Drone Command
Page 28
“Oshiro! Oshiro!” The spotter shouted his boss’s name over and over. What else could the American want?
The big American turned his cold-blooded gaze toward him. Shouted something again. The spotter couldn’t make it out.
The spotter saw his friend shouting at him, face twisted with rage. He couldn’t quite hear him, but the way his mouth formed the words it looked like he was screaming for him to shut the fuck up.
The American dashed over to the spotter, pushing the wire cutters into his face and shouting again. The spotter felt his bladder give way, hot piss welling up inside of his pants. What did this crazy bastard want now? To say the name again?
“Oshiro! OSHIRO! O-SHI-RO!”
The American’s livid scowl softened. He stood, touched his earpiece, then spoke. A moment later, the spotter barely heard the American say, “Oshiro.” The spotter sighed with relief. He’d guessed right. The American had wanted to know who had sent them. Oshiro-san was his oyabun, the boss of his gumi.
The American tapped his earpiece again, tossed the wire cutters onto the table. He grabbed something and turned back around, marching over to the shooter.
Oh, shit.
The American shoved a clear plastic bag over the shooter’s head, whipped out a long white plastic cable tie, and ripped it around the shooter’s neck, zipping it tightly.
The shooter panicked, screamed. When he inhaled, the plastic bag sucked partway into his mouth, which only made him panic more. He exhaled until he out of breath inhaled again, and sucked the bag back into his mouth. The cycle repeated. The American watched emotionlessly. The breaths came shorter and shorter. The bag fogged.
The American stood and turned his withering gaze at the spotter. He stepped slowly over to him, knelt down. Held another plastic bag and zip tie in front of the spotter’s face. Leaned in close. Spoke, moving his mouth slowly.
The spotter squinted, trying desperately to hear the words.
“Ya-ma-da? Ya-ma-da?” the American asked.
“Hai! Yamada! Yamada!”
A slew of words vomited out of the spotter’s mouth, explaining that his oyabun Oshiro-san had ordered the attack at sea on the American Yamada, using one of his own fishing trawlers but making it look Chinese, just like he’d ordered. It was just a job. Nothing personal. Him? He liked Americans. Even drove an American—
A plastic bag snapped over the spotter’s face, clouding his vision. He kicked and twisted as hard as he could, but the American planted a heavy knee into his chest, pinning him to the ground. A moment later, the zip tie cinched around his neck. He tried not to panic, tried to take small, measured breaths. Felt more than two hundred pounds lift off his chest as the American stood and stepped away.
The spotter rolled over just in time to watch the American jog out the door. He shouted for mercy through the fogging bag. The last thing he saw was the American’s hand hitting the light switch, throwing the room into an eternal black.
SIXTY-TWO
THE SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
18 MAY 2017
10:42 A.M. (EDT)
The Situation Room had just been refurbished again, updated with the latest security and communications equipment. It looked nothing like Kennedy’s original room, with its small table, paneled walls, analogue clocks, and Bakelite telephones. But Lane felt the weight of history nonetheless. JFK had created the Situation Room after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, believing his administration had stumbled into a crisis and nearly a world war because he lacked enough credible information. Fifty-five years later, Lane still felt like he didn’t have all the intel he needed to avoid a war with China, despite all of the computers and high-tech gear surrounding him. But he was going to have to make a decision today nonetheless.
Lane sat at the head of the rectangular mahogany table where he had control of the video monitors. The others sat in the high-backed leather chairs in no particular order, ignoring protocol. Lane was informal and preferred to keep it that way even in the Situation Room. In attendance were JCS Chairman General Onstot and the other service chiefs, along with Director of National Intelligence Pia, Secretary of State Wheeler, Secretary of Defense Shafer, and National Security Advisor Garza.
The image on the nearly wall-length HD screen opposite Lane was a live satellite video feed showing the Chinese fleet steaming toward the Senkakus. He intentionally kept all of the other video screens blank. Too much information was as big a problem as the lack of it.
Lane spoke to the speakerphone on the table. Myers was on the other end in Japan. “What’s the word from your man Ian?”
“He’s still running the software analysis. He isn’t able to confirm whether or not the Wu-14 will actually work.”
“And the bot?”
“It’s found several Chinese classified test results claiming success.”
The DNI chimed in. “Same as the thumb-drive data you sent us. Our analysts say it’s legit, so that clinches it.”
“Not necessarily,” Myers said. “Ian believes it’s possible all of those reports might be falsified, including the internal ones.”
“Why would the Chinese file bogus test results with their own people?”
“For the same reasons our defense contractors sometimes do,” Garza said. “They massage the data to get continued funding for their pet projects. Even some of the peer-reviewed science journals are loaded with bogus research these days. Everyone’s out for a buck.”
“Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President. I’ll wait for your further instructions.” Myers clicked off.
“Well, you heard it for yourselves. President Myers says that if we don’t send the George Washington across the red line and block the Chinese assault on the Senkakus the Japanese will go to war without us.” Lane turned to Secretary Wheeler. “Do you concur with her assessment?”
Wheeler nodded. “The Japanese will undoubtedly go to war without us, especially now that the presence of the Chinese fleet was leaked to the Japanese press. New and larger mass protests have broken out all over Japan. If Ito doesn’t act quickly, his government will fall and a militarist right-wing coalition will undoubtedly be formed. If that happens, all bets are off.”
Lane turned to the DNI. “How did the Japanese media get this information?”
Pia shrugged his shoulders. “A leak in Ito’s cabinet or maybe on the JSDF staff. Certainly wasn’t on our end, otherwise it would’ve gone to an American media outlet.”
“The Japanese won’t be waiting for us for much longer. Our fleet guys at Yokosuka report their JMSDF counterparts are prepping for war even as we speak,” Onstot said.
The George Washington was ported out of Yokosuka, but the carrier and its battle group were already at sea. After his meeting with the JCS at the Tank several days earlier, Lane had decided to deploy the George Washington to Okinawa for a “training exercise,” hoping that it would prove to be enough of a deterrent to keep the Chinese at bay, but clearly the ploy had failed. The George Washington and its escorts were two miles north of Okinawa, which kept them safely beyond the Chinese red line, but still within striking distance of the Senkakus.
“Still no word from President Sun?” Lane asked.
Wheeler shook her head. “He’s just waiting to see how all of this plays out to his advantage. Our best guess is that he’s hoping to clean house when this is all over. It’s a shrewd gamble.”
“He’s a sonofabitch for risking a war for his personal political gain.”
“Like every other fucking politician,” Garza said. Catching himself, he added, “Present company excluded.”
“He’s not the only one. The rest of the PLA is standing on the sidelines, too. They’ll be the first ones to applaud if Admiral Ji pulls this thing off,” Shafer said.
Wheeler drummed her fingers on the table, weighing her response. “My gut says no. We’ve communicated our position clearly and forthrightly. There’s no misunderstanding. If the George Washington doesn’t deter them on the far side of the red line, it won’t on the near side.”
“Which only confirms President Myers’s report. The Chinese wouldn’t be this bold if they didn’t possess a fully operational carrier-killing missile,” Onstot said. “The navy sure as hell believes it. Our satellites report that a DF-21D mobile launcher at Ningbo has been prepared and is ready for launch.”
“The Wu-14?” Lane asked.
“Based on what Pearce and Myers described, I would say so.”
“Should we risk sending the George Washington over the red line?”
“The navy says not unless we’re willing to do a preemptive strike on that mobile platform,” Shafer said.
“Which starts the war,” Garza said. “Exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”
“That platform might be a decoy. The real launcher might be somewhere else,” General Onstot said.
The DNI shook his head. “Our intelligence reports indicate no other movement or deployment of mobile launchers outside of Ningbo, something they should’ve done as a decoy move if nothing else. Somebody over there isn’t doing Feng and Ji any favors.”
“Does that mean President Sun is sending us a signal?” Lane asked. The CIA had just confirmed that both Vice Chairman Feng and Admiral Ji were on board the Liaoning.
The secretary of state shook her head. “I’m not sure. Feng and Ji are thick as thieves, and the two of them together pose the greatest threat to Sun’s presidency.”
“You’re saying he’s hoping they’ll go down with the ship?” Lane asked, incredulous.
“He isn’t doing anything extra to prevent that possibility, that’s for sure,” Garza said.
Lane turned back to Pia. “What if we ask the Chinese for a forty-eight-hour delay?”
“To what end? They’re determined to seize the Senkakus even if they granted us another forty-eight hours, which they likely won’t.”
“And if we don’t do anything and allow the Chinese to seize the Senkakus and abandon the Japanese to their fate, all of our other allies in the region—Taiwan, the Philippines, even Australia—will question our commitment to them. They’ll run as fast as they can to Beijing to cut their best deals before the Chinese turn their fleets in their direction,” Wheeler said.
“A complete power realignment throughout the western Pacific. Hell, all of Asia, for that matter,” Shafer added.
“And you’ll embolden the North Koreans for sure,” Pia said.
Onstot leaned forward. “For the record, the navy strongly believes that sending the George Washington over the red line will result in its destruction.”
“So we’re still at square one. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Lane said.
“It’s a lose-lose situation,” Garza said. “A one-handed clap.”
“Almost,” Lane said, leaning back. “There’s still one option.”
His advisors all exchanged a glance, curious. “What have we missed?” Wheeler finally asked.
Lane smiled. “Pearce.”
SIXTY-THREE
ON BOARD THE TIGER II NEAR MAO ISLAND
EAST CHINA SEA
19 MAY 2017
09:58 A.M. (JST)
The waters surrounding the Tiger II were a welter of mechanical noise. The grinding metallic acoustics of the incessantly turning drill bit carried for miles beneath the waves, the bit itself driven by enormous diesel engines thrumming on deck like a slow-moving freight train. Enormous thrusters beneath the hull of the giant drillship erupted periodically, churning the sea in a delicate dance choreographed by the finely tuned electronic sensors and blazingly fast computers that kept the forty-five-thousand-ton vessel perfectly positioned in the turgid waters. Without benefit of anchors or fixed assemblies, the automated dynamic-positioning system was the only way to keep the drill assembly perfectly aligned. Otherwise, disaster.
The tired radar operator kept a bleary eye on his scope, trying to stay focused. He crushed another Red Bull can and tossed it in the garbage. It was his third double shift in as many days, midnight to four p.m. Graveyard was the worst. The most exciting thing he ever saw on his scope was the occasional school of fish passing by. He paid little attention to the small blip approaching the rig two hundred meters below the surface. But when the blip reached the spinning drill shaft, he became more interested; most fish didn’t approach the noisy assembly that closely. As the blip rose, it came into underwater-camera range. He smiled. It was a manta ray, its large smooth wings flapping effortlessly in the dark waters below. Apparently, it was curious. He wondered what a manta ray would taste like. Probably like shark, which he favored. Fishing was his passion on the mainland. He wanted to cast a line off the rig’s deck in his off-hours, but the tight-assed captain had forbidden it.
The manta ray passed out of camera range. The sleepy radar operator clucked his tongue in disappointment. Another long shift, boring as hell.
Until the manta ray exploded.
SIXTY-FOUR
ON BOARD THE SWORD DRAGON
EAST CHINA SEA
19 MAY 2017
09:58 A.M. (JST)
The manta ray was actually a mantabot, another example of beautifully engineered biomimicry. Nature was the best designer and the manta ray was an ideal underwater foil, a graceful swimmer that could carry massive amounts of weight but expended little energy as it glided on its winglike pectoral fins between long, slow, powerful strokes. The mantabot’s pectoral fins were constructed out of highly flexible silicon wrapped around articulating titanium bones, but its main body was an aluminum storage compartment containing onboard electronics, power supply, and payload. In this case, the payload was an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) bomb.
Pearce had earlier deployed the autonomous underwater vehicle from one of the torpedo tubes of Commander Onizuka’s submarine, the Sword Dragon. Swimming virtually undetected until it reached the platform, the mantabot’s stealthiest device was its appearance. Nobody would guess that the familiar shape of the silently swimming batoid was anything other than a manta ray, even as the mantabot breached the surface, an unusual activity for the large fish.
The EMP explosion instantly fried all the electronics on the civilian drillship—computer chips, motherboards, sensors. Every video monitor, camera display, iPod, and chip-based device was immediately taken out of service, including all the computers and sensors powering the automated positioning system keeping the Tiger II in place. Even the massive diesel motors were governed by computers. They shut down as well. The drill bit ground to a halt.
To the scrambling crew, it appeared as if a massive power outage had just occurred. But the automated power-backup systems couldn’t bring the diesel motors or the automated positioning system back on line. Within a few minutes, the churning seas battering the hull of the Tiger II nudged the forty-five-thousand-ton vessel out of alignment, snapping the drill assembly in half. The ship was in deep water; no anchor chain on board could reach the bottom. With no engines online, the ship was now helplessly adrift.
Thanks to his mantabot, Pearce was able to completely shut down the entire drilling operation without firing a shot or shedding a single drop of blood. The Japanese submarine crew shouted triumphantly as Commander Onizuka reported the results. He and Pearce shook hands.
“So far so good,” Onizuka said.
Pearce nodded. “Yeah, but that was the easy part.” He glanced over at Dr. Ashley. She understood.
Even if they managed to pull off the second half of the mission, Pearce doubted they would get out of it alive.
S
IXTY-FIVE
ON BOARD THE LIAONING, STEAMING TOWARD MAO ISLAND
19 MAY 2017
09:59 A.M. (JST)
The task force was still two hours away from Mao Island and the Diaoyu Islands. The PLAN marines were making final preparations for loading into their hovercraft, and the Liaoning’s fighter-bombers and surveillance aircraft were launching as fast as the air boss could get them safely into the air. The deck thundered each time the catapult exploded, throwing another multiton airplane into the sky from the angled waist ramp, while more powerful jets rocketed into the air on their own power with the aid of the forward bow “ski jump” ramp. Neither Admiral Ji nor the ship’s captain was taking any chances. They were supremely confident the Americans would hesitate and offer no resistance, but putting all their aircraft in the air would serve as both a training exercise and a wise precaution.
Admiral Ji resented Vice Chairman Feng’s presence on the carrier, let alone in the CIC, the high-tech nerve center where combat operations were conducted. The heavily air-conditioned room looked like the deck of a starship to Feng, bathed in blue digital light and crowded with dozens of computer monitors manned by young officers and enlisted people wearing the familiar blue camouflage uniforms of the PLAN. In the center of the room was the threat assessment display (TAD), a giant digital monitor showing the Liaoning in the center of the vertical transparent glass.
Feng’s arrival on board ship was an obvious attempt by him to share in the glory of Admiral Ji’s impending victory over the hated Japanese and arrogant Americans. When Feng’s helicopter appeared on the horizon, Ji seriously considered shooting it down, but there would be ample time after the coup to deal with him and his cronies. For now, he was still a useful tool in the struggle with President Sun.