General Hodson sorted through the papers on the conference table, locating a stack of black-and-white photographs, which he spread across the table for the president to review. Of the fifty-six surface ships that entered the Strait, only a dozen remained afloat, each one on fire, black smoke angling upward as the winds blew westward. The four carriers that had entered the Taiwan Strait were missing; they were on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
“What about Air Force bombers,” the president asked, “operating from Guam?”
General Mel Garrison, the Air Force chief of staff, replied, “Long-range bombers remain a viable asset. However, due to the long flight times, we’re unable to maintain a persistent presence. For the scenario we’re talking about, we need constant tactical air support. That means Air Force fighters operating from bases in the region, or carriers off the coast. We have neither.”
A somber silence enveloped the Command Center as the General’s words sank in. As Brackman surveyed the officers seated around the table, he sensed something he had never felt before. The United States military had always been confident, convinced they would prevail in any conflict. Tonight, there was desperation in their eyes as they attempted to come to terms with the United States’ defeat. Yet at the same time, he sensed a grim determination. A determination shared by their commander-in-chief. His expression hardened as he spoke.
“You’re not giving me any solutions, gentlemen. I want options!” The president slammed his fist on the table, punctuating his statement.
There was a long silence before a general on SecDef Jennings’s side of the table spoke. “Two can play this game, Mr. President.”
The president turned toward Major General Carl Krae, head of Cyber Warfare Command, who followed up. “China knew they couldn’t defeat us in a fair fight, so they cheated.”
“How’s that?” the president asked.
“Cyber warfare,” General Krae replied. “They figured out how to jam our satellites and infect our weapon systems with malware. But two can play this game.”
“Explain, General.”
General Krae turned to the two-star Admiral seated beside him. The Admiral introduced himself first. “Rear Admiral Tim Moss, Mr. President. With the data on the flash drive Miss O’Connor obtained, we know how to revise our torpedo algorithms to make them immune to the Chinese sonar pulse. Even better, we can add an algorithm that will make our torpedoes home on the sonar pulse, virtually guaranteeing a hit.”
“That’s well and good, Admiral,” the president replied, “but we don’t have any fast attacks left in the Pacific. And with both canals unusable, no way to get the Atlantic Fleet submarines there in time. So how does that help us?”
A smile flickered across Admiral Moss’s lips. The unexpected glimmer of confidence caught Brackman’s attention, and he glanced first at the president, then back to Moss as the Admiral continued. “Our submarines don’t have to head south, under Africa or South America, to reach the Pacific. They can travel over the top of the world, under the polar ice cap, cutting the transit time to Japan to twelve days. By the time they exit from beneath the ice cap, we’ll have a fix for our torpedo software they can download and install into their torpedoes.”
The president absorbed the Admiral’s words, identifying its major flaw. “Our satellites are down, so how are our submarines going to download the new software?”
Moss turned to the two-star Admiral beside him. “Rear Admiral Michael Walker, head of Naval Special Warfare Command, will explain.”
“We bring the satellites back up,” Admiral Walker offered.
The president raised an eyebrow. “And how do we do that?”
“Like General Krae mentioned, two can play this game. It won’t be easy, but pending your approval, we’ll send a SEAL team from USS Michigan into China to inject a virus—developed by General Krae’s team—into the PLA’s command and control system. The virus will disrupt the jamming of our satellites and take down every Chinese satellite in the process, as well as knock every new-generation Chinese missile battery off-line. With our satellites up, we’ll be able to download the new torpedo software to our submarines and bring our GPS-guided weapons back into play, all while we cripple Chinese command and control and their missile batteries.”
“How do we get the virus to the Michigan with our satellites down?” the president asked.
“We can transmit the software via one of the X37s. The virus will be a relatively small program, which the X37 communication suite can transmit while it passes overhead. For the large torpedo software download, however, we’ll need our normal communication satellites, which have a geostationary orbit and a larger data rate.”
“The plan sounds doable, but what’s the point? We can’t help Japan defeat China with just submarines. We don’t have any carrier strike groups left in the Pacific, and the Atlantic Fleet carriers will take too long to get there.”
Admiral Healey, Chief of Naval Operations, answered. “There is one additional Pacific Fleet carrier, Ronald Reagan, in overhaul at Pearl Harbor. If we can get her underway, we’ll land an augmented Atlantic Fleet carrier air wing aboard.”
General Ely Williams, Commandant of the Marine Corps, joined in. “And then we can take advantage of the one flaw in China’s battle plan. They struck our Pacific Fleet too early, before either MEF landed on Taiwan. Had they waited, both Marine Corps divisions would have been stranded on the island. However, both MEFs are at sea and available. Additionally, TWO MEF from the East Coast was deployed to the Mediterranean, and their ships made it through the Suez Canal before it was sabotaged. That gives us three MEFs in the Pacific, and if we can clear a path to Japan, we can land three divisions of Marines to assist, as well as bring three Marine air wings into play.”
“There’s one weakness in our plan,” Admiral Healey added. “It’s crucial that the three MEFs be protected from air attack while they off-load their Marines and equipment. China has destroyed or has control of every air base in the region, meaning our air support has to come from ships. Reagan will be augmented with two additional Super Hornet squadrons, but that gives them only seventy-two aircraft to defend against the entire PLA Air Force, which had over one thousand fourth-generation fighters at the beginning of the conflict. We don’t know how many aircraft they’ve lost in the battle for Taiwan and Japan, but it’s likely they can throw several hundred aircraft at the Reagan Task Force.
“In that case, they’ll overwhelm the outer layer of our air defense, leaving it to Reagan’s surface ship escorts, consisting of only six cruisers and destroyers. If China takes out Reagan’s escorts, or they simply run out of anti-air missiles, we could lose not only Reagan, but every amphibious ship in the Navy, not to mention stranding or sinking three Marine divisions and their equipment.”
As the president absorbed Admiral Healey’s grim assessment, General Williams picked up the conversation. “We have a partial solution, Mr. President. Our Marine air wings normally include Harrier jets for ground support. However, we can replace two squadrons with Joint Strike Fighters. The Marine Corps has the Bravo version of the aircraft, which has a short takeoff and vertical landing capability and can deploy from our amphibious assault ships. We can configure the Joint Strike Fighters for tactical air support instead of ground support, augmenting Reagan’s air wing. The fly in the ointment with this plan is that the Joint Strike Fighter hasn’t been authorized for combat yet—but with your approval, we can deploy them.”
“The same goes for the Navy,” Admiral Healey joined in. “We also have two squadrons of Joint Strike Fighters, which we can land aboard Reagan in place of two Super Hornet squadrons. That would give us almost a hundred fighters, of which half would be the new Joint Strike Fighter, which is far superior to anything in China’s arsenal.”
There was silence in the Situation Room before SecDef Jennings summed everything up. “There’s a lot that has to go right with these plans, Mr. President, but we believe it’s doable.”
Aft
er a long moment, the president announced his decision. “Proceed with your plans, gentlemen. Send the Atlantic Fleet carrier strike groups into the Pacific and the Atlantic submarines under the ice. Get Reagan underway, augmented by Joint Strike Fighters, and insert the SEAL team into China.” The president paused, fixing each General and Admiral at the table in succession with a steely glare.
“This time, failure is not an option.”
46
PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII
As nightfall retreated across the Pacific Ocean, the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard, normally placid at this time of day, was a frenzy of activity. Although the skies were clear, a cyclone of men and machines had converged on a large gray warship moored in Dry Dock One. Heavy cranes lifted ordnance across the wharf onto the ship, while smaller cranes swung pallets of supplies to sailors waiting topside. Along the wharf to the south, in a small building serving as the ship’s temporary offices, Captain Charles “CJ” Berger stood at the window, oblivious to the cacophony of sounds around him. He stared at the naval message in his hand in stunned silence.
It was an impossible task. He’d been given seven days to get underway and another twenty-four hours to piece his aircraft carrier together enough to conduct flight operations. Four squadrons of Super Hornets, along with two squadrons of Joint Strike Fighters and a slew of Growlers and Hawkeyes, were scheduled to land aboard his carrier in eight days, where they would be packed inside the Hangar and on the Flight Deck, butts to nuts as if it were a crowded men’s locker room. As Berger wondered how he would fit all of the aircraft aboard his carrier, he looked up toward the dry dock, and the collection of gray parts one might call a ship.
USS Ronald Reagan was in the middle of a yearlong overhaul, scheduled to replace USS George Washington as the Fleet’s Japan-based carrier. However, now that George Washington had been sunk, it looked like that replacement would occur sooner than planned. Unfortunately, the shipyard had spent three months tearing Berger’s ship apart and had just begun the painstaking reassembly with refurbished and replacement systems. There was a modicum of good news; this was a non-refueling overhaul, so both reactors and their engine rooms were still operational. Propulsion would not be a problem. However, the Flight Deck was in tatters, all four catapults and the arresting wires completely disassembled. It would take a Herculean effort to undock the ship—two weeks minimum—and another month to reassemble the required systems and train his crew to safely conduct flight operations.
There was a knock on the door and Berger acknowledged. Captain Tim Powers, his Executive Officer, arrived with the Shipyard Commander, Captain Debra Driza, and a half-dozen civilians. His XO’s face was flustered. Although they hadn’t exchanged words after the XO handed the message to Berger this morning, he no doubt shared his Captain’s opinion the task was impossible. However, the first words out of Captain Driza’s mouth indicated the Shipyard Commander did not share those feelings.
“We’ll have you underway in seven days as directed, CJ.” The civilians shot uneasy glances in Driza’s direction as the Captain continued. “Hull integrity will be restored and we’ll flood down the dry dock in seven days. Will you be able to bring at least one reactor and engine room up by then?”
Berger was caught off guard by the Shipyard Commander’s optimism. It took a second to digest her question, realizing the onus had been placed upon his crew. “Yes,” he answered. “We’ll be ready to get underway.” Berger still grappled with the impossibility of the shipyard’s task, but pushed past it. “What about supplies?”
“As you can see, we’ve already begun,” Driza replied, “but we’ll only have enough time to load one month of consumables and sixty percent of your ordnance.”
Berger nodded, a frown on his face. “That’ll have to do then. Will we be able to top off JP-5?”
“Yes, jet fuel won’t be a problem.”
“What about my catapults, arresting wires, and elevators?”
“We’ll work around the clock until you undock, and we’ll have shipyard Tiger Teams aboard to continue reassembling your critical flight systems along the way. You should have at least one arresting wire and elevator in operation by the time the air wing arrives. The Tiger Teams will continue working as you transit the Pacific, and your carrier should be fully operational by the time you reach Japan.”
Berger nodded again, not yet sharing the Shipyard Commander’s optimism. They needed a minor miracle. He turned to his Executive Officer. “Round up the department heads. We’ve got some work to do.”
47
USS MICHIGAN
Inside the submarine’s cramped sick bay, measuring only six feet wide by fifteen feet long, Christine O’Connor sat on the cold metal examining table, her legs dangling off the edge as the ship’s Medical Officer, Commander Joe Aleo, prepared to inspect her right arm. Christine removed the sling from her shoulder, then unzipped her blue coveralls down to her waist, exposing her white T-shirt. After she pulled her right arm from the coveralls, Commander Aleo peered closely at the bullet’s entrance and exit wounds.
As Aleo examined the wounds, Christine’s thoughts drifted to the message they had received a few hours earlier. Two days ago, the United States Pacific Fleet had been virtually wiped out. Michigan’s crew had been in the dark at first—the submarine message broadcast had gone down as the four carrier strike groups swung inside the Taiwan Strait. Michigan, along with her sister SSGN, Ohio, had been left behind on the east side of the island to protect the amphibious ships from any Chinese submarines that slipped past the fast attacks.
It had been maddening, cut off from communications, unable to determine what was going on, able to discern only that the situation had taken a turn for the worse when the amphibious ships suddenly reversed course, heading away from Taiwan at maximum speed. Unable to obtain further orders, Captain Wilson decided to accompany the Marine Expeditionary Forces east into deep water. As Michigan searched the skies for a radio signal, it was only a few hours ago that the submarine had received a lone transmission.
The content of the message spread through the crew like wildfire, and after the shock wore off, the Navy SEALs had gone to work, converging on the Battle Management Center. The Navy SEALs were nothing like what Christine had imagined. Instead of Rambo, they more closely resembled computer geeks. Thus far, they huddled around their laptop computers and consoles in the Battle Management Center, meticulously reviewing mission plans. In her limited interactions with the SEALs, they had been polite and respectful, not the aggressive, testosterone-laden demeanor she expected from the Navy’s elite killers.
Commander Aleo released Christine’s arm, pushing the sling to the side of the examining table. “You won’t need this anymore. The wound has healed nicely and you should have full use of your arm in another week, after your triceps muscle finishes healing. Feel free to use your arm as much as you want, so long as you can tolerate the pain. Take one of the eight-hundred-milligram pills of ibuprofen if the pain gets too bad.”
Aleo stepped to the side and Christine hopped off the examining table, flexing her arm again before shrugging back into the top of her coveralls, zipping up the front.
“Thanks, Doc.” Christine had learned a lot during her short time aboard Michigan, and had picked up some of the unique vocabulary. Whether the submarine crew included a Corpsman or a Medical Diving Officer like Commander Aleo when SEALs were aboard, they were universally referred to as Doc.
“No problem, Miss O’Connor. Let me know if you need anything else.” Aleo unlatched the door to his infirmary, holding it open for Christine.
Christine stepped out of Doc’s office into the starboard side passageway of Missile Compartment Second Level, almost running into someone as she rounded the corner. A quick glance told Christine the Navy SEAL standing in front of her was no computer geek. Lieutenant Jake Harrison had just stepped out of the showers, wearing nothing but a pair of flip-flops and a white towel held loosely around his waist with one hand, a toiletry bag in the othe
r. Damp brown hair clung to his forehead, and Christine couldn’t keep herself from surveying his broad shoulders, her eyes involuntarily moving to his muscular chest, then down to his abdomen, where a long, flat expanse of muscles disappeared beneath the white towel. There was no way around it; Jake was still an attractive man.
But Harrison was no youngster. He was the same age as Christine, much older than his rank implied. He had enlisted twenty-four years ago, commissioned an officer after reaching the rank of Chief. If the quiet rumors were true, they had been an eventful twenty-four years. The Navy SEALs aboard Michigan were tight-lipped about the missions they’d been on, but Christine had gleaned that Harrison had led numerous forays against insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Christine caught a smile from Harrison in her peripheral vision, and she realized she was still staring at the top of his white towel. She looked up toward his deep blue eyes, the temperature of her cheeks rising. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed her stare or her reddening face. He was undoubtedly used to those kinds of looks from women, even if that woman happened to be the president’s national security advisor.
However, Harrison wasn’t staring at her face, and Christine’s blush turned even warmer when she realized Harrison had taken advantage of the few seconds while her eyes wandered. The blue coveralls she wore fit snugly to her curves, and Harrison wasn’t the first man aboard to have his eyes drawn to her breasts, straining inside the confining jumpsuit.
Harrison’s eyes met hers, and neither person said a word for a moment, until he broke into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Chris,” he said as he gripped the towel tighter around his waist. “Sorry for the lack of clothes. But I see you’re also missing some attire.”
Christine didn’t understand his comment until she followed his eyes to her right arm. “Oh, my sling. Doc just took a look and said I don’t need it anymore.” She flexed her arm into a muscle pose, wincing as her triceps burned from the effort. She suddenly felt embarrassed, showing off like a teenage boy on the beach, a strange role reversal.
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