“YEAH. It’s coming,” Cheryl Staurulakis said late the next morning. “We just have to be ready. Unfortunately, it won’t be easy.”
Slumped in his command chair in CIC, Dan rubbed the top of his head. Was he starting to go thin up there? Ha. The least of his fucking worries … His mouth tasted like stale coffee—he’d been up all night, expecting the cross-strait assault. Instead, air activity had ebbed after midnight. This morning an occasional track glowed over the mainland, but almost none over the strait, except for shore-hugging patrols a few miles off both coasts.
“What exactly are you people putting together?” he grunted, pushing back from the command table.
“Sorry, Captain?”
“Never mind, XO. Talking to myself. I mean, sort of, talking to Beijing.”
Someone coughed discreetly. Dan looked up to a hovering Captain Fang. “Unfortunate news, I’m afraid,” the Taiwanese murmured.
“Hit us, Chip. Is it about the interoperability training we requested?”
Fang looked unhappy. “That does not seem possible to arrange. I suspect we are trying to catch our breath before the next development. I asked about antisubmarine training, but they tell me our subs are fully tasked. No aircraft are available either.”
“Well, damn it—”
“There is worse news.” The Taiwanese went on stiffly, as if delivering a memorized speech. “This morning, the Republic of China officially informed Washington it may not be possible to hold the island against a major attack. They request American air reinforcements, and American troops, under provisions of the Taiwan Relations Act and numerous presidential assurances of support.”
Dan started to rub his head again, but made his hand stop. He felt like a chocolate bar left on a hot dashboard. Sagging. Melting. Had to get some sleep soon, or he’d be worthless in the crunch. “And if we don’t reinforce you? What’s the plan then?”
“I don’t know that, sir.”
Dan stroked his chin, sensing a cliff edge crumbling beneath him. Korea News said the Philippines was debating its response to the Chinese landing on Itbayat. The piece speculated that China had warned Manila not to interfere with the occupation of the island, which commanded the sea and air-space south of Taiwan. If the Filipinos acquiesced, though, Beijing had promised that Itbayat would be returned at the close of hostilities.
But it might all be academic: Manila had no military to speak of, either to resist the occupation or to force the island’s return. Meanwhile, ROC air defense showed transports shuttling between China and Itbayat, no doubt bringing in more troops, construction equipment, and heavy weapons. The reality: Taiwan had been outflanked to the south, and the allies surprised and outmaneuvered once more. He tented his fingers. “I understand, Chip. Your backs are against the wall. But what if the U.S. doesn’t step up? Does your government plan to fight?”
Fang hesitated. “I possess little insight into the political realm, Captain Lenson. I personally believe we will fight. But if things get too bloody, well, it’s possible the government might consider asking for terms.” He smiled apologetically. “The one area where I made a little progress, I’m happy to report, is fuel.”
“Oh, good.” Staurulakis brushed a lank curl off her face and sagged against the Tomahawk console, every line of her body suggesting fatigue.
Fang turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Our only true tanker is tasked with supporting our destroyer fleet. But a civilian ship will be here tomorrow. We will have to discuss how the fuel will be charged off—”
“I’m not talking billing,” Dan cut in. “We’re here to protect your country.”
“Um, Captain, with due respect, Washington has yet to make that decision.”
“Funny. Explain to me, then, why I just shot down a missile aimed at your capital.”
Fang seemed about to argue, but looked away instead. He blinked up at the rightmost screen, which showed, at the moment, empty sea. Savo was still steaming slow racetracks in her defense-of-Taipei station. “I acknowledge your point. And we are grateful for that assistance.”
“You’re welcome. But is that from you, or your government?”
“Both, Captain. And we will make that plain to Washington as well.”
Dan rocked back, sighing. Personally, he didn’t care one way or the other about kudos for the shootdown, but it would give the crew a boost. He should get on the 1MC again, bring everyone up to date.
But first … “XO, a couple of days ago I asked for an emergency action plan on what we do if this, uh, Breath of the Dragon,”—He almost chuckled; it sounded like a bad mouthwash commercial. But it wouldn’t be funny, face-to-face with the dragon itself. “If they actually roll across the strait in force. What we can do to help.” He nodded toward Fang. “I know, but this is just me, not Washington. How ’bout it, XO?”
“Sir, that was only yesterday you asked.” Cheryl dug fists into her lower back, wincing. “We … to be honest, I haven’t had time to look at it yet.”
“Then put Amy on it. The strike officer. Mills. Win Farmer. Van Gogh, for navigational resources. Captain Fang, will you chair? It’ll give our second string a chance to do some operational thinking.” He glanced at his watch, and swung down. Even fifteen minutes in his bunk … or a shower … no, the bunk. “Let’s make it tomorrow, right after morning chow. 0700, here in Combat. I’m crashing, Cheryl, Chip. Unless it’s red hot, I’m getting my head down.”
He left them staring after him.
* * *
BUT the chief master-at-arms was waiting at his at-sea cabin. Behind him lurked the rotund, well-draped figure of the NCIS agent, expression hostile under her flower-embroidered head covering. He sighed. The passageway tilted as Savo leaned. “Sheriff. Special Agent,” he muttered reluctantly.
He half-reclined against the bulkhead as they brought him up to date. The reefer in sick bay broken into. The last shred of evidence destroyed. He closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “When?”
“During the night.”
“It wasn’t locked?”
“Doc said the outer office isn’t secured during wartime steaming,” Chief Toan said. “Just the back area, where he stores the controlled meds, and his records.”
“So anybody at all could have busted the padlock on the reefer and destroyed the swabbings. Or whatever you call them.”
Toan looked at the deck. “Essentially, yes sir.”
“Okay, it’s a blow, but spilt milk now, I guess. Special Agent? Anything to add?”
Ar-Rahim pursed her lips. “It’s what we found with the ruined sample, Captain. Your chief corpsman assures me very few people would know hydrogen peroxide decomposes the DNA in a sperm sample. That presupposes either medical knowledge, or access to medical books or online resources.”
Dan said, “Books, then? Because we’ve been in River City for quite a while.”
“Actually, a few people still have access,” she said.
“Who?” he asked, then answered the question himself. “You mean me. Correct? You mean me, Special Agent?”
She met his eye. “I didn’t make that accusation, Captain.”
He gripped the knob to his cabin. “Well, let me know when you need an alibi.” He couldn’t help making it sarcastic; he was just too fucking angry. “I’m sure between the bridge and CIC, my time has been pretty well accounted for over the last forty-eight hours. So, what now?”
Ar-Rahim cleared her throat. “With your permission, I’d like to cast a wider net.”
She explained the technique. He wasn’t sure he followed it all, but waved off her offer of a fuller explanation. “A questionnaire? If you think it’ll help. But, please, steer clear of the Chief’s Mess. Your accusations aren’t helping you with them.”
“I’m accusing no one, Captain. Just trying to ascertain the facts.”
“Right.” He pushed past them. Got the door closed, nearly on Toan’s boot.
Alone at last. He sagged into the chair. His upper arms, neck, and back felt as if he’d been beaten with sticks by the entire Army lacrosse team. He eyed the bunk, but couldn’t muster the energy even to get up again and roll into it.
The dread had been growing all day, since the missile attack. The battle for the Senkakus was heating up now that the Japanese had landed. He wasn’t getting anything through official channels, but Aegis gave him the air picture, and he could eavesdrop on the electronic emissions.
A grim and grinding action, if limited in scope, seemed to be developing on those unpopulated islands. The Chinese had landed on the largest, Uotsuri. The Japanese had established toeholds on the smaller islets, to the southeast. Throughout the night, high-speed surface contacts had run in toward the respective lodgements from both directions. Low-level air activity had been almost continuous. Dan had no doubt there were corpses in the surf, small craft sunk or shot up as they tried to run men ashore.
A battle like that could flicker and smoke for a long time. Could kill a lot of good men, fed into the grinder a hundred at a time. But it wouldn’t decide anything.
He dragged himself up at last. Threw water on his face, and made a stab at brushing his teeth. His mouth tasted like the Dumpster behind a Starbucks. He pulled off his coveralls and collapsed into the long-desired haven. Stared up at a picture of Blair taped above his face.
So the war was on. At least China, Taiwan, and Japan thought so. But where was the American response? The dagger-thrust into the “soft underbelly” of the South China Sea that Op Plan 5081 had described? Surely the Chiefs wouldn’t hold that up for authorization by Congress. He covered his face with his hands, pleading with his brain: Stop, stop, go into sleep mode.… An attack in the Paracels might distract Zhang from the eastern island chain, confusing and short-circuiting his offensive.
He lay listening to the creak and sway of a ship in a seaway, both longing for and dreading the oblivion of sleep.
* * *
WHICH he must have achieved at some point, because when he woke someone was tapping at his door. The phosphorescent numerals of his Seiko swam like bioluminescent dinoflagellates. Seven. He’d managed a couple hours. Unless it was 07, the next morning … that didn’t seem possible … no, that was evening blue leaking around the porthole cover. But a little bag time just made you want more. “Yeah!” he yelled. A fit of coughing doubled him. “Come in,” he called, when he could breathe.
The message board pulsed before his eyes. The messenger waited, hands clasped, as Dan groped for the reading glasses.
The People’s Republic of China had issued an ultimatum to the “renegade province” of Taiwan. The island could either submit to “peace through unification” or be destroyed.
General Zhang Zurong was now elevated to Party general secretary and state president. The three leading titles in the state. There were rumors of executions of more leading Party members in Beijing.
The United States and China were both going to heightened nuclear-defense conditions. The Senate was debating a resolution to support Taiwan, but the voting lineup was shifting. There was a real possibility the force-authorization resolution would fail.
USS Monocacy had reached station south of Taiwan, to defend that end of the island. CTG 779.1, the Ryukyus Maritime Defense Coalition Task Group, was directed to coordinate air and missile defenses with CTG 779.2, the Luzon Channel Task Group, with separate orders to follow.
A U.S. fast logistics ship had been sunk in the Arabian Sea, apparently by a submarine.
“Need a pen, sir?” The messenger offered a Skilcraft.
Dan initialed the messages without answering. His brain teemed and crawled with thoughts, interpolations, apprehensions, breeding like maggots in rotten meat.
The second ABM cruiser was on station. Good, they could link data, hand off targets to each other.
But he’d tipped his hand during the single-warhead strike on Taipei. He’d wondered why only one missile had arched over from the mainland. Somehow, during the night, his unconscious had figured it out.
It had been a probe. A test of the U.S. and ROC intercept cuing and ABM capabilities. Now Beijing knew exactly where and who Savo was, and how she responded to an incoming missile.
Now that they had him targeted, he could expect to head the next strike list.
His consciousness clicked to the next line of code. The sunken tanker, in the western Indian Ocean. Obviously, part of the enemy’s anti-access strategy, to slice off the Navy’s logistical tail. But how had they known where it was, to vector a sub against it? Could the Chinese still have some over-the-horizon targeting capability?
Or—an even more chilling possibility—had they penetrated U.S. codes? Was that what the repeated cautions not to trust voice messages were about?
And Congress. Could they really be wavering on defending Taiwan? What did they think would happen to South Korea and Japan, if the keystone of the island chain fell to the enemy?
The messenger. “You all right, Captain? Look a little bit under the weather.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he mumbled. Breathed hard for a couple of seconds, then handed the clipboard back. As the door closed, he reached the J-phone off the bulkhead.
CIC answered on the first squeal. “TAO here, Captain. Lieutenant Mills.”
“Matt? How we coming on the plan to intercept an invasion? Oh, and we really need a name for that—”
“The CHENG suggested ‘Dragonglass.’”
Dan felt guilty. Danenhower had been obsessing about their dwindling fuel state, but he’d forgotten to tell the engineer he didn’t have to worry; the Taiwanese were sending a tanker. “Bart did? Okay. Dragonglass it is. Did you see these latest messages? The invasion may be starting. When can I get a brief?” Too late, he recalled they’d already set a time. But based on the news … “I, uh, know I said tomorrow. But we’re getting overtaken by events. Even if all you have’s a concept—”
Mills sounded resigned. “Yessir. Haven’t got much. But we can brief what we have. In CIC? In an hour?”
“That’ll work. Uh, ring me back when everyone’s assembled.”
He sank back and closed his eyes. But even as his mind rotated and vibrated, his lids drifted closed again.
Sprawled in his bunk, alone, the captain snored, writhing uneasily from time to time. Until, once more, the J-phone chirped.