by David Poyer
“This is War Drums. Are you taking on these units coming out of Shanghai? Proceeding roughly one two zero.”
“This is Ringmaster. That’s a negative.”
“War Drums. If we were to take them on, could you provide a diversion?”
“He’s attacking them?” Staurulakis muttered, incredulous.
Dan said. “No surprise there. What surprises me is that the … This is Ringmaster. Interrogative. Do you have Japanese participation in your attack? Over.”
“That’s a negative. They decline to participate. Over.”
“Jesus,” Mills murmured. “They’re writing off Okinawa?”
Dan shrugged. “If they can’t defend it … But we’re going to have to make a choice too.”
“You can’t seriously be thinking about supporting his attack,” Staurulakis said.
“I’m considering it, XO. Yeah.”
“With what? The five-inchers?”
Dan said, “We could cover him with our remaining regular Standards.”
Staurulakis shook her head so hard her hair bounced. “Against that many aircraft? cruise missiles? A ticket to the bottom of the East China Sea, Captain.”
He rubbed his face. “Fuck … I can’t leave him in the lurch. Not when he backed us up, before.”
“We had full magazines then.” He started to lift the handset; she grabbed his hand. “Don’t. You’re tired. This is the wrong decision.”
Dan breathed deep, trying to tamp down his rage. At what? At the universe, for being a place where men killed each other? Only the dead have seen an end to war.
Staurulakis, speaking so low no one else in the space could overhear: “I’ll execute, if you order it. But it’s the wrong decision. Zhang will fall. Someday. You want to be there to help topple him.”
He drew another breath, deep, down to his belt buckle, and clicked back to the HF net. “This is Ringmaster. I can’t advise you, my friend. But good luck, Min. Over.”
“This is War Drums. We will meet again. War Drums, out.”
* * *
HE must have dozed off again. The next time he swam up out of the void, Captain Fang stood before him. Dan coughed, long and hard, until something in his side spasmed and cramped. He inhaled cautiously. Glanced around. Long past midnight. The invasion fleet was still moving out from the coast. “Chip. What is it?”
“Premier Zhang has proposed peace.”
“What? I’m not sure—”
“A cease-fire in place. Followed by a conference of foreign ministers. To decide the future of the Pacific.”
“He’s proposing that you surrender. And that we acknowledge it.”
Fang looked distant. “They’re rounding up officials in the cities they’ve captured. Special teams, with lists of street addresses. Taking the families, too.”
That didn’t sound good. “But the army’s holding out, right? You’re still fighting?”
“Our redoubts are strong. We have ammunition and determination. But they hold two perimeters, where they landed. Now they are trying to link the zones up, before pushing toward Taipei.” Fang glanced away. “I need to fight alongside my comrades. And see to my family’s safety.”
Dan told him he understood, he’d start making arrangements.
“I’ve already contacted my headquarters,” the liaison said. “They will have a fishing craft meet us. Off Miyako Jima. Early tomorrow, if possible.”
Dan checked the display, calculated transit times and air-defense coverage in his head; nodded. “You can use one of our boats for transfer. I’ll have the first lieutenant get a RHIB ready.”
Fang extended a hand; Dan took it. And for the second time that night, feeling like Judas on the eve of the Crucifixion, he muttered, “Good luck.”
* * *
AT 0100 someone shook him awake again. Dave Branscombe this time, with the radio messenger behind him. Dan coughed himself back into consciousness and felt around for his mug. The coffee was cold, but he slugged it back anyway as he ran an eye down the clipboard. Then read it again. Feeling sick, and not from the rancid brew.
The message was from JCS, forwarded by PaCom to Seventh Fleet and from Seventh to Commander, Ryukyus Maritime Defense Coalition Task Group.
All U.S. forces were ordered to withdraw from forward positions, except for specifically tasked patrols, and submerged forces, which were to act in accordance with a separate reference. TG 779.1 was to pull back to Guam, conducting active ASW operations, transiting via a certain latitude and longitude. Dan said, “What’s this ‘Checkpoint Zulu’?… oh. Where the battle group last reported from.”
“So we’re pulling out.” Branscombe looked stricken.
Dan glanced around, at other stunned expressions as the news filtered down the consoles. Lips shaped the words retreating … running. They turned to him, blinking, as if appealing for rebuttal. As if he, somehow, could obviate, deny, ameliorate the news.
He swallowed the impulse to throw up. Or to panic, struggling under an avalanche of reverses.
Then steeled himself.
It had happened before. Defeat. Humiliation. Retreat. But always followed by reconstitution, resolve, and return. His job now was to save the lives entrusted to his care. Bring them home, to fight another day.
He bent to pull up Fleet Weather on his terminal, then grimaced, remembering. Still, the seas seemed to be lessening, and the wind indicator had dropped to twelve knots.
Which reminded him, he had to get Red Hawk in the air. Scout and sanitize their route out. Staurulakis, tousled and flushed, came in. “Exec. Glad you’re here. Orders on the clipboard. Review them and backstop me. Matt: I need a current fuel state. Distance to Point Zulu. Thence, to Guam. Figure six hours’ linger at the checkpoint. Expanding square, starting at the checkpoint coordinates. Next: draft a message requesting refuel en route, if possible. Otherwise, most economical speed, estimated transit time. Call Wilker. Get Red Hawk in the air, loaded out for ASW.”
“Right away, Captain.” Mills hesitated. “Do we want Curtis Wilbur to accompany us to the checkpoint? Or head direct for Guam?”
“We’ll travel in company. Mutual support. In case the worst happens, if…” He trailed off, not wanting to say if the forward bulkhead gives way or if one of us gets torpedoed. “Mutual support,” he repeated, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel. “A fighting withdrawal. Where’s Chip? Captain Fang? As soon as we get him off, we’ll pull in to close interval and haul ass.”
“In his stateroom, I think. Throwing stuff in his duffel.”
“Okay, good … Cheryl?”
She lowered the clipboard. Shook her head. “It might be good if you could get on the 1MC. Give the crew the word personally.”
“Good suggestion. This is going to be an all-hands effort. When they say ‘conduct active ASW operations,’ they mean—”
“‘Don’t get yourself sunk on the way.’”
“Exactly.” He pried himself up out of the chair, which seemed to have fastened a grip on him that was harder to break the more tired he got. He looked past the frightened faces at the consoles, peering between the curtains to Sonar. “Listen up! This will be an opposed transit, without air cover. We know they have subs loose out here. Let’s not fall victim.” He turned back to his command team. “And if there are any survivors, I want to find them. I know there’s some kind of multinational SAR effort going, but we’ll be the first surface units on scene.” He stopped, searching a zombified brain for the next order. “Uh, like I said, we’re gonna be on our own, once we leave Air Force cover. They’re closing down anyway—Kadena’s under attack.
“That means Condition One both antiair and ASW. Look at what systems both ships have operational. Set up a steaming formation that gives us three-sixty threat coverage.”
He saw his orders take hold. The faces lowered, spoke into microphones, regained some semblance of business. He paced back and forth, swilled down the last of the tarry midnight brew, and replenished his cup. At least the fucki
ng waiting was over. And with the seas lessening, maybe they could get back to safety before that bulkhead went.
Unfortunately, a retreat was the most difficult military maneuver of all. When your back turned to the enemy, it was easy for a unit to disintegrate into panic, demoralization, and then, surrender.
He had to get the crew on board. He left Cheryl organizing things and slowly clambered up red-lit ladders to the bridge. Thoughts milled. He tried to kick and shove them into some logical order. But he was so fucking tired.… The bridge was dark. He blundered into bodies. Seizing him, Nuckols steered him to the 1MC panel. The boatswain put the mike in his hand and flicked a switch. “You’re on, Skipper.”
Dan cleared his throat, then wished he hadn’t. Coming over the bridge speaker, it sounded horrible. But at least it would wake up anybody who was still asleep.
“This is the captain speaking.
“We’ve received new orders. Leave the Miyako area. Proceed to Guam for rearm and repairs. En route, carry out ASW operations, and also, check out where the Roosevelt battle group was last reported, looking for any survivors.
“I won’t kid you. We no longer have air cover or antimissile defenses. We do have some self-defense capability left, but we’ll have to use it wisely to get out of what, just between you and me, is a hell of a jam. We’ll all need to work together to get home safe.
“But we will make it out. And we’ll be back. The U.S. Navy has had to retreat before. But we’ve never given up. We’ve endured, rebuilt, come back, and, eventually, prevailed.”
He paused, fighting renewed nausea. He wasn’t sure he could make it to the bridge wing in time if he had to. Maybe the trash can was a better bet. Yeah … okay … He was still holding the fucking mike.… What else? “I know I can count on you. Let’s do our best, get through this, and … may God help us all.”
When he clicked off there was absolute silence for a moment. Then someone began clapping. It spread, and the southerners added rebel yells. All over the ship the clamor rose, mingled, and slowly died away.
* * *
HE was throwing cold water on his face in his sea cabin when Nuckols came on the 1MC. “Now flight quarters, flight quarters. All hands man your flight quarters stations. Remove all covers topside. The smoking lamp is out on all weather decks. Muster the crash and salvage team with the team leader in the helo hangar. Muster the ready boat crew on the starboard boat deck.”
Dan contemplated shaving, but was too exhansted. Red-rimmed eyes stared back from the mirror. The battered, frightened face of a defeated, skedaddling commander. “Fuck that,” he muttered, but couldn’t say whom he was talking to. “Pull it together, Lenson. Pretend you know the answers.”
The trouble was, he wasn’t at all confident he did.
When he got back to CIC it was filled. The off watches had turned out to help. Well, he’d said they’d need to work together. But this was overdoing it. He told the CIC officer to clear the space unless someone had a good reason for staying. Then headed for the chair again, looking forward to another nap. That soft leather would suck him down like padded quicksand.…
But as he passed the air controller’s station the talker held up a hand. “Sir, ready boat crew reports—” The petty officer stopped, frowned, listening.
“What is it?” Dan said.
“There’s no RHIB.”
“What? What?”
“The boat deck’s empty. Davits are down. Ready fuel’s gone. Somebody already put it in the water.”
Dan rubbed his face. “What the heck? But—”
Then he understood. He told the crew to shift to the other boat, get it ready instead. Then pulled his Hydra off his belt. “Master-at-Arms, Captain.”
A sleepy voice. “Sheriff Toan, sir.”
“Who’s on duty, guarding Doctor Noblos?”
“Uh … that would still be the Special Agent, sir.”
“Check on her. Right now.”
Toan said he was on his way. Dan leaned back as Mills brought Savo around to launch course. Cautiously, since the seas were coming from that direction and he didn’t want to stress the damaged bow.
“Captain, CMA.”
“Go.”
“Sir, one of my men is here, in the passageway, but looks like somebody knocked him out. Noblos’s door is open. But he’s not in his cabin.”
Dan exchanged glances with Staurulakis. He told Toan, “Okay, get him medical attention. Then roust the agent. Get her up here ASAP.”
* * *
THE little Vietnamese and his assistants hustled Aisha along the red-lit corridors as if she were the criminal. She’d been in her cabin, asleep, after handing off the guard duty. But then been awakened by a pounding at her door, and orders to dress as quickly as possible. Which she’d done so haphazardly, pulling on the coveralls and over-wrap she’d left on the floor, that she realized only halfway down the passageway she’d forgotten a head covering. She halted. “Wait. I forgot—”
“Never mind. CO wants you.”
“Don’t be so rough. Who’s got a bandanna?” She patted her shoulder, where the holster would be. She’d forgotten her gun, too. No, she’d given it to the petty officer who’d relieved her on guard duty. At last, in her pocket, her fingers closed on her baton.
CIC was almost bright after the passageways. She looked around for the physicist’s angular form, his brush-cut hair, but didn’t see him. A flash hood lay over the back of an empty chair. That would do. “Where is he?” she asked Toan as she draped it over her head, arranged it so her hair was covered again.
“You were supposed to guard the prisoner.”
“Goree offered to relieve me so I could sleep. Why?” A presentiment pricked her. “He didn’t do away with himself? In his cabin.”
“Noblos? No. Unfortunately.”
“Then what’s going on?”
The Vietnamese nodded behind her, and she spun to face Lenson. The captain looked ashen. Drawn. Those gray eyes barely seemed to note her. He muttered past her, to Toan, “Did you get hold of Medical?”
“Yessir. Hospitalman Ryan’s on the way.”
“What’s Ryan got to do with this?” Aisha asked. “What happened? Is Goree okay?”
A man at a console called, “Sir, boat officer reports the port RHIB manned and ready, with one exception.”
“Go,” Lenson said.
“The mechanic, EN1 Benyamin. Which is weird, ’cause usually he’s first on station. They sent a guy down to check, see if he’s in his bunk.”
* * *
DAN told Toan to get Chief McMottie up and looking for Benyamin. But a suspicion was growing. He crossed to the surface warfare supervisor’s station. Put a hand on the operator’s shoulder. “Any close-in contacts?” Past him he caught the special agent’s quizzical stare. She was in one of her dark wraps, with a flash hood over her head, so all he could see was her eyes. As though she wore a burqa.
“What’s going on, Captain?” she asked.
He held up a finger. “Just one minute.”
The operator was pointing at a speckle on his screen. Only a faint one, among a lot of random returns. They discussed it. The captain straightened, and ran his hands through his hair. Sighed.
“What’s going on?” she said again.
“Special Agent. The situation is … not totally clear at the moment. But we have a missing boat.”
She frowned. “Missing?”
“The starboard inflatable. It was swung out and fueled. But when we went to man up, it was gone. Along with one of the crew, apparently.”
“Who?”
“An engineman. Benyamin.”
“One of our original suspects,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“He was on the short list. A serious misogynist. A rape-game player. With access to the electrical system.”
“But you cleared him? As a suspect, I mean?”
Aisha said carefully, “No sir. Only found better evidence pointing elsewhere.”
Aisha said, “Did Goree have a pistol on him, Chief? I loaned him mine. To stand guard with. Did you find it on him?”
“We found an empty holster,” Toan said, not meeting her eye.
Lenson tapped the screen. “Great. So he’s armed, too.… We’re checking bunks now. But it looks like both Noblos and Benyamin must be out there. Headed west. It’ll be rough, but they’re traveling with the prevailing seas; that’ll give them a smoother ride.”
She contemplated the screen, imagining it. In the dark. Amid the waves that were even now tilting the space they were in. “Where would they be going? What’s west of here?”
“China,” the captain said. He looked stern.
“Surely they can’t make it. It’s too far, isn’t it?”
“It’s a ways. Yeah. But small boats have made astonishing voyages. And there’s a sizable piece of the Chinese navy between us and the coast right now. They might get picked up. Especially … if they signal. Or use the radio in the boat.”
“Actually, it’s only a hundred miles,” Mills put in from behind them. “He doesn’t have to make the mainland. Just the Senkaku group. He could be there tomorrow.”
Aisha said, astonished, “You’re saying, he’s … deserting? Defecting?”
Lenson smiled grimly.
“And the petty officer?”
“I know him, but not well,” Lenson said. “He could just be a hostage. If Noblos found him there checking the engine, decided a mechanic would be good to have along, and forced him aboard at gunpoint. Or, yeah—they could be accomplices. I didn’t think of that angle. Since I didn’t know he was a suspect.”
He kept rubbing his face, so hard she wondered why there weren’t holes in his skin. Apparently that was how he kept himself awake. He still looked like Death. “Okay, and you want from me … what?”
Dan blinked. What was she asking? Oh, right. What he wanted her for … “I need some advice here. We’ve been ordered to retire.”