lone spectator began to clap, but no one else joined in. He persisted for a few seconds, then stopped as those around shushed him.
She felt suddenly faint, and pushed her way through the throng to lean against a display case. Her head swam. Her knees trembled. What was it with human beings? They were like cattle thronging down a chute, with no idea what lay at its end. Distantly, through a hissing hum in her ears, she registered the question being moved. Seconded. Then, the roll call. Each senator going on record. Standing, to call out his or her vote, rather than simply pressing the usual button.
The final vote was for, but by only 54 in favor, 46 against. The narrowest vote for war in U.S. history, she was pretty sure. She stared to check the fact on her phone, then remembered: no service. And anyway, what did it matter? The room was emptying, gradually, then more swiftly. Almost a stampede. She limped along after them, hip aching now, feeling hollow. Alone.
And more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.
29
The Miyako Strait
DAN leaned on the splinter shield, gripping his cap against the buffeting of a cold wind. The temperature had fallen over the last few days as winds and seas built. The light was ebbing from the world. The shrouded sun was almost gone. He gripped the bulwark as a charcoal sea levered up. Smaller ripples, cat’s-paws, complicated its heaved-up face. The damage-control teams had welded plating and shored bulkheads forward. But he still tensed as the damaged bow dipped once more. When that dark sea crashed into it, the ship shivered. White spray burst up through the gaps in the twisted metal as if from the blowhole of an immense whale. The wind blew the spray aft to spatter it against the pilothouse. He ducked, grabbing his cap at the last second as it flew off.
He took a last look around—racing clouds, carbon seas, failing light—and ducked into the pilothouse. “What’s the prediction?” he asked Van Gogh.
The quartermaster chief turned from plotting his last radar fix, staggered as the deck reeled, but caught himself on the helm console. “Who knows. No satellite weather. Just hope it doesn’t get any worse. Barometer’s stopped falling anyway.” The seaman on the wheel glanced at them, then back at his indicators.
“Keep an eye on it. Let me know if you see any change up forward, any more of that shell plating working loose.”
“Uh, Cap’n, chief engineer called up here again.”
“Fuel state again?”
“Yeah, I mean yessir. But not just that. Warning me to take it easy, and select a course that doesn’t strain that shoring.”
Dan watched the next sea bear down on them. Bigger than the last? Maybe about the same. “I can’t do that and maintain station. Keep a thirty-degree angle to the prevailing seas. Use the screws if you have to.”
The OOD nodded, and Dan monkey-groped hand over hand toward the ladder down. He paused at the radar repeater to check on Curtis Wilbur, twenty miles distant. SubPac had detached Pittsburgh for independent duty. His task group was down to two. The only allied forces left in the strait.
None of the news was good. Rit Carpenter had reported that the leak in their sonar dome, damaged during the grounding in the Med, was back. Worsened by the missile hit, no doubt. Savo had her sonar tail deployed. But she was increasingly deaf, handicapped in fighting the submarine threat. Dan was also getting low on fuel. Within a day, or at most a day and a half, they wouldn’t have enough to reach Guam.
Worse yet, the enemy was on the move once more. Air activity over the mainland had increased. Combat air patrols had moved out over the northern strait. Clashes with the U.S. Air Force had taken down aircraft on both sides. Chinese numbers, though, were beginning to tell. According to Fang, Taiwanese intel reported the activation of a follow-on plan to Sheng Chi. By all accounts, it was a second cross-strait assault. But this time, not aimed at Taiwan or some remote island.
This time, they were heading for Okinawa.
A bridge too far? He clattered down the ladder toward Combat. Surely the Japanese would defend one of their home islands. Combined Japanese and U.S. air power would make a second landing impossible.
But the lack of response from Tokyo was worrying.
* * *
BACK in his worn leather seat, he drowsed for an hour. Until Matt Mills reached across and shook him. “Captain. Cuing reports surface-to-surface missiles in the air. Multiple contacts.”
They watched, helpless, as symbols popped into existence on the display. At least a dozen, with more behind them. A repeat of the bombardment that had opened the assault on Taiwan. But these weren’t aimed at that battered island. He almost asked Wenck to shift to ABM mode, then didn’t. Out of Block 4s; nothing they could do about it.
After some minutes Mills murmured, “Look at that patch of near-shore jamming again. They’re trying to cover movement.”
Dan massaged his eye sockets. Aegis’s doppler function broke moving objects out of clutter, such as ground return. But the jammers on shore were boresighting his frequencies. Gaining familiarity with his system, and following his freq-hopping. Occasionally, now, even matching it, which broke the SPY-1 beam into inchoate, sparkling glitter.
His team was fighting it, though, and now and then managed to break through. When they did, the system could connect the dots to generate a track even through heavy interference.
What it showed now was a flotilla setting out from Hangzhou Bay. Surface vessels, with heavy air cover. Simultaneously, Mills reported an HF request from Kadena Air Force Base, asking Savo for ABM protection.
Dan sighed. “Tell them I’d like to help. But we’re out of rounds.” He blinked up at the display, realizing now why the Chinese had occupied Socotra. It would protect their flank as they invaded Okinawa. Beijing was playing six moves ahead. Everyone else was reacting late, with outdated plans and inadequate, uncoordinated forces.
And, of course, losing. “What did you just say, Matt?”
Mills got a funny look. “They say they’re under bombardment. Incoming missiles are targeted on them.”
“Right, I see that. How about their Patriots?”
“All rounds expended. They’re scrambling aircraft off the strips. Sending them north, to the main islands, or back to Guam.” He tensed, frowning, listening to his headphones. “They’re passing a nuclear alert now.”
“Keep an eye on those launch sites,” Dan told him. “We could be next.”
He sat back, rubbing his forehead. If Savo was targeted, about all he could render was the sailor’s mythical final salute: bend over, and kiss his ass good-bye. Zhang was pushing hard. Following up on destroying the b
attle group. Okinawa … a second link shattered in the inner island chain. They’d thought a U.S. base there would protect it. Now, it seemed, the Chinese juggernaut might grind that trip wire into the mud.
Heavy fighting on Taiwan, to the south. In Korea. And an invasion of Okinawa, to the north.
Meanwhile, Task Group 779.1 was hanging out here, twisting in the wind. He couldn’t hold the strait, nor help in the struggles in the air and on the ground. About all he could hope for was to get his ship and crew out alive. And each hour that passed made that less likely.
Plunking down next to him, in the seat Fang had warmed nearly continually for the last two days: a spectral-looking Cheryl Staurulakis. The exec muttered, “So what do we need to do? Want me to draft a message?”
He felt as tired as she looked. “How exactly would we phrase that, XO?”
“Empty magazines. Battle damage. Low-fuel state. Inability to continue mission.”
“Then what?”
“Request permission to retire.”
“Believe me, Cheryl, they’re asking themselves, back at J-3, whether to send those orders. They don’t need me squeaking in their ears.”
He saw the question in her gaze. Almost, the contempt. “It’s no shame to say we’re out of ammunition. Out of fuel. Sir.”
He shifted in the chair. “I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t macho posturing, XO. Fleet has to realize the risk. The fact they haven’t pulled us back means we’re still here for a reason. To demonstrate commitment.”
But he couldn’t help thinking about another cruiser. USS Houston. Surrounded in the Sunda Strait, outnumbered, without air cover, she and HMAS Perth had fought together to the bitter end. Gone down with guns blazing in the dark.
He shook himself. They were still better situated than the doomed and heroic Captain Albert Rooks. They still had antiair rounds, and Dan doubted the Chinese would waste a nuclear warhead on one ship. Which was why he’d stationed Curtis Wilbur forty thousand yards away.
The radio beeped. “Ringmaster, this is War Drums. Over.” The signal was faint, all but overlaid by noise jamming. But it was Min Jun Jung, no doubt about it. Dan grabbed the handset, noting the time: nearly midnight. “War Drums, Ringmaster. Over.”