Sword of Shiva (For fans of Tom Clancy and Dale Brown)

by Jeff Edwards

  If this had been a meeting of the full politburo, he could have leveraged enough votes and proxies to challenge virtually any rival. But among the limited constituency of the Standing Committee, he had no ranks of ministers to flock to his banner. Here, at the heart of China’s innermost-circle of leadership, he had only his own persuasiveness to draw on.

  “There is very little time,” he said again. “If we give the order at once, we can have the water in the Three Gorges catchment down to flood-control levels within two days. Then, if the dam is attacked, the flooding downstream will be a nuisance, not a disaster.”

  “Completely out of the question!” Ma Yong snapped. “Ludicrous! The hydroelectric turbines from Three Gorges serve almost fifteen percent of our nationwide power needs. If we lower the reservoir to flood-control levels, it will impact our industrial base, food production, transportation, communications… I can’t even begin to calculate how badly our national economy would suffer.”

  Ma was Party Secretary of the Leading Group for Financial and Economic Affairs. His first, last, and only concern was the strength of the Chinese economy. This made him an instant opponent of any person or agency which threatened China’s financial bottom line.

  “Then I suggest a different calculation,” Jia said. “Try calculating how badly our transportation and industry will be damaged when half the railroad bridges and road bridges in China are wiped out by catastrophic flooding. And while you are playing with numbers, you should try to estimate how long it will take your precious economy to recover when 400 million of our comrades are killed.”

  “Where is your proof?” Ma asked in an acid tone. “How do you know that the Indians will attack Three Gorges? Have they shared their secret plans with you? Or do you have your own intelligence sources, operating within the Indian government?”

  “Of course not,” Jia said. “But I can read a map. By eliminating our defensive missile sites at Chengdu, Zigong, and Chongqing, they have cleared a path for a cruise missile strike against the dam. I tell you, comrades—the Indians are planning to attack Three Gorges.”

  This brought low murmurs around the table.

  First Vice Premier Lu Shi raised a hand and all conversation ceased. “Comrade Jia,” he said slowly. “I do not doubt your sincerity, and your concerns are worthy of serious consideration. But there is such a thing as too much caution. As Comrade Ma has pointed out, we have no real evidence that our neighbors to the south are planning to destroy Three Gorges. Such an attack would constitute a direct and crippling strike against our national infrastructure. The Indian government understands that we would be forced to resort to strategic options.”

  That last phrase seemed to leave a breath of chill on the air. Among the senior elite of the Communist Party, the word ‘strategic’ was an accepted euphemism for ‘nuclear.’

  Wei Jintao, Party Secretary of the State Council, brought his fingertips together. “Perhaps it would be wise to deescalate the situation, before it becomes necessary to consider… ah… strategic options.”

  He looked toward Lu Shi. “If our goal was to punish India for harboring enemies of China, surely we have accomplished that. If our goal was to demonstrate military dominance in the region, we have accomplished that as well. I’m not sure what we can expect to gain by continuing this altercation with India.”

  Before Lu could respond, Jia spoke again. “Why are we speaking in circumlocutions? We’re the top echelon of leadership in this country. If we cannot talk plainly here, how will we make the straightforward decisions that need to be made? If we are talking about nuclear weapons, we should not disguise that fact by referring to them as ‘strategic options.’ And we should stop pretending that this is some kind of ‘altercation.’ Everyone in this room knows that we have gone beyond that. When we strip away the ambiguous language, we are discussing the possibility of nuclear war with India.”

  He tapped a finger sharply on the table top. “Yes. I say the words openly. Nuclear war. We all need to think about those words, and we need to think about what they mean. Because we’re stumbling blindly in that direction, and no one at this table wants to admit it.”

  Several of the committee members looked as if they wanted to agree, but none of them spoke.

  Lu Shi regarded Jia coolly, but his voice remained level. “Again, Comrade Jia, I concede your sincerity, and I don’t wish to make light of your concerns. But I think you are overreacting. We have vanquished the Indian aircraft carrier. We have shown the American Navy that they cannot interfere in the affairs of China without consequences. The major engagements are now over. There may be a few skirmishes to deal with, but the remaining tasks will be primarily political, not military.”

  Wei Jintao raised an eyebrow. “May we ask you to clarify that, Comrade Lu?”

  Lu Shi didn’t answer. Instead, Premiere Xiao Qishan cleared his throat. Every eye turned instantly in his direction.

  Since the Premiere’s triple bypass surgery the year before, there had been one overt attempt to force the old dragon out of office, and several behind-the-scenes maneuvers to nudge him into retirement. But Lu Shi had battled tirelessly to keep Xiao in power.

  It was widely understood that Lu Shi would succeed Xiao Qishan as Premiere, which made his continued support of the aging leader something of a mystery. No one could understand why Lu Shi would deliberately postpone his own assent to ultimate power. Could it be something as simple as loyalty to the Premiere? Was Lu following a timetable which made the delay necessary, or desirable? Was it something else entirely? Although there was considerable speculation, no one seemed to have an answer.

  Lu’s motive for continuing to support Xiao Qishan was not clear, but the result was no secret at all. The Premiere repaid that support in-kind, by putting his own power and influence at the disposal of Lu Shi.

  Xiao went through the motions of thoughtful deliberation and personal objectivity, but—when the rhetoric was sifted out and his actions were evaluated—the old leader backed Lu Shi’s decisions every time.

  Premiere Xiao cleared his throat again, more softly this time. Several of the faces turned in his direction had an expectant quality about them, as though some of the committee members were hoping that the gravity of the situation would force Xiao to break with Lu Shi, and reassert the firm hand of leadership. Pull them collectively back from what might be the edge of catastrophe.

  If so, they were destined to be disappointed.

  “The People’s Republic of China is no longer a nation of peasants,” Xiao said. “We are a global economic power, and the People’s Liberation Army is rapidly becoming the preeminent military force on the planet. The other nations of the world must learn that we can no longer be backed into a corner.”

  Jia Bangguo and Wei Jintao exchanged glances across the table. The words coming from Xiao’s mouth had clearly been scripted by Lu Shi.

  The Premiere continued speaking. “I have transmitted instructions to our ambassadors in the United States and India, detailing our demands to the governments of both countries. If India wishes to return to normal relations with China, they must cease harboring our enemies, including the terrorists who continue to incite violence in the Tibetan Autonomous Region. As a gesture of good faith, they must begin by extraditing the criminal agitator, the Dalai Lama. By similar token, the United States is placed on notice… The days of the American military hegemony are ended. If they attempt to intrude in the affairs of the People’s Republic, they will discover that their dwindling power is no longer a match for ours.”

  Lu Shi nodded. “Well said, Comrade Premier.”

  He pointed his fierce gaze at each of the other committee members. “This is our moment,” he said. “The star of the West is falling, even as ours is ascending. If our will remains strong, we will own this century.”

  His voice grew quiet. “This is China’s hour. We must not throw it away.”

  Ten minutes after the meeting adjourned, Jia Bangguo caught up with Wei Jintao on his wa
y out of the building. Side by side, the two committee members strolled down the stone steps that led from the Great Hall of the People onto the flat expanse of Tiananmen Square. Both men had limousines idling at the curb, but they signaled for their drivers to wait, and they walked out past the security barriers to stand in the cold night air.

  The seven determinative stars of Bei Fang Xuan Wu, the Black Warrior of the North, burned bright in the dark curtain of heaven. The ancient Chinese constellation was also known as the Black Tortoise. It was a symbol of winter, and the story of its creation dealt with terror, and death, and the unintended consequences of rash actions by men who were supposedly wise.

  “I don’t think he cares what happens,” Jia said.

  Wei Jintao said nothing.

  “Lu Shi,” Jia said. “I don’t think he cares anymore. He is angry, and hurt, and he wants to punish someone for his grief. He destroyed the men who killed his son, along with the entire village where they were hiding. But that wasn’t enough.”

  Wei looked at Jia. “What are you saying, Comrade?”

  Jia Bangguo was starting to feel the bite of the winter air now. He flipped up the collar of his coat. “I’m saying that our Vice Premier is looking for an enemy to destroy, and he doesn’t really care who it is. But worse than that, I think he has stopped caring about the consequences.”

  “That’s crazy,” Wei Jintao said. “I may not agree with many of his decisions, but Comrade Lu would never do anything to endanger the future of China. He loves this country more than he loves his own life.”

  “That’s my point,” Jia said. “I don’t think he loves his life anymore. I don’t think he cares about living at all.”

  Jia tilted his face up to the stars, his eyes tracing the outlines of the Black Tortoise. “If we don’t do something quickly, I’m not sure that China will have a future.”

  CHAPTER 49

  USS MIDWAY (CVN-82)

  ANDAMAN SEA (EAST OF THE NICOBAR ISLANDS)

  TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER

  1924 hours (7:24 PM)

  TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’

  Captain Anthony Romano, commanding officer of USS Midway, watched the green-shaded areas continue to grow on the integrated damage control display. The screen showed a three-dimensional representation of the ship’s interior construction—the decks, bulkheads, and hull fittings sketched out in ghostly shades of translucent gray, to allow the viewer to look through structural features in the foreground to see the compartments and passageways beyond.

  The green shading represented sea water. Five of the compartments on the starboard side of the virtual ship image were filled with green from deck to overhead. Those were the parts of the ship that had flooded when the Chinese cruise missiles had punched through the ship’s hull.

  Thanks to automated damage control systems, good watertight integrity, and fast action by Romano’s crew, the flooding had been contained to the smallest possible area. Now, after fighting hard to keep the seawater out, they were intentionally letting it in. On the damage control display, compartments on the port side of the ship were rapidly filling with green shading, as tons of water were pumped into sections of the ship that had previously been dry.

  The technique was known as counter-flooding. It was an accepted method for restoring the trim of a warship when she had taken on enough flooding water to endanger her stability.

  Romano had known about the concept since his very first course in shipboard damage control at Annapolis. As an intellectual exercise in the comfort of an academy classroom, counter-flooding had sounded like a logical way to cope with shipboard stability problems. But this was not the Naval Academy, and the thousands of gallons of seawater pouring into his ship were not at all theoretical.

  This bright idea had come from Admiral Zimmerman himself. Just let in a little water on the port side, level the flight deck, and then they could launch aircraft.

  Except that it wasn’t a little water. It was a hell of a whole lot of water, and it wasn’t going into bare compartments. It was going into two electronics spaces, an auxiliary equipment room, an air conditioning skid, and a fan room. Romano’s technicians and engineers had spent several frantic hours trying to unbolt, disconnect, and remove as much equipment as possible from the compartments selected for counter-flooding, but their simply hadn’t been time to relocate even a third of the hardware. And now, generators, power supplies, computers, hydraulic pumps, blower motors, and server racks were being immersed in corrosive salt water.

  When the mission was over, the additional water could be pumped back out of the ship, but a lot of the equipment wouldn’t be worth salvaging by then. The upcoming battle had not even started yet, and the Midway had already taken millions of dollars of additional damage. Maybe tens of millions.

  Romano shook his head and suppressed a curse. The strike group was under Admiral Zimmerman’s command, but the ship herself was Romano’s responsibility. More than that, he loved the giant metal monstrosity with a fervor that he reserved for few human beings. He cherished every weld, every rivet, and every inch of deck plate from bow to stern. Midway was his girl, and he was not disposed to be friendly to anyone or anything that caused her harm.

  He understood the reasoning behind the decision to do this, and he even agreed with it. But he damned well didn’t have to be happy about it, and he wasn’t.

  The green shading on the damage control display had reached the overheads of the designated flooding spaces.

  Captain Romano turned to his Damage Control Assistant. “What do you think, Steve?”

  Lieutenant Steve Cohen checked the readouts on two adjacent computer screens. Then, he glanced up at the bubble inclinometer mounted on a transverse beam in the overhead. He nodded. “Looks like we’re back in trim, Captain. The flight deck should be nice and level.”

  He tapped a few keys and checked a third display. “All that extra water has given us some additional draft, and we’re going to lose some speed hauling it around.”

  “Hopefully, that won’t be a problem,” Romano said. “The Air Boss assures me that we can offset the loss in wind speed across the deck by cranking up the acceleration and release curve on EMALS. At least that’s the idea. We won’t know for certain until we try.”

  EMALS was short for Electromagnetic Aircraft Launch System, the next-generation flight deck technology that was replacing steam catapults on the newer classes of U.S. carriers. The new all-electric system was lighter, faster, and significantly more efficient than the mechanical steam systems which had preceded it. More importantly, EMALS provided an entirely new degree of precision control, allowing the system to safely launch everything from lightweight UAVs, to aircraft far beyond the weight limits of previous catapults.

  In theory, an aircraft carrier equipped with EMALS could launch planes with less than 10 knots of relative wind across the flight deck. That was a far cry from the 30+ knots of relative wind required by carriers with old-style catapult systems.

  They were about to find out if the theory was true.

  Romano picked up a phone and punched the number for Flag Plot. “Admiral? This is Captain Romano. I’m on my way up to the bridge. We can set flight quarters any time you’re ready, sir.”

  He listened for a couple of seconds, ended the call with a quick final courtesy, and then hung up the phone and headed for the door.

  “This had better work,” he said to himself. “This had better fucking work.”

  CHAPTER 50

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

  BAY OF BENGAL

  TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER

  2356 hours (11:56 PM)

  TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’

  The Towers moved through the night like a shadow, her phototropic camouflage seeming to wrap the long angular profile of the ship in an even deeper shade of darkness. A little more than 250 miles to the west—on the far side of the Chinese battle group—cruised her sister ship, USS Donald Gerrard. Both ships were running dark and quiet—all active sensors and
transmitters shut down—their respective headings and speeds calculated to present the smallest possible cross-section to enemy radars.

  Even the moonlight had been taken into account. According to the nautical almanacs, official moonset was still five minutes away, but the lower half of the silvery orb was already disappearing below the western horizon. By one minute after midnight, the last of the moon would be hidden behind the curve of the earth. Under simple starlight, the reactive camouflage that coated both ships would make them difficult to detect visually—either by human eye, or by optical sensors.

  An adaptive infrared suppression system kept each ship’s thermal footprint within half a degree of the ambient air temperature, and the ships’ acoustic signatures had been minimized by seventh-generation silencing, active noise-control modules, and acoustically-isolated engineering plants.

  Despite the rumors that floated around the internet, this cunning array of technologies did not render the American warships invisible. If there was a way to make 9,800 tons of steel vanish entirely, the engineers of the U.S. defense industry had not yet stumbled across the secret. Even in full stealth mode, USS Towers and USS Donald Gerrard were not undetectable. They were simply less detectable.

  The distinction between those two states—undetectable, and less detectable—was very much on the mind of Commander Katherine Silva as she stood next to Captain Bowie in CIC and watched the Aegis tactical display. Under other conditions, the theoretical gap between a low detection threshold and a zero detection threshold might have been the subject of a stimulating technical debate. But under the current circumstances, that narrow theoretical gap could easily mean the difference between life and death.

  On the screen, the blue symbols representing the Towers and the Gerrard were sliding into the red colored areas which depicted the radar coverage zones of the nearest Chinese warships. The zones were color-coded by estimated probability of detection: lighter shades of red for low probability, darker shades for high probability. Out at the fringes of the enemy’s radar coverage, the color was a red so light that it verged on pink. Closer to the Chinese aircraft carrier, the reds deepened to the shade of blood.