Tipping Point

by David Poyer

  There was an uncomfortable dance as they found chairs. The Indians started to settle down, then got up again. Apparently they didn’t want to sit next to Captain Han. After several awkward moments, Dan found himself between the Indians and the Chinese. He nodded to Han, who bowed his head but said nothing. After a few minutes of platitudes and gratitudes, though, the secretary called on “the senior officer in charge of our naval relief efforts, Captain Daniel Lendon, United States Navy.”

  “The name is Lenson,” he corrected mildly, standing.

  “Captain Lenson, sorry. Are there remarks you would like to—?”

  The scream of a landing transport drowned out his words. Dan cleared his throat and took out his PDA. “Um, thank you. First I would like to thank all present for their cooperation. We’ve already provided over three hundred tons of relief supplies, aside from transport, and communications, and water. I’d like to remind everyone, including our latest arrivals, to keep a listening watch on the coordination net. We need to deconflict our ship movements to anchorage and offload areas, and our helicopter operations as well, both for increased efficiency and to assure the safety of all concerned. In concert with the harbormaster, I will continue to coordinate naval efforts, including”—he looked down at the Chinese—“Captain Han’s ship, with his permission.”

  Han said, in clear English, “We will cooperate in providing necessary relief supplies.”

  Hmm. Not exactly agreeing they would do so under his direction, but not disagreeing, either. Dan said, “Captain, if it’s agreeable, I’d like to locate you outboard of USS Tippecanoe, at the freight terminal. We can use your cranes to discharge cargo from both ships.”

  After a moment Han said, “That is a reasonable way to proceed. If the local authorities direct me to berth there.”

  After an awkward pause, Jaleel said, “Would you mind?”

  “I will do so,” Han said, to the colonel, not Dan.

  O-kay … He finished up with several specifics, then turned the floor back to Jaleel.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, in the cool night breeze, he told Amy to have the boat stand by, and wandered over to where a U.S. Air Force C-130 blasted exhaust fumes as it churned slowly up. The rear ramp dropped, and under the queer vibrating light the forklifts grunted into sudden bustle. One carried a gray torpedo container. Inside was not a Mark 46, despite the stencils, but the body of Petty Officer Scharner, packed in salt and ice. Consigned back to Diego Garcia, for further shipment back to the States.

  Dan stood watching them unload, sagging with fatigue, but not as depressed as he had been since the incident with Wuhan. There was Indian-on-Chinese suspicion, French standoffishness, Maldivian pride, but as far as he could see, everyone was cooperating, coordinating their efforts to bring help to suffering people.

  The forklifts backed away from the transport, burdened with sacks and boxes marked with the half-moon symbols of military rations. They rolled and pivoted in a mechanized quadrille. Crews seized the pallets and slid them into the truckbeds. Then they sped off toward the landing, where boats from three different nations waited to relay cargo along the islands.

  Dan rubbed his bare arms against the cool breeze. Human beings weren’t just an aggressive species. They knew how to work together as well. Maybe they just needed a disaster every day, to discover how much alike they were, how much they all needed one another.

  A short man in rumpled khakis … no … Army greens was fidgeting a few feet away, looking as if he wanted to intrude but didn’t dare. He wore oak leaves on the shoulders of his jacket. Two bulky satchels crouched by his boots. Dan frowned. “You aren’t waiting for me, are you, um, Major?”

  The officer saluted. A hangdog look, drooping jowls. “Captain Lenson? Savo Island?”

  “That’s me.” Dan returned the salute. “And you’re…?”

  “Dr. Leopold Schell.”

  “How can I help you, Doctor? Here to help with the relief effort?”

  “I’ll be glad to lend a hand if I’m needed. But I’m from Fort Detrick, Captain. U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.”

  Dan got it then, though he hadn’t expected Army. “At last. We’ve been hoping for someone like you.”

  “Well, two fatalities got our attention. Especially since Bethesda wasn’t able to help, I understand.”

  Dan was shaking his hand when he remembered. “Oh shit. Wait a minute. You’re gonna need the body.”

  “Yes. I’ll want to take samples, conduct a thorough autopsy—”

  With a roar like thunder the C-130 accelerated down the runway, lifting its nose to the night. Dan looked after it helplessly, and sighed. He was turning back to Schell when the VHF on his belt spoke. “Skipper?”

  “Excuse me, um, Leo—” He fumbled for the Motorola. “Go ahead, Exec.”

  “Captain? You on the RHIB headed back? Over.”

  “Just about, the conference just broke. Over.”

  “You might want to get back here as quickly as you can.” Staurulakis sounded unnaturally somber. “Over.”

  “What is it? Over.”

  “Message from PaCom. We’re directed to get under way.”

  “Under way. Whither bound?”

  A pause, then, “I’d rather not say on an unsecure circuit, Captain. But please, don’t linger. I’m passing that word to Mitscher as well. We’ll be hot-boxed at short stay when you get here. Over.”

  Short stay was with the anchor chain straight up and down, and hot-boxed meant with the turbines warmed up and ready to go. And both ships … He signed off, then lifted his gaze to find Schell staring at him, looking apprehensive. “Bad news?”

  “Follow me,” Dan said, and turned and started jogging toward the boat landing.

  IV

  ON STATION

  14

  Heading North

  HE coughed into one fist, grunting as the jarring reawoke his headache. A calm yet sullen sea the color of cold iron heaved slowly, barely rolling the ship. They’d cleared the northernmost islands of the Maldives, en route to what his orders called Operation Odyssey Protector, in OpArea Endive.

  He slumped in Combat, weak and lethargic. “Odyssey Protector.” “Endive.” Who made up these names? He ran through his traffic at the command desk, then toggled back to the same message. The one that had pried them loose from relief operations in Male, and sent Savo charging north at near flank speed with fuel tanks lower than he liked.

  Usually cruisers and destroyers were topped up every three to four days, to maintain fuel levels above 50 percent. But obviously that wasn’t going to happen. And fuel wasn’t the only thing in short supply. Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques had cornered him that morning at breakfast. “It could be a problem, sir,” the supply officer had said. “You directed me to contribute everything we could to the Maleans—”

  “The Maldivians … never mind. Yeah, we should get reimbursed for whatever we dispensed as disaster assistance. You documented it, right?”

  “Yes sir. Of course. But I wasn’t talking about reimbursement. Our dry and canned stores were only ninety to one hundred twenty days’ worth when we left on deployment, and we only got a partial replenishment in Dubai.” She’d kept her voice low, but added, “Our fresh stores are gone and the refrigerated stores are getting low. I’m going to the restricted menu tomorrow. If we’re out much longer, we’ll be scraping the bottom of the dry and canned stores.”

  Just fucking great. He scrubbed his face with his hands, coughed, and started to get up. Then sagged back, and reread the message.

  Savo and her shotgun escort were to take station roughly on the Tropic of Cancer, a hundred nautical miles seaward from the Pakistani-Indian border. In other words, midway between Karachi and Jamnagar. With ringside seats at what was shaping up to be another undeclared war. Matt Mills, in the TAO seat, was double-checking their patrol area preparatory to putting it up on the LSDs, which glowed in front of him, the flat displays canted so reflections would not in
terfere with vision. And above them, the ever-present reminders of his weapons status, his engines, launchers, radars, other equipment.

  Crap engines, low fuel, low food, and a sick ship. Well, Schell was at work, debriefing Grissett and going over the records of everyone who’d come down with the crud since day one, back in the Med. He rubbed his face again, hoping they found something solid.

  “Did you see this press conference?”

  “What’s that, Matt?”

  Mills read from the Early Bird. “‘State Department spokesmen announced today that U.S. forces are on station ready to shoot down any missile exchange between the two disputants.’”

  “What? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  But there it was in black and white, or rather, in text on his screen. “Oh, fuck me.”

  “This isn’t so good,” Mills agreed.

  “Why did they have to announce it? This makes us the first-strike target for both sides if the balloon really goes up.” He started to type a message, then restrained himself. The Navy had damn-all influence on what State put out. All he’d end up doing was coming across as a whiner. Not that he minded whining, but he’d save it for when they were running out of food and fuel. Something PaCom could do something about. Not crying over spilt milk.

  He hitched himself up in the chair. A nap, he really should get his head down before they reached the patrol area. “We’ve got a lot to get done. Get a groom on our VLS and SPY-1. And set up a siting conference. This is a big area they’ve parked us in. But I’m not seeing a specific intercept station.” The geometry would be critical, if he was really expected to play a spoiler role. Savo’s location relative to the launching point, and more specifically, to the intended impact point, would constrain their ability to intercept.

  “I’ll pass that to the XO. This afternoon? Thirteen hundred?” Mills lifted his Hydra.

  “No. I mean, yeah.” Dan coughed, then winced, grabbing his head. The crud hung on, all right. He had barely enough energy to sit upright, no appetite, and the less said about the state of his guts the better. Worse yet, he still felt like he wasn’t thinking at top capacity. Not the way a CO should feel, going into a strategic-level commitment.

  * * *

  BEFORE he sat down with his Aegis team, though, he went up to his at-sea cabin. Half an hour free; he climbed into his rack, sighed, and closed his eyes.

  Then opened them again. Stared at the overhead. Got up, and turned on his computer.

  To research the Indian-Pakistani nuclear posture and force balance.

  The two nations had gone to war three times: in 1965, in 1971, and most recently, in 1999, over Kargil, in Kashmir. The big change was that now, both had operational theater nuclear weapons. Since Kargil, the tension had seesawed between moments of lull and episodes of renewed friction. Lately, the rise of al-Qaeda–linked cross-border terror had gotten more attention, but the arms buildup had continued.

  Stockpile numbers were the most highly classified secrets new nuclear states guarded, but the latest estimates credited both with between sixty and a hundred weapons. Nuclear, but not thermonuclear, straight fission devices. So far as outsiders knew, neither had tested a hydrogen weapon.

  The Indian Strategic Forces Command had a long-range capability in strike aircraft, backed up by a short-range missile, the Prithvi, something like the long-retired U.S. Sergeant. Mounted on transporter-erector-launchers, it was small, difficult to spot from satellites; DIA could provide no hard data on the locations of its deployment. Most sources estimated its range as about a hundred miles.

  Pakistan looked even or perhaps slightly ahead in missiles, with the recent deployment of a regiment of Shaheen-1s. Also TEL-mounted, this threw a thousand-kilo warhead to three hundred–plus miles. They were deployed in the Kirthar Mountains, south of Islamabad. During the last near war, the batteries had been redeployed near Jhelum, southeast of the capital, but then moved south, back into the mountains, where, presumably, the Indian air force would find it harder to get at them.

  He checked a desk atlas left by some previous skipper. That might put Pakistani missiles, at least, within reach of Savo’s Standards during their descent phase, depending on their targets. Hitting an Indian missile, on the other hand, might be harder. They’d be flying west or northwest, away from the ship, and a tail chase had a much lower chance of intercept.

  In terms of the two sides’ doctrines, not much had been published. They seemed to be where the U.S. and USSR had been in the 1950s, holding each other’s cities, command facilities, and airfields at risk. A Naval Postgraduate School thesis pointed out that Pakistan had never renounced first use of nuclear weapons. A Defense News editorial he accessed online implied that Pakistan might use nukes against even a conventional invasion. India had originally forsworn first use, but a recent statement from New Delhi had modified this to add, and he read this carefully, “In the event of a major attack against India, or Indian forces anywhere, by biological or chemical weapons, India will retain the option of retaliating with nuclear weapons.”

  Which you could read as a not-so-veiled warning that “no first use” wasn’t ironclad.

  He leaned back in his chair, ear tuning to the creaking of the superstructure. Bart Danenhower had identified several more cracks in the alloy, most minor, but one worrisome. The CHENG said they’d almost certainly been caused by hogging during the passage of the tsunami wave, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t expand. Like a crack in a car’s windshield, which lengthened with time. The snipes had drilled holes and welded on patches, but Chief McMottie and the hull techs had refused to guarantee they’d stop the fractures from progressing. Not that the deckhouse was going to fall off, but any flaw in a strength member compromised the hull girder.

  What he liked least was that unlike earlier conflicts, when the Pakistanis and Indians had gone at it alone, now both were linked to others. The Pakistanis had bought Chinese air defense systems and granted commercial and maybe naval access at their port of Gwadar. China, Myanmar, Pakistan, and Iran were conducting military exercises together. And both China and Pakistan had been caught proliferating advanced weaponry to even less savory regimes. The Indians, in reaction to their enemies’ search for allies, had drawn closer to the United States.

  He remembered the national security adviser’s words in the elevator of the Rayburn Building. “War now may be better than later.” They’d chilled him then, and sounded even more ominous now. Ed Szerenci had always affected a cold detachment from the human realities of war. Could he really, at the right hand of a president who too often acted before he thought, push for a face-off now, believing the balance was shifting against the United States?

  Just as the Germans, in 1914, had believed they had to act, or lose the advantage to the Allies?

  But no matter how hard he thought, he came up with no answers at all.

  * * *

  LONGLEY brought him a tray. Before the door closed, Dan glimpsed an unfamiliar face behind him in the passageway. Then he caught Grissett behind him, and it snapped into place. “Dr. Schell,” he murmured unwillingly. “Chief Corpsman. Did you have something for me? Want half of this sandwich?”

  Schell was already in shipboard coveralls, which suggested he hadn’t brought a change of uniform. What had been in the duffels, then? He declined the sandwich and perched on the bunk Dan waved him to. Grissett remained standing, hands behind him, head lowered. “I understand you’ve been affected by this syndrome too,” the doctor opened with. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Still under the weather,” Dan admitted. “Headachy, fatigued. It’s tough to concentrate.”

  “Medications?”

  “Ciproflaxicin,” Grissett put in. “And Motrin. Cough, elevated temperature, torpor.”

  “Interesting.” Schell nodded, then said, “I, um, understand you served with a former colleague of mine. From USAMRIID.”

  “Maureen Maddox,” Dan said. Her name brought Signal Mirror back, the covert Marine Recon
mission into wartime Baghdad. Nearly everyone had died, either along the way or on the way out, along with Sarsten, their too-gung-ho join-up from the Special Air Service. Zeitner, who’d wanted to start a Firestone station. Gunny Gault, killed holding the rear for their retreat. Maddox, their biowarfare guru, had died in Level Four isolation. Leaving only the blue and white starred ribbon on his service dress to remember them by.

  “Um, yes.”

  “Right. Any progress on the crud?” His tone came out harsher than he’d meant it.

  Schell pursed his lips. “We could’ve used more tissue from the last, uh, fatality. But fortunately, your chief corpsman kept blood samples. We’re running tests. Hopefully, we’ll get something interesting.

  “I’ve reviewed the clinical investigation results from your first case, in the Med. Bethesda eliminated a number of possibilities, but couldn’t identify a causative agent. No antibody to LP1 or LP4. The sputum isolate was difficult to type, but possibly a Portland subgroup. In particular, I see, they ruled out legionellosis, based on a negative result from a Legionella pneumophilia serogroup one. They suspected the ventilation system.”

  “Chief, you told him what we’ve done so far. Sterilizing the ductwork.”

  “Yessir.”

  Schell nodded. “We won’t have the results for your female noncom for a few days yet. I suspect it will show pneumonia and multiorgan system failure. But if you did a thorough sterilization, I’m willing to conclude that contrary to what everyone’s thought up to now, we’re not dealing with an airborne fomite.”

  Dan blinked. “That’s—”

  “A fomite’s an infectious agent, or a vector … virus, bacteria, fungus … in some cases, an insect.”

  “We might have insects?”

  “I thought about it, but considering how clean you keep this ship, I don’t see that as the vector.”

  “Thanks—I guess. So what is, then?”

  “I’m hoping our cultures will tell us that. So far we have L1 and L3 antigens identified from the blood sample. In the meantime, I have suggestions for at least localizing the infection.”