Empire Rising (30 page)

There was a knock on the door and Berger acknowledged. Captain Tim Powers, his Executive Officer, arrived with the Shipyard Commander, Captain Debra Driza, and a half-dozen civilians. His XO's face was flustered. Although they hadn't exchanged words after the XO handed the message to Berger this morning, he no doubt shared his Captain's opinion the task was impossible. However, the first words out of Captain Driza's mouth indicated the Shipyard Commander did not share those feelings.

“We'll have you underway in seven days as directed, CJ.” The civilians shot uneasy glances in Driza's direction as the Captain continued. “Hull integrity will be restored and we'll flood down the dry dock in seven days. Will you be able to bring at least one reactor and engine room up by then?”

Berger was caught off guard by the Shipyard Commander's optimism. It took a second to digest her question, realizing the onus had been placed upon his crew. “Yes,” he answered. “We'll be ready to get underway.” Berger still grappled with the impossibility of the shipyard's task, but pushed past it. “What about supplies?”

“As you can see, we've already begun,” Driza replied, “but we'll only have enough time to load one month of consumables and sixty percent of your ordnance.”

Berger nodded, a frown on his face. “That'll have to do then. Will we be able to top off JP-5?”

“Yes, jet fuel won't be a problem.”

“What about my catapults, arresting wires, and elevators?”

“We'll work around the clock until you undock, and we'll have shipyard Tiger Teams aboard to continue reassembling your critical flight systems along the way. You should have at least one arresting wire and elevator in operation by the time the air wing arrives. The Tiger Teams will continue working as you transit the Pacific, and your carrier should be fully operational by the time you reach Japan.”

Berger nodded again, not yet sharing the Shipyard Commander's optimism. They needed a minor miracle. He turned to his Executive Officer. “Round up the department heads. We've got some work to do.”

 

47

USS
MICHIGAN

Inside the submarine's cramped sick bay, measuring only six feet wide by fifteen feet long, Christine O'Connor sat on the cold metal examining table, her legs dangling off the edge as the ship's Medical Officer, Commander Joe Aleo, prepared to inspect her right arm. Christine removed the sling from her shoulder, then unzipped her blue coveralls down to her waist, exposing her white T-shirt. After she pulled her right arm from the coveralls, Commander Aleo peered closely at the bullet's entrance and exit wounds.

As Aleo examined the wounds, Christine's thoughts drifted to the message they had received a few hours earlier. Two days ago, the United States Pacific Fleet had been virtually wiped out.
Michigan
's crew had been in the dark at first—the submarine message broadcast had gone down as the four carrier strike groups swung inside the Taiwan Strait.
Michigan
, along with her sister SSGN,
Ohio
, had been left behind on the east side of the island to protect the amphibious ships from any Chinese submarines that slipped past the fast attacks.

It had been maddening, cut off from communications, unable to determine what was going on, able to discern only that the situation had taken a turn for the worse when the amphibious ships suddenly reversed course, heading away from Taiwan at maximum speed. Unable to obtain further orders, Captain Wilson decided to accompany the Marine Expeditionary Forces east into deep water. As
Michigan
searched the skies for a radio signal, it was only a few hours ago that the submarine had received a lone transmission.

The content of the message spread through the crew like wildfire, and after the shock wore off, the Navy SEALs had gone to work, converging on the Battle Management Center. The Navy SEALs were nothing like what Christine had imagined. Instead of Rambo, they more closely resembled computer geeks. Thus far, they huddled around their laptop computers and consoles in the Battle Management Center, meticulously reviewing mission plans. In her limited interactions with the SEALs, they had been polite and respectful, not the aggressive, testosterone-laden demeanor she expected from the Navy's elite killers.

Commander Aleo released Christine's arm, pushing the sling to the side of the examining table. “You won't need this anymore. The wound has healed nicely and you should have full use of your arm in another week, after your triceps muscle finishes healing. Feel free to use your arm as much as you want, so long as you can tolerate the pain. Take one of the eight-hundred-milligram pills of ibuprofen if the pain gets too bad.”

Aleo stepped to the side and Christine hopped off the examining table, flexing her arm again before shrugging back into the top of her coveralls, zipping up the front.

“Thanks, Doc.” Christine had learned a lot during her short time aboard
Michigan
, and had picked up some of the unique vocabulary. Whether the submarine crew included a Corpsman or a Medical Diving Officer like Commander Aleo when SEALs were aboard, they were universally referred to as
Doc
.

“No problem, Miss O'Connor. Let me know if you need anything else.” Aleo unlatched the door to his infirmary, holding it open for Christine.

Christine stepped out of Doc's office into the starboard side passageway of Missile Compartment Second Level, almost running into someone as she rounded the corner. A quick glance told Christine the Navy SEAL standing in front of her was no computer geek. Lieutenant Jake Harrison had just stepped out of the showers, wearing nothing but a pair of flip-flops and a white towel held loosely around his waist with one hand, a toiletry bag in the other. Damp brown hair clung to his forehead, and Christine couldn't keep herself from surveying his broad shoulders, her eyes involuntarily moving to his muscular chest, then down to his abdomen, where a long, flat expanse of muscles disappeared beneath the white towel. There was no way around it; Jake was still an attractive man.

But Harrison was no youngster. He was the same age as Christine, much older than his rank implied. He had enlisted twenty-four years ago, commissioned an officer after reaching the rank of Chief. If the quiet rumors were true, they had been an eventful twenty-four years. The Navy SEALs aboard
Michigan
were tight-lipped about the missions they'd been on, but Christine had gleaned that Harrison had led numerous forays against insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Christine caught a smile from Harrison in her peripheral vision, and she realized she was still staring at the top of his white towel. She looked up toward his deep blue eyes, the temperature of her cheeks rising. She'd hoped he hadn't noticed her stare or her reddening face. He was undoubtedly used to those kinds of looks from women, even if that woman happened to be the president's national security advisor.

However, Harrison wasn't staring at her face, and Christine's blush turned even warmer when she realized Harrison had taken advantage of the few seconds while her eyes wandered. The blue coveralls she wore fit snugly to her curves, and Harrison wasn't the first man aboard to have his eyes drawn to her breasts, straining inside the confining jumpsuit.

Harrison's eyes met hers, and neither person said a word for a moment, until he broke into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Chris,” he said as he gripped the towel tighter around his waist. “Sorry for the lack of clothes. But I see you're also missing some attire.”

Christine didn't understand his comment until she followed his eyes to her right arm. “Oh, my sling. Doc just took a look and said I don't need it anymore.” She flexed her arm into a muscle pose, wincing as her triceps burned from the effort. She suddenly felt embarrassed, showing off like a teenage boy on the beach, a strange role reversal.

“That's good to hear,” Harrison replied. “Then it won't be long before you'll be working out with us SEALs. I mean, not that you need to work out. You're still in great shape.”

Before she could respond, Lieutenant Karl Stewart,
Michigan
's Weapons Officer, turned the corner behind Christine. “Oh, there you are, Miss, O'Connor. The Captain asked me to remind you about the mission brief in the Battle Management Center at 1500.” The Weps' eyes went to Harrison, standing naked aside from the towel wrapped around his waist. “You better get a move on, Jake. You're up in fifteen minutes.”

“I'll be there,” Harrison replied. “I just wanted to clean up before the brief.” He nodded his respect to Christine as he stepped around her and continued on his way.

With Lieutenant Stewart standing beside her, Christine resisted the urge to turn and watch Harrison as he headed down the starboard side passageway. The muscles rippling down his back would have been a pleasant sight.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, Christine was seated at one of the twelve consoles on the starboard side of the submarine's Battle Management Center, along with Captain Wilson, his Executive Officer, and the submarine's four department heads—the Weps, Eng, Nav, and Suppo. Navy SEALs, led by Commander John McNeil—head of the four platoons of SEALs aboard, occupied the remaining five consoles, with another seven SEALs gathered at the back of the room. At the front of the Battle Management Center, Lieutenant Harrison stood beside one of the two sixty-inch plasma displays hanging from the bulkhead. This time, Harrison was fully clothed, wearing the standard Navy blue camouflage uniform, similar in design to what the Marines wore, as opposed to the solid blue coveralls worn by the submarine crew.

Commander McNeil kicked off the mission brief, beginning with a summary of the information provided in the message received by
Michigan
in the early morning hours. “As you're aware, our response to China's invasion of Taiwan did not go as planned. All five carriers have been sunk, along with most of our surface combatants and every submarine except for
Michigan
and
Ohio
.”

McNeil paused momentarily, his thoughts no doubt matching those of every person in the room. The crew of every fast attack submarine in the Pacific Fleet—over three thousand men—were now entombed inside steel coffins resting on the ocean bottom. No one commented during McNeil's temporary pause, and he continued his brief.

“China defeated our Pacific Fleet because they were able to jam our military satellites, knock our Aegis Warfare Systems off-line, and dud our torpedoes. The mission we've been assigned will reverse that advantage. Lieutenant Harrison will brief the details.” McNeil turned to Harrison.

“In a nutshell,” Harrison began, “our job is to insert a virus into the Chinese command and control network, which will disrupt their jamming of our satellites as well as disable Chinese command and control and every new-generation Chinese missile launcher. To accomplish this, we must inject our virus into the central command and control node—the communications center in China's Great Hall of the People, located in Beijing.”

Harrison pressed the remote control in his hand, and the monitor beside him energized, displaying a map of the Western Pacific. “We've got more planning to do, but here's what we've got so far.” Harrison zoomed in toward China, stopping when the coastal waters to the west of Tianjin filled the screen. Several miles offshore, a green X blinked on the display.

“First,
Michigan
must reach this location in the Bohai Sea, which puts our SEAL Delivery Vehicles in range of the Chinese coast. From there, we'll launch two SDVs with six SEALs—four in one and two in the second, with the remaining space used to transport the weapons and equipment we need. I'll lead the mission, with the rest of the team comprised of Chief O'Hara, Garretson, Crane, and the girls.”

Christine didn't understand who Harrison meant by
the girls
, but it seemed it was a reference to two large, muscular SEALs standing at the back of the group, who fist-bumped each other as Harrison continued. “We'll be met at the insertion point and escorted to a CIA safe house in Beijing, where we'll rest during the day before the hard part begins—entering the Great Hall of the People.”

Harrison pressed the remote again, and the display shifted to a satellite view of the Great Hall of the People. “We haven't received any mission Intel, so we'll have to go with what's in our database. The communications center is located on the third floor of the South Wing. That means we'll enter along the south side of the building, breaking through an emergency exit door or through a window. Of course, the doors and windows will be alarmed, so we'll have to move fast once we're inside. Unfortunately, we don't have schematics of the building, so we'll have to sort out a path to the communications center once we're inside.

“Every member of the team will be trained on what type of computer terminal we need and how to upload the virus, since there's no telling how many of us will reach the communications center. I won't lie to you—although I expect at least one of us will reach our objective, it's unlikely any of us will make it back out. We'll have the element of surprise on the way in, but not on the way out.”

Harrison paused for a moment, letting his bleak assessment sink in. After his eyes scanned the other five SEALs assigned to the mission, he turned first to Captain Wilson and then to Commander McNeil. “Subject to your questions, sir, this concludes my brief.”

Silence settled over the Battle Management Center as Christine digested the assignment—practically a suicide mission. If they could gain access to the Great Hall of the People without being noticed, however, they might be able to slip in and out quietly, returning safely to USS
Michigan
. As she stared down at her hands, locked around her knee, she remembered a crucial detail about her escape from the Great Hall. She released her knee and turned her right hand over, examining her palm. The palm Yang Minsheng had entered into the security system, which gave her the ability to unlock the security doors throughout the building.