Sword of Shiva (For fans of Tom Clancy and Dale Brown)
Page 16
Neilson was damned good at his job, and he and Irene rarely butted heads. But he didn’t agree with Irene’s evaluation of the story’s importance or potential. China and India were escalating toward what could become the first all-out war between nuclear powers. Against a backdrop of that scale, Neilson judged that the shooting of some demonstrators in Tibet would get lost in the shuffle.
He had overruled Irene on both the placement and timing of the piece. Irene had wanted to break the story as a headliner on Saturday evening, with full trumpets, and delivery by one of the big league anchors. Instead, the Tibet piece had been shoved into an also-ran spot on Sunday morning, twenty-two minutes after the lead stories had aired at the top of the hour.
For a lot of news pieces, that would have been the death knell. But not this story. As Irene had told Nielson repeatedly, the Tibet thing was not going to disappear quietly.
She had no inkling of how right her prediction would turn out to be.
CHAPTER 33
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER
2147 hours (9:47 PM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
There was a light rap on Commander Silva’s door, and then a polite pause before it opened. Captain Bowie stood in the entryway. “Good evening, Kat. Mind if I come in?”
Silva looked up from the stack of paperwork on the tiny fold-down desk of her temporary stateroom. She was still plowing through a mountain of minor administrative details, in preparation for the change of command on Friday.
She had been planning to hit the hay in a few minutes, so she was dressed in her customary shipboard sleeping attire: sweatpants and tee-shirt. Tonight’s sweats were standard gray workout pants, and the tee was dark blue with a gold silkscreen image of the surface warfare officer emblem across the shoulders. At home, she preferred to sleep in socks and underwear, but aboard ship she might be called out of bed at any moment of the night. Informal as they were, her tee-shirt and sweats allowed her to respond to drills and emergencies fully clothed.
She leaned back in her chair. “Evening, Jim. Come on in.”
Bowie stepped into the stateroom, closing the door behind himself. He held out a routing folder. “I wasn’t sure if you’d seen the latest message traffic. I thought you might want to look it over before you hit the rack.”
Silva gestured toward the papers on her desk. “The one about the Chinese surveillance satellite? I’ve seen it. I’ve got a copy right here.”
Captain Bowie shook his head and held out the folder. “Not that one. A new message, from the Bureau of Personnel.”
Silva accepted the routing folder, flipped it open, and read the one-page message inside.
//UUUUUUUUUU//
//UNCLASSIFIED//
//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//
//301355Z NOV//
FM BUPERS//
TO USS TOWERS//
INFO COMCARSTRKGRU FIVE
COMDESRON ONE FIVE//
SUBJ/USS TOWERS CHANGE OF COMMAND//
1. (UNCL) BUPERS NOTES THAT USS TOWERS IS CURRENTLY DEPLOYED TO THE BAY OF BENGAL PURSUANT TO OPERATIONAL ORDERS NOT DISCUSSED IN THIS TRAFFIC.
2. (UNCL) IN VIEW OF UNANTICIPATED DEPLOYMENT, SUBJ CHANGE OF COMMAND IS HEREBY POSTPONED UNTIL COMPLETION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS.
3. (UNCL) CAPTAIN SAMUEL HARLAND BOWIE IS DIRECTED TO REMAIN ABOARD USS TOWERS AS COMMANDING OFFICER FOR THE DURATION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS, OR UNTIL USS TOWERS IS ROTATED OUT OF THE OPERATING AREA.
4. (UNCL) COMMANDER DESTROYER SQUADRON ONE FIVE IS HEREBY NOTIFIED THAT CAPTAIN BOWIE’S DETACHMENT FROM USS TOWERS WILL BE DELAYED. NEW DATES TO FOLLOW.
5. (UNCL) COMMANDER KATHERINE ELIZABETH SILVA IS DIRECTED TO REMAIN ABOARD USS TOWERS AS PROSPECTIVE COMMANDING OFFICER FOR THE DURATION OF CURRENT OPERATIONS, OR UNTIL USS TOWERS IS ROTATED OUT OF THE OPERATING AREA. COMMANDER SILVA IS ADVISED TO UTILIZE THIS ADDITIONAL TIME TO CONTINUE PREPARING FOR ASSUMPTION OF COMMAND, SUCH PREPARATIONS NOT TO INTERFERE WITH SHIP’S MISSION REQUIREMENTS.
6. (UNCL) FURTHER DETAILS WILL BE ISSUED VIA SEPCOR.
//301355Z NOV//
//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//PRIORITY//
//UNCLASSIFIED//
//UUUUUUUUUU//
Silva closed the folder and laid it on her desk. “I’ve actually been expecting this for a while,” she said.
“So have I,” said Bowie. “But I know how frustrating this must be. I was ready to turn over the keys in five days.”
He smiled weakly. “Okay, maybe not ready. I don’t think anyone is ever ready to turn over command of a warship, but I was prepared to do it.”
Silva sighed heavily. “I know you were, Jim, and I appreciate that. And I understand why the Bureau is doing this. You don’t change jockeys in the middle of a race. But I can’t pretend that I’m not disappointed.”
“I understand,” Bowie said. “If I were in your shoes right now, I’d be peeling the paint off the bulkheads.”
“I’m tempted to do that, myself,” said Silva. “But they’re not my bulkheads yet, so I guess I’d better leave the paint intact.”
Bowie patted the bulkhead next to the door. “They will be yours soon,” he said. “Before you know it.”
Silva looked back down at the closed routing folder on her desk. “Yeah,” she said. The disappointment in her voice was audible. “Soon.”
CHAPTER 34
--------------------------------------------------
From:
Sent: Sunday, November 30, 11:52 PM
To:
Subject: Change In Plans
Dear Dad,
Got a little bad news a couple of hours ago. The Bureau of Personnel has issued orders delaying my change of command until this operational deployment is over. So, Jim Bowie gets to sit in the hot seat a while longer, while your loving daughter cools her heels and waits her turn. (How’s that for mixing up the old metaphors?)
I guess I really don’t have anything to complain about. Jim is an excellent skipper, and a great guy. He couldn’t possibly be any more helpful or thoughtful, and the crew worships him. Needless to say, I’m not happy about the delay, but if I have to warm the bench for a while, it’s nice to know that the man playing in my spot is an A-list player.
Before you get started, Jim is not my type, so don’t even go there. He has a long-term girlfriend, or a fiancé, or something. I don’t know the details, and I’m not going to ask. Whenever I get serious about a relationship, it won’t be with a Navy man. Don’t get me wrong, I like men in uniform, but I figure one Captain Ahab is enough for any family. Besides, I intend to be married to this ship for a couple of years.
This situation does have an up-side. I’m getting a chance to see my new ship and crew perform under pressure before I take command. We’ve got an Indian battle group on one side of us, and a Chinese battle group on the other, and that’s a little like being between the hammer and the anvil. We’re not in combat, and (God willing) we’re not going to be, but the situation is tense. The crew is performing beautifully. I’m already proud of every man and woman on this ship, and I’ll be proud to lead them when the time comes.
Give Mom a kiss for me, and stop feeding scraps of food to Snickers under the table. Twelve years is getting up there for a pug, and they’re prone to heart problems at that age. Scratch him behind the ears instead, and tell him it’s from me.
Love,
Kat
CDR Katherine E. Silva
USS Towers (DDG-103)
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 35
U STREET CAFE
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER
6:30 PM EST
Gregory Brenthoven found an open table near the rear of the café. He chose a seat facing away from the entrance, so he could enjoy the brightly-colored Joel Bergner mural that enlivened the entire back wall.
B
renthoven pulled the lid from his cappuccino, and emptied two packets of raw sugar onto the thick layer of steamed milk at the top. The heavy brown crystals sank quickly through the foam, leaving an irregular tunnel down to the dark liquid below. He gave the mixture a few quick turns with a wooden stir stick and replaced the cover.
The aroma rising from the cup was heavenly. There were plenty of fancier coffee shops in the District, but his long career in Washington had not revealed a single place that served up a finer cup of cappuccino.
He’d bought a sandwich too, grilled chicken and avocado on a brioche roll, but he left that untouched on the table while his eyes feasted on the mural.
Bergner’s whimsical rendering of the historic U Street corridor was framed on the left by portraits of jazz legends Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington, and on the right by a throng of revelers, celebrating in the streets on the night of the 2008 election, when the race barrier of the American Presidency had finally been shattered. Between the two ends of the painting lay a curving section of road, with a 1920s era convertible cruising past the façade of the old Roosevelt Theater.
The color pallet of the mural was weighted heavily toward oranges and yellows, giving it a false impression of antiquity, counterbalanced by the strange mingling of resignation and optimism on the faces of the people depicted.
Brenthoven lifted his cup and took a sip of cappuccino. Still a bit too hot, but damn it was good.
His eyes danced back and forth across the mural, not focusing on any particular section. He’d seen that painting at least a hundred times since Bergner had created it in 2009, and he still wasn’t quite sure why it affected him so profoundly. There was something there, below the surface, some subtly encrypted message of hope and despair. A subliminal acknowledgement that the world could be a much better place… should be a much better place… but even in the midst of oppression and injustice, there was still reason to look forward to a brighter tomorrow.
Brenthoven took another swallow of his cappuccino, and started to think about unwrapping the sandwich.
Of course, he could be completely wrong about the intended message of the mural. He had never met with Joel Bergner, and he had never bothered to research the deliberate symbolism (if any) that the artist had attempted to convey. But that was what the painting said to Brenthoven, and—from his perspective—that was the only symbolism that really mattered.
“Good evening, Mr. Brenthoven,” said a voice behind him.
Brenthoven glanced over his shoulder. He was surprised to be addressed by name, but even more surprised when he saw who had spoken. It was Gita Shankar, the Ambassador for India.
She held up a paper cup with the café’s logo. “May I join you?”
Still a bit put off by the unexpected encounter, Brenthoven took a couple of seconds to respond. “Of course. Yes, please do.”
The ambassador took the chair opposite his own, and pulled the lid from her cup.
Brenthoven nodded toward it. “Coffee?”
“Tea, actually,” the Ambassador said. “With milk. Apparently it is the closest thing to chai that this establishment can make, unless I want to try something called a smoothie.”
“If you’re not familiar with smoothies, you’re probably safer with the tea,” Brenthoven said.
He tipped his cup slightly in the ambassador’s direction in a toasting gesture, and then took a drink. When he set the cup down, he looked the Indian woman in the eyes. “I have a strong hunch that you are not a frequent customer of this café.”
Ambassador Shankar toyed with the lid of her cup. “You are quite correct, of course. I have never been here before.”
Brenthoven nodded. “Then, may I ask what brings you here this evening?”
“Surely, you must know the answer to that,” the ambassador said. “I am here because you are here.”
Brenthoven nodded again. “You had me followed?”
The ambassador grimaced. “Only with the best of intentions, I assure you.”
Brenthoven met her grimace with a frown of his own. Apparently he was becoming careless. He’d never needed Secret Service protection before, but if his movements were that easy to track, it might be time to think about better options for his personal security.
He looked at his unexpected visitor. “You’ve obviously found me, and I can promise that you have my undivided attention, Madam Ambassador.”
“Please,” she said. “Call me Gita.”
“And you can call me Gregory,” he said. “But I’d still like to know why you took the trouble to have me followed here. I assume you want to discuss something outside of the traditional channels. As I said, you have my attention.”
The Indian ambassador raised her cup, and then lowered it without drinking. “You’re quite correct, of course. I wish to speak to you informally, and outside of normal channels.”
Brenthoven took another swallow of cappuccino. “About what?”
“About the hydroelectric site that we have been discussing. And my country’s possible intentions regarding the disposition of that site in the near future.”
“I see,” Brenthoven said. The ambassador obviously didn’t want to name the Three Gorges Dam in this public setting, and any discussion about India’s plan to destroy it would apparently be couched in indirect terms. That was okay. Brenthoven knew how to talk around a subject as well as any government official.
“Is there something specific you wanted to tell me about your country’s intentions regarding the hydroelectric facility in question?”
“Yes,” the ambassador said. “Unofficially, I have been authorized to tell you that our planned actions will occur in two days.”
She looked at her watch. “Approximately forty-eight hours from now.”
Brenthoven sat up. “Forty-eight hours? Are you serious?”
“I am quite serious,” said Ambassador Shankar. “That timeline is given to you in strict confidence. We expect you to protect this information as you would defend the military secrets of a close ally. If it should leak to the wrong people, any trust between my government and yours would be irreparably damaged.”
“I understand,” Brenthoven said. “But I don’t understand why you are sharing this with us. If this information is so sensitive, and I agree that it is, why not restrict the knowledge to your own inner circles?”
“Because there is still time for your government to convince my leaders to divert from the plan,” the ambassador said.
Brenthoven stared at her. “How? What do we have to do to convince your government not to go through with this plan?”
Ambassador Shankar smiled. “We have already discussed that. You can enter the conflict on the side of my country, and help us force the People’s Republic of China to end their acts of aggression, without resorting to unthinkable strategic options.”
“We can’t do that,” Brenthoven said. “The PRC has done nothing to provoke the United States. We have no justification for entering into direct military confrontation.”
The ambassador looked surprised. “Shooting down your military aircraft was not sufficient provocation?”
Brenthoven felt a knot form in his chest. “Madam Ambassador, what are you talking about?”
“Ah,” said the ambassador. “I assumed that you knew…”
The knot in Brenthoven’s chest tightened. “Knew what?”
“About the air battle that took place roughly an hour ago,” she said. “Two of your carrier-based F-18 aircraft were attacked by two flights of Chinese warplanes. I’m not sure about casualties on the Chinese side, but I know that one of your planes was destroyed. I believe the other was damaged, but I haven’t yet been briefed on the details.”
Brenthoven shook his head. “That’s impossible, Madam Ambassador… Gita. I would have been contacted.”
He reached for his cell phone, and fished it out of his pocket. It was off. The battery had died, or the software had recycled itself, or something else. It didn’t matter why it had
happened. What mattered was that the damned thing had powered itself down.
How long had it been off? How long had he been completely out of touch? There was probably a chase team at his townhouse now, and they had no doubt tried his home phone fifty times already. They’d called his cell phone too, of course, but the goddamned thing had been sitting silent in his pocket, like a lump of fucking lead.
He punched the power button, and the phone began its boot-up routine. He didn’t have to wait to know what he would find. At least twenty voicemails, and an equal number of waiting text messages.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
He stood up. “I’m sorry, Gita. I have to go.”
The ambassador stood up as well. “Of course, Gregory. You have business to attend to.”
Her voice hardened. “But don’t forget what I said. Forty-eight hours.”
CHAPTER 36
COMBAT AIR PATROL
VFA-228 — MARAUDERS
BAY OF BENGAL
MONDAY; 01 DECEMBER
0626 hours (6:26 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Rob “Monk” Monkman eased his crippled Boeing F/A-18E Super Hornet into a slow right turn and tried to ignore the growing vibrations that rattled his fighter. The carrier was only a little more than 60 miles away now. Almost home. Almost home…
He didn’t feel much like the Monk at the moment. His Shaolin fighter-jock machismo seemed to be on vacation. Right now, he felt like plain old Robby Monkman, and he was just about scared enough to piss his pants.
He ignored the collage of red tattletales blinking on his up-front control display. The touch-sensitive LCD screen was designed to give him fingertip control and status indications for nearly all of the plane’s onboard systems, but he had lost track of the ever-shifting jumble of warning readouts. His Hornet was hurt bad, he knew that much. He also knew he didn’t have a prayer of sorting out the cascading alert messages to figure out exactly how bad things were.
The Super Hornet’s digital flight control system was supposed to detect battle damage and make real-time corrections to compensate. It must be doing its job, because Monk’s plane had taken the missile hit more than an hour ago, and he was still in the air.