Onslaught

by David Poyer

  Teddy looked over at old Lew, whose hands dangled too, all but useless. When he grinned, just one blackened tooth showed. The guy wasn’t actually that old. He might even be Teddy’s age.

  “Ted-ti,” said Lew, grasping his shoulder and turning him toward the rest of the breaker gang. They frowned over their bowls. “May-guo sheebing,” he added. Two or three registered, but most just blinked, then went back to eating.

  When the whistle droned again everyone got up and headed for the ladders. Still ravenously hungry, Teddy followed, though more slowly, dragging his foot.

  * * *

  OVER the next weeks, it got colder. Now and then, back in the hills, at night, the howling of wolves echoed eerily as the searchlights swung this way and that. Also, two other Americans arrived at Chu Shan, which Teddy learned was another name for Camp 576. Or maybe that was the name of the town whose lights he could see in the distance. Both were airmen, shot down over the Taiwan Strait. Teddy managed to get across to his production brigade leader, the squint-eyed guy with the stick, that they wanted to hut together. That made seven in the cave: Oberg; Pritchard; the three Vietnamese, Trinh, Vu, and Phung; and the airmen, Fierros and Shepard. Now it was cramped, but it wasn’t important where you crawled to sleep, or where you worked.

  What mattered was more basic.

  Little lizards darted down occasionally from what might be greener pastures for them, at the top of the cliff. They were wary, but a thrown rock could stun them long enough to be picked up and have their heads bitten off. He sucked the juices before cramming them into his mouth and chewing them whole, skin and all. The salty crunch reminded him of Fritos.

  Old Lew apparently lived outside the camp, or in some privileged area of it. He would bring a little can of rice, and sometimes fish or radishes, for his lunch. Teddy spent anguished hours at the top of the breaker, raking magnetized ore and mulling over how and whether to steal the lunch can. The prisoners never saw rice. But if he antagonized Lew, lost this easy job, he’d go to the pits with the others. Or worse.

  And those guys weren’t doing so well. It was pick-and-shovel work, with a quota of ten cubic meters a day. Like Teddy at the breaker, the others got mush and soup at lunchtime, and another bowl at knockoff. The toll of heavy labor and lack of nutrients was clear in their wasting arms, their drawn, bony faces. The Viets seemed to be taking it better than Pritchard. The Australian rolled off the truck at the end of the day, crawled to the hut, and lay with his eyes closed. As weeks passed, he began coughing, a nagging hack that brought up gray oysters.

  Teddy decided to do something about his foot. He stole two yards of the thin rag they all wore over their faces at the breaker, stuffing it down inside his pants when the last whistle blew. Back at the cave, he rubbed a scrap of wood on a rock until it resembled the sole of a shoe, but with a bent piece sticking up along the back. He strapped his foot up so that it didn’t hang, and the wooden brace gave him ankle support.

  With it strapped on tight, very tight, he could limp. Not fast, and it still hurt like a sonofabitch, but it was better.

  Each day, he tried to pick up a word. Most of the other prisoners refused to speak to him, but a couple would. One, he suspected, was Christian. He’d drawn something on his palm, hiding it from the others, but Teddy couldn’t make sense of the ideogram.

  How was “good,” or used like “okay,” to agree or say you understood.

  Tway meant “you did that right,” which they didn’t say to Teddy very often.

  Apparently boo yow meant something like “fuck, no” or “get out of my face.”

  “No” was bu shi, with a sort of upward singing note on the bu and a dropping note on the shi.

  He tried to figure out “thank you” so he could say it to old Lew, but no one seemed to say that around here. Finally he noticed that the husky guys scratched the table with two fingers when they got their mush. He used the gesture, and got rewarded with a squint, then a clap on the shoulder from Chow.

  Chow ran Teddy’s level of the breaker. One of the muscular guys who got to sit on the cable spools. A mechanic. He kept the grinding wheels lubed and adjusted. He was always climbing in among the mill gears, even while they were in operation, reaching in here and there as if he didn’t care about losing a hand. He was already down two fingers. What were these guys in for? Either politicals or regular criminals, but he couldn’t figure which. His hutmate Thinh thought they were politicals, that this had been a re-education camp, but admitted he wasn’t sure.

  Then one day Chow wasn’t there anymore. Teddy asked Lew where he’d gone. “Na-li shi Chow?”

  Lew just looked away.

  * * *

  AND the days passed.

  There was no clock, only the whistle. No news. No calendar, so he didn’t know what day or even what month it was. Just that it kept getting colder, and now and then fine icy crystals drifted down.

  It was too dry to really snow. But their piss froze in the plastic buckets, and they shivered all day long. They scavenged anything that would burn: paper, broken shovel handles, dead grass.

  One evening Fierros whispered, staring into the dying fire, “We have to get out of here.”

  No one said anything for quite some time. Until the pilot added, “It doesn’t matter where. Probably just out there to die. But we’re gonna die in this shithole anyway.”

  Teddy slumped against the cave wall, massaging his leg. He’d kept falling down all afternoon. Each time, the unit leader had kicked him back to his feet.

  This wasn’t the first time they’d discussed escape. He and Pritchard had talked it over on and off since they’d arrived. Each time, they’d concluded it might be possible to get up the bluffs and over the wire. But what lay outside? Desert, mountain, hostile locals?

  “You heard the wolves howling out there,” Pritchard observed. “We leave the wire, mates, what do we do about them?”

  Teddy slid closer, until the embers scorched his knees. But his ass was still freezing. “It’s not time yet,” he muttered. “The war’s got to be over someday. It’s got to be.”

  “How long do we wait?”

  “As long as they’re feeding us, we stay.”

  Fierros muttered, “And when they stop?”

  Teddy blinked into the dying glow. Took a deep breath, and let it out.

  “Then it’ll be time to go.”

  31

  Guam

  THE morning was bright as silver, cool and still. The flat, hazy sea lay dimpled only here and there with the nearly exhausted echoes of distant swells, tinted rose, and scarlet, and gold.

  The sun grew from the horizon first as a suspicion, a glow; then blinking suddenly into existence like a great golden eye, lentil-shaped, quivering. Droplets of gold ran up to join the upper limb until it birthed from the placental sea, snapping into a deep-red, quivering sphere, crossed with bands of white gold, gold, rose, and bloody crimson.

  On the bridge wing, Dan lowered his binoculars, blinking away coruscating afterimages. Far on the southern horizon, the dark mote of Curtis Wilbur. He’d pulled her in closer the night before, once they had air cover.

  Beneath the granite-seam of fatigue he still felt nauseated, but no longer so afraid. Guam lay ahead, after a tense and agonizingly slow twelve-hundred-mile passage. The formation was speed-constrained to conserve fuel, and he’d spent a full day searching where the battle group had gone down. But found only debris and empty sea. A pile of recovered flotsam lay under tarps on the fantail. Wilbur had been attacked by a submarine, but spoofing gear had pulled the torpedoes off track. The destroyer had gone in to prosecute, and the crackle of collapsing bulkheads was probably still reverberating in the deep sound layer.

  Against the odds, they’d come through. The contrails had etched the darkling sky the evening before. Bombers, heading west for Taiwan and Korea. Transports, headed east, though most of the U.S. garrison on Okinawa had evacuated to the Japanese home islands. Savo would reach port that afternoon.

&
nbsp; But Fleet had sent a messenger ahead. “Hopscotch incoming.” The OOD pointed. Dan got his glasses on it. Heavy-bodied, high-winged, it grew rapidly into a small seaplane.

  “Call away for boat transfer,” Dan told him. “Tell the special agent to report to the boat deck. Have somebody help with her gear.” He’d thanked her the night before, saying how much he and the crew appreciated her efforts. And Ar-Rahim had seemed, for a moment, to relax that obstinate vigilance. She’d apologized for suspecting him, and shaken his hand with what looked like genuine, if still wary, respect.

  The plane made a pass, waggled its wings, and reported in. Dan checked with Sonar and Combat, then cleared it for landing. It came in skimming the purple sea, throwing up a roostertail. Smaller than he’d expected, and painted bright colors. Some civilian island-hopper, commandeered at the start of hostilities. Savo’s remaining inflatable bounded toward it like a skipping stone.

  “Captain? Morning traffic.”

  Branscombe, with the clipboard. Dan climbed into his chair and flipped through it. Trying to impress into a tired brain that, behind them, the Western Pacific had changed.

  The Koreans were fighting fiercely. China was consolidating its hold on Taiwan, imprisoning thousands in makeshift camps. More troops were still streaming across from the mainland. But that fighting, though lessening in intensity, wasn’t over. Some units had fallen back into the mountains, holding out in prepared redoubts.

  The Philippines had neutralized itself. Manila had renounced all claims in the South China Sea, and offered to cede the still-occupied Itbayat Island as well in return for a nonaggression pact. Beijing had announced it welcomed this acknowledgment of the Empire’s supremacy, but might have further demands.

  “The Empire?” Dan muttered, incredulous.

  “That’s what Zhang’s calling it now. According to some translators. The People’s Empire of China.”

  He glanced to where the boat was heading back. The seaplane was gathering speed, lifting off for its return trip. He grunted, and read on.… India was debating Zhang’s proposal. Japan had recalled its navy to home ports, and accepted the offer of a cease-fire in place in the Senkakus. Only Vietnam and South Korea seemed game to fight on. But the Koreans were isolated, with no access to the outside world. Jung’s fleet had retreated east, announcing its intention to fight on at the side of the U.S. Navy.

  The whole allied position in the Pacific had crumbled. With Taiwan and Okinawa in mainland hands, the U.S. had been forced back to the second island chain. Palau was being reoccupied by the Marines. That made the defensive line Palau–Guam–Saipan–Chichi Jima.

  He read an analysis that speculated on Zhang’s next move. Against Indonesia? Malaysia? Or the dictator could turn north, and seize the resources of Siberia.

  The RHIB disappeared behind the ship, and Dan slid down from his chair. Hit the button on his Hydra. “XO? I’ll be on the fantail. Tell Bart to convene the snipes, get the damage documentation together. We’ll meet in the wardroom at 0700.”

  * * *

  THE seaplane’s passengers were a mixed bag. Tiger Team engineers from Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard. An investigator from DIA, who headed immediately to the pile of debris on the fantail. A rep from Raytheon, with a duffel of spares. And, to Dan’s bemusement, a female journalist. Presumably the “Chief of Information rep” the message had mentioned. Elfin. Dark-haired. “Maya Mao,” she introduced herself, with a small hand clasping his. “And, yes, I’m of Chinese descent.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  “I’m a pool reporter. Accredited by CHINFO. Here are my credentials.”

  He accepted the paper, but must have still looked bemused, because she added, “We’re hoping for an interview. About the battle, and so forth.”

  “I have to get the engineers to work. We’re going into drydock as soon as we get back in.”

  “I saw the damage. Amazing you made it home.”

  He said it wasn’t he who had brought her back, but the crew. That she should really interview them, not him. Then excused himself, and headed for the wardroom.

  When he left there Danenhower and McMottie, Carpenter, Uskavitch, Wenck, and the rest of his team were deep in the weeds with the shipyard people, translating the damage reports into statements of work, materials lists, parts orders. He’d planned to head for the bridge again, but halted in the passageway.

  Sagging against a bulkhead, he closed his eyes. Giving up, just for a moment, now that he was alone. Tremors racked him. A spike of pain probed his cervical vertebra. He could hardly breathe. Fatigue, nausea, knees that just wanted to buckle …

  Their orders read to refuel and make repairs, then await further orders. But in all honesty, he wasn’t up to it. If he was realistic, he should request relief due to health reasons.

  The more likely scenario: They’d relieve him for cause. The Navy had never saved room for losers. Those who oversaw the initial defeats of any war, responsible or not—and usually they weren’t, just victims of the complacency, penuriousness, and misjudgments of those in higher office—were blamed, cast aside, and obliterated.

  He leaned there, eyes closed, fighting the impulse to just open the safe in his cabin and load his pistol.

  But at last he acknowledged that he was not in control. The regret, he would carry for the rest of his life. But maybe he could serve in some humbler way. Training recruits. Writing reports. And he’d see his wife again, and his daughter.

  At least he’d brought Savo home. Saved her, and their lives, against all expectations. Including his own. A lot of families would be overjoyed tonight, hearing from husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters, after far too long without word.

  Footsteps rattled down the ladder. He straightened. Cleared his throat. And became, once more, the captain.

  * * *

  “I was sent at the request of the media pool,” Ms. Mao said. Sitting primly, ankles crossed, fingers on her little notebook computer. Ready to write the first draft of history.

  They were in his in-port cabin. He coughed into his fist, realizing he hadn’t bothered to check out her legs. Maybe he was in even worse shape than he’d thought. “All right. Shoot.”

  “I believe we have some mutual friends. Hu Kuwalay? Of Senate Armed Services?”

  “Not sure I know him. My wife used to work there.”

  “I see. Well, shall we begin? Let’s start with your attack on the Chinese invasion fleet.”

  He coughed again, and she waited politely. Finally he said, “I’d rather start from the setup of the blocking forces.” He kept to his own movements and the sequence of the campaign. It took nearly an hour, and when at last he fell silent she looked down, seeming to commune with her reflection in the screen.

  “What do you think led to this war?” she murmured at last.

  “In a nutshell? Hmm. I guess … deterrence is the art of making someone not do what he wants to do. Convincing him the price will be higher than he wants to pay.

  “But we lost sight of that. We assumed everyone else wanted peace as much as we did. We tried to keep on with business as usual. Looked away, while our enemies stole our secrets. Did nothing, as they built islands and claimed the seas around them. Eventually, they concluded we were so feeble, so divided, and so fearful, we’d never fight, no matter how far they went.” He shrugged. “Just my opinion, though.”

  “Who do you think should bear the blame?”

  “Blame? There’s enough to go around. Anyway, that’s for the historians. The real question is, what are we going to do now, since we’ve lost the first round?”

  She nodded. “I agree. So … you probably know Zhang has proposed peace again. On the basis of the ‘union and demilitarization’ of Korea. He also offers to return Okinawa to Japan, though he will keep the Senkakus. Once a conference of ministers ratifies the settlement, that is. He proposes they meet in Beijing.”

  “Very magnanimous,” Dan said. “Until he decides he wants the rest of the pie.”<
br />
  “There are reports of unrest in China. But also rumors of wholesale executions in Taiwan, and savage repression in Hong Kong and Tibet. Up to four hundred thousand people have been deported into the interior. Many were shot in the streets.”

  Dan nodded, closing his eyes. Like any tyrant, Zhang was tightening control. “What about Washington? What’s the feeling there?”

  “We’re starting to tool up again. But I have to say, many are still unconvinced that retaking the Western Pacific is worth the cost.”

  “It’ll be a hard, bloody road,” Dan said. “But they started this. We can’t forget the Roosevelt battle group. Our allies need us. And America still hates warmakers.” She waited, looking as if she expected more. “So … yeah. We’ll be back. And I’m confident that somehow, dark though it looks right now, we’ll win.”

  Dark arched eyebrows rose. “Mind if I quote you?” She tapped the keyboard.

  Abruptly nauseated again, he hoisted himself to his feet. “I’ve got to lie down for a few minutes, I’m afraid. Hope you got what you wanted.”

  “I think I got exactly what I wanted. ‘We’ll be back.’ And the rest. You’ll confirm, that’s a direct quote?”

  He hesitated. Who was he, after all, to speak for a whole country? He wasn’t even sure he believed what he’d just said. Maybe America was beaten. Counted out. As Zhang, and so many others, thought. Weak. Soft. Corrupt. Could she pour out again the blood and heroism, the innovation and treasure and brutal tenacity, that had defeated the Germans, the Japanese, the Soviets? But at last he just muttered, “Yeah. It’s what I said.”

  She snapped the notebook closed and stood.

  When he’d ushered her out, he staggered into the head. Bent over the sink and gagged. Lights flashed behind his closed lids. He wasn’t sure why he felt this way. He’d been defeated. Dishonored. But it was more than that. Much more than anything that had to do with Daniel V. Lenson.