by Robert Gandt
“What about the Dong-jins?” asked Maxwell. “Did Otis and Foxy engage any?”
“No contact,” said Boyce. “It doesn’t mean they’re not out there, but if they are, they’re staying out of the action. They probably haven’t figured out that we’re down to one stealth jet. For that matter, we don’t know how many operational Dong-jins they have either.”
Boyce could see the skeptical looks on their faces. He knew what they were thinking. Just because the People’s Republic of China lost a few jets and ships, they weren’t about to abandon the Spratly Island oil reserves.
“We’ve got two more Black Stars and another combat-ready crew coming from Groom Lake, via Guam. He pointedly looked at his watch. “Go get some rest, folks, and then be ready to fly. We’re gonna be busy.”
He watched Maxwell get up and follow Harvey Wentz into the enclosed debriefing cubicle. He looked beat up. But he’d seen Maxwell beat up before. He always bounced back.
Well, he’d better bounce back again, thought Boyce. This goddamn war was just beginning.
<>
Gypsy Palmer was still there when Maxwell came out of the debriefing cubicle.
“You look tired, Brick.”
“So do you.”
She shrugged. “It’s been one of those days. Are you flying tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “The doc says I’m good to go.”
“I’m good to go too.”
Maxwell looked at her red-rimmed eyes. “No way. Not for a while.”
“I have to. It’s important.”
“You heard the Admiral. We’ve got a replacement crew coming in.”
Her face hardened. “Damn it, you don’t need a replacement for me. I’m fine. I want to be in your cockpit.”
“I know how you feel, but you’ve had an emotional trauma. I can’t—”
“I’m the best wizzo in this unit. Sharp always said he was the best, but he really wasn’t. I was, and I still am.”
“You’re obsessed right now, Gypsy. You want to go out there and flame the ass of that Chinese pilot who killed Sharp. Believe me, so do I. But revenge is a stupid motivator for a professional warrior.”
“It’s not about revenge. It’s about doing my job. It’s what Sharp would expect me to do.”
“That’s still not a reason to—”
“Please, Brick. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
Maxwell didn’t answer. Her eyes were no longer filled with tears. Her voice had lost some of its quaver.
He shook his head. Hell, they were both basket cases. His wounds were physical, but Gypsy Palmer was an emotional wreck. It didn’t make sense putting them in the same cockpit.
But nothing was making sense anymore. Sometimes you had to go with your instincts.
“Promise me, Gypsy.”
“What?”
“That you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Does that mean I get the job?”
He nodded. “We’ll give it a shot.”
Her face brightened for the first time since he’d seen her tonight. She hoisted her right hand and hit him with a high five. “I promise.”
He saw Boyce on the far side of the compartment watching them with a worried look. He knew what the old man would say when he found out. He’d have one of his foot-stomping, nostril-flaring, red-in-the-face tantrums.
Tough shit, Maxwell decided. He’d remind Boyce that he was the one who always said the essence of leadership was to put good people in command of their units, then get the hell out of their way. This was a great time for him to get the hell out the way.
Chapter 25 — Breakthrough
USS Ronald Reagan
South China Sea
0715 Tuesday, 1 May
He slept for six hours.
It wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t sleep any more. The events of yesterday kept replaying in a continuous loop. The yellow light of the Dong-jin’s cannon kept winking in his mind. The taste of sea water was rising like bile in his throat. The headache was gone, but the cut over his eye was tender and raw. He felt creaky and sore in the joints.
He hauled himself out of the bunk and pulled on gray sweats and his running shoes. He needed coffee and a workout, in that order.
On his way out he noticed the answering machine. The red light was still flashing. He’d been too tired last night to bother with it. The only message he’d get in his stateroom was the kind he didn’t want to hear before he slept.
There were two. Bullet Alexander asked him to stop by the Roadrunners’ ready room. The second was from Dana Boudroux, who wanted him to call back. He looked at the machine for a moment, then deleted the messages.
The dirty shirt wardroom was nearly empty. It was the informal officer’s mess where flight crews and deck officers could get fast food without having to be in the uniform of the day. A steward was working behind the long stainless steel serving counter. Two flight-suited Hornet pilots from VFA-34 waved to Maxwell from their table, then resumed their conversation. Maxwell helped himself to a black coffee from one of the three large urns. He sipped his coffee standing, not bothering with the serving line where breakfast was still available. He’d run, then do breakfast later.
It took two circuits of the hangar deck, dodging a pair of Super Hornets under tow, before he had the kinks out. Running on an aircraft carrier took concentration. He had to be careful not to catch a shin on one of the ubiquitous tie down chains that fastened aircraft to the deck.
By the third lap he’d picked up the pace to an eight minute mile. Sweat trickled down his back. His breathing settled into an easy rhythm. He ran past the bay of the number two elevator. Through the huge enclosure he could see directly out to the open sea. The horizon was fuzzy, with a haze over the South China Sea and a fleece of cumulus casting irregular shadows on the water.
He saw a figure jogging toward him from the opposite direction. Even before he saw her face, he knew who it was.
She slowed her pace, then turned to run along with him.
“Why didn’t you return my call?” asked Dana Boudroux.
She looked good, he thought. She was wearing a pale blue warm up suit and running shoes. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead.
“I had to run first. Get my head straightened out.”
“Is it straightened out now?”
“It will be after another lap and a shower. “
They ran for a while in silence. Again he was aware of her smooth, fluid stride. Dana was a natural runner. He, on the other hand, would always be a deck pounder.
“You should have let Admiral Boyce fire me,” she said.
“Why?” Maxwell looked across at her. “Because you told him he didn’t know jack about stealth technology?”
“Because I made everyone believe we’d be able to detect the Dong-jins.”
“Knock it off, Dana. You were at the debriefing. The scanners worked. We did pick up the IR trace on the Dong-jins.”
“It wasn’t enough. Picking up a tiny IR trace isn’t the same thing as seeing the enemy jets. And it seems pretty certain now that they’re seeing through our cloaking.”
“There’s enough blame to go around. What happened to Sharp wasn’t your fault, it was mine. And what happened to Duke and Plug was just plain bad luck. The fortunes of war.”
“If they had been able to see the Dong-jin, they wouldn’t have collided with it.”
“Maybe. If I had been there in time, we would have shot the Dong-jin down before it collided with Duke and Plug.”
She kept running, saying nothing. They came to the aft end of the hangar deck. She followed Maxwell as he weaved between a parked Hawkeye and the nose of a Seahawk helicopter. The sight of the chopper brought fresh memories of being plucked from the open hatch of the ASDS submersible. He felt a flash of nausea, tasting again the sea water in his gut.
“That’s what I called you about last night.”
“To tell me that you’re on a guilt trip.”
“To
tell you goodbye.”
“Goodbye? Where are—”
“Back to the states. I told the admiral last night, after you left the intel space.”
“You’re quitting.”
“It’s called requesting reassignment.”
“What did Boyce say?”
She ran for a while more. “You know Boyce. He gnawed on his cigar and gave me that laser-eyed look that the Navy must teach them before they let them be admirals. He said he was too busy. Come back and talk to him tomorrow.”
“So have you?”
“Not yet. I wanted to—“
She was staring at a figure at the end of the hangar deck. He was wearing a leather flight jacket and a pisscutter uniform cap with one star.
They slowed to a stop.
“Where the hell have you been?” said Boyce. He motioned for them to follow him. “I’ve got something to show you.”
<>
Maxwell stared at the pile of junk. It looked like the contents of an overturned dumpster.
“Well?” said Boyce. “Recognize it?”
“No.”
They were in the secured space off the port side of the hangar deck. It was adjacent to another large compartment where the maintenance facility had been set up for the Black Star, out of view from passersby on the hangar deck. Two Marine sentries were posted at the sliding door.
“I do,” said Dana Boudroux.
She was kneeling, running her hand over the surface of the jagged metal. “It’s what we’ve been praying for.”
Maxwell continued to stare at the mess on the deck. There were scraps of honeycomb material, pieces of ripped metal, tubing and bundled cable. Inside the pile were strands of wire and shiny hardware that looked like the parts of a jet engine.
Maxwell knew he was seeing the wreckage of an airplane. What airplane? The wrinkled skin had a grayish tint to it, unlike anything he remembered seeing.
Dana was smiling, picking up pieces and turning them over in her hands, caressing them almost lovingly. Her face glowed like that of a child opening a gift.
Maxwell kept staring at the junk—and it came to him. He had seen it before.
“The Dong-jin.”
“Took you long enough,” she said.
Maxwell ignored her. “Where did they find it?”
“At the bottom of the South China Sea,” said Boyce. “Close to where it collided with the Black Star. We’re going to get that back too, but not yet. This was more important.”
“Who found it?” said Maxwell.
“Who do you think?” said a voice from behind them.
Maxwell turned around. Wedge Flores was wearing creased BDUs and black, spit-polished boots. His face had the same unsmiling expression.
“That’s not all they brought,” said Boyce. “Wedge’s SEALs recovered Sharp O’Toole’s body.”
Maxwell held eye contact with Flores. The SEAL officer gazed back at him.
“You said that wasn’t your job,” said Maxwell.
“It wasn’t. Sometimes I moonlight.”
Maxwell nodded. “I guess I should say thanks.”
“For what?”
“For saving my butt back on the island. And for getting Sharp’s body back. And now for pulling up the Chinese jet.”
“Hey, Airedale, you’re getting all mushy again. I can’t stand tears.”
“Sorry, Wedge. What I meant to say was you’re still an asshole. But at least you’re consistent. Good job.”
Something close to a grin appeared on Flores’s face. “Up yours, Airedale.”
<>
Keep walking.
That was the trick, Hollis Benjamin had learned. Smile, give them the occasional wave, pretend to be discussing some urgent matter with the staffer who was trying to keep up with you. Keep walking.
Twenty more yards to the side gate of the West Wing. The reporters were lined up on either side of the walkway.
“Mr. President, would you care to comment on the recent developments in the Far East?”
“Mr. President, is it true that we’re engaged in combat operations against the People’s Republic of China?”
Keep walking.
One of the reporters, a guy from the Washington Post named Leroy Womack who, in Benjamin’s opinion, was a card-carrying idiot, was flapping his arm to get Benjamin’s attention. “Mr. President, are you concerned about Senator Wagstaff’s remarks that you should be impeached?”
Benjamin smiled. He kept walking.
Ten yards.
“Mr. President, the Chinese press is reporting that American submarines have attacked unarmed merchant ships in the South China Sea. Can you confirm that report?”
He waved.
The occasion was a press conference in the Rose Garden. It had been scheduled several days before, and its purpose was to update the press on pending legislative matters including the new defense spending bill which he had threatened to veto unless the sponsoring senators removed several hundred millions dollars of their favorite pork.
The press corps didn’t want to hear about the defense spending bill. They wanted him to comment on Senator Wagstaff’s remarks this morning on Face the Nation. The Benjamin administration, Wagstaff said, was conducting a clandestine military operation in the Spratly Islands on behalf of the communist government of Vietnam.
After Benjamin’s canned remarks at the press conference, he declined to take questions. The press corps, as he expected, wasn’t having any of it. They pushed against the restraining ropes and shouted after him as he walked.
“Mr. President, can you confirm the rumor in Aviation Week about a secret stealth jet that has been deployed to the South China Sea?”
“Mr. President, what do you have to say about—”
Benjamin reached the gate. It clanged shut behind him, and he kept walking. He could still hear the reporters babbling outside the fence, but he no longer understood what they were saying. He passed through the Oval Office without stopping and continued to his private study.
The President flopped down in the padded chair. Josh Watanabe, his assistant and chief of staff, was already there. Watanabe was wearing his trademark bow tie.
“I hate this fucking job,” said Benjamin.
“This is nothing,” said Watanabe. “Wait till they find out about the submarine we lost with 130 men aboard.”
Benjamin nodded. He had never been much of a drinker, but it occurred to him that this would be a good time to start. He was in a hell of a mess, and the worst part was that it was a mess he had made for himself. For the first time in his presidency, he was questioning his own judgment. Perhaps Wagstaff was right. Maybe he should be impeached.
Joyce Appleby, the baby-faced staff secretary came through the door. At the same time, Benjamin noticed the flashing light on his telephone console.
“Beijing on the green line,” said Appleby. “The office of the PRC President.”
Benjamin stared at the console. He knew without asking that Appleby had already alerted the China desk over at the State Department. There would also be at least two China specialists from the National Security staff listening in. Benjamin made it a point never to go one-on-one with another head of state without plenty of back up.
He took a deep breath and pushed the button on the speaker phone. He listened to the translator in Beijing announce in singsong English that President Xiang Fan-lo wanted to speak to him personally.
“I’m honored to receive a personal call from the President.” Benjamin saw Watanabe rolling his eyes. He waited while the translator relayed his greeting to Xiang.
Then he heard the nasal twang of the PRC president on the line. Without knowing a word of Mandarin, Benjamin could hear the agitated tone in Xiang’s voice. The Chinese head of state ranted on for a solid minute, his voice rasping and cracking. He paused while the translator delivered the message in English, then he resumed ranting.
Benjamin listened, offering no comment. Xiang’s monologue and the intermittent
translations went on for five minutes.
Benjamin said, “I understand your position, Mr. President. I will take this matter under consultation with my advisors. You will be hearing back from me very soon.”
He heard the translator passing his message, then a buzzing sound as the connection to China went dead.
Benjamin pushed the speaker button and the buzzing stopped. He stared at the silent telephone for a while. He felt Watanabe and Appleby watching him. Wondering what he would do.
“What time is it in Hanoi?” Benjamin asked.
Appleby had to think for a moment. “Coming up ten o’clock in the evening.”
“Good,” said the President of the United States. “Get Joe Ferrone on the line.”
<>
Hanoi, Socialist Republic of Vietnam
“Did I catch you at a bad time, Skipper?”
“No, sir,” said Ferrone. “A very good time. You rescued me from a boring reception here at the embassy.”
“It’s no wonder ambassadors love what they do. They don’t do anything except take vacations and throw parties.”
“It’s a lousy job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Ferrone heard the President chuckle on the phone. He had no idea why Benjamin had called, but he knew it wasn’t to chat about his social life.
Ferrone was in the private office just off the rotunda. The reception outside was winding down, most of the guests already gone and the others having drinks around the long rosewood bar. Half a dozen diplomats and several Vietnamese officials were still there, including the President of the Republic of Vietnam.
The truth was, Ferrone was enjoying himself. He was wearing his white dinner jacket and black tie, showing off Kim to the party guests. The President of the Republic of Vietnam, Van Duc Chien, was smitten by Ferrone’s bride. He had attached himself like a fixture to her elbow.
Ferrone had been behind the bar mixing drinks while the white-coated bartender watched with a dubious expression. His deputy, Mike Medford, had signaled, holding one finger to his ear—sign language for a call from the White House. Ferrone excused himself and followed Medford into the private office off the rotunda.