Ashes of Victory

EPILOGUE

They buried him at dawn with full military honors on a patch of grass overlooking Lake Southern Sea. A massive statue had already been commissioned from Xu Bing, the world-renown Chinese sculptor, to honor the legendary hero of the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, responsible for the modernization of all branches of the People’s Liberation Army.

President Xi Jiechi stood by the shores of the lake, flanked by all nine members of the Politburo Standing Committee and selected military leaders.

A military detail solemnly carried the coffin, draped in the red national flag with the yellow stars facing a cloudless morning sky. And overhead, a formation of Su-35S jets shot across the sky trailing bright-red contrails.

“Farewell, Zhǎng zhě,” Jiechi whispered as the man who had raised him was laid to rest less than a kilometer from the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong in Tiananmen Square.

A combined honor guard of the PLA folded the flag before solemnly presenting it to the paramount leader of the People’s Republic of China.

One by one, the PSC members walked by the president, patted him on the back, and whispered the traditional words, “This happened too suddenly. I feel sad for you and for our nation. I hope that you will restrain your grief and adjust to the change,” before walking away.

The military followed, led by the new vice chairman of the Central Military Commission and supreme leader of the PLA, handpicked by Jiechi himself.

But there would be no true solace for the fifty-nine-year-old leader who had had his Zhǎng zhě—his lifelong mentor and friend — killed.

But what choice did I have?

Jiechi could not have allowed the general to get anywhere near those ballistic submarines. If he had managed to get one of his captains to fire three JL-2 missiles without following protocol, the PRC president could not imagine the damage the man could have done if he’d bunkered down at Yulin Naval Base.

Probably Armageddon. Still, at the end of the day… I killed you.

Soon, Jiechi was left alone with the coffin as a light breeze swayed the manicured grass and rippled the surface of the lake. A lone Eurasian blue thrush swept over the water. The bright-blue bird turned its yellow beak toward Jiechi whistling its humanlike dawn song, before winging skyward.

He watched it through his tears.

Cmdr. Frank Kelly watched his sailors, dressed in their Summer Whites, almost trample one another as they scurried down the forward brow to pile into the Manila-bound buses on their way to a seventy-two-hour liberty. And at the front of the pack ran recently promoted Petty Officer First Class Marshon Chappelle — all under the watchful eyes of two Humvees packed with eight masters at arms, the navy’s law-enforcement officers.

It was the best Kelly could negotiate with COMSUBPAC before having to sail back to the Indian Ocean and finish their six-month deployment. In spite of the recent end to hostilities in the Taiwan Strait, the Middle East was in turmoil. The US had been continuously bombing targets in Iran, Syria, Yemen, and other Middle Eastern nations for days now. Rumor had it that the Pentagon brass had managed to snag some top-level terrorist mastermind, broken him, and was now systematically going after terrorist training camps. And for Kelly that meant getting the ship back to full operational status, including a full complement of weapons. So, while the sailors of the Mighty Mo blew off steam and recharged, he would personally supervise the reloading of his ordnance.

Kelly sighed. Not long ago, he had been at the front of a similar line of young sailors rushing into the open arms of his very own Pearl of the Orient.

To be so young… and so stupid.

“I’d better not get any damn calls from those MAs,” Lt. Cmdr. Robert Giannotti said, walking up to his CO. He also wore a short-sleeve white shirt with shoulder boards, white trousers and belt, and white dress shoes and cap. “I want to actually enjoy my time off, not spending it bailing dumbasses out of jail.”

“Keep an eye on our boys, Bobby,” Kelly said, dressed in the camouflage pattern of his navy working uniform since he was remaining aboard.

Kelly needed the distraction of work. After thirty heartrending minutes on the phone with his brother and another hour consoling his daughters, Kelly was in no mood for liberty.

“No offense, sir, but the weapons officer is more than qualified to oversee the replenishment. You should come with us. My cousin Joey is the base’s XO.”

“Of course he is,” Kelly said, shaking his head.

Giannotti smiled before heading for the forward brow to join the noisy river of white streaming onto the pier.

Javier Ibarra made his way through the crowded marketplace on the outskirts of the capital hauling two bags of groceries and toiletries. Dressed like a local, including a baseball cap from LIDOM — the country’s professional baseball league — sunglasses, and his recently grown beard, the Basque sailor scanned the merchants and shoppers without looking at anyone in particular.

Since he had parted ways with his crew following their escape from Newport News, Ibarra had used every skill and every asset at his disposal to disappear. He had also recommended to his team, all wealthy beyond their dreams, to do the same. He knew doing so would result in other smugglers taking over his routes, but money was no longer an issue, and he’d figured that purchasing another motorsailer and returning to his routine would be the easiest way to get caught. Omar Al Saud had vanished from the face of the planet, and Ibarra feared he had been taken by the same people now trying to hunt down the actual perpetrators.

He caught one of the colorful buses that connected the market neighborhood to Andres, a sleepy coastal town ten kilometers east of the capital. From there, the walk to his boat took thirty minutes down alleyways and side streets, finally reaching a sandy path flanked by palm trees and tall seagrass. The long trail led to a deserted bay far away from the resorts and condominiums overlooking the turquoise waters of the Caribbean between Andres and Santo Domingo. There, he located the weathered wooden rig hidden under palm leaves in a marshy stretch of shoreline. He had purchased it from a local fisherman for less than five hundred dollars. It included a small Evinrude outboard motor that started on the first try.

The ride across the bay took a few minutes, and soon he steered the old boat into a narrow and partly concealed waterway that snaked between a long strip of sand and the mainland. It reminded him of the canals in South America he’d used for years to make his midnight deliveries.

Ibarra inhaled the smell of the ocean as the steady drone of the Evinrude washed away all other sounds, before he took in at a raggedy wooden pier.

A little more than a shack to keep a low profile, his place was secluded, rented for cash and so far off the grid, it didn’t even get cell phone service. The place was also nearly impossible to find unless you knew exactly where to look. Even most residents didn’t know it existed. Flanked on one side by the constricted and shallow channel and on the other by the ocean, the half-mile-wide track of sandy terrain and marsh under the shade of palm trees and thick vegetation typically didn’t stand up well to the water surge of large storms, making it undesirable for extended stays. But it was quite desirable for someone trying to vanish from the world.

After securing the boat to the makeshift pier, Ibarra hauled his bags down a sandy trail that wound through the thicket until reaching a small clearing backdropped by the ocean. Off to the side, hidden from direct line of sight from the large pleasure yachts roaming the pristine Caribbean waters, stood a structure made of wood and mortar under a roof thatched with palm fronds. The whole contraption was supported by a grid of cinder blocks. It lacked electricity or running water, and it even listed a bit after taking a beating during last year’s hurricane season, but it did keep him dry and the screens on the windows kept the mosquitoes out. And most importantly, it kept him safe.

Inhaling deeply, Ibarra started toward the shack when he noticed movement to his right, a shadow shifting from the trunk of a towering coconut tree.

His first instinct was to reach for the Sig Sauer pistol tucked in his jeans, pressed against his spine.

“Please reach for it,” a voice echoed over the sound of the surf. “Give me a reason to blow your head off.”

Slowly Ibarra dropped the bag, raised his arms, and let his knees sink in the sand.

Cmdr. Jake Russo stepped out of the tall seagrass with his MP5A1 pointed at the kneeling figure. His team emerged slowly from their hiding places around the clearing, where they had waited for the last three hours.

The SEAL commander had worried that the intel provided by Hartwell Prost’s analysts in the aftermath of Prince Omar Al Saud’s interrogation might have been dated. But the money trail from a bank in Costa Rica had led to a series of brokers, then to a small local bank. The manager there had been quite forthcoming when told he could either help them find their man or have a free vacation courtesy of the US government.

He had pointed them to a local rental agent whose office would be an insult to the word seedy. The broker required no threats and happily gave up the man who fit the description of the owner of the Santo Erasmus for only five hundred dollars.

Russo and his team had waited, hoping the man topping the FBI’s and Interpol’s most wanted lists would eventually show.

“I… I don’t understand,” the bearded man said in a thick Hispanic accent. “I am just a local fisherman trying to—“

“Time to answer for Newport News, Mr. Ibarra.”

As the Basque sailor turned to face him, Lt. Gustavo Pacheco approached him from behind and placed a bag over his head.

He had made sure that his assistant included it in his weekly schedule.

Every Wednesday afternoon, after wrapping up his meetings with whomever it was that his chief of staff had him meeting, President Cord Macklin would cross the White House lawn toward a helicopter operated by the “Nighthawks” of Marine Helicopter Squadron One HMX-1. The large Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King, which assumed the call sign Marine One the moment the president climbed aboard, would fly down Chesapeake Bay and hover near the tip of Newport News to view the multiple construction projects along the waterfront. Sensitive to the logistical security nightmare caused by presidential visits, and to keep from overstressing Okimoto and his samurais, the commander in chief settled for these flyovers to review progress without disturbing those on the ground.

Macklin sat by the window and stared at the massive activity as crews worked nonstop along a mile of waterfront. In his mind’s eye, though, he still saw the fires and the billowing smoke rising from the demolished shoreline… and the rows and rows of body bags, the images forever chiseled in his soul.

Then the pilot flew him over to Truman, now dry-docked alongside Kennedy. The island had been removed, and a new superstructure would be installed in a month’s time. The president stared at the charred flight deck, thinking of all the souls that had perished that day. He thought, also, of Stennis, now undergoing similar repairs in Honolulu, as well as Bush, still being decontaminated following the nuclear strike. And, of course, there were the 134 sailors lost when North Dakota took one of the torpedoes meant for Stennis.

He sighed. So many losses. And for what?

Some would argue that he may not have done enough to avenge the attacks. Others could argue one day — if it ever became public — that he overstepped his boundaries as commander in chief by launching so many covert strikes, including the sinking of strategic Chinese vessels, the kidnapping of a Saudi prince, and the destruction of the power grids in two countries, which had caused havoc in world stock markets. And yet others could criticize the manner in which he’d seized hundreds of billions of dollars in assets from Omar Al Saud as well as from a number of members of the royal family — funds he now used to restore the damaged carriers and to rebuild Newport News. He’d also diverted some of the funds to bolster financial aid to the victims of the attacks.

But Macklin couldn’t care less what the pundits thought or might think one day if any of the information was ever leaked. He knew in his heart that he had done everything within his power to punish the perpetrators while keeping his responses proportional, and even turning the tide on the war on terror and the decades-long struggle in the Taiwan Strait.

In the final analysis, however, it was the immortal words of John F. Kennedy that filled President Macklin’s mind as he watched the tip of Newport News slowly rising from the devastation of the nuclear strike. In spite of having persevered over his enemies, in spite of having delivered a solid dose of American justice to those who had dared attack his nation, this victory truly felt like ashes in his mouth.