And the replenishment ship — well, there was no way that they could match the United States’s speed. And that included the USS Jefferson.
“Jeff holding up all right?” Coyote asked.
Ganner nodded. “For now. The fact that she’s underway at all…”
Ganner didn’t need to finish the thought. Jefferson—and Batman — had pulled off something like a miracle. Coyote shuddered to think what corners might have been cut in getting her seaworthy, but in a frank conversation with Batman, the more senior admiral had assured Coyote that Jeff was more than capable of giving the newer carrier a run for her money. Although the flight deck and associate gear was not fully operational, Jefferson was fully loaded with everything that both carriers would need for the deployment. Everything from bullets to beans, as the saying went. During the two days she’d spent in dry dock, supply troops had packed every empty inch of her hull with the stores intended for the United States, and those supplies would be ferried to her via helo. Logistics make or break a battle group, and having Jefferson along had solved at least one major problem for Coyote and his staff.
“But she’s stressed just like the rest of them, not as much from the seas as from being shorthanded,” Ganner continued, bringing a surface sailor’s perspective to evaluating the issue, one that Coyote acknowledged without fully comprehending. There were things his COS knew deep in his bones, intuitions that he had about surface ships that Coyote would never be able to match. But then again, the COS would never really understand at a gut level how a barrel roll or a wingover affected a pilot and crew.
“Letting them drop behind is a ballsy move,” Coyote mused. He stared at the plot, imagining the howls of protest he’d get from the small boys. And how would Batman onboard Jefferson react?
None of them would want to be left out. To let the carrier go ahead of them, unprotected, would go against every fiber of their being. The cruisers and destroyers, he suspected, would be poised on the edge of virtual mutiny at the idea. Sure, they’d understand the necessity and they could damned sure do the numbers themselves. But protecting the carrier was their primary role on this mission, and to be left behind would be a direct insult to their capabilities.
Still, with over-the-horizon targeting and non-organic sensors, the cruisers could still provide some potent protection to the carrier. And if it looked like things were starting to go down, he could always slow and let them catch up.
“Get the staff together,” Coyote ordered. “We’re going to take a hard look at this. I’m leaning toward doing it, COS, but I have to admit it worries the hell out of me.” He stared glumly at the tactical plot, already imagining the storm of protest he’d face. “Draft the message. Let’s have it ready to go.”
USS Jefferson
1910 local (GMT +10)
Batman stared down in disbelief at the message in his hand. “What the hell — he can’t do that!” he roared. He slammed the message down on the desk. “This is insanity.”
All around the battle group, similar reactions were taking place in the other wardrooms. Pens were picked up as skippers drafted hasty howls of protest, and the communications circuits flamed with P4 and highly classified messages. Washington and Seventh Fleet got into the act as well, albeit without the sense of personal outrage that the escort ships had.
Twelve hours after Coyote recovered his last aircraft and send the message off, the decision was made. The situation in Taiwan was critical, so critical that it justified the risk. The USS United States would proceed at flank speed toward the island and her escorts would catch up as they could, having due regard for the safety of their ships and crews.
“Well, I’m not going to stand for it.” Batman turned to his chief engineer and fixed him with a steely glare. “You make sure I’ve got the juice to keep up with her. We have to stay within easy aerial resupply range, you got it? No excuses — not now.”
The most immediate result of Coyote’s message was an impromptu naval Olympics, as Batman’s orders were echoed on every surface ship attached to the battle group. The competition between the surface ships to maintain position on the carrier was fierce. As they chivvied for position, each one eking out a few extra turns on the propeller and sacrificing a few hours of sleep for speed, it quickly became apparent that despite her injuries and hasty repairs, the USS Jefferson would be the winner.
NINE
Pacini’s Restaurant
New York
Thursday, September 5
1930 local (GMT –5)
Pacini’s was not the most popular restaurant in New York City, but Wexler thought it probably served the most authentic northern Italian cuisine in America. It was quietly and tastefully decorated, and its patrons paid a premium price for privacy. Pacini’s didn’t advertise. It wasn’t reviewed in food magazines or in newspapers. Its clientele patronized it weekly, had standing reservations, and kept it a secret. The arrangement suited both the owner and his customers.
“Has Ambassador T’ing arrived yet?” Wexler had made plans for dinner with the Chinese ambassador even before she’d learned of the bug in her office. An audacious move, one suggested by Brad, but one that made sense as soon as he mentioned it. China was outraged over the destruction of her missile, and thus T’ing was obligated — at least temporarily — to be furious with Wexler. But both of them were too experienced in the ways of diplomacy to let the respective emotions of their parent countries close down the flow of communications between their diplomatic envoys. T’ing, even more than Wexler, was certain to understand this. Now that the initial flurries of confrontations and demands were over, it was time to get down to work. And even apart from the issue of test missiles and shooting them down and such, Wexler had other reasons for wanting to maintain contact with T’ing. Very small reasons.
Late yesterday, Captain Hemingway’s team had repositioned the Little Insect bug, shielding it from anything other than conversations that took place in her office. It was Wexler’s job to try to find out just what T’ing knew about it.
But they don’t know for sure yet, do they? I mean, even though Brad said he’d never seen another nation use it — and just how much did he know about that sort of thing? — it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
And even if it were a Chinese entity of some sort, that didn’t mean that T’ing knew anything about it. In fact, she was quite certain he wouldn’t know about it. They would shield him just the way she was shielded from the more distasteful practices of their respective governments.
But if that was true, why did she feel so apprehensive about seeing him? She knew she was capable of dissembling with the best of them. Years of experience in diplomacy had taught her to hide her thoughts, maintain a bland expression no matter what she felt or thought. Could she pull that off with T’ing? She wasn’t sure. And nervousness had made her, the one who was usually late for their appointments, early tonight. So she sat alone at their favorite table.
Finally, she saw T’ing appear at the entrance to the restaurant. The maitre d’ greeted him warmly, and led him to their regular table. There was a small expression of surprise on his face at seeing her already seated there.
“You’re quite early, Sarah.”
She forced a small laugh. “I shall have to do this again just so you won’t be so surprised. I finished up early and if I’d stayed another moment, Brad would have brought in another pile of papers for me to sign. You know how he is.”
“Oh, yes. I do.” T’ing slid into his chair, then pulled the wine list from the center of the table. He glanced over at her. “The white or the red?”
“White,” she said. “If I can ever make up my mind which one, I’m going to have fish.”
He studied it for a moment, although there was no real need for him to do so. They both had the small but exquisitely chosen list memorized. T’ing closed the wine list and handed it back to the steward.
For a moment, Wexler panicked. How did their conversations usually start? She couldn’
t exactly remember. They’d been so free and natural after the first couple of months that she’d quit thinking about how and what to say.
T’ing saved her from having to decide. “I have had quite a rewarding day myself,” he said. “Our good friend from the United Kingdom, one of your favorites, is he not?” He glanced over at her and smiled. Ambassador Wells had been a pain in the ass for both of them in his early days. He had come under orders to disrupt Ambassador Wexler’s relationship with T’ing. The plan might have worked had she not found him so consistently annoying. It had been the inconsistency between the face he presented to the world, that of a genial, bumbling fool, and what she knew must be true of any representative from the Court of Saint James. He consistently rang a false note, and it was only when they were forced to level with each other in the last Mid East crisis that he’d finally revealed his true colors. No, he was not the polished, elegant statesmen that his predecessor had been. Certainly he had all the right breeding, all the right connections, but his manner was less understated, more likely to attempt a sly, manipulative approach to a problem rather than the quietly elegant solutions of his predecessor. Nevertheless, once she had grown accustomed to his manner, he’d proven to be a fine representative of America’s oldest ally.
“And what is our dear friend up to these days?” she asked, grateful for the opening. “Still fuming over the fact that the British Empire no longer rules both of our continents?”
“That, always. He speaks quite good Mandarin, you know. I was most impressed.”
“You’re kidding. And just how long was he going to keep that a secret?” she asked.
T’ing shrugged, an oddly sinuous movement on him. Although he was dressed in a conservative western suit, elegant tailoring and fine fabric made it hang on him like robes. “I got him to admit it after I asked him about his studies at Sandhurst. He attended their specialized language institute, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. They normally keep that information rather classified.”
T’ing smiled and said nothing. It wasn’t the first time he admitted knowing more than anyone thought he should, but under the circumstances, it gave her a decidedly uneasy feeling. It would be foolish not to expect him to have considerable espionage resources at his disposal — indeed, he had been the first to clue her in on the fact that her aide, Brad, wasn’t all that he appeared to be. And although she considered T’ing a good friend, she did not believe that he would have any difficulty reconciling their friendship with having her office wired for sound.
“Have they declared war on China?” she asked lightly. Now wouldn’t that have been an interesting thing for someone to overhear? She wondered how long it would take to make it into a gossip column.
“Nothing so straightforward. Indeed, I’m not sure quite what to make of it myself. He is, I believe, quite concerned about China’s intentions regarding Taiwan. He conveyed a gently worded warning — but a warning nonetheless — that we take no precipitous action to disrupt the balance of power in our area of the world. Of course, we both know what that means.” He glanced over at her, mild curiosity in his eyes. “And he mentioned that your country is quite concerned as well.”
She knew what he was hinting at. If the United States was so concerned, why hadn’t he heard about it from her directly? She searched his face for a trace of hurt but saw only curiosity and perhaps a trace of disappointment.
“I wonder where in the world he got that idea?” she asked. “Did he say?”
“No.” He leaned over and placed his hand over hers, his palm cool and smooth. “Please do not misunderstand me. I know that the United Kingdom and America have a unique parent-child relationship. She fought on your soil, and yet even after your independence, your two nations have so much in common. But I must tell you, even the best of friends have interests that do not always completely coincide. And it would be worth considering that at times that may be the case with England and the United States.”
She leaned forward, matching his intensity with her own. “What are you getting at?” She made a motion to withdraw her hand, and his tightened on it.
“Just this. I suspect that our British friend has sources of information in your office of which you are not aware. He knows too much and there is no explanation for what he knows. And he was letting me know that. Why, I do not know. Any more than I would know why you would convey a message to me through him.”
“I didn’t. If I had something to say to you, I would say it directly.”
He regarded for her for a moment, then nodded. His pressure on her hand lessened. “Then you must consider the possibility that he has a spy in your office. That, or some way of intercepting your most confidential communications.”
A shiver ran through her. Why tonight, of all nights? There were too many possibilities.
First, T’ing, despite all the precautions, might know that they had detected the listening device. This was an offensive strike, intended to divert her suspicions to the British.
Second, that Wells had some plan of his own, still trying to disrupt her relationship with T’ing. She would not put that beyond him.
Or perhaps Wells was trying to give T’ing the impression that he did have confidential sources in her office. And why would he do that?
And the final possibility — that T’ing was right, that Lord Wells did have sources of information in her office that she was unaware of. Perhaps a back door, with the CIA and British intelligence cooperating through Brad. Perhaps the Little Insect listening device they had discovered. Or perhaps both.
And she was supposed to tolerate this? Not being secure in her very own office? The last time her life had been in danger, and she and T’ing had been on the run, they’d bolted to the security of the United Nations building as soon as they were able to. Brad had mobilized a strike force of people she had no idea he even knew.
And now this.
For a moment, she considered confronting him. Telling him about the listening device, and asking him bluntly whether or not China was responsible. But no, that would do no good. He was even better than she was at concealing his expressions, and she would know only what he wanted her to know. In the shifting game of alliances and deception, how was one to know who one’s allies really were? And despite her long-held belief that personal relationships were an important part of diplomacy, would their friendship have any effect on the conduct of affairs between nations?
“The mustard catfish, I suggest,” he said finally.
“What?”
“For your dinner. It is one of your favorites, and I noticed several others enjoying it tonight. Perhaps that would be a good selection.” He withdrew his hand, then picked up his own menu to study it.
The world is about to go to crap, and the representatives of the two principals are trying to decide what to have for dinner. Hell of a contribution to world peace. But it could be the last time for a long, long time, if China goes ahead with those missile tests. And the last one ever if they actually have the balls to target Taiwan.
She looked over at T’ing. He raised his head from his menu and smiled, a pleasant, genial expression that betrayed no hint of his real thoughts. And that he had some real thoughts, oh yes, she had no doubt of that. He always knew more of what was at stake than she did, and had a connoisseur’s appreciation for subtle layering of national interests and the complexities of international affairs.
She withdrew her hand from the table. “Yes. The catfish, I believe.”
TEN
USS Jefferson
Admiral’s conference room
2100 local (GMT +10)
With his makeshift staff assembled around his conference room, Batman opened the folder in front of him. He glanced around at the faces, evaluating what he had to work with.
Better than it could have been, but not as good as a regular battle staff. Most of the officers seated at the table were either maintenance experts, exceptionally skilled in managing the supply system and flow o
f work that kept an airwing flying, or supply officers carrying long lists of everything onboard. The hangar bay had been hastily outfitted as a high-level maintenance depot, and the ship was manned with the appropriate personnel. He had jet mechanics, avionics specialists, and electricians instead of pilots and operations specialists, supply clerks instead of radiomen. Still, they were sailors, and there were certain skills they would have their disposal. Chief among them was the ability to take orders and think creatively.
“Okay,” Batman said, “so far, so good. I know this is a short-notice deployment for everyone, and I expect to be advised immediately of any problems that arise because of this. Our primary mission may be as an aircraft repair facility and the supply resource, but let’s not forget one thing, ladies and gentlemen — this is an aircraft carrier. And as such, I expect all of her systems to be fully operational. That includes the catapult, the arresting gear, and every combat system we have on board.” He held up one hand to forestall protest, and continued. “No, I’m not expecting you to get the hangar queens working, learn to fly them, and go on combat missions.”
That garnered a slight chuckle from two of the maintenance officers. One of them spoke up. “Admiral, I’m willing to give it a shot, if you are.” Batman remembered from his service record that the man had flunked out of the Tomcat training pipeline.
Might be interesting to see just how much he remembers.
“That won’t be necessary, but I’ll keep it in mind. No, we need to be able to recover aircraft and launch them again. God forbid, if something should happen to the United States, having an extra big deck ship around might come in awful handy for Admiral Grant. In all probability, it’s not going to happen. But if we have the capability, I want to be able to exercise it.”
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