Carrier Strike Group One: The Eastern Indian Ocean
TWO days later he stood with lids clamped tight, fists buried in the pockets of his coveralls, swaying as the deck beneath his boots rose and fell. Spray cooled his uplifted face, and from his lips he licked the salty kiss of the sea.
He opened his eyes to a bright sky. The monsoon ceiling was wearing thin as Savo charged eastward, revealing blue above it, and here and there high wind-strained cirrus like shredding gauze. Her turbines sang at full power. Her intakes susurrated a continuous rush of intaken breath. Her wake tumbled and burbled like bluegreen and white wildflowers blooming on a heaving heath.
The fantail was cramped with equipment. Mount 52 in the middle, with the Harpoon launchers to port. The HF receive antennas nodded over the wake like tuna sticks. On the missile deck, the gunners’ mates were doing lift checks on the aft module hatch and plenum covers. Fresh paint gleamed glossy, spray-beaded. Looped cables snagged sliding sheets of moisture in tidal pools.
After an economical-speed transit, they’d joined the battle group at dawn. After Savo’s deep, satisfying drink from the tanker, with Cheryl in the driver’s seat while he got some much-needed kip, orders had come in. After replenishing, take station as directed by the ISIC—immediate superior in command, in this case, the rear admiral commanding the Carl Vinson battle group—and accompany it east. Their track lay past Sri Lanka, for the Malacca Strait. No one had yet mentioned a destination, but it was self-evident.
The South China Sea.
Boots braced against the heavy roll of a beam sea, he couldn’t help remembering other fleets that had deep-graven this same route toward the sunrise. Rozdhestvensky’s Baltic Sea fleet, the Russians doomed to annihilation at Tsushima. Prince of Wales and Repulse, pride of the Royal Navy, the great battleships foredoomed to destruction by Japanese naval air.
He shivered. Not reassuring. So many empires had set out to conquer, and fallen in the dust.
But his orders didn’t spell out things like that. They were markedly more laconic than in what he was already starting to think of, almost nostalgically, as peacetime. Only where to go, and how fast to get there.
Beyond that, he had no need to know.
In the night past, the group had threaded the Nine Degree Channel, the choke point near Cardamom Island, and bent their course south, to clear the subcontinent. Savo Island’s station was on the left flank, farther out than the usual antiair screening station. The high-side chats, even the battle group nets, had gone silent, and most of the screen had their radars off, leaving Savo and San Jacinto to maintain the air and surface pictures.
He wondered, too, why no one had yet called to ask “what the fuck?” about his shootdowns. He’d sent the reports, a formatted message for every round expended, to Navsea, AmmoLant, Jenn Roald, Strike Group One, Dahlgren, and practically everyone else with a routing indicator. But heard nothing back.
“Captain?”
He sucked a brine-laden lungful and returned the salute of Angel Quincoches, the chief in charge of the VLS. Back in the Med, the swarthy, bowlegged E-7 had charged in while a rocket engine was still burning, ignited in its cell for a hot run. Along with Tausengelt and Slaughenhaupt, Quincoches had pushed back against Amy Singhe’s “leveling management” initiative. Which had put Dan in the position of trying to balance his most innovative and aggressive junior officer against his Goat Locker. Not that they deserved equal consideration; when you came down to it, it was the senior enlisted who got the blueshirts working in the holes when you were prepping for an inspection—or a war, for that matter. Piss them off, and Savo would fall apart. But he also didn’t want to step on someone who was only trying to improve things, as she saw it.
Or was he paying her extra slack because of those dark eyes, those unexpected, yet so welcome, shoulder massages?
“They come out with a helluva big plume, the Block 4s,” Quincoches was saying.
Dan tuned back in. “Sorry?”
The chief pointed at the fresh paint. “Hell of a big plume. Scorch the hell out of the paint. Sometimes, detemper the lift springs in the hatch.”
“That’s the high-thrust booster. You checked ’em? We don’t want a hatch not to open.”
“No spares,” Quincoches said gloomily. “Deleted ’em from our onboard allowance. That’s the problem with this just-in-time shit. They keep cutting onboard repair parts, but out here, by the time it’s just in time, it’s way too late. We better hope one of the controllers doesn’t crap out.” He looked off to where Mitscher still accompanied them. They would pick up Tippecanoe again as they passed the Maldives, giving them both an oiler and an ammunition ship. “Shed any light on where we’re headed, Captain?”
“Don’t know a hell of a lot more than you do, Chief. Just that we’re steaming east with the strike group.”
The chief shaded his eyes and peered ostentatiously around the horizon. “Ain’t seen ’em. Who we got with us? Sir?”
Dan explained that the Carl Vinson battle group comprised Savo and San Jacinto, the two Tico-class cruisers, along with Mitscher, Oscar Austin, Donald Cook, Briscoe, Hawes, and Rentz. “And two subs, Pittsburgh and Montpelier. Loggies from Tippecanoe and Kanawha, and maybe pick up some more en route.”
“I heard Franklin Roosevelt sailed early. From the West Coast.”
“I’m not sure how you got that, but it’s possible. George Washington and Nimitz are already out here. In WestPac, I mean.”
“Who we gonna fight? Bets in the Chief’s Mess are on China.”
Dan forced a painful half smile. “I’m hoping it doesn’t go that way.”
“The Paks and Indians still going at it?”
“Far as I know, they’re still fighting.” In fact the Indian navy was at full wartime mobilization, with units deploying to cover the Wuhan task group, at the western end of the vast ocean, and others heading to the Malacca Strait.
In the same direction as the Vinson group, in other words. But the IO was vast; they’d most likely never come in sight of each other.
“What about the North Koreans? They’re making trouble again.”
Dan studied the chief’s face, realizing he wanted something solid to put out to his guys. To be able to say I talked to the CO, and here’s the straight skinny. “Chief, I’d just say that we’re heading east, and the situation’s confused. China’s acting nuts. India’s acting nuts. The exec and I are busting our asses trying to get some answers for all of us.
“But we know how to fight, and we’re ready. We proved that at Hormuz. So tell your troops, don’t sweat it. We won’t leave anyone holding the bag. Whatever comes over the horizon.” Dan slapped the man’s back. “Gotta get back to Combat. Keep at it.”
“You know we will, sir,” Quincoches said. “Us middle management.”
* * *
HE reeled forward along the main deck, bent into the wind, putting out a hand from time to time to a bulkhead or a lifeline as Savo gyrated. The sea rushed past in a continuous roar, and now and again a spatter of spray trailed over the ship, glittering in the wind. He came out of the starboard break onto the forecastle, slogged up to the bullnose, and stood facing the empty sea ahead, the wind ruffling his hair and rippling his coveralls. Channeling Kate Winslet in Titanic. Then faced aft, and strolled down the port side. The break was empty. They’d offloaded the three Iranians to the carrier, a big relief. Dr. Schell was still aboard, to make sure the crud was vanquished, but the plan was to offload him in Singapore. He undogged the weather deck door aft of the port refueling station. Climbed a ladder, another, and let himself into CIC.
His seat fitted him like a major leaguer’s glove. The smells of warm leather and coffee and old sweat mingled with the glacier-breath of air-conditioning. He shrugged on the foul-weather jacket hung over the chair, and ran his gaze over the displays. Dave Branscombe was on, but on his far side, in the CIC officer’s chair, brooded the goddesslike profile of Amarpeet Singhe. Dan nodded to them both. “Dave. Amy. What’s current?”
“Trying to get Amy up to speed, be able to slot her in on TAO if we have to.”
“With your approval, of course, Captain,” Singhe added. “And we’d have to put in for a waiver to BUPERS.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I want the senior watch officer’s and the exec’s input on that. And you’d have to sit for a TAO board.” Dan wasn’t entirely comfortable putting her in the hot seat, but he couldn’t deny they needed depth on the bench. He had only three qualified TAOs, which meant he had no backup if one took sick, or couldn’t pull duty for some other reason.
It was his decision, in the end. As long as she didn’t screw up, it’d probably slide on through a paper drill. But if she did, and his enemies up the chain found out … No, screw that. He couldn’t start thinking in those terms.
The TAO situation was just the tip of the iceberg; the same problem was surfacing in his other departments. He couldn’t steam in hostile seas for days on end without a fully manned watch. Yet he didn’t have enough bodies to man his strike, self-defense, Aegis, sonar, and TAO seats. The only solution was to step up their efforts to qualify lower-rated personnel. And that meant deferring maintenance, so those personnel could spend their time training. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell Matt to set up a board. So, what’s happening?”
“Well, not that much since you were last here, Captain.” Branscombe glanced at the screens. “Still air defense coordinator. Still getting spotty, slow updates on Geeks. But the HF jamming’s stopped. Or maybe we’re just out of range now.”
Dan examined the leftmost screen, which showed the battle group’s steaming formation. The carrier was far to the south, with the logistics ships tucked under her wing and her helicopters probing for any submerged adversaries. The next sphere out were the cruisers and destroyers. The frigates were a hundred miles ahead, tails streamed, searching the long-range, low-frequency bands for the telltale beats of submarine screws. Disagreeable to think of any ship as of less value than another, but when you came down to it, frigates were low-manning and low-cost. That made them the whiskers a strike commander liked to poke out ahead of more valuable platforms.
Also out ahead, and ranging all around the moving force, antisub fixed-wings were laying sonobuoys and working surface surveillance. In this situation, and even more so as they closed in on the strait, the group commander would be sweating bullets about threats in the area of approach.
As to their own submarines, they weren’t on the radar. Obviously. The task force commander’s staff, and SubPac of course, knew where they were, but no one else. Which was how they liked it.
“Merchant traffic?”
“Pretty much stopped, Captain. Everybody who’s in port is staying in port.”
He examined the center display, a fusion of GCCS and task force data, including Savo’s own picture. The few Chinese merchant vessels still under way had either turned around or diverted to neutral ports. An Indian destroyer had intercepted one, in the Arabian Sea, and was escorting it into Jamnagar. “When do we hit chop longitude?”
“Midnight, sir.”
As they steamed east, the strike group was leaving Central Command for the Pacific Command. Another clue to their destination. “And we’re ready?”
“The exec was going over it with us.”
“Us being…?”
“The TAOs, the CIC officers, and the watch team supervisors.”
“I conducted a review of the relevant pubs and ROEs,” Singhe said.
“That’s right, Amy did part of the brief. To help her get up to speed.”
“Good, that’s good.” Dan sighed and massaged his cheeks. He needed a shave. And a shower. And more sleep.
The red phone beeped. Branscombe answered. Listened. Glanced at his watch. Said he’d pass that information, and signed off.
“What is it?” Dan asked.
The TAO started writing in his log. “COs’ conference, on the carrier, sir. Uniform is wash khakis or ship’s coveralls. Helo’ll be here in an hour.”
* * *
FOLLOWING his escort down the vanishing-point passageways of the supercarrier, he fought the urge to throw up. Eighty thousand tons of steel and machinery moved in a seaway, but it didn’t move much, and the change from Savo Island’s faster roll was disorienting. The helo, from Vinson, had hopscotched from ship to ship before returning to the carrier. He’d left Cheryl in charge, feeling a twinge as Savo shrank to a gray dot on the wide blue. But on the whole, confident she’d do as well as he could. Maybe better, without the self-doubt and occasional paranoia he seemed to harbor like a malignant growth in his gut.
The conference wasn’t in the wardroom, as he’d expected. His guide led him and the others from his helo up ladder after ladder until they were far above the flight deck. Headed for the flag level, he guessed.
Two armed sentries scrutinized his ID, checked each CO against a list, and at last ushered them into the tactical flag command center. The TFCC was a conference room and operations center, where the strike group battle watch officers stood duty and conducted planning and briefings. It had red phones, computers, large-screen displays, projectors, and unclassified and classified videoteleconferencing capability. The other skippers were at the far end, gathered around a mess nook with the usual pastries and doughnuts. He valved coffee into bone china, complete with saucer. Shook hands, and introduced himself to captains and commanders he didn’t know. They all seemed to know him. Or at least his name. Which might be good, or might not.
He tucked a hand under the arm holding the cup and slouched, tuning in to the talk and speculation. Picking up bits that could be jigsaw-puzzled together for a general picture, at least, of what was happening.
Since World War II, the Navy had been built around carrier battle groups, or strike groups, as they were latterly called. Each supercarrier was accompanied by its bristling guard of cruisers, destroyers, and submarines. In peacetime, the groups relieved one another at sea, in port, and in the yards in a rotation planned many years ahead.
In wartime, those in port could be pulled back together and put to sea, and those in the yard reconstituted. Unfortunately, there was no real reserve anymore. Since the end of the Cold War, appropriations had gone into maintaining the active forces, with the Navy Reserve almost entirely a manpower pool. The Coast Guard was behind them too, but in anything resembling a real war, their lightly armed, sensor-deficient cutters would be just inviting targets.
Now the whole vast machine was groaning into action, and millions of tons of metal and hundred of thousands of seamen were on the move. Nimitz and Washington were already in the western Pacific. Strike Group Eight, Eisenhower, had been ordered out of the Gulf into the Arabian Sea, to replace Vinson as she headed east. In like manner, Strike Group Ten was getting under way from Norfolk to move into the Med. Strike Nine was moving up its deployment date, and Strike Four and Franklin D. Roosevelt had—as Chief Quincoches had mentioned—gotten under way early from San Diego.
A familiar face: Jenn Roald. Her pixieish, sharp-nosed profile homed in through the throng. She looked up and patted his sleeve. “Dan.”
“Commodore. Good to see you.” They shook hands. “I see you’re the screen commander.”
“And you’re our ABM escort. You really shot down a Pakistani nuke?”
“That’s what the Indians say it was.”
“I want to hear about it. Everything you couldn’t put in the message. But not right now. Your crew’s okay? No recurrence on your Legionnaire’s disease?”
“The doc’s still aboard, running tests. But we might just have it licked.”
“And how’s the groper case coming? You’ve got NCIS over there, right?”
“Trying to make the arrangements. Nobody yet, though.”
“Meanwhile, you’re keeping your women safe? Warning them to stay in pairs, and so forth?”
He was about to say “of course, as much as I can,” but a lieutenant wearing a gold aiguillette stepped in. The “Flag Loop,” as the aide was called, lifted his voice. “Attention on deck.”
“Please carry on, gentlemen, ladies,” Tim Simko said. Short, dark-haired, round-headed, the commander, Strike Group One, looked amazingly unchanged from when Dan had played lacrosse with him at Annapolis. Yeah, the Naval Academy, when they’d dreamed of battle and glory. Now he hoped they could avoid it. Only fools dreamed of war, and only the ignorant thought it glorious. But he wasn’t sure if that meant he’d grown wiser, or if he’d just seen too much. “Everyone got coffee? If you’ll take seats, we’ll get started.”
Dan found a chair next to Roald. The admiral remained standing in front of a large-screen display. The aide handed him a clicker and dimmed the lights as the Strike One logo popped.
Simko said, “This will be a short brief, as I know you all want to get back to your units. Which is also where I want you. Thanks for coming, and greetings especially to our sub commanders, who are attending via teleconference.” He nodded to a camera on a tripod. “I’ll kick off, then turn it over to the chief of staff and my N-heads for the details.
“Just got off the line with Fleet, to make sure I was clear on the commander’s guidance and how things are developing in the AOR. So what you’ll hear today is up-to-the-minute.”
Click. A map of Southwest Asia. “The nuclear exchange between Pakistan and India has stopped the invasion, but the Pakistani army has been forced back past the Indus. China has issued an ultimatum to India, to halt in place or face consequences. They’ve taken Bhutan, and are massing more forces at the northern border now. So India’s facing a two-front war, maybe even three; Myanmar has asked Indian diplomats to leave. New Delhi’s asking for our support. So far, we’re trying to get both sides to the conference table, but our clout with the Pakistanis is less than it used to be.”
Another image: the Indian Ocean. “Chinese, Pakistani, Iranian, Nigerian, and Burmese—what I’ve heard called the ‘Axis’ powers, though I don’t know if that’s going to stick—merchant traffic through the IO has basically stopped; any vessel under way has been taken into custody. Beijing’s assets currently in theater are limited, two subs and the Wuhan surface action group, but it’s possible we could meet their forces surging west through Malacca while we head east. Which could turn into a meeting engagement.
“Incidentally, we already detected those two submarines, Song-class, passing to the south of us. USS Montpelier trailed them while we kicked the decision upstairs, whether to attack or not. Orders came back down to let them go, but continue tracking. The Indian navy’s been notified of their positions, courses, and speeds, using a back channel into their submarine command.”
A new slide. “As you’ve guessed, Strike One’s headed for the South China Sea. China’s moved air and naval forces to the Paracel Islands, breaking a formal agreement with Vietnam. We may head north toward the coast; depends on how things play out. If cooler heads prevail—and I hope they will—we’ll turn around and head back to our previous stations. If not—well, then we’ll see.”
In rapid succession, now, other images flicked up. “The Japanese are protesting a Chinese landing in the Senkaku Islands, and are asking for backup. North Korea has seized the Kaesong Joint Industrial Zone, which it’s offering to China. That would give them a major air and naval base just north of the DMZ, and seriously threaten allied ability to operate in the Yellow Sea. ROK forces are going to full alert. There are also diplomatic indications the Chinese are trying to set up other forward airfields in Timor and Brunei. Plug in long-range maritime patrol, some fighter/attack, and they could control a lot of airspace. Even if they just “persuade” some of those smaller countries to deny overflight, that increases our problem set significantly.”
Simko clicked again, and the Strike One logo returned to the screen. “So we see chess pieces starting to move. And a lot’s probably going on in the sub world even I don’t know about … spooling up, moving C3 assets forward, ponying up assets from Italy and Germany and South Africa to take over as we rebalance from the Gulf and the Med.”
He looked at the overhead. “Finally, we can’t talk about a major conflict without addressing Taiwan. If the fat goes in the fire, the mainlanders will ramp up to get that settled once and for all. Carrier access denial in the strait would affect our operations tremendously. Meaning a lot of our surface and potentially subsurface assets not being able to break out of Yokosuka or Guam.”
He beckoned to a four-striper who Dan assumed was the chief of staff. “However, it’s important to remember: we’re not yet at war. Right now, we’re just redeploying to support our allies. I don’t want to get into internal politics, but the wounding of General Zhang in Mumbai has brought the hawks in Beijing out in force. China has been beating the drums about being isolated and surrounded for years. They may see this as the opportunity to break out.
“More immediately: as we move east, our major choke point will be the Malacca Strait.” A new image came up, zoomed in, and Dan recognized the narrowing northwest-to-southeast slant. “South of Kuala Lumpur, three hundred miles of narrow passage, ending at a melee of islands and the Singapore Strait. I won’t kid you, we’re vulnerable in close quarters.” Simko searched faces, found Dan’s. “But not helpless. As Captain Lenson showed us recently in the Strait of Hormuz. Dan, good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, Admiral.”
“As most of you know, Captain Lenson commands USS Savo Island, the first of our TBMD shooters. If this mess goes hot, he’ll be our umbrella. Dan, stick around after this breaks up. Got some things I’d like to go over with you.” Simko turned away without waiting for an answer, and beckoned the four-striper up.
His first slide read: POLITICAL ALIGNMENTS IN SOUTHEAST ASIA. “All right … negotiations are ongoing, as you might imagine. Right here, right now, is where we find out who our friends are.
“Burma—Myanmar—is firmly in the Chinese camp. So far, we have commitments to provide facilities and protect our passage from Indonesia, Thailand, and Malaysia. Also, interestingly, an offer of refueling and logistics from Vietnam.
“As to Singapore. As many of you know, we’ve had a repair and logistics agreement there since ’92, in Sembawang. But they have a large Chinese population and a lot of investment. The mainland’s their largest source of imports, especially food. So far, indications are we’ll probably get unmolested passage, but no fuel or other services. They might give us back-channel I and W and contact reports. I’ve got the naval attaché working it … but right now, they’re trying to play both sides. Can’t really blame them, given the pol/mil geometry.
“The Europeans sound like they’re going to stand clear too. Especially since the Russians are making trouble again over gas deliveries and eastern Ukraine.” The captain looked at the slide. “We may get lip service from the Brits, but that’s all. New Zealand’s announced its neutrality. On the other hand, the Australians are with us, though it means they’ll lose a lot of their raw-materials exports. We had to promise to buy their whole production for the next three months.”
Dan shivered. Why did this still feel so much like 1914? The fire wasn’t burning out. If anything, it was spreading. The nations were separating into opposing camps, and not always on the side they’d seemed to favor in prewar calculations. Each with its own ambitions and humiliations, throwing them onto the growing bonfire.
The briefer glanced at the sealed door, and the sentry beside it. With one outside, at the ladder landing, too, no doubt. “All right. Gentlemen, ladies … Everything from here on out is classified TS.”
The group stirred; notepads and PDAs were turned off and put away. The first slide read:
This Briefing Is Classified
(TOP SECRET/SACHEL ADVANTAGE/IRON NOOSE)
OPLAN 5081
CHINA
Dan blinked, recognizing the same op plan Niles had showed him at the Pentagon. The next slides backed up and amplified aims, intents, and threats. The slide after that read
This Briefing Is Classified
(TOP SECRET/SACHEL ADVANTAGE/SABER POINT)
OPLAN 5027
NORTH KOREA
The four-striper pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. “OPLANs 5081 and 5027 have been activated. 5081 is operations against China. 5027, against North Korea. After a good deal of to-and-fro with civilian leadership, JCS has managed to get the trigger pulled on the time phased force and deployment orders. Which is why we’re headed east.
“Obviously, we’re never going to invade and conquer mainland China. For one thing, they have a thermonuclear arsenal. For another, we couldn’t defeat the Chinese army in 1953, so we sure aren’t going to now.
“The side that strikes first will gain a significant advantage. When the light turns green, we will move rapidly to disrupt command, control, and communications, breaking the kill chain that allows hostile forces to localize and target us. That includes deep strikes by Air Force stealth … and other measures to degrade space and cyberspace assets and sensors.”
For some reason, Dan got a glance then too.
“Meanwhile, we take, hold, or neutralize offshore assets that threaten the inner island chain, while our allies mobilize and we bring up additional battle groups from the States and the Med.
“Incidentally, the cyberattacks against the continental U.S. have been traced to China. We also expect major efforts in anti-access areas and area denial, along with a push to degrade and compromise our own C4I.”
The briefer shrugged. “There may be initial confusion, minor initial losses, but once we’re fully mobilized, have sealed off their exits and mined their ports, we can sit tight and wait for them to come out. The East and South China Seas and the Sea of Japan will be kill zones.
“The biggest factor in our favor is economic. The U.S. and most of our allies are self-sufficient in food and energy. But China has to have imports, and exports. Our estimates are that they’ll run out of oil and food within six months. They’ll have to lay off millions, and ration food. Unemployment, inflation, food shortages: either the Zhang regime falls, or it has to deal. Economic exhaustion, hunger, plus force attrition … leads to the conference table, and conflict termination.”
The chief of staff looked to Simko. “That concludes my briefing. Admiral?”
The battle group commander flicked to a final slide, with bulleted points. “Our terms are: regime change; renunciation of their claims to Taiwan, the Senkakus, and in the South China Sea; an end to support of North Korea; and a significantly reduced conventional order of battle. Leaving us in control in the western Pacific, and China weakened and with a more democratic government.”
Simko inspected the overhead again. “Faced with those choices, we expect—or maybe it would be more accurate to say, Washington expects—their leadership to back down. Withdraw from India, and de-escalate with Japan. If they don’t, a short war, with a compressed time frame and limited aims.
“But success will depend on speed and coordination. Strike Group One has to be ready. We will conduct a combined exercise en route to Singapore.” He glanced at the door. “Your go-home packages contain a training schedule and briefings outlining the OPLANs just discussed. Restrict access and read-in to TAOs, intel, comms, strike, and AAW officers. A supplement specifies what crypto to draw and which broadcasts, settings, and other terminations to set up for follow-on data. Also, expect unannounced MDUs and practice strike operations.”
Simko clicked the display back to the group logo. “All right, maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves, but I wanted you all to have the SI picture as we see it at the flag level. So there won’t be any doubts, or surprises. Questions?”
Dan sat knitting his fingers. A war without doubts or surprises? The Air Force was going to conduct deep strikes, and the Chinese weren’t going to retaliate? What if they thought their nuclear deterrent was being targeted?
A hand, in the back. “You mentioned the Russians, Admiral. Any idea where they’re putting their chips?”
Simko shook his head. “Russia and China have been close over the past few years. A lot of arms deals. But Zhang’s also mentioned a Chinese claim to Siberia. My sense is, Moscow will try to profit from both sides.… No other questions?” He caught Dan’s eye again. “Captain Lenson, come back to my in-port cabin before you fly off.”
A petty officer wheeled in a cart and began handing out sealed packages and getting signatures. The aide called “Attention on deck,” and everyone rose as Simko left.
Dan blew out and stood. Even if escalation could be avoided, why should the Chinese, with the biggest army on the planet, sit on their hands until they ran out of oil and food? That didn’t sound like Zhang. He was already feeding troops and support into the Chinese periphery—Pakistan, Bhutan, Myanmar, maybe North Korea. His cyberattacks had crippled U.S. transportation, financials, and security markets. Actual hostilities hadn’t even started, and already both sides were wrecking each other’s economies.
Brinksmanship. Bluff. And if they failed, a “six-month” war. The optimistic phrases echoed all too familiarly.
But there didn’t seem to be anything concrete he could object to. And no one else had any more questions—or at least any they voiced. Leaving in the enclosed air only a stir, a subdued murmur. Above it, the aide called out the order in which they should report to the flight deck.
Trying not to look as doubtful as he felt, he started to follow the others out. Then remembered: Simko. He turned in midstride, and went through a back door into the admiral’s cabin.