USS The Sage Brothers Honolulu
THE noise was like a thunderstorm crammed inside a shipping container. A bellow of acoustic energy no mortal ear could have withstood unattenuated. Even separated from it by a foot of dense insulation sandwiched between layers of steel, Dan’s guts quivered from the subsonics as he peered through a Perspex window two inches thick.
He stood deep in the ship, between boxlike enclosures painted cream white. Windows permitted a close-up view of the machines suspended inside, braced and strutted by heavy steel. Not much larger than a refrigerator, each General Electric gas turbine produced twenty-five thousand horsepower at full throttle. They were shafted to Curtiss-Wright generators, which supplied power to huge superconducting electric motors housed farther aft.
All in all this engine room, plus another staggered aft of it and separated by watertight bulkheads, generated over a hundred thousand horsepower.
But they weren’t new engines.
He’d woken up after his chat with his daughter with his course clear in his mind.
We might not have to invent something new.
What if we have something available already that we can pitch in there, see if it works?
Wielding a wartime priority, Kitty and Brett had scoured the planet. Some units had come from other navies. The Spanish, Italian, and South African fleets were now operating on half their former power. Two turbines had come from Queen Mary 2, and two from Celebrity cruise liners. Others were en route from generator stations in Iceland.
But by far the majority of the two hundred–plus main propulsion engines the Navy was installing in the new-construction cruisers, the Flight V destroyers, and the SBX-2 class of seaborne early-warning radars, had come from the idled American civilian air fleet. The LM2500 had been derived from a high-bypass turbofan aircraft engine, the CF6. Though there’d been changes through the years to fit them for marine use, the cores, with their arrays of finely machined blades, were still so similar that minor work-arounds made them one-for-one replacements.
Nearly six hundred commercial airliners stagnating in hangars across the country because of fuel restrictions had suddenly become an engine mine. The core roaring at his elbow had come from a Delta Air Lines Boeing 767. The one next to it, also thundering in a full-power test, had been sourced from a pumping station in Saudi Arabia, originally used to compress natural gas. The two in the After Engine Room of USS The Sage Brothers—named after three brothers who’d died off Vietnam in USS Evans—came from a FedEx DC-10.
The engines had hours on them. And they came in different variants, so installation kits for each version had to be fabricated. But they would serve. Meanwhile, GE and Rolls-Royce had scrubbed down their 3-D printer drivers and were producing new blades and cores. As the used units reached the ends of their service lives, they’d be replaced with uprated cores, producing more power with lower fuel consumption.
But by then, Dan hoped, the war would be over. One way or another.
The NCIS and FBI had found the production flaw. It had been a Trojan horse exploit. Someone had slithered past all the safeguards and inserted a surreptitious alteration deep in the code. When the printer hit a certain point in the metal-deposition process, instead of spraying alloy the printer head stuttered, inserting air-filled microvoids deep in the blades.
How wasn’t his concern, though it was worrying. The really unsettling question was what other malicious code might have been inserted into the other weapons the Navy, the Air Force, and the Army depended on to take the battle to the enemy. And what about the ABM systems that were supposed to keep Seattle, Los Angeles, San Diego, and the other cities Zhang threatened safe in case of a major attack?
“Sir?” The destroyer’s skipper leaned in, shouting over the din. Dan lifted his ear protection. “That’s hour two at fifty percent. Going up to one hundred percent now. You might want to step back.”
Dan nodded and retreated a few steps, glancing around.
He remembered crawling rusting, flaking, oil-crusted bilges as a midshipman, grease-stained qualification book in hand. In those days, destroyers had burned bunker oil so thick it had to be heated before it would flow. Asbestos-padded overheads had dripped like triple-canopy jungle. Hissing steam from leaky joints waved white plumes in air so hot it scorched your throat when you breathed, unless you were standing directly beneath the huge intakes that whooshed outside air into the faces of the sweating men who tended the boilers. The boilers themselves had towered like the furnaces of Moloch, from massive keel footings up level after level. The air had been solid noise, solid heat, thick with the smells of fuel and steam, sweat and corrosion.
The Sage Brothers’ white-painted Engine Room was clean as a hospital cafeteria. There wasn’t even a control booth anymore. Coveralled men and women stood studying readouts on handhelds for the tests, but when the destroyer was under way, everything would be controlled from the bridge. The helmsman would press a button on a touch screen, and an engine would start itself. Generators, pumps, and motors would adjust themselves, and in case of damage would shift the load to maximize the ship’s fighting efficiency.
Or so the theory went. But when fuel fires raged, when shaped charges penetrated with jets of fire, when the shock of a detonating torpedo or warhead or mine or bomb whiplashed equipment on their isolation mounts and the sea poured in through split hulls …
He remembered those times. Had lived them. Aboard USS Reynolds Ryan, Barrett, Turner Van Zandt, Horn, K-79, Savo Island. When crews had saved their ship and fought on. When they’d coped, made do, sacrificed themselves for their shipmates, and overcome.
How would the hidden processes of digital intelligence respond? It was a new world. An antiseptic, inhuman, depersonalized world of metal and electrons. But still, one of savage struggle. From a wielder of weapons, the warrior had become the director of machines that wielded themselves; launching on their own, changing course, varying tactics, needing only to have their targets designated. And soon they would no longer require human direction even for that.
He shivered. Then nodded again to the skipper, and headed for the ladder up.
* * *
CAMP H. M. Smith was perched high above the harbor. He’d been here before. The CNO had personally pinned on his stars here, before the opening strike on the Chinese mainland. “Thanks, I won’t need you for the rest of the day,” Dan told his driver, getting out in front of Building 700.
Nipa palms nodded, fronds clashing in the cool breeze from the sea. The Nimitz-MacArthur Pacific Command Center overlooked the harbor and shipyard. To the north, ridge after ridge of forested green hills receded into the distance, the valleys hazy with mist. To the east, more hills surged like a stormy sea. To the west spread the city, glittering and vulnerable.
The fronds clashed again, clattering like colliding bayonets. He took off his cap and ran a hand over sweat-soaked hair. He stood for a moment more looking down at the sea. Then headed for a concrete entranceway.
He told the guards he was scheduled to meet with General Faulcon. They checked his ID against a list, rifled through his briefcase, wanded him, and took custody of his phone. The elevator dropped fast. He swallowed to clear his ears, fighting a claustrophobia that threatened whenever he went underground. Ever since the Signal Mirror mission into Baghdad …
Still fighting that memory, he stepped out into a coldly lit, low-overheaded, air-conditioned passageway that felt like some W. A. Harbinson fantasy, below the ice cap of Antarctica. Officers and enlisted scurried along, abstracted as ants, avoiding his gaze. Situation rooms and intel spaces opened off the passageway. Every fifty yards the tunnel made a right angle, walls slanting away at each corner. It looked like feng shui, but it was meant to confine blast, in case a bunker penetrator made it this deep.
The corridor gave way to a higher-ceilinged office space that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Pentagon. “Captain Lenson, for General Faulcon,” he told a digital assistant on the table, and waited.
“Captain? The general will see you now,” it said several seconds later.
Dan had worked for Randall Faulcon when the latter had been the joint special operations commander north of Kandahar and west of the White Mountains. Planning black missions into Pakistan. Never admitted, never acknowledged.
The general was so gaunt now his face looked vacuum-sealed. They said he had only one good eye, but Dan couldn’t tell which. Both, as he inspected Dan, were totally emotionless. Just as in Bagram, his office here was walled with maps, though now they were up on vertical large-screen displays. Callouts from active drones crept across seas and mountains. Comm channels murmured. It was less office than tactical operations center.
Faulcon saluted Dan’s Medal of Honor, though they were both bareheaded and deep below ground. Feeling foolish, Dan returned it.
The general’s skeletal fingers gripped his like Death seizing a reluctant soul. “Lenson. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir. Afghanistan. With Tony Provanzano.”
“With Tony, yeah. You were running the CIRCE program. And I saw your wife not that long ago. In Washington.”
“Yes sir.”
“She knows what she’s talking about. But let’s get to business. I hear you reengined our new naval construction with parts stolen from civilian airliners.”
“Basically true, sir. But I didn’t do it alone.”
“Welcome to my world.” Faulcon crossed to a screen. It showed the western Pacific. “I understand you left your flagship after she was hit.”
Dan pushed down anger. Would that canard ever stop dogging him? Would that imputed dishonor always stain his name? “I left, correct. In order to shift my—”
“Transferring your command, I know. There are still questions being raised. But Jim Yangerhans is willing to look past that, at least for now. He wants to know if you’re ready to go back on full duty.”
“I think so, sir.”
“Medical?”
“I’m recovered enough for desk work. As for going back to sea—it might be wise to take a few more weeks.”
“That’s honest. To be honest right back, there won’t be any sea commands for you. Not until certain political elements get distracted by something else.”
He forced a nod. “Copy that, General.”
“All right, here’s where we’re going. There’s not a hell of a lot of strategic guidance coming out of the Chiefs. They’re giving us intermediate objectives, but not defining what could constitute an acceptable end state. It’s up to us to develop the operational approach. So we’re more or less running strategic guidance, concept development, plan development, and plan assessment simultaneously. Just remember, SecDef can reenter the process at any time.”
Faulcon positioned two hands on the wall display of the Pacific. “The ten-thousand-feet overview: We’re preparing for a two-pronged offensive. The northern prong will begin with filtering-in operations by special ops, to take the islets bracketing Taiwan. They’ll be supported by air strikes from Itbayat. If they succeed, we’ll follow up with a multidivision assault, link up with the resistance, and fight it out with Lieutenant General Pei and the Chinese army we’ve trapped there.”
Dan nodded, and the general spun the map to show the South China Sea. “The southern prong’s less clearly envisioned so far. You won’t see this on the news, but the Vietnamese are being hammered. They’ve lost Hanoi. The Chinese are still advancing. We’re not ready to put major land forces ashore, but we have to do something or see one of our toughest allies forced out of the war. Planning’s under way for several options. One is landing a tank brigade in the rear of the advancing Chinese forces. Cutting their logistics lines.”
“Like Inchon,” Dan said.
“Exactly, like MacArthur’s landing. I have to say the Army chief of staff’s not happy with that idea. But at minimum, we need a demonstration. A major carrier strike, at least. Like the one you vanguarded in Recoil.”
Dan nodded, and Faulcon spread his fingers on the screen, zooming in on the southern coast. “Another option is a strike against the naval, air, and submarine base at Yulin, on Hainan Island. An attack there should force them to pull back forces from Vietnam. That effort would leapfrog from our joint Vietnamese-Indian-U.S. base facilities in the Spratlys.”
“A strike, a raid, or a landing, General?” A strike was a quick blow from the air or the sea. A raid meant commitment of ground forces, but with only temporary occupation in mind. A landing would be fought for tenaciously, with the idea of permanent occupation.
Faulcon shrugged. He slid behind his desk and pointed to a chair for Dan. “Not sure yet. At the least, as I said, a major strike. Maybe also, factor in consideration of a tactical nuke. Though that might be outside the political box.”
Dan took the chair. “Outside how, sir? They wiped out a carrier strike group. They went nuclear first. No one I know understands why we didn’t retaliate.”
The general bobbled his head. “True, and the Chiefs are game, but NCA’s hanging back. Grand strategy? Fear of the next escalatory step? I can only speculate why.”
“Uh, I understand the Chinese have problems too. Famine. Reduced production. Unrest. And disease.”
Faulcon frowned. “We can’t depend on a virus to win for us.” He slid open the drawer and plopped a fat red-and-white-striped folder on the desktop. “I’d like you to head up one of our planning cells. Develop courses of action, campaign and contingency plans against the requirements identified in the planning directive. You’ll have forty people. In the second-level basement. With Indian and Vietnamese liaisons. Relieve the colonel in charge. Or keep him as your deputy, if you want. We need these as soon as you can produce them.”
Dan wondered why the incumbent was being relieved of command, and then, why he was being slotted in. “Yes, sir. Can you give me a readout on his uh, or her, performance?”
“Osterhaut’s a good man. Just not plugged in enough to naval aspects of the operation. PACOM wants your ass in the chair.”
Dan nodded. “I had some sharp folks on the engine project. They’re at loose ends now.”
“Pull them in. See the J-1 to cut orders. You’ll report to J-3, of course.”
Someone tapped on the door. Faulcon blanked the screen and stood. Dan got up too. “That’s about it. My aide has your access codes, passwords, and the key card to a room at the Ala Moana. Though I doubt you’ll be there much. I don’t have to remind you to keep a lid on this.”
“No, sir.”
“Report to the J-3 daily. Admiral Verstegen. You’re familiar with the RATE process.”
“Refine, Adapt, Terminate, or Execute.”
“Correct. Admiral Yangerhans will be assessing your progress. He’ll make decisions as events work forward. See the J-2 for intel, enemy intentions, force levels … you know the drill.”
Dan nodded, and followed Faulcon out.
* * *
THE “basement” was Level 2, two flights down from the ground floor. Fifty feet by a hundred, its raw concrete still embossed with the shapes of its molds, it had been equipped with gray-blue padded partitions and battered desks that looked like they’d come from a bankruptcy sale. Cables snaked the concrete floor. Pipes zigzagged the ceiling. A guard with a sidearm was posted on a folding chair by the stairwell.
Dan shook hands with the colonel he was relieving. Balding, studious-looking, with ribbons from Afghanistan and Syria, Sy Osterhaut explained that the partitions separated their cell from those planning other operations. Dan wondered if those others were working the alternate options Faulcon had mentioned—the demonstration against northern Vietnam, the landing of the tank brigade—but knew better than to ask.
* * *
HE caught up over the next twenty-four hours. The base-plan package Faulcon had turned over described the concept of operations, the major forces, the concepts of support, and anticipated timelines. His cell’s job was to add annexes, time-phased force and deployment data, and other detail to arrive at three COAs—concepts of operations.
These would be briefed to J-3, then PACOM personally, after which one or more COAs would be further developed as a conplan. Conplans weren’t operations orders yet, but they were getting closer. The final joint op plan would be massive, with a full discussion of the concept of operations, all applicable annexes, and force-deployment tables identifying the specific forces, functional support, and resources needed to execute through to completion.
Working with Osterhaut, Dan met with the liaisons, revised the work teams, and added bodies, including Pickles and Harriss. The enemy order of battle needed updating too, and he asked for more Intel help.
Computers and screens were in short supply, so a big map covered with acetate went up on one wall. It gradually filled with symbology: missile batteries, radars, troop concentrations, military installations. He spent hours standing in front of it, memorizing bays and capes and beaches, mountain ranges, rivers, cities, roads, and airfields. Getting a feel for the operational environment.
Hainan Island lay off China’s southern coast, separated by a twelve-mile strait. A hundred miles wide by a hundred across, population nine million, it was only a little smaller than Taiwan. Its southern interior was mountainous, with the largest cities, Haikou and Hainan, opposite the mainland on the north.
The main targets lay near the city of Sanya, in the south. Over the past decades, several small ex-Japanese naval bases and airfields—Japan had occupied the island during World War II—had been expanded, and new facilities had been built, to support China’s gradual takeover of the resource-rich South China Sea.
One of Dan’s reserve officers, in civilian life a history professor at the University of Hawaii, had researched the last seizure of the island. The Japanese had landed in Tsinghai Bay, on the north end, in 1939, followed by a second landing near Sanya. The native Li people had fought, but the invaders crushed them ruthlessly, killing over a third of the male population. They’d used their bases to blockade China and as a stepping-stone to the invasion of French Indochina. The Japanese had left only after the overall surrender in 1945.
Studying the map, Dan contemplated a restaging of some of that history, though without the mass executions. Seizure of Sanya not only could cut off the last remnants of sea commerce and fisheries; it might also establish command of the air over south China. Hong Kong and Macao lay to the east; unrest and resistance had been reported from both former colonies, despite savage repression by Beijing.
No one was planning an invasion of the mainland, to his knowledge. The Allies had no forces large enough to contemplate that. Only the Vietnamese had enough divisions in the line to confront even part of the Chinese army.
But if the war had to be fought to a conclusion, a landing on Hainan would be a giant stride forward.
On the other hand … Zhang had made it clear that any attack on China proper would lead to savage reprisals, including nuclear strikes on the American homeland.
But that wasn’t Dan’s remit. He was to flesh out the plans and present options. Yangerhans would make the decisions, and pass them down to the fleet and Air Force components for execution.
Back at his desk, calling up info on the southern coast on the top secret LAN, he came to a first conclusion. Hainan should be only one of several plausible targets. That was how Operation Overlord had succeeded. British and American deception plans had divided German attention among multiple possible invasion points, from Norway down to the Mediterranean coast of France. That had forced Hitler to scatter his forces, while Eisenhower could concentrate his, and strike with overwhelming power in Normandy.
He read intel summaries. A classified source called Night Light said the Chinese expected the Allies to renew the from-the-south drive that so far had removed the Spratlys, the Paracel/Xisha Islands, and Scarborough Shoal from the People’s Empire. The enemy was deploying to counter raids or landings at various points, but no further information was available as to where.
When he was ready, he called Pickles over. “Okay, Kitty,” he told her. “We have some work to do.”
* * *
SEVERAL days later he convened the analysts, plus Osterhaut and his top intel guy, an Army major, in a swept, secure area on the fifth floor. They all looked close to nodding off, rumpled, squinting in the unaccustomed sunlight slanting through the windows. He was tired too, but had tried to pace himself. At least five hours’ sleep a night, and he’d spent that Sunday afternoon dozing and baking by the pool at the Ala Moana, in trunks, sunglasses, and a slather of sunscreen.
This afternoon, they would present their conclusions to the military chief of half the planet’s surface.
A tap at the door. An aiguilletted aide looked in. “Captain? We’re ready.”
The brightly lit room had antieavesdropping curtains over the windows, a large screen display on the wall, and four men ranged around a polished table. Jim Yangerhans, bony and awkward in khakis, in his habitual slump. Randall Faulcon, taut and expressionless in Army greens. The J-3, Bren Verstegen, a small, thatch-haired admiral in trop whites, whom Dan had briefed several times already during the development of the COAs. Jack Byrne, in sunglasses as usual, waved from a chair by the wall; the former ONI officer, now civilian adviser to the Pacific Command, was an old friend.
And a familiar round, beaming face atop a stocky khakied barrel chest. Dan stepped into a cigarette-infused bear hug. “Admiral Jung,” he muttered into the Korean’s shoulder.
“Dan.” Min Jun Jung clapped his back, hard, then released him as reluctantly as a teenager on a first date. “It is very good to see you again. Thought we lost you, after our epic fight together in the Western Sea.”
“I’m back in battery now, sir. And Min Su, he’s doing okay? Is he back on your staff?”
“Oh, yes, your fellow castaway is quite recovered. His new front teeth are beautiful. Captain Hwang smiles much more often now, to show them off.”
“Are you with us for this operation? I didn’t think we had a Korean component.”
Yangerhans cleared his throat. “The admiral’s come for another briefing. He heard you were here, and asked to see you. You might be interested to know, he’s just been officially recognized as the legitimate representative of a country under domination by the Opposed Powers.”
Dan hesitated, unsure whether to congratulate or commiserate. He finally decided on the former. “They couldn’t have chosen anyone better.” He shook Jung’s hand again.
“We will fight side by side, until the end. No matter how far or how long that road may be,” Jung said pontifically, gaze searching heavenward.
Yeah, Dan thought, he’ll make a great politician.
“Also,” his old shipmate went on, “it is a little late for a formal presentation, but then, it was originally posthumous. This is for you.”
Dan blinked down at the gold-toned box the Korean extended. Inside was an elaborately crafted but somehow somber medal, a cross and wreath of subdued red stones, white enamel, and dull bronze.
“The First-Class Cordon of the Order of Military Merit,” Jung intoned. “The highest decoration for military valor the Republic of Korea can award.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m deeply honored.” Dan let Jung pin it on, then stood fidgeting as the others applauded.
But not for long. Yangerhans cut it off with a brisk “Okay, thank you, now we really need to get down to business. Min, let’s get together again before you leave Hawaii.”
Jung nodded enthusiastically, shook hands all around, including with the Vietnamese and Indian liaisons but not the U.S. staffers, then left. Yangerhans pointed to the Korean’s vacated chair, lifting his chin at Byrne; the policy adviser joined them.
When the door closed, Dan kicked off with four minutes of memorized remarks. After thanking his staffers, he described the three COAs J353 had developed. Option one: land the tank brigade on the coast of Vietnam, behind the Chinese. Two: attack Hainan Island, either a strike or a raid. Three: a strike or a raid on the Hong Kong/Macao area.
He passed out a matrix. Printed in four colors, it graphically presented a multi-attribute utility function scoring each COA on surprise, risk, flexibility, possible retaliation, impact on Allied partners, legality, external support, force protection, and operational security.
Each of his analysts, and each of the liaisons now seated along the wall, had had an input. Each had lobbied hard for his or her own option. But the time for arguing was over.
The principals studied it in silence. Until Yangerhans bobbed his head. “All right. Discussion? Recommendations?”
Dan said carefully, “Option one and the other two are mutually exclusive. We can’t generate adequate force levels to both project a brigade and supporting elements onto the Vietnamese coast, protect the landing afterward, and strike at China proper. For the same reason, an operation has to be limited to a strike or at most a raid. We won’t have enough special operations forces and ground forces left for a second full-on landing once Army and Marine expeditionary elements are committed to Operation Causeway, against Taiwan.
“Also arguing against option one is the continued activity of the Hainan airfields behind where the Army might like to land. The only ports suitable for offloading heavy armor and resupply are Haiphong, Da Nang, and Ho Chi Minh City. Haiphong is too far north. Da Nang we could cover from the captured airfields in the Spratlys, but it’s a long way south of the front line. Saigon is even farther.
“Also, note the very high risk factor associated with option one. This reflects the massive Chinese army currently engaged south of Hanoi. It’s also consistent with the Army chief of staff’s opinion, that any force we put ashore on the mainland could be a total loss.”
Faulcon nodded, expressionless. “Noted. Go on.”
Dan clicked up another slide, wondering why he was enjoying this. Weird. “On the other hand, options two and three might be combined. That is, a four-carrier strike group, augmented by Allied forces, could approach on such a bearing that it could be headed for either the Hong Kong/Macao area, or Hainan.
“Diversions, communications misinformation, and other operational deception activities could further mislead the enemy as to our target. At the last moment, we swing west and hit the Hainan air defenses, then the Yulin base. A sustained three-day strike package should knock the whole island out of the war, leaving it open for a later invasion, should NCA decide that’s the next step.”
Yangerhans sat back, massaging a prognathous jaw as if his teeth hurt. Faulcon, beside him, just looked icy. No one said anything for a while. Finally PACOM murmured, “I also asked you to evaluate a tactical nuclear strike.”
Dan took a deep breath. “We called that option four. We could combine four with other options, depending on which archer we choose for the weapon.”
He flicked up another matrix, trying to ignore the roiling unease in his gut. An aftereffect of the parasitic infection, or of contemplating nuclear escalation? “Uh, after studying various delivery methods, we suggest substituting a Tomahawk-borne warhead from a submarine for the penetrating conventional bomb strike subheaded in option three. As you see here, delivery via a cruise has two advantages. It looks less like a ballistic strike, lessening the risk of triggering a retaliatory response. Second, it can actually fly into the covered pens before detonating. This reduces blast and fallout effects on the nearby city.”
“Which largely consists of support industries and personnel housing for the sub and air bases,” the Air Force general pointed out.
“Could be, General.” There was really no best answer. In World War II, the U-boat pens at Brest had survived dozens of attacks with the heaviest bombs the Allies could lift, obliterating the city around them. The Chinese installations were even more thoroughly hardened, burrowed under millions of tons of rock and concrete. A nuke might be the only way to take them out. In that case, collateral damage would be unavoidable.
“Jack, any input?” Yangerhans asked Byrne. The intel officer pulled on a lip, then shook his head.
The Air Force general spoke next. He advocated a standoff weapon from a bomber instead of the sea-launched missile, but said he’d worked with the planning cell during option development, had his subordinates check the calculations, and the choices seemed clear.
“Randy?”
Faulcon leaned to mutter something inaudible. The theater commander nodded. Braced both palms on the table, and unfolded from behind it like some long-limbed stick insect. The others got to their feet. He angled that massive jaw around, and said, “I’ll review your products and make some calls. I understand our forces are limited, but we have to help the Vietnamese. Take the pressure off them. Or at least look like we’re trying.” He nodded again, and turned for the door.
Dan was thinking about finding a head when Byrne sidled up. “Good presentation.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Dan shook hands, wondering, as he always did, how Byrne managed to keep that bone-deep tan. Well, maybe in Hawaii it wasn’t that hard.
The retired ONI officer placed a finger on the Korean medal, still on Dan’s chest. “Real glitzy piece of tin. I’m jealous. Too bad you lost the stars.”
Dan grinned. “They were only temporary, Jack. I’ll retire as a captain, same as you.”
“Hey, I’ll be happy if we make it through this without everybody getting turned into toasted cheese sandwiches.” Byrne slipped his sunglasses down and peered over them. “Daughter still in Seattle?”
“Yeah. At Archipelago.”
“Christ. I’ll warn you again, Dan. She’s sitting right on the bull’s-eye. So’s Blair, in DC.”
“They’re adults, Jack. And both in the war effort. I can’t order grown women to jump ship. Especially those two. Where’s Rosemary, by the way?”
“In a safe place. But all I can do is warn people.” The tone was joking but the intel officer wasn’t smiling. Considering he was the senior intel rep on Yangerhans’s staff, Dan didn’t think he was blowing smoke.
Blowing smoke … toasted cheese sandwiches … neither a reassuring image. Especially when juxtaposed with Nan and Blair.
Byrne clapped his shoulder and wandered off, leaving Dan with Osterhaut and his analysts. He stood irresolute, but definitely not at ease.
Neither of the main antagonists was attacking the other’s homeland yet. They were targeting cyber infrastructure, their armed forces, and peripheral allies. Locked in a desperate wrestling match, still with weapons in reserve.
But gradually, inexorably, the war was creeping closer to both homelands. Each escalatory step increased the danger. Edged both sides closer to an apocalyptic thermonuclear precipice.
He wished he could talk it out with Blair. But this wasn’t the kind of thing you discussed via electrons. Not unless you had the high-security, quantum-entangled channels that linked the combatant commanders with JCS.
His gut rumbled again, and a stabbing cramp made him wince.
Yeah. A restroom. And the sooner, the better.