Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (43 page)

           
“Wendy!” Patrick exclaimed, taking
his wife into his arms. They kissed tenderly, enjoying a long, warm embrace.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, still in her embrace.

 
          
“Jon
needed help, and I volunteered,” she said. “I was en route when I found out
about the mission, about Emil. I’m so sorry, Patrick.”

           
“Thanks, sweetie, but I’m worried
about you, about the baby.”

           
“I’m working on the computer and the
phone, nothing else,” Wendy said. “I flew first-class commercial on United and
Cathay Pacific, not on the NIRTSat booster launch plane or the tankers. I’ll be
fine.” Wendy accepted a hug and another round of congratulations, first from
Nancy Cheshire, then from a few of the other crew members and specialists in
the hangar. “It looks like the cat’s out of the bag.”

 
          
“Brad
guessed,” Patrick said. “Of course, he threw it in my face.” “He did what?”

 
          
“I’ll
explain everything, sweetie,” McLanahan said, “but it’s not a fun story.”

 
          
“CINCPAC,
are you still up?” Admiral Balboa called.

           
“CINCPAC’s up, along with General
Samson,” Admiral William Allen responded. The videoconference between Hawaii
and the Pentagon was still active.

 
          
“I’ve
got orders for you too, General,” Balboa said. “Apparently the President still
thinks highly of your judgment. You will report immediately to Admiral Henry
Danforth at STRATCOM to stand up CTF Three. ”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Samson responded. He wasn’t stunned at the news that STRATCOM was
standing up, or forming, the CTFs, considering all that had just happened in
the Formosa Strait—he was stunned at being chosen to command one of them, after
the day’s debacle.

 
          
STRATCOM,
or U.S. Strategic Command, was a combination of the old Air Force Strategic Air
Command, the Navy’s Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarine Force, and the Air
Force-Navy Joint Strategic Target Planning Staff. Based at Offutt Air Force
Base near Omaha, Nebraska, the command of STRATCOM changed periodically between
Air Force generals and Navy admirals; now, it so happened (not so
coincidentally, with a Navy admiral taking charge of the Joint Chiefs of Staff)
the organization was commanded by a Navy four-star admiral, Henry Danforth.
USSTRATCOM had an unusual makeup. In peacetime, STRATCOM played “war games” and
drew up contingency plans for major conflicts with other nations—conflicts
usually involving nuclear weapons. It had no aircraft, no ships, no weapons, no
troops other than its small group of planners, and no bases.

 
          
But
in times of military crisis or war, STRATCOM transformed into the world’s most
powerful fighting force. STRATCOM could quickly “gain” all the aircraft,
submarines, bases, and soldiers it required from the various
U.S.
armed services to fight a full spectrum of
conflicts, from show of force and nuclear deterrence alert to a full-blown
intercontinental thermonuclear war. STRATCOM geared up its warfighting
capabilities in stages by forming Combined Task Forces, or CTFs, representing
the three legs of the United States’ nuclear triad—submarine-launched ballistic
missiles, land-based intercontinental missiles, and long-range land- based
bombers, plus their major support services. STRATCOM would “gain” land-based
intercontinental ballistic missile forces from Air Force Space Command,
sea-launch ballistic missile forces from the Navy’s COMSUBFLT, bombers from Air
Force Air Combat Command, and aerial refueling tanker planes from Air Force Air
Mobility Command. Samson, as commander of all the Air Force’s intercontinental
heavy bombers and the highest-ranking expert on long-range bombers, was being
given command of CTF Three, the strategic nuclear bomber leg of the triad.

 
          
“Admiral
Allen, you will retain direct command of the EB-52 bombers on Guam,” Balboa
went on. “They’ve caused enough trouble, but the National Command Authority
still wants them over the Strait for now. I’m going to snatch Ken Wayne for CTF
One.” CTF One was the task force in charge of the submarine-launched
intercontinental ballistic missiles; Vice Admiral Kenneth E. Wayne was
COMBALSUBFLT, the man in charge of the Navy’s ballistic missile submarine
fleet.

 
          
“Aye,
aye, sir,” Allen responded.

 
          
“Is
STRATCOM gaining any weapon systems, sir?” Samson asked.

 
          
“None
have been requested,” Balboa replied. “The President wants the CTFs together
just in case the shit hits the fan. But I think he’s overreacting—I think
Martindale got a little scared with those nukes going off. Taking an unexpected
no-shit, this-is-not-a-drill ride in the E-4 NEACP ‘Doomsday Plane’ probably put
the fear of God into him too.” Samson saw Allen chuckle, and he felt like
hitting him in the mouth. There was nothing funny about it—there was plenty of
reason for the President of the United States to be scared when something as
horrifying as a nuclear explosion occured.

 
          
“But
nothing will happen,” Balboa went on confidently. “It’ll be a good exercise for
STRATCOM, and then we’ll all go home.”

 
 
          
“In general, in battle one gains victory
through the unorthodox. . . . One who excels at sending forth the unorthodox is
as inexhaustible as Heaven, as unlimited as the Yangtze and Yellow rivers ...”
—SUN-TZU,

IN THE
FORMOSA
STRAIT
, FIVE KILOMETERS SOUTH OF
HONG
KONG

THURSDAY, 19 JUNE 1997
,
0811 HOURS LOCAL (WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE, 1911 HOURS ET)

 
          
“Contact!”
the undersea sensor operator reported. “Slow screws, cavitating, bearing . . .
bearing zero-eight-zero, range . . . range eight thousand meters and closing,
speed eight knots, depth unknown.”

 
          
The
combat action officer aboard the Chinese aircraft carrier
Mao Zedong
nodded, then passed along the information to the bridge.
The commanding officer of the
Mao,
Admiral Yi Kyu-pin, picked up the intercom phone himself. “Combat, bridge.
Identification?”

 
          
“Sea
Dragon-class submarine, sir,” the combat action officer responded. “It is the
same one that has been shadowing us since we entered the area.”

 
          
“You
are positive of the identification?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” the combat officer replied. “We are positive. We can even identify the
exact vessel—it is number 795, the
Hai
Hu.
This rebel vessel has a distinctive rudder flutter, and the Holec
alternators have a distinctive waveform pattern as well. Its identification was
confirmed by ASW aircraft before we arrived at
Hong Kong
, and we have maintained steady contact on
it since. Identification confirmed.”

 
          
Admiral
Yi Kyu-pin swiveled in his seat and noted the sub’s position on the large glass
wall chart in front of him. The Chinese carrier was riding at anchor just five
kilometers south of Hong Kong; that put the Taiwanese sub well inside Hong Kong
territorial waters, which, as far as Yi was concerned, were Communist Chinese
waters, and always had been. Since the attack on Quemoy less than two weeks
before, Taiwanese subs had been brazenly approaching Chinese warships, trying
to sneak as closely as they could without being detected. They were not very
good at it. In trying to arrest a rapid closure rate, the Taiwanese sub captain
had actually reversed the pitch on his propellers, causing cavitation—air
bubbles trapped in the prop wash and sliced apart, causing extreme undersea
noise that could be heard for many kilometers (however, if the Taiwanese sub
had
not
cavitated its screw, the
Chinese destroyer’s sonar operators probably would not have detected the sub
until it moved much closer).

 
          
It
was all part of the game—except today, the game was about to change. “Very
good,” Admiral Yi said. “Maintain passive contact and report when it closes
within five thousand meters or opens any outer doors.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. I estimate it will close to within five thousand meters in twenty-three
minutes on its present course and speed.”

 
          
“Very
well.” The commander of the
Mao
hung
up the phone, then rose and exited the bridge without issuing any other orders.
He made his way quickly to the communications center, dismissed all but the
senior officer on duty, sent a single coded message, then made his way back up
on deck.

 
          
The
early-morning air was cold, but Admiral Yi could detect the first scents of
summertime warmth on the sea. The air was fresh and clean, not like the putrid
air surrounding the port city of Guangzhou, the large industrial city north of
Hong Kong. Life on the sea could be exciting, but all but a few of his years in
the brown- or green-water People’s Liberation Army Navy had been spent within
helicopter range of shore, and most of those had been spent in the thickly
polluted inland waterways leading to China’s naval ports.

 
          
The
admiral walked to the port rail and looked forward, sorry to be missing the fresh
air blowing in from the east but wanting to take a look at his charge. He saw
its curving “ski jump” bow and the open doors to the twelve missile launch
tubes embedded in the flight deck just aft of the ski jump—and he felt sick to
his stomach.

 
          
Mao,
its four escort destroyers, and
several smaller escort, support, and resupply vessels had returned to Victoria,
Hong Kong, to participate in Reunification Day celebrations leading up to July
1, less than two weeks away, when Hong Kong would officially become part of the
People’s Republic of China once again after one hundred years as a British
leasee. The carrier’s superstructure and gunwales were covered with festive
flags and bunting, and every night they staged brilliant fireworks
demonstrations from the carrier’s aft deck. Almost all of the carrier’s combat
crews and half of the ship’s complement had been taken off, replaced by nearly
a thousand civilians from all over the world, anxious to see what it was like
to live aboard an aircraft carrier—especially one that had just seen combat.
Instead of performing anti-submarine sweeps,
the Mao’s
helicopters were being used to shuttle civilians from
Hong Kong out to the carrier for rides and tours on the huge warship.

 
          
The
Chinese government, of course, denied that it had done anything wrong at all
during the skirmish near Quemoy, and Admiral Yi had sworn to hundreds of
reporters and government officials that he did not launch any attacks against
the outlaw rebel Nationalists except to defend his ship and others in his
group—the Nationalists and the Americans were to blame. The Taiwanese frigates
had attacked the peaceful Chinese group of ships in international waters
without warning. It was the rebel frigates and the American B-52 bomber that
had launched the nuclear missiles, after unsuccessfully attacking the Chinese
ships with conventional weapons. One missile had been destroyed by Chinese
antiaircraft fire; the other missile, fired by the American stealth bomber
toward the Chinese port city of Xiamen, near Quemoy Island, had detonated
early. In the interest of peace, President Jiang Zemin had announced, China
would move the peaceful group of ships back south to Hong Kong.

 
          
The
sudden, swift, ignominious withdrawal from the Quemoy Island attack plan really
hurt Yi’s pride. He felt as if his entire crew, his entire battle group, felt
he had betrayed and abandoned them. True, the American stealth bomber had taken
a swift, heavy toll on the battle group, but the attack plan itself was still
alive, and chances for success had been good. But no more.

 
          
Now
the carrier
Mao Zedong,
China
’s greatest warship, was little more than a
pony for children to ride—and the rebels on the
island
of
Formosa
were thumbing their noses and baring their
asses toward mainland
China
. The thought really upset Yi and his fellow
commanders. The world believed the Republic of China was the bright and
promising young star, and that the People’s Republic of China was the cruel
governess seeking to stunt the younger nation’s growth and aspirations.
Everyone believed unification would eventually happen, but the world now
mandated that it be subject to Taiwan’s timetable, not the People’s Republic of
China’s. China would have to disavow communism and somehow “catch up” to
Taiwan’s fast-growing capitalist economy before unification could become a
reality.

 
          
This
could not, would
never,
be tolerated.
Lee Teng-hui and his bastard government on Taiwan had to come back into the
Communist fold. It was ludicrous, ridiculous, to ask over a billion Chinese Communists
to change their form of government over the desires of twenty-one million
money-grubbing Taiwanese capitalist rebels. They would be surrendering their
way of life simply because of
money,
and no true friend of the workers of the world would ever tolerate that.

 
          
The
captain’s walkie-talkie beeped, and he raised it to his lips. “Speak.”

 
          
“Message
from headquarters,” the watch officer on the bridge reported.

 
          
“Read
it.”

 
          
“Message
reads, ‘Starb right.’ End of message.”

 
          
“Very
well,” Yi said. “Out.”

 
          
The
walkie-talkie beeped again: “Target one has moved within specified range, sir,”
the combat action officer reported, referring of course to the Taiwanese
submarine trying to sneak in close to the
Mao
Zedong.

 
          
“Very
well,” the captain replied. “Continue to monitor.” He picked up the binoculars
on the leather strap slung around his neck and scanned the horizon to the
south. He saw nothing but a few large fishing vessels far out on the horizon,
their net booms extended, hauling huge nets out of the South China Sea. He
often wondered about the hard but peaceful lives those men experienced, and
wondered if destiny would ever allow him the luxury of choosing such a life for
himself and his family. Yi loved the sea and had always wanted to be near it, part
of it, but it seemed as if his desires and dreams had never been a factor in
what sort of life he led.

           
If Yi had continued to watch, he
would have seen the crew of the two fishing boats use their fishing net tackle
to hoist four huge steel canisters off their decks and into the sea; seconds
later, both boats were departing the area in considerable haste. The four
canisters they had tossed overboard were American-made surplus Mk 60 CAPTORs
(enCAPsulated TORpedoes), which were Mk 46 acoustic-homing torpedoes enclosed
in a launch tube. The Mk 60s were remotely activated ten minutes after being
dropped overboard. The torpedoes’ sonars locked onto the largest vessel in its
sensor field—the carrier
Mao Zedong,
less than ten miles away—and then automatically launched themselves at the
target.

 
          
The
captain saw the need to force the Taiwanese Nationalists to submit to rightful
Chinese government rule; he understood the need first to break down this cult
of protectionism that had formed around Taiwan since they had claimed
independence, that Taiwan was in the right and should be permitted to ignore
and contradict Chinese authority simply because it was smaller or richer or
more Western-like. But he would never understand all of it, all the politics
and ideologies involved, all the various dynamics in the government and in the
military that seemed to threaten to tear apart the very fabric of Chinese life.

 
          
The
tours had just started. Today was “Our Children, Our Future Day” on the carrier
Mao.
The decks were crawling with
hundreds of children of important Chinese Communist Party officials, foreign
businessmen and politicians, and special invited guests. The kids could sit
inside a Sukhoi-33 fighter that had been set up on one of the one-hundred-meter
launch points, crawl around the anti-submarine helicopters, pretend they were
launching off the deck or shooting antiaircraft missiles and guns, play with
signal lights, and generally invade almost every square centimeter of the huge
vessel. A large group of children had walked up the steep twelve-degree
ski-jump incline and were peering nervously over the edge as a crewman
explained how fighters launched from the carrier. A few brave boys even stepped
right up to the rounded lip of the ski jump and looked down over sixty meters
to the sea below.

 
          
The
image made Yi smile. He was proud of those brave children, he thought—he didn’t
know them, did not know their families, but he was proud of how brave they
were. Too bad . . .

 
          
Yi’s
walkie-talkie beeped several times—the ship-wide alerting system. “All hands,
all hands, this is the bridge, stand by for emergency action stations. Captain
to the bridge.”

           
The captain keyed the mike on the
walkie-talkie: “Captain here. Report.”

 
          
“High-speed
screws detected by passive sonar, sir,” the officer of the deck responded
excitedly. “Torpedoes in the water, bearing one-niner- five, range four
thousand two hundred meters and closing. Additional torpedoes detected at
bearing three-zero-zero.”