Actually, the American navy’s security operations were what he expected. Five aircraft carriers in port at one time, plus several helicopter assault carriers, was a juicy target. Better than Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. Much better. The Americans weren’t such fools that they didn’t know that. Yet the Chinese preparations were adequate. The attack would be a success.
He glanced at Choy Lee from time to time. Choy’s usefulness was almost at an end. He thought Choy might suspect that, so he would have to be watched carefully. He seemed quite calm today. Had even caught a couple of fish, one big enough to keep.
Fortunately the day was fairly benign, with broken high clouds that the sun peeked through from time to time, not too much wind and only light chop. Six or seven miles visibility. Zhang lit another cigarette and went back to scanning with his binoculars and checking the radar presentation from time to time.
He was watching when he saw the blip of a large ship appear on the scope, trailed by two smaller ones, passing Point Comfort, heading into the bay. Using the binoculars, he saw a helicopter assault ship and two destroyers emerge from the haze, like ghost ships becoming real, on course westward, no doubt to moor at the carrier piers at the naval base. As she steamed along he watched her with his binoculars. She was a gorgeous gray ship, not as big as Liaoning, but impressive. Helicopters filled her flight deck.
He would, he decided, motor into the mouth of the Elizabeth River later this afternoon, at least an hour before darkness fell, for a look around. Then he would fill the tanks of the Whaler at the marina. Again. He filled them every evening, just in case.
Choy Lee would have been relieved if he had known Zhang thought him calm today. He had a big decision to make, and he was sorting his options. Since he hadn’t decided what to do, he was here today, to give himself more time to think, and to watch Zhang and see if he could get a hint of Zhang’s mission and plans. Choy sensed that Zhang’s expectations were rising. He was more tense, never smiled, never made a joke. He is waiting. For what?
For the American carriers. Obviously. But why?
Zhang was watching the helicopter carrier now.
Should he tell Sally Chan of his suspicions? Would she go with him if he disappeared? Or would she demand he call the navy or FBI and tell them what he knew, and suspected? What would become of him if he did?
Bored, he took his cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. No service. Maybe he was too far from a tower.
But there should be cell service out here. There always had been.
He pocketed the phone. Thought about telling Zhang.
Something made him refrain. Zhang was using the binoculars again.
Oh God. What to do?
He went back to fishing.
*
The e-mails from Kat Spiers and her daughter, Ellie, and son-in-law, Harold, started a firestorm in cyberspace. By the time they were on the Washington, DC, Beltway, over ten thousand people in the Norfolk/Portsmouth/Virginia Beach area had seen some version of one or more of the e-mails and were forwarding them on to friends, acquaintances and co-workers. People from all walks of life received the news with varying degrees of belief and disbelief. Some thought the whole thing was a joke and said so. Others weren’t so sure. Some people merely forwarded on the e-mail they received; others undertook to rewrite the message on other websites. The Chinese had a dozen bombs hidden on the naval base. Airplanes were going to drop bombs. Intercontinental ballistic missiles were going to wipe out the fleet. The missiles were already in the air. Or they were being prepared for launch. Some folks even added that the security exercise at the base was a war preparation.
A great many of the people who received these messages or read the Facebook posts didn’t stop to ask themselves or anyone else if any of this might be true. They hustled the kids into the car when they got home from school—some went to schools to get their kids and told the school authorities why—threw in whatever duffel their car would hold, and headed for the roads out. Within an hour the roads were clogged. Traffic accidents began to slow the exodus.
The news reached the local television and radio stations at about the same time, which was lightning fast. Some producers just put the rumors on the air. Others called the public affairs office at the naval base to get their reaction. They were going to do a story about the rumors anyway, but would be delighted to give someone in uniform fifteen seconds to deny everything.
The public affairs officer, or PAO, at Naval Base Norfolk was Lieutenant Commander Heidi Fritzsche, and she was winding up the day’s business when the first call came in. She listened, incredulous, and asked the television station dude to hold the line.
She rushed down the hallway to the CO’s office and asked the civilian receptionist if Captain Spiers was still there. Informed he was, she rapped on his doorframe once, opened the door and rushed into his office.
“Captain, you aren’t going to believe this, but WNOF just called. They say the news is all over the Internet that the Chinese are going to bomb the base. Their phones are ringing off the hooks. They want a comment from us.”
Captain Spiers’ face went dead white. He had to swallow twice to get enough composure to say, “If they are, they haven’t told us about it.”
“The Internet!” Heidi Fritzsche declared bitterly, and trotted back toward her office and the waiting telephone.
Butler Spiers buried his face in his hands.
Two minutes later, when he felt a bit more composed, he checked his Rolodex, picked up his telephone and called Washington.
Back in her office, Heidi Fritzsche’s phones were ringing constantly. As quickly as her yeomen could field a call on one line, explain about the security exercise and hang up, the phone rang again. Heidi took a call from a man who said he was the manager of a large hotel—he named it—in Virginia Beach. “We’re hosting a convention of Vietnam vets. They’re lined up at the desk ten deep trying to check out. What the hell is going on out there at the base?”
“A routine security exercise.”
“Not according to the Internet.”
“We don’t run the Internet. We’re just trying to run our little corner of the navy.” She hung up and fielded the next call, which was from the PAO at Naval Air Station Oceana.
“Heidi, the phones are ringing off the hook over here. Some of my staff have received e-mails saying that the naval base is preparing for a nuclear attack from the Chinese.”
“For God’s sake!”
“They say it’s Pearl Harbor all over again.”
Involuntarily Heidi looked out her window. Sunlight and shadow were marching across the lawn. The flag flapped vigorously on its pole. Beyond the roof of the next building, she could see superstructures and masts festooned with radars and antennae of ships at the carrier piers. A helicopter went by overhead. Cars and trucks on the streets.
“No one is bombing anything here,” she shouted into the phone. “We’re having a routine security exercise that’s been planned for two months and announced to the public. Read your damn messages! And get a goddamn grip!” She slammed the phone down.
*
Anastasia Roberts broke the news to Jake Grafton. “We’ve received a call from the Pentagon. They’re fielding inquiries from various networks and newspapers. It seems the Internet is full of messages saying that the Chinese are about to attack the Norfolk naval base. ICBMs are in the air, there are bombs hidden on the base, it’s Pearl Harbor all over again. The stuff has gone viral on Facebook and Twitter and presumably every other Internet site on the planet.”
Jake Grafton just stared at her. So she went on. “The public in the area around the base has panicked. Massive traffic jams of people trying to get the hell out. Cell phone towers are overloaded. People are driving the wrong way on the interstate lanes. Lots of accidents. Some of the hospitals and nursing homes are demanding help to evacuate their patients.”
He made a face.
“The Pentagon has told everyone that the base is h
aving a routine security exercise that’s been planned for months. Maybe some people believe that, but a lot of people don’t.”
I wonder if the watcher will? he thought.
“And Sal Molina is on line one.” Anastasia Roberts wheeled and left the office.
Jake picked up his phone and pushed the button for line one. “Yes, Sal.”
“Have you heard the latest from Norfolk?”
“Yes.”
“The president told the press officer to try to calm the media. He told me to call you and ask, ‘What the fuck, over?’”
Anastasia stuck her head back through the door. She mouthed, “CNO on line two.”
“I have another call, Sal. I’ll get right back to you.”
“Okay.”
Cart McKiernan said, “Norfolk is in meltdown. The news got out, somehow. Maybe not—but rumors are flying thick and fast. They’re on the Internet, and now television and radio. I’m going down there on a chopper from the Pentagon in about an hour. You want to go?”
“Yes. I’ll bring Sal Molina.”
So he called Molina back, cut him short and said, “Admiral McKiernan and I are going to Norfolk. You want to go?”
Molina didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“See you at the Pentagon helipad in an hour. Bring a toothbrush.”
Jake called Harley Merritt and gave him a quick brief, told his secretary to alert his driver and security team, then went into his office bathroom and threw some things into his overnight bag. When he was in the limo on the way to the Pentagon, he called his wife and told her he wouldn’t be home tonight.
“I’ve been watching television, Jake. Are you going to Norfolk?”
“Yes.”
“Dear God Almighty,” Callie said.
*
Although she was certainly no Internet junkie and didn’t own a cell phone, Sally Chan heard about the panic in midafternoon from the television set above the bar in her father’s restaurant. The place was unusually empty. She had the place settings on all the tables; her father was cooking in the kitchen; her mother was behind the bar inventorying the liquor, wine and beer. Mrs. Chan had turned on the television for the company.
Sally happened to glance at it, saw the news ribbon scrolling across the bottom and paused to read it. An afternoon soap opera was playing. “U.S. Navy spokesmen at Naval Base Norfolk and in the Pentagon have denied that the security exercise at the base is in any way related to the Internet rumor that a Chinese nuclear weapon is hidden on the naval base.” There was more …
Within sixty seconds the network interrupted the program to air a live interview with the White House press secretary. Sally stepped behind the bar and turned up the volume. He was loose, smiling, as if all this were a big joke. “Debunking Internet rumors will be a new career for me—”
Sally changed channels, got a local station, which was airing footage shot from a helicopter of massive traffic jams on the interstates leading to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel and the tunnel under Hampton Roads. She and her mother stood mesmerized watching the camera pan from a height of perhaps five hundred feet.
Cars jammed the roadways as far as the camera could see. A breathless local announcer confirmed that people were fleeing the area as quickly as the roads allowed. Hospitals and nursing homes were demanding transport for patients. Now the camera depicted a demonstration that was almost a riot in front of Norfolk City Hall by a mixed-race crowd. One demonstrator, a fat woman, demanded the authorities transport people from the area who didn’t own cars. “Get some buses,” she shouted into the camera. “Get some city buses and get us out of here! Don’t leave us to die like you did to the poor people during Katrina.” Katrina was the last big hurricane to slam New Orleans.
There was more of the same on other channels.
Bedlam. Mass panic.
Sally turned off the audio of the idiot tube and poured two glasses of wine.
“What does it mean?” Mrs. Chan asked, fingering her glass.
“I don’t know,” Sally answered. She sat on a bar stool to drink hers.
“The Chinese again!” Mrs. Chan said with contempt. “Why do they always blame the Chinese? We are good Americans. We work hard and send our children to college and pay our taxes. We are good Americans, as good as anybody.”
Sally wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Choy Lee, supposedly retired from California high tech, yet he never talked about California or his life or work there. Perhaps there was a failed love affair, but why had he crossed the country to live here, and why did he do nothing? Except fish.
Then there was Zhang Ping, who spoke essentially no English. Why was he here? A pal from California, Choy said. Yet Zhang said little, even to Choy, except to occasionally ask him to pass along a compliment on the excellence of the family’s food. He fished, too.
In the light of the almost unbelievable accusations about diabolical Chinese intentions at the naval base, all these little things became larger, more ominous. Who were Zhang and Choy?
If they weren’t spies, why were they here?
But the whole thing is ridiculous, Sally Chan told herself. A Chinese attack on the Norfolk naval base? That would start World War III. Wouldn’t it?
Torn by indecision, she watched the news. After a bit the local station stopped showing traffic jams and stories about panicked old people at nursing homes and poor people in the ghetto, and showed a photo of five carriers and two amphibious assault ships at the carrier piers during the Christmas holidays two years ago.
So how many carriers were going to be here this Christmas?
According to the television news person, someone had asked that question of the Pentagon, and had been rebuffed. “We never talk about future ship movements,” a man in a blue uniform said on camera.
Sally Chan decided to call Choy Lee. She dialed his cell … and the call didn’t go through. She tried again. Nothing. The fourth time his phone rang. After five rings the call rolled to his voice mail.
“Call me when you can,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
*
The superstory of the day hit the Chinese embassy in Washington like an incoming missile. No one there knew anything about the voyage of Ocean Holiday or the mission of Lieutenant Commander Zhang Ping, both of which were tightly held military secrets.
The staff put out a press release denying the rumors as vicious smears, and reported all this to Beijing in encrypted flash messages. Of course, the Chinese foreign ministry there had their own Internet sources, so they knew all about it.
The answer came back to the Chinese embassy in Washington thirty minutes after it was sent. The ambassador was to announce that he was going to Norfolk to tell everyone that China was being foully smeared by outrageous Internet lies, and to reassure the citizens there. And then he was to go. Immediately.
In the meantime, the embassy press officer was to point out to the American media that an outrageous slander like this one about the Americans would never be allowed on the Internet in China.
*
While all this was going on, Zhang Ping started his boat toward the mouth of the Elizabeth River. He had to use the channel over the Hampton Roads tunnel. The radar reflectors at each side of the channel showed nicely on his radar screen. As he closed the distance, Choy Lee pointed out the traffic backed up on the access road to the tunnel on Willoughby Spit. Zhang used his binoculars.
He could see that traffic was stopped. Trucks, cars, vans, everything. Flashing lights on police cars. A helicopter—no, two helicopters—hovering near the tunnel entrance.
He passed the binoculars to Choy, who focused, scanned the scene, then handed them back. “An accident in the tunnel,” Choy explained. “This happens often. Last week the cars sat for an hour before a wrecker could get through from the other end to remove the cars.”
Zhang recalled the incident. “Americans have too many cars,” he said dismissively, and turned his binoculars to the amphibious assault
ship and her escorting destroyers, which were ahead of him going through the channel over the tunnel. A harbor patrol craft was following the procession. Its machine gun was unmanned. Zhang wondered how long it would take for the crew of the patrol boat to go to action stations and man the weapon, if they were told to do so.
Choy Lee turned on his cell phone. It refused to log on to the cellular network. Another day in America, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.
—Winston Churchill
It was early in the morning in China when Admiral Wu was summoned to the capital to meet with the Paramount Leader at a session of the Central Military Commission. The staff was monitoring the media reaction in the United States to the Internet rumors, of which they had translated quite a sample.
The plan had not included a contingency for the Americans getting advance warning of the Chinese stealth attack on their ships, only two of which were actually at the carrier piers.
Tomorrow, the eighteenth of December in America, the men gathered around the table were told, the third one was scheduled to arrive. The final two would arrive on the twentieth and twenty-second. All three were in the Atlantic with their task forces bound for the entrance to the Chesapeake.
The choices were obvious: Abort the attack, detonate the bomb as soon as possible, or await the carriers and detonate it then.
“Does the American navy know the weapon is there?” the Paramount Leader asked the head of the intelligence service, who was in attendance.
“We have received no indication that they know, or even suspect. They are checking the waters around the base, have tightened security, but we knew they would do that. There is no indication they are doing anything that we didn’t think they would do. However, the local cell towers around Norfolk are out of service. A technical problem, the telephone companies said.”
“Could these Internet rumors convince them that there is a weapon there?”
The Art of War: A Novel Page 31