by David Poyer
“No. What matters is victory,” the national security adviser observed.
“There can’t be a victor in a nuclear war,” Blair shot back.
“I’ll settle for not being the loser,” Szerenci said calmly.
They were staring each other down when the press secretary lifted a finger. “Corey,” Blair said, only reluctantly unlocking her gaze from that of the small man at the head of the table.
“Uh, we’re here debating ultimate strategy, while the immediate question should probably be our response to Zhang’s recent offer of terms. Is there wiggle room? Space for a deal?”
She said briskly, “An excellent question. This could become a long conflict, with huge risks along the way. How might we achieve peace short of mutual exhaustion, like World War I? It’s worth asking.”
Faulcon squinted. “Where do you stand on his offer, Blair?”
She shrugged. “That’s easy. I stand for prosecution of the war. Not surrender, which is what Zhang’s proposing. But not nuclear Armageddon, either.”
Szerenci closed his eyes. For that moment, the facade of confidence cracked, revealing the fatigue. When he opened them again, the groove between his eyes remained. “CIA says that even without the sub-based leg, they have megatons targeted on every one of our major cities. Our antimissile batteries can take out maybe a tenth. We’ll obliterate them if they attack us. But they can still destroy us, as a country.
“We could have stamped out this threat without any danger ten years ago. Even five. As I and a few others pointed out then. With minimal collateral damage.” He spread his hands like a magician at the reveal. “Now, somehow, I’ve got to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Find a way to destroy them, without us suffering millions of dead.”
“If we’d followed your advice then, we’d have been destroyed too,” she couldn’t help pointing out. “Zhang had missiles in reserve.”
“There are still those who think they’re fictional.”
She inclined her head at the intel officer. “Is there hard data yet?”
He looked away. Shuffled papers. “Um, we … we’re still arguing that.”
Szerenci said, “Zhang’s a master bluffer. If you mean to suggest I’m some kind of Doctor Strangelove, the way I’m portrayed in the mainstream press … I simply rid myself of illusion, my dear Blair. I try to see the world as it is, and act accordingly.”
She said evenly, “I judge you by what you say, Edward.”
They regarded each other for a second more. Then she passed out a summary of her briefing. “In accordance with the Dawn Gold protocol, you will not find this on your classified e-mail servers. Paper only. Lock and key. Make no copies. Do not refer to our discussion on cell, landline, e-mail, or other electronic communications. Assume all conversations in public areas are being overheard.”
* * *
OUTSIDE, in the corridor, it was hard not to sag into the wall. Her hip flamed. Her back ached. She needed coffee. Could there be coffee here? And three or four Aleves?
Beside her Randall Faulcon cleared his throat. The major general said, “We need to get you out to Camp Smith, Ms. Titus. I want you to brief our J3 shop. We’ve got to start thinking long term, like you’re doing.”
“Any time, General. But I understand, you have to put out the fires.”
“Am I mistaken, or is your husband Daniel Lenson?”
“That’s correct.”
“We met in Hawaii. Congratulations on his promotion.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated. “Do you happen … I haven’t heard from him for some days now.”
Was that a puzzled glance? “You mean, where he is…? Probably, getting his task force ready to sail.”
She wanted to ask for details, but stifled the urge. “Thank you. I’m sure he’s very busy.” She turned away, and almost collided with Szerenci, just behind her. His bodyguards waited down the hall, regarding her with impassive expressions.
“Edward,” she muttered unwillingly.
“A word.” He led her into an alcove. “I understand the election didn’t turn out well.”
She forced a tight smile. “It’s in recount. We’re going to win.”
“Well, I certainly hope so. But what happens if you don’t?”
“I’m not following.” She folded her arms, frowning. Szerenci wasn’t just from the opposing party; they were on the opposite sides of other divides as well. The way he calculated trade-offs in terms of megadeaths made her suspect he didn’t actually identify with human beings at all. Years ago, she understood, he’d been Dan’s professor in his postgraduate work. Now and then Szerenci had offered him a helping hand. But her own relationship with him had been that of competing pro boxers.
Though Szerenci was the headliner, while she was far down on the event card.
He murmured, “Do you read Doris Kearns Goodwin?”
“The historian? Sometimes. Why?”
“Team of Rivals?”
“Abe Lincoln, right?” she said warily. Where was he going with this? God, she’d kill for a latte right now. Grande. With peppermint.
“I’ll refresh your memory. Lincoln knew the nation faced the greatest test in its history. Instead of forming a cabinet of mediocrities, he asked his most capable rivals to join him.”
She muttered impatiently, “And?”
“The president’s thinking about forming a national administration. As Lincoln did. And Roosevelt, in World War II. To unite the country. I think you’d be a good addition to our team.”
She glanced down the corridor. But through her astonishment, remembered to maintain a poker face. “How about Madam Clayton? You could invite her back—”
“Never. Can’t have two national security advisers in the West Wing. Anyway, I like the way you think. We’ve butted heads, but I respect your brainpower.”
She sucked air, but maintained a bored expression. What would it do to her dynamic within her party, how would it alter her relationships with peers and backers? “It’s … unorthodox, Edward. But as you say, these aren’t normal times.”
“Think about it. But don’t take too long.”
“I’ll have to, of course. But, as I said—”
“I know, you’re in recount. You’re going to win. But just in case you don’t.”
“And if I was to consider it, I wouldn’t work for you. Perhaps with you, but—”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. But events are moving. History’s moving. We have to get ahead of it.” A glance around, a crimped smile, and a nod to the two temple dogs hulking down the hall.
He moved off, and she looked after him, eyes narrowed. Then sighed, and went to gather her things.
II
THE HUNT
6
Guam
THE bells echoed out, resounding through the hangar bay. The ship’s gray-painted steel sides towered eighty feet into the air. On the wharf engines clattered, cranes snorted, lines of men and women ant-marched boxes out of tractor-trailers. An arched gangway led to a side port. A canvas banner read USS HORNET. A HERITAGE OF EXCELLENCE.
“Expeditionary Strike Group Seven, arriving,” the 1MC announced. Dan marched up the gangway, followed by his driver, and halted. Facing aft, he saluted the ensign, then the officer of the deck. Six other sailors and marines stood at attention, perfectly aligned. Dan nodded and said, “Carry on, please.” They broke ranks, scattering.
A four-striper stepped forward, and a Marine colonel. They introduced themselves as his deputy commander, Captain Jeremy Dudley, and Colonel Bob Eller. Dan took stock as they shook hands. Dudley was tall and black, Eller white, broader, and stockier. Both had goodly racks of decorations, with Eller’s Bronze Star edging out anything the naval officer’s chest displayed.
“How about we go by your quarters, Admiral? Give you a break, if you need one,” Dudley said.
Dan almost turned around to look for this “admiral.” It sounded weird. It would be nice to put his feet up, but Niles and Yangerhans had
made it clear that they wanted his strike group to sea as soon as possible. “Not necessary. Just have someone take my luggage.” He nodded to the driver, who’d met him at the airfield. “Thanks for your help. I’ll keep the briefcase, thanks.”
The hangar was even more crowded than the pier. Helicopters with folded blades were crammed cheek by jowl. To the clang of a warning bell, an overhead crane was lifting an engine from an F-35 Lightning fighter/attack. Stacks of palleted soft drinks, food, dry stores, and ammunition were being driven about. It looked like only partially organized chaos.
Hornet, ninth U.S. Navy warship of the name, was an America-class amphibious assault helicopter carrier. A landsman would just have called her an aircraft carrier, but she lacked the slanted deck and catapults that let strike carriers launch fighters and attack jets. Still, at forty-five thousand tons and 850 feet long, she dwarfed the frigates and destroyers he was used to. He tried to stay oriented as his subordinates led him aft and upward. “Familiar with this class?” Dudley said.
“Been aboard a couple. Not for long, though.”
“She’s based on the later LHDs, but without a well deck. More aircraft stowage. The hangar deck’s wider. We’ve got an onboard hospital, more fuel capacity, better maintenance support. And you’ll see, the command spaces are a lot bigger.”
Dan wanted to ask about the self-defense loadout, but realized one critical player wasn’t here. “Where’s the CO? Captain Graciadei?”
“Some kind of ballast tank problem came up. Sent her respects. She’ll join us as soon as she breaks free.” Dudley cleared his throat. “About staff. You know we’re basically an amphib squadron setup, out of Sasebo.”
“Any Japanese pressure on you to leave?”
“Let’s just say there were no obstacles placed on our departure. But we’re only partially manned. Thirty-one bodies aboard, billets for forty-two.”
“I plan to augment them,” Dan said. “One of the things I want to discuss.”
“Just be aware we already have an air-centric marine for the F-35s. Also a Marine Embark guy who works for you, not the colonel here.”
Dan ducked through several doorways, with Eller opening watertight doors and Dudley dogging them behind. They climbed two steep ladderways, stepping into an air-conditioned, quieter layout of blue-terrazzo’d passageways flanked by staterooms. Dudley pointed out the wardroom and two lounges. A blue curtain screened off a thwartships passageway at frame 59. “Your cabin’s down there, opposite the CO’s. Sure you don’t need a moment?”
“Let’s blast the JIC first.”
Sixty feet forward, two heavy steel button-locked doors barred their way. The port one was haze gray and marked CIC. The starboard one was painted a dull green. An ON THE AIR sign glowed above it.
Eller hit the buzzer, and a lieutenant opened the door to a roomy white-overheaded space with briefing displays, terminals, and a conference table with a dozen seats. The Joint Intelligence Center. The lieutenant’s “Attention on deck!” brought everyone to his or her feet. Dan waved them down and took the head of the table. He let the silence dwell a moment, to let his new staff take him in. The faces were surprisingly young. Half wore Marine greens, the rest shipboard working uniforms: BDUs, blue coveralls, or khakis for the middle-grade officers.
* * *
DAN’S J3, or operations officer, started with the building blocks. Expeditionary Strike Group Seven, centered on Hornet, consisted of six U.S. ships, twelve South Koreans, and an Australian conventional submarine, HMAS Farncomb, currently en route to join up. The U.S. units included Savo Island, Green Bay, two later-flight Burke-class destroyers, McClung and Kristensen, and a T-AKE, USNS Amelia Earhart, with ammo, stores, and limited fueling capability. The 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit, or 13 MEU, was embarked aboard Hornet and Green Bay, with Eller commanding.
The ops officer paused. Dan took the cue and got to his feet. “Good morning. And good to meet you all.… Our initial mission is to clear the sea lanes between Guam and the fighting on Okinawa and Taiwan. Then, land one-three MEU on Okinawa to reinforce our troops in contact there. Also, we’re to be ready to shield Guam and the Marianas, if anything goes wrong.
“PaCom doesn’t think the Chinese plan further offensive operations after Taiwan. But Admiral Lianfeng, Zhang’s naval chief, might persuade him to test the second chain. Regardless, it’s going to be up to us to hold the line, and kick the first dent into their fenders.”
A raised hand. “What about the carriers?”
“Not until closer to the landing,” Dan said. “After what happened to the Roosevelt battle group, PaCom’s holding them east of Pearl.”
He waited, then went on. “Our eventual target, as I said, is Okinawa. I have the specifics in my briefcase. But nothing goes on the LAN, even SIPRNET, and I won’t discuss it in more detail until we’re under way. OPSEC must be paramount. I depend on all of you to bear that in mind.
“Our assault, along with demonstrations at other points along the coast, will draw off Beijing’s attention from Second Division, Third Marine Expeditionary, and associated forces now fighting in South Korea. Our submarines are taking a toll on cross-strait shipping, but a major undersea force got by our blocking before hostilities began. They, as well as a sizable and powerful surface action group, are so far unaccounted for.”
A broad-shouldered, tired-looking woman with a lank ponytail let herself in. Dudley leaned to mutter, “Captain Graciadei.” Dan pointed to a seat beside him.
“Sorry, material issue,” she whispered.
“Not a problem. Brief me on it later. Now I’d like to hear from the Intel side.”
A Middle Eastern–looking lieutenant commander with a mustache got to his feet. “Qazi Jamail, sir. The admiral is correct that both sides will largely be maneuvering without satellite surveillance or over-the-horizon targeting. However, we do have some insight into Chinese intentions due to a compartmented source called ‘Night Light.’ I can’t say more about that, but it points to reinforcements, airstrip improvements, and antiair and antiship missile emplacements at each occupied point in the South and East China Seas. That’s why the timetable’s so short. The longer we delay reinforcing Okinawa, the tougher resistance Colonel Eller’s troops can expect on landing.
“But sub activity to the east is growing more worrisome. As you said, sir. Air patrols have been increased between Pearl and the Marianas, but there aren’t enough airframes for adequate coverage. And we can’t commit attack boats to the hunter-killer role, since they’re fully tasked for near-shore interdiction. We’re also moving into the typhoon season.”
Murmurs around the table. Dan raised his voice over them. “Thank you, Commander. Is that all?”
“Maybe a little more one on one, sir—”
“Hold that for later. Colonel, your R2P2 process has started, I’m sure. Let’s have a concept of ops briefing as soon as possible after we get under way.
“But I’m going to shut this down for now. I’d like all the skippers aboard at 1400. Invite Admiral Jung. Colonel Eller, I’d like you there too. Captain, where would be a good place for a COs’ meeting?”
Graciadei said, “That would be Secure VTC, Admiral. Right next door.”
The deputy said he’d pass the word. “Some of them are at the ammo wharf, though, or satellite anchorages outside Apra Harbor. How about 1500, sir?”
“Make it so.” Dan glanced at his Seiko. “Here’s my briefcase. Run off ten copies. Number them. Then lock them up, under two-key control. I’m going over to the shipyard. No need to bong me off.”
* * *
SAVO wasn’t far away. In fact, the whole basin was tight at the moment, packed with ships. A marine escort, rifle slung, fell in behind Dan as he loped over the brow. A huge guy with a massive chest. The rock-solid face seemed somehow familiar. It wasn’t a long walk, but they had to thread mountains of supplies and be alert for forklifts and trucks hustling last-minute items aboard.
Savo Island’s familiar upperw
orks lifted ahead. He ran an eye over the bow, where the missile had blown off or mangled everything forward of the wildcats. The hastily welded steel gave her a broken-nosed look, like an old boxer.
“Admiral, United States Navy … correction … Strike Group Seven, arriving,” the 1MC announced as he swung up the brow. Familiar faces on the quarterdeck. Smiles. Staurulakis stepped forward. “Cheryl,” he said, returning her salute, then taking her hand.
“Good to have you back, sir. Even if only for a visit. Wardroom?”
“Can’t stay long. Did the Army team arrive, with the point defense?”
He followed her diminutive form through familiar passageways. She threw back over one shoulder, “They’re aboard. Tying to shoehorn them in.”
“How’d dry-docking go?”
“You saw the bow, I assume. We’re operational. But there’s some indication of strain on the hull girder. Maybe from the tsunami wave.”
“Is there a speed restriction? How’s the sonar look?”
“On the speed issue, no restriction. Haven’t tested the sonar.”
“Keep me informed. Ordnance?”
“They promised us the new SMXs, but we only got Block 4. And not as many as we need. The rest of our cells are full, but more what we could get our hands on than an optimal mission loadout. We’re topped off on fish, chow, fuel, and bullets, though.”
Dan nodded. Shortages of the antimissile rounds had dogged them through the deployment, and with the “accidents,” fires, and cyber attacks on the defense industry … “Can you have the personnel chief meet us?”
Staurulakis glanced away, lips going taut. “Aye, sir.”
The wardroom was familiar territory too. He’d captained Savo most of the way around the world. Fought in the East Med, at Hormuz, and in the Taiwan Strait. Now, unfortunately, he had to stab her in the heart.
Settled at the table with coffee and a Danish, Staurulakis said with her customary directness, “Who do you want? And how can I persuade you not to take them?”
“Ahead of me as usual, Cheryl.” He covered his unease with a cough into a fist. “My staff’s short eleven bodies. And there are folks here I’ve come to trust. Chief Wenck came from TAG with me. So did Rit Carpenter. I want them, of course.”