Wexler leaned back and stretched her tight back muscles. Any diversion would be welcome at this point. There was no way she could avoid reading all of the briefing papers and position summaries her staff drafted for her every day. Indeed, she depended on those to remain aware of the more subtle nuances in the world. But sometimes the paperwork threatened to overwhelm her, and she wondered if it was all that necessary. Over the centuries of the history of diplomacy, much rested on the personal relationships between men and women in power. Harsh reality had little to do sometimes with the alliances that were formed, the decisions that were made, and a general conduct of the business of nations.
“Any idea of what he wants?” she asked.
Brad shook his head. “Says it’s for your eyes only.”
Now that was alarming. It wasn’t the first time that it had happened, but every time it did, it presaged a major challenge for the United States. At least she would have advance warning of it, whatever it was.
And that, she suspected, was due to Brad. As soon as she had given him his head in allowing a closer relationship between the CIA and her office, it seemed that the information flow had… well, not exactly increased, but taken on a new accuracy and timeliness that she found exceptionally helpful. Along the way, she’d acquired a new working relationship with the Department of Defense as well. Also a good thing, in her opinion. It meant that the first notice she had of major problems came from somewhere besides ACN, the premier news network in the world. Her only concern was that her new acquaintances might decide that they were entitled to a degree of reciprocity she was not yet willing to grant. However useful it was to share information, have advance notice of potential problems, and otherwise coordinate the entire American national security plan, she was still convinced that it was critical to maintain a clear distinction between diplomacy and the military means of enforcing it.
How could the other ambassadors trust her to keep their confidences if they saw CIA agents in her office every day? And what would they think of international military objectives she supported if Department of Defense officials looked like they were holding morning quarters outside her office? That the president had approved her decision to develop a closer working relationship with the CIA, and had not even attempted to deny it when she asked him if he’d known all along that her aide, Brad, was a former CIA employee, had troubled her. But in the end, they all worked for him, so she did her best to adhere to his wishes.
Brad showed the JCS representative in. She was a female Navy captain, and young for the slot by the looks of her. She came to attention in front of Ambassador Wexler’s desk and said, “Ma’am, I’m Captain Jane Hemingway, from JCS, Department of Contingency Evaluation. We came across some disturbing information and thought it might be wise to share it with you. If I may?”
“Please, sit down.” Wexler had not met Hemingway before, but immediately liked the looks of her.
“Thank you.” Hemingway took a chair at the corner of the desk and opened the attaché case she carried. She extracted a file, and slid it across the desk to the ambassador. “If you like, I can give you a brief overview.”
“Yes, do that,” Wexler said, not touching the file yet. She’d listen to the overview, see if she wanted to know the details.
“China,” Hemingway said immediately. “China and Taiwan. Yesterday, without warning, China launched a ballistic missile test. Acting on orders from the National Command Authority via JCS, The USS Lake Champlain shot it down.”
“And the reason for that?” Wexler asked. “There’ve been missile tests before.”
“We’ve got information that it wasn’t exactly a test. We think it’s at least possible that this is the beginning of a major initiative to reunite Taiwan with the mainland.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be any surprise. What do you have to support that view?” Wexler opened the folder and leafed through it.
There wasn’t much, not in the way of original source material. A report from an intelligence specialist debriefing a defector, two satellite shots with attached photo intelligence interpretations. The longest item was a three-page analysis by — she glanced at the end page — yes, Captain Hemingway herself. She skipped through it, going straight to the last page: recommendations. She read through quickly, and then laid the folder on a corner of her desk. “Not much to go on, is there?”
Hemingway shook her head. “No, ma’am. There’s not. But I’ve been following this region for a significant period of time, and you develop instincts. Everything I know about this area of the world screams at me that this time it’s real. The timing, for one thing — you don’t know how stretched thin we are, particularly in that region. And this defector — I interviewed him myself.” She spread her hand in a supplicating gesture. “Obviously, I can’t go into some details. But I found myself personally persuaded by his story. And when I add his data up with the rest of the things I see, it only spells trouble.”
Wexler frowned. “When?”
“Next month, I think. They have a couple of major surface combatants still in outfitting, as well as a major upgrade on some fighter avionics. They’ll finish that before they make a move.”
“Not much time, then.”
Hemingway smiled. “More advance notice than we’ve had a lot of times, though. The question is what we’re going to do about it.”
“I suspect this is primarily a State Department and DOD issue,” Wexler said.
“Yes, of course. But if things go down the way I think they will, it’s going to be happening fast. If I give you a background briefing now, I believe you’ll be better prepared to deal with what comes up over here.”
Wexler waited for a moment, then asked, “That’s it? That’s all you want to do, give me a heads-up?”
Hemingway looked faintly amused. “Astounding, isn’t it? But yes, that’s all. No favors to ask, no politicking, no trying to enlist you to confirm or deny our intelligence. It’s just a briefing, ma’am. One that I hope will be the first of many.” Hemingway picked up her file from the ambassador’s desk, stowed it in her attaché case and locked the case. “With your permission?” she asked.
“Wait,” Wexler said. “Do you like tea? Not the grocery store stuff — I mean really, really good tea.”
A speculative look crossed Hemingway’s face. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
Wexler smiled. “I thought so. Unless you’ve got some pressing business, Captain, why not sit down and have a cup with me. I need a break from my paperwork and you can tell your boss I’m a slow learner.”
Thirty minutes later, the two had established that they had a good deal in common. After they’d talked, Hemingway finally asked, “Who handles your electronic security around here?”
“Brad, my aide. You met him when you came in.”
“But who actually handles it?”
Wexler frowned. “I don’t know. That’s always been his department. Why? Do you have some reason that I ought to be concerned?”
“Yes, I do.” Seeing Wexler’s look of consternation, she added, “And I can’t tell you why. But if you want, I’ll bring a team over here tomorrow and double-check your aide’s work. I’m not trying to imply anything about him, of course… but… well… what could it hurt?”
“His feelings.”
“And that matters?” Hemingway asked.
“No. Not if it’s a question of security.” Wexler drained the last of her tea, suddenly weary. “All right. Bring your people over tomorrow. Around one p.m.?”
Hemingway stood. “At one, then. And I hope I’m wrong about what I suspect.”
SIX
USS United States
Five hundred miles off the coast of California
Thursday, September 5
0800 local (GMT –9)
Within twenty-four hours of starting sea trials, every man and woman onboard the ship was convinced in their heart of hearts that there would never, ever be a problem with this ship. They were invincible,
invulnerable — the ship met and exceeded every performance characteristic tested. Her acceleration was significantly above what was predicted, her emergency crash backs virtually bone-jolting in their ability to reverse propellers and generate full reverse power. Her turning radius was tighter, her electronics more reliable — hell, even the radars look like they worked better. There was something special about being on a brand-new ship, one that had never known combat.
Each plank owner had been through numerous schools and rigorous training during the pre-commissioning days. Now, when they were finally allowed to strut their stuff on their new ship, they shone.
This morning would be the first test of the flight deck systems. For the first few days, the ship had tested engineering and damage control without the burden of having the air wing onboard. No aircraft would come onboard until Coyote and the carrier’s skipper were convinced that they could effectively fight a flight deck fire and provide power to the ship under casualty conditions.
Most of the aircraft technicians had walked on from pier side, but the actual aircraft and flight crews themselves were waiting patiently onshore.
Coyote left the flag bridge and headed for Vulture’s Row, three decks above, to watch the first trap. While everything might look great on paper, and even in trials, there was no real test of flight deck operations other than actually doing it.
CAG had elected to be the first one to land onboard the pristine flight deck. He was flying a Tomcat, his weapon of choice, with a tail number of zero zero, otherwise known as the double nuts bird. Coyote wondered briefly who the backseater was, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter — this was completely a pilot’s show.
In addition to the dangers of there being an undetected mechanical problem, taking the lead for the first landing brought with it other worries. Everything had gone so well so far — indeed, had gone perfectly. If the first landing was screwed up in some way, even in a minor one, that might shake the confidence of the crew. A wave off, or God forbid, a bolter, would be a bad omen.
No, to do it right, CAG had to make it onboard on his first pass, and had to catch the three wire.
Coyote listened in to the approach chatter on a headset. CAG had to know how critical this first landing was, but he could detect no hint of nervousness in the man’s voice as he made his final approach on the ship. The landing signals officer, or LSO, sounded just as casual — slightly bored, professional, with no trace of nervousness.
He could see the Tomcat in the distance now, sunlight glinting off her wings.
“Tomcat double nuts, say needles,” the LSO said.
“Needles show on course, at altitude,” the CAG said.
“Roger, concur with needles. Fly needles. Tomcat double nickels, call the ball,” the LSO concluded, indicating that the CAG should let him know when he had the Fresnel lens clearly in view.
“Roger, fly needles.” There was a short pause, then the CAG said, “Roger, ball.”
The litany continued, the careful phrases and measured interaction that characterized most routine landings. “Looking good, sir, looking good, watch your attitude, attitude,” the LSO said quietly, coaching the senior officer onto the deck.
Final was only two miles long, and the Tomcat was looming over the flight deck almost immediately. The deck was rock steady, the weather perfect, clear visibility unlimited.
CAG executed a perfect carrier deck landing, catching the three wire neatly. The noise on the flight deck immediately increased as he shoved the throttles forward to full military power. That was standard operating procedure, in case the cable snapped or the tailhook somehow skipped out of it, the latter being known as a kiddy trap. Full military power ensured that the pilot could get the aircraft off the deck again and airborne in order to come around and make another pass.
After a few moments, a loud cheer broke out across the deck, audible even to Coyote high up the superstructure. He joined in. The sheer excitement and relief was almost overwhelming.
Finally a yellow shirt flight deck technician stepped out front of CAG’s aircraft and gave the hand signals to decrease power to the engines. The reasoning for standing in front of the aircraft was that the enlisted people were too smart to step in front of an aircraft if they weren’t absolutely convinced that the aircraft was securely trapped on deck. The yellow shirt was putting his life on the line if something went wrong as was the pilot who was cutting power.
The CAG let the Tomcat roll back slightly, neatly retracted the tailhook, and increased power slightly to taxi forward and follow the directions of the yellow shirt to a spot near the island. All around the perimeter of the marked off landing strip, technicians were clustered, cheering, shouting out greetings and congratulations. The CAG returned the waves as he taxied, and he pulled off his oxygen mask so that they could all see the broad grin on his face.
The Tomcat reached its appointed spot. Even before the CAG could pull back the canopy to egress, the aircraft was surrounded by hordes of cheering sailors wearing every possible color of jersey. No matter that there were other aircraft stacked up in a holding pattern, waiting their looks at the deck. For just this moment, the only thing that mattered was that they’d made it through the first trap, and an excellent trap it had been indeed.
Coyote had been leaning over the railing, his elbows resting on it, and now he straightened up to turn to his chief of staff. “One less thing to worry about.”
Ganner nodded. “For all our modern technology, sailors are still a damned suspicious bunch — superstitious, even.”
Just then, the young enlisted radioman walked out onto Vulture’s Row. He held a clipboard in his hand. “Good morning, Admiral. P4 message for you.”
The “personal for”, or P4, was a designator for communications between the Navy’s highest ranking officers. The messages required special handling, on the theory that that that would prevent the contents from being broadcast over the ship. It was not necessarily that the message itself contained classified material — it was just that the information was often sensitive, and best not shared with the entire fleet.
“Must be congratulations on our first trap,” Coyote remarked, as he took the clipboard. “But how did they get off so fast? AIRPAC must have had the message all written and waiting in the queue so—” He stopped abruptly as he began scanning the message.
It was short and to the point. The United States was directed to break off sea trials and immediately make best speed to Taiwan. She would be resupplied enroute, and the remainder of her air wing, qualified or not, was ordered to immediately embark.
Coyote passed the message to Ganner. “We ready for this?”
His chief of staff nodded. “Yes, Admiral. Not as ready as I’d like to be, but I moved up some of the provisioning schedules, and we should be able to make it.”
“We can do carrier quals on the way over there,” Coyote said.
Of course they could. It was done all the time. And there was no real reason not to sign off on this warship right now. No, they hadn’t completed every test. And in actual fact, it would take months before they really knew how she would hold up. It was one thing for everything to be working when they went to sea. It was another entirely to stand up to the endless day in and day out use that went with a deployment. Still, if he had to bet, Coyote would come down on the side of the United States.
“Get everybody in the conference room,” Coyote said. “Maybe we’re worried about Taiwan for no reason. There might be another explanation for this, a good one.”
“Maybe.” The chief of staff’s voice was doubtful.
As his chief of staff left, Coyote turned back to the flight deck. Pristine, unscarred — well, that would change. And sooner rather than later, it looked like.
“Admiral! Someone here to see you.” Ganner stepped aside to reveal Lab Rat standing at the hatch to Vulture’s Row.
“Hey! What the hell you doing out here? You’re supposed to be in Norfolk. You didn’t…?” Coyote gla
nced down at the Tomcat now being positioned just forward of the island.
“Yes, sir, I did indeed.” Lab Rat’s voice was calm. “I called in a few favors — nobody ever cares who’s in the back seat, do they?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, buddy.” Coyote slung a companionable arm over Lab Rat’s shoulder. “But there’s times when it’s the most important thing in the world, and there’s times when it’s not.”
“This was a not, then,” Lab Rat said.
“So to what do we owe the honor?”
“I’ll get right to the point, Admiral. Right about now, you should be getting a—”
“A P4?” Coyote interrupted. “Yeah — just saw it. That your doing?”
“Some of it,” Lab Rat admitted. “But the thing is, you’re not completely manned up yet. And I’ve got my entire CVIC sitting ashore twiddling their thumbs. I was wondering—”
“Why, hell yes!” Coyote said. Lab Rat had forgotten that it was sometimes difficult to finish a sentence around the exuberant Texan. “You want to bring that whole little pack of yours on out here, you go right ahead. Save me having to break in a bunch of newcomers, right? And give your people something to do.”
A frown crossed the chief of staff’s face. “Admiral, with all due respect — Commander Busby’s people just came off cruise. I suspect they may need some down time, a chance to recharge. Isn’t that so, Commander?” He turned to the intelligence officer.
“I asked if they wanted to go — every single one of them volunteered, sir,” Lab Rat said. He appreciated Ganner’s concern, although he was slightly miffed at the implication that he himself hadn’t thought of that. “They want to be plankowners, sir. It’s not something they’ll get the chance too often to do in their careers.”
“Well, pack ’em up and bring ’em on out,” Coyote said. “COS here will take care of the details. Right, COS?” There was a slight challenge in Coyote’s eyes, and Lab Rat had his first hint that there might be some issues to work out between the new battle group commander and his chief of staff. “I mean, we got this sweetheart through precomm and sea trials, we ought to be able to handle wrangling Lab Rat’s boys and girls on out here, right?”
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