by David Poyer
Now they were part of a new, expanding empire. An ancient people regaining our former stature, their leader had said. But more like a new tyranny, casting its shadow over fresh subjects.
She went to the covered LAN and called up imagery downloaded before they left San Diego. Those airfields—Yokota, Atsugi, Kadena—hadn’t been handed over whole. The Air Force had set fuel bunkers aflame, blown up buildings, and extracted every flyable aircraft before demo squads planted C-4 and thermite on the rest. But destroying tens of thousands of feet of concrete runway wasn’t possible. The overheads showed fighters, attack jets, and transports on the various ramps, and bulldozers constructing revetments. Also a fat blimp: an aerostat-mounted search radar.
She called up the enemy-capabilities annex of the Recoil op order. She’d already done this days earlier, but with a few dead seconds, wanted to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. Most worrisome was a new stealth-shaped attack aircraft. Even if Aegis was active, they might find it hard to detect until it could launch the supersonic ship-killers that had already cost Savo her once-graceful bow.
The command net, in her headphones. A South American accent. “This is Almirante Montt. Fueling is complete. Request permission to depart as planned.”
Singhe, on watch as staff duty officer: “Roger, Steady Rider. This is Barbarian. Proceed on duty assigned.”
“This is Steady Rider. Roger. Out.”
The op plan mentioned feints and other attacks to divert attention from the raid, including a land offensive by the Vietnamese, but gave few specifics. There were more details about the strike on the airfields that was supposed to get them through the strait. Just about … she checked her watch … half an hour ago, an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine hundreds of miles to the south had fired a full hull load of 154 Tomahawks, mixed cratering and antipersonnel munitions. Attack submarines closer in would also be launching. Long-range strategic bombers would arrive shortly after the missiles.
The EW console operator called, “Kadena ceased transmission.”
“Very well … Admiral, did you hear that? The aerostat radar shut down.”
“Got it,” Lenson said from his chair a few feet away. He looked intent on his own screen, though. Probably on chat with Fleet. Great, let him handle Higher.
“Yakota search radar off the air too.”
“Very well.” She glanced at Lenson again. His face was grim in the light from the screen. He was typing, lips pursed.
She hoped he wouldn’t take them past the point of no return. The way he damn near had in the Taiwan Strait last winter, following the Koreans into the very jaws of hell.
He was a puzzle. She’d worked for him as XO, but could never say she knew exactly what was going on in his head. She’d certainly never dare play poker with him. You had to watch for a long time, close up, before you caught clues. He seldom mentioned his wife or his daughter, though Cheryl had met them both. The only hint she’d ever gotten that he thought about them had been when she moved into his at-sea cabin, and found the picture of Blair. Which she’d immediately shredded; something like that didn’t need to circulate. And he had some sort of love-hate relationship with the new CNO … though it was hard to figure out whether it helped his career. Wearing the Medal of Honor didn’t guarantee promotion. But it probably hadn’t hurt, either.
He was hard to pin down operationally, too. Oh, he knew tactics and equipment. Maybe better than anyone else she’d ever met—individual experts, such as the chiefs, aside. Occasionally, as in the Strait of Hormuz the year before, he’d left her breathless with an unexpected play. But at other times he seemed overly cautious. Like when he’d abandoned a torpedoed, sinking German tanker.
Admittedly, they were all judgment calls in the end. A commander worked with inadequate information. Electronic clues, fragmentary reports, undependable intel; guesses at the enemy’s forces, vulnerabilities, and intent. Still, she’d been relieved when he’d left. Though grateful for whatever strings he’d pulled that had left her (really too junior for the billet) as skipper.
But here he was back again. Taking them into harm’s way once more.
“Captain?” It was Zotcher, the Sonar chief.
She lifted an earphone. “What have you got?”
“Pinging. Not sure what it is. Bearing about one-eight-zero.”
At the same moment, the EW operator called, “Low-energy transmission, bearing one-eight-five. Correlates with HF data burst.”
She frowned, hunching into the headphones. “What exactly have you got? Range?”
The operator said on the circuit, “No range yet. Tracking to develop. Seems to be stationary, though.”
A submarine, poking a mast up to make a sighting report? But subs didn’t ping active. Not if they knew what was good for them. And the ASUVs, scouting ahead of the main body, hadn’t reported anything. She clicked to the air net and vectored Red Hawk out, telling the controller to keep him low. “This is the captain. If Wilker spots a ’scope, he’s cleared to drop.”
“Clear to drop, aye.”
“What the hell is it?” the admiral was asking her. “The super-EWs on Gambier are picking it up too. Getting cross bearings. What is it?”
“Don’t know, sir. A goblin, up for a squirt?”
“Pinging on us? Unlikely.”
“One pulse, to make sure there’s no one above him as he comes up?”
“That’s peacetime SOP, Cher. They wouldn’t do that out here.”
She said, “Unless the diving officer forgot. And is getting a new asshole ripped about now.”
Lenson looked away, expression displeased. At her language, or her reasoning? He’d never much appreciated being contradicted. He also seemed to expect more of the female officers, as far as deportment went.
She dismissed this as Zotcher reappeared at her elbow. “Steady ping, Skipper. Every fifteen seconds. Still dead in the water, and near-surface. TMA shows him about twenty thousand yards off.”
She scratched between her fingers so hard that when she took her hand away the nails were stained with blood. What the fuck was this? And why hadn’t their submarines and Hunters, scrubbing the advance track, picked it up? “Air control, CO, range twenty thousand from own ship, any joy?”
“Red Hawk reports orbiting that point, no joy, no contact … uh, wait one … something in the water.”
“What? Confirm: He knows he’s cleared to drop. ASAP, on initial detection.” She switched to the air circuit to hear Strafer Wilker drawling, “Not a snorkel. Not a radar mast. Going in low. Stand by on flares … some kind of fucking buoy. Painted blue. Why I couldn’t see it until I got right down on the fucking deck.”
Beside her Lenson said, “It’s a picket.”
“What?”
“The Japanese, in World War II, used fishing smacks with binoculars and radios. This is the same thing. An early-warning line, couple hundred miles out from the coast.”
“So we’re detected.”
“’Fraid so.” He kneaded the back of his neck. “But so far no one seems to be headed our way.”
She thought about mentioning the small contacts that had departed Kadena, then vanished from the radar. But they hadn’t been headed east. “So … steady as she goes?”
“Couldn’t have said it better.” He eyed Enzweiler. “Can’t Gambier Bay crank it up any faster?”
“Twenty-two’s all they say they can make.”
“Okay … but let’s get their fighters off the deck. I’d feel better with more air cover.”
Cheryl got up and took a turn around the space, patting shoulders and putting in a word of encouragement to each operator. They looked anxious, but not scared. Well, they’d all been in tight spots before.
She’d just finished thinking this when the EW operator said, “EW reports: Aircraft altimeters at two-six-zero. Correlates with attack aircraft.”
Two-six-zero was just about the bearing to Okinawa. She glanced at Lenson, but his head was down again. “Admiral?
They know we’re here. Permission to radiate?”
He cocked his head, obviously pondering her question, but still studying the screen. He glanced up at the display, over the half-moon glasses he used now for reading or close work. Then back down, clicking the Transmit button on his throat mike. He was speaking to the air group commander on Gambier Bay.
She clicked to the Aegis net. “Get the SPY warmed up.”
“Yes ma’am.” Terranova, very calm. “Fifteen seconds to full operate.”
“Don’t radiate just yet.”
“Copy, ma’am.”
She covered the throat mike. Lenson was still head down in whatever it was. He didn’t need Higher’s permission to go active, did he? “Sir, we need to get some microwaves out there,” she told him. “Find out what’s bearing down on us.”
“Come left to two-eight-zero first and push up to flank speed. Open the carrier a little more. Then go active.”
Seconds later data bloomed on the screens, a rush of information that left her almost dizzy. The SPY-1 reached out over four hundred miles, and as the radars from Kristensen, McClung, Sejong, and Zembiec came up too Cheryl was suddenly hovering over the western Pacific and East China Sea like an avenging Valkyrie. The outlines of Kyushu, Okinawa, and the Chinese coast populated with contacts, each called out with altitude, speed, direction, and aircraft type. Second by second the picture clarified. Yellow—meaning unidentified—contacts swiftly turned blue or red, friendly or enemy. The weapons net came alive, assigning targets.
And there they were. Small, low to the water, but after taking off heading north or south, they’d hooked back in. Cued to the approaching flotilla, possibly by the automated buoy line. “Two attacks developing, Admiral,” she warned.
“I see ’em.”
“Permission to—”
The air control circuit droned, “Weapons free. All stations Horde, weapons free on incoming bandits. —Wait one—”
She gripped the button on her throat mike as what was happening became clear.
More contacts were blooming, behind and above the incoming attackers.
Blue inverted carets. Friendly air.
F-18s and F-35s from the carriers, which steamed hundreds of miles behind TF 76, but were covering them when it counted.
Lenson, on the command net. “Horde, this is Barbarian. Weapons free for leakers. But exercise caution against blue on blue.”
Vibration caterpillared through the steel cradling them as the cruiser reached flank speed. Savo leaned like a locomotive on a badly bedded track. Cheryl had noticed a shorter righting arm since two more Phalanx mounts and additional chaff mortars had been added. But she had to concentrate on the immediate threat. “Aegis to self-defense mode.”
Terranova rogered. Savo would fight herself from now on, assisted by the team only if a threat seemed misclassified.
Though she’d been in self-defense mode before. Last fall, when the supersonic leaker had blown off her bow …
On the screen red and blue carets merged. Red contacts, taken from behind and above with air-to-air missiles, winked out. She resisted the temptation to eavesdrop, to see if she could make out Eddie’s voice. The task force’s own aircraft—not really interceptors, but still with air-to-air missiles—were held close in, low, to intercept anyone who got through.
The EW operator announced, “Vampire, vampire, vampire. Incoming missile bearing zero-four-four. Seeker correlates C-801.”
After that, she was sucked down into the battle.
* * *
LATE that evening Dan finally hoisted himself from the command desk. His back and neck were a painful mass of knots. And it wasn’t over yet.
In fact, the fight had only begun.
They’d made it into the East China Sea. Task Force 76—absent, now, Gambier Bay, which he’d detached to fall back toward the carriers, along with the lower-capability Korean frigates—had threaded the gap between Akuseki Shima and Kotakara Jima as dusk fell. He’d stayed on high side chat and the command net, attention riveted to the displays, all afternoon and into darkness. They’d fought off three separate air and missile attacks. But most of the bandits had fallen not to his own weapons, but to fighters from the carriers, which had closed to increase sortie rate. None of his ships had been hit yet, though they’d expended ordnance at a fantastic rate. But it hadn’t been one-sided. They’d lost one of the autonomous Hunters to an enemy 801. U.S. aircraft, too, had suffered losses.
Including those from Vinson. He reread the clipboarded message just handed to him. The radioman stood an arm’s length away. “I didn’t … didn’t know who to bring it to, sir.”
“You did right.” He sighed and read it again, feeling lead settle in his heart.
“Addressed to the skipper. But I didn’t want to take it to her—”
“No, you did right. I’ll tell her.” He glanced around the space, but didn’t see Cheryl. “Where’s the CO?” he asked Branscombe, who was occupying the TAO seat.
“She said, up to the bridge. Get a breath of air.”
“Take over, Fred. I’m going to the bridge,” Dan told Enzweiler. As the deputy slid in, he sighed again. Finished the half cup of cold coffee at his elbow, and checked the displays one last time. No immediate threat, though air activity was building again over the mainland. They’d lost surprise, but he’d never expected to have it, once they got this far. He blew out, forcing himself to walk to the door, and undogged it.
Three ladders up to the bridge, his stiff joints gradually loosening with activity. He wondered how he was going to say this. Or if he even should. The TF was going in for the kill now. Closing the mainland for the final strike. To survive, they’d all have to work smoothly as a freshly greased winch. Ollie Uskavitch was a good officer, but he was in no way qualified to step into the CO’s shoes. Not in a situation like this.
But even as he contemplated delay, he knew he couldn’t keep it from her.
She deserved the truth.
Everyone deserved that. And in person, from a fellow human being.
The pilothouse was inky save for the dim glow of pilot lamps, the eerie electroluminescence of screens dimmed to near invisibility. He stood motionless, letting his eyes adapt. Then felt his way past the helmsman to the CO’s chair. In the dark, reaching, he touched something yielding. Her coveralled leg. “Cheryl?”
A startled gasp in the dark. “Oh—Dan. What is it?”
He took another deep breath, gripping the clipboard. Let her read it, or just say the words? He didn’t want to do either. Fuck this war. Fuck all war.
He said reluctantly, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
17
The White House
“I’LL get the door, ma’am.”
“Thanks.” Swinging her legs out, Blair scanned the lot. Usually solid with freshly waxed black cars, it was occupied now by uniformed troops, military vehicles, and a truck-mounted missile battery. But the white canvas awning was still flanked by plantings in heavy concrete pots. Marigolds, it looked like, and poppies red as spattered blood. The blooms looked like they were enjoying spring.
She’d driven over from the Pentagon with the Joint Chiefs J3, Operations, General Absalom Lipsey, and an aide. As the just-confirmed deputy undersecretary for strategy, plans, and forces, she’d been getting up to speed with him for the last few days.
Inside the staff entrance a deep-blue-carpeted lobby was hung with framed art. Mostly battle scenes, aircraft and ships flaming, all smoke and death. Not inappropriate, she thought. Vases of roses, lilies, and birds of paradise stood on a side table. The air smelled of electricity, perfume, something dusty-sweet, like talcum powder, and coffee. A vacuuming janitor edged aside for them as she followed Lipsey’s short-legged bounce.
At the Roosevelt Room they were joined by Dr. Szerenci. The national security adviser’s squint was a raptor’s. Two agents in dark suits flanked him. “Edward,” she murmured.
“Congratulations, Blair. The previous incumbent
… let’s just say, he was not of your intellectual caliber. General Lipsey, good to see you again. Dr. Glancey, General Vincenzo, Dr. Hui will join us shortly. Let’s go in.”
The Cabinet Room was smaller than one might expect. Freshly vacuumed, by the pristine nap of the carpet. Fresh yellow notepads. Sharpened pencils. She’d made sure her notebook was charged. As the attendees took seats, Szerenci fiddled with a video player. “Had this sent over,” he muttered. “A voice-over translation … you’ll find transcripts at your places.”
“What’s on our plate, Doctor?” The chairman of the Joint Chiefs had come in, with Randall Faulcon, a three-star she knew. Vincenzo, in Army greens, pulled out a chair beside Blair as colonels with notebooks took seats against the wall.
“General, good morning. For those who don’t know him, the gentleman with General Vincenzo is General Randall Faulcon, deputy commander, Pacific Command.”
Faulcon nodded. His cheekbones were hard, almost fleshless, and he looked more deeply tired than anyone else in a room of tired people. He was also the only one in battle dress. Szerenci went on, “Your ears only, but there’s going to be a strategy conference in the Pacific—I can’t tell you where—a week from now. The heads of state or defense ministers of Australia, India, Indonesia, Vietnam, and the government-in-exile for Taiwan. The president’s asked me to staff our options. General Vincenzo will be going. Blair, the SecDef may want you there too. Okay, here we go.”
A heavy, spectacled face appeared on the screen. Its lips writhed in staccato Chinese. “Denson, can you understand that?” Szerenci asked Denson Hui, who’d just come in.
The head of the Missile Defense Agency looked as if he got that question too often. “My parents were Cantonese. What he’s speaking’s as foreign to me as it is to you, Ed.”