Empire Rising

55

“No close contacts!”

As USS Annapolis reached periscope depth, the Officer of the Deck’s announcement was the first piece of routine news Commander Ramsey Hootman had heard in a while. Just over a day ago, the ice pack above Annapolis had broken apart, sending jagged ice keels downward, crashing into the submarine’s steel hull. But they were lucky; although the Engine Room hull had been deformed, the three-inch-thick steel hadn’t been punctured. However, the seawater cooling system pipes had cracked in multiple places, spraying frigid water throughout the Engine Room, and Ramsey’s crew had shut the Emergency Flood Isolation Valves. Six hours later, the seawater piping had been repaired and propulsion restored, and Annapolis had surged south again.

They were now in the Marginal Ice Zone just north of St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Strait, and as Annapolis cruised at periscope depth, the lack of announcements troubled Ramsey. The Quartermaster should have reported a GPS satellite fix by now, and there was no report from Radio either.

The Navigator stepped onto the Conn. “Sir, we’ve reported our successful under-ice transit and our position. There must be some sort of makeshift communication system overhead, because we received an acknowledgment, but nothing else. All satellites are still down. Unable to obtain a GPS fix or download the submarine broadcast.”

“Understand,” Ramsey replied.

This was not good news. The first order of business after completing an under-ice transit was to determine the ship’s position. Annapolis had navigated across the top of the world using her two inertial navigators, and they had become unstable as they approached the North Pole. As a result, their estimated position could be off by several miles. They couldn’t approach close to shore, clearing the way for the Marine Expeditionary Forces, without knowing exactly where they were. Even more important, they needed to download new software for their torpedoes. Both of those efforts required satellites.

Ramsey stepped off the Conn, stopping at the Navigation Table, joined by the Nav. Ramsey searched for a way to verify their position. The GPS satellites were still inoperable, and the old LORAN and Omega systems had been retired years earlier. As he studied the navigation chart, an idea took hold. They were just north of St. Lawrence Island, where the water shallowed rapidly — they could do a bottom contour fix. By comparing the water depth measured by the submarine’s Fathometer to charted depth, they could verify their position, at least to within a hundred yards. Not good enough for launching ballistic missiles, but good enough for submarine warfare.

Ramsey explained the plan to the Nav, then turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Bring her down to five hundred feet, ahead standard, course two-zero-zero.” The Officer of the Deck complied, and a moment later Annapolis tilted downward, increasing depth and speed.

56

Beneath gunmetal-gray clouds, a driving rain pelted USS Reagan as the aircraft carrier surged through dark green seas at ahead flank speed. As daylight faded, Captain CJ Berger surveyed the wet Flight Deck through the port Bridge windows, noting the slow, but steady progress of the shipyard’s Tiger Teams, reassembling the aircraft carrier’s arresting cables. It was a race against time.

The Atlantic Fleet air wing had been circling above for hours, taking turns refueling from a dozen tankers accompanying the aircraft. Whoever decided to augment the air wing with Air Force KC-10 refueling tankers was a wise man or woman. The speed at which the Tiger Teams reassembled Reagan’s flight systems was impressive considering the complexity of their task, but they still lagged behind predictions.

As difficult as it was to prepare Reagan to get underway, reassembling enough of her systems to conduct flight operations had been even more challenging. All four catapults were still inoperable, and the Tiger Teams had focused first on restoring the systems required for landing. Two of the ship’s four elevators were back in operation, so ferrying aircraft to the Hangar Deck below wouldn’t be a problem. Slowing the aircraft as they landed, their tailhooks catching an arresting wire, was the last remaining issue.

They had only ten minutes left to complete the repairs. The modified LANT air wing, consisting of four Super Hornet and two F-35C Lightning II squadrons, twelve Growlers, and four Hawkeyes, had sucked the refueling tankers dry and were approaching Bingo Fuel. Sending out another round of refueling tankers was not an option; the pilots could remain aloft for only so long. They would either have to begin landing now or head back to Hawaii for rest, followed by another attempt the following day. Landing the aircraft today wasn’t essential, but Berger was more concerned with the pace at which his flight systems were being returned to service. The longer the arresting wires took, the longer it would be before the Tiger Teams turned their attention to the catapults.

Berger’s thoughts were interrupted by the Air Boss’s voice, coming across the 23-MC speaker from the O-9 Deck, directly above the Bridge. “Captain, Air Boss. Two Wire has been repaired. Request Green Deck.”

Captain Berger reached over to the console beside his chair, pressing the small green button as he slipped the microphone from its clip with his other hand. “Air Boss, you’ve got Green Deck.”

A moment later, the first aircraft materialized through the steady downpour, barely distinguishable against the backdrop of dark gray skies. Berger glanced at the Number Two arresting cable, stretched across the Flight Deck, hoping the arresting engines worked properly.

Berger’s attention shifted between the wobbling jet, buffeted by strong winds as it approached, to the Landing Signals Officer, standing on the Flight Deck in the rain. The LSO held a radio handset close to his mouth with one hand, advising the approaching pilot on engine power and glide path. In his other hand, he held the pickle switch controlling the Optical Landing System, containing red wave-off and green cut lights, which directed the pilot to either abort the landing or make additional adjustments during his approach. Berger watched as the green cut lights flashed periodically during the jet’s descent, sending last-second guidance to the pilot.

The Super Hornet angled down toward the deck, its tailhook extended. With only one operable arresting wire, the odds of a successful landing were reduced. Land a split second too late and the jet’s tailhook would miss the cable. The pilot would have to bolter, pushing his engines to full throttle to regain sufficient speed for flight before he ran out of carrier deck.

Berger followed the Super Hornet in, its wings wobbling one last time before the jet touched down. The aircraft’s tailhook snagged the arresting wire and the jet screeched to a halt. Forty-five seconds later, the fighter was headed to the forward starboard elevator as a second Super Hornet touched down. One by one, as darkness settled over the Pacific Ocean, the modified Atlantic Fleet air wing landed safely aboard the Pacific Fleet’s last carrier.

57

Eight hundred feet beneath the surface, USS Michigan rested on the ocean bottom, listing ten degrees to starboard. Seated on the Conn, bathed in yellow emergency lighting, Christine rubbed the arms of her thick green jacket. With the ventilation fans and heaters secured, the temperature inside the submarine had plummeted, dropping until it matched the temperature of the ocean bottom. Moisture from the air condensed on the submarine’s steel hull, trickling down the curved bulkheads, and the crew’s breath condensed into white mist when they spoke.

Standing on the Conn next to Captain Wilson, Lieutenant Commander Faucher had just arrived after completing another review of battery voltage and discharge rate, ensuring there was enough power remaining to complete a reactor start-up. They were pushing the battery to its limit, and Christine could see the concern on Faucher’s face, wondering if Wilson had pushed it too far. However, it didn’t seem like they had any choice. Sonar pings still echoed periodically through Michigan’s hull. At least one Chinese submarine was still out there, unconvinced the American submarine had been sunk.

“We need to commence a reactor start-up now,” Faucher repeated. “If we wait any longer, we won’t have enough power.”

Wilson shook his head. “We can’t afford to start up yet. Our feedwater and seawater pumps are too loud. We have to wait until the Chinese submarines depart.” A powerful sonar ping echoed through the submarine’s steel hull, adding emphasis to Wilson’s statement.

Faucher replied, his voice straining as he attempted to contain his frustration. “Then what is your plan, sir? How do we complete a reactor start-up without enough energy in the battery?”

Wilson hesitated a moment before answering. “We’ll do a Fast Recovery Start-Up instead of a normal start-up. That will buy us an hour.”

Captain Wilson’s words seemed to hit the Engineer like a physical blow. Faucher straightened his posture and cast a glance in Christine’s direction, aware she was sitting close enough to hear the conversation. He turned back to Captain Wilson, lowering his voice in a failed attempt to conceal his words. “That’s not allowed, sir. We’ve been shut down for too long. If we conduct a Fast Recovery Start-Up from such a low temperature, we risk fracturing the reactor vessel. We’re talking about a complete core meltdown if that happens.”

Wilson’s eyes locked onto his Engineer’s face. “I understand, Eng. That’s a chance I’m willing to take. It’s my call. Enter it in the logs.”

An uneasy silence hung in the air between the two men, interrupted by the submarine’s Weapons Officer arriving in Control with a second class petty officer whom Christine recognized as Sam Walsh, a Machinist Mate assigned to Torpedo Division. The Submarine Force had eliminated the Torpedoman rating, and Machinist Mates now manned the Torpedo Room. Wilson turned toward the new arrivals.

“Sir,” the Weps began, “Petty Officer Walsh may have a solution to our torpedo problem.”

Wilson’s eyes brightened as they shifted to the Machinist Mate. “What solution is that?”

Petty Officer Walsh explained. “The message we received said the algorithm that shuts down the torpedo is located on the primary Signal Processing card. I spent three years at our torpedo maintenance facility in Yorktown, and I know how to take apart the torpedo and remove the affected circuit card.”

Wilson replied. “Will the torpedo function properly without this card?”

“It should, sir,” Walsh replied. “There are two SP cards in each torpedo. They’re not completely identical, but each has the ability to take over for the other if one card fails. If we remove the primary SP card, the secondary card will assume the first has failed and take over. The message we received implied the algorithm was loaded only on the primary SP card, so the torpedo should function normally after we remove it, ignoring the Chinese sonar pulse. I don’t know that for sure, but I figure it’s worth a shot.”

“How long will it take to remove the card?” Wilson asked.

“With enough help and the proper tools, about two hours per torpedo. But I can do two torpedoes at once, one on the starboard side of the Torpedo Room and the other on the port side, without slowing me down too much.”

Wilson nodded thoughtfully. “Great idea, Walsh.” He turned to the Weps. “Get Walsh whatever help he needs. We’ve got another hour before we commence reactor start-up, and another hour before we’ll be coming off the bottom. We may need a functioning torpedo or two about the time Walsh is finished.”

“Aye, sir.” The Weps and Walsh stepped off the Conn, the two men already conversing as they headed down the ladder from Control.

An hour later, Christine was in the Torpedo Room along with the Weapons Officer, watching Walsh and five other petty officers gathered in the center aisle of the Torpedo Room. The six petty officers were disassembling two of the submarine’s MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes, one on the inboard starboard stow and the other on the inboard port stow. Christine watched from the aft end of the crowded compartment, filled with eleven of the submarine’s thirteen green MK 48 warshot torpedoes. The other two were still loaded in Tubes Three and Four, ready for launch.

Both torpedoes Walsh was working on had been separated into two pieces. On each torpedo, Walsh had removed the joint band connecting the Guidance and Control section to the torpedo’s warhead, fuel tank, and engine. Thick black cables had been disconnected and were dangling from the torpedo innards, and Walsh and another petty officer were sliding a heavy, one-foot-long metal Guidance Control Box from the front half of the torpedo. The GCB was the torpedo’s brain, containing the two SP cards as well as a slew of other critical microprocessors.

The GCB was extracted from the Guidance and Control section and placed onto a rubber mat between the two halves of the torpedo. Walsh removed the hex screws from the front plate of the GCB and stared into the torpedo’s electronic brain. In the dim yellow emergency lighting, it was difficult to see inside, so the other petty officer grabbed a nearby flashlight, aiming the white beam into the GCB.

Walsh wrapped an electrostatic guard around his wrist, with the other end of the cord attached to the submarine’s metal hull. He reached carefully inside the GCB, working his hand back and forth, extracting a four-by-eight-inch circuit card. He examined it closely, as if he could visually detect the faulty algorithm loaded onto one of the several dozen chips embedded in the green circuit board.

He placed the card on the rubber mat, then replaced the GCB’s cover and tightened the fasteners. The Weapons Officer checked his watch for the hundredth time; it had taken just over an hour to get to this point. Walsh slid the GCB back into the Guidance and Control section, securing it in place with additional screws. Then he instructed the other petty officers to begin the process of rejoining the two halves of the torpedo. After observing their efforts for a moment, Walsh turned his attention to the torpedo on the port stow.

A powerful sonar ping echoed through Michigan’s hull, a stark reminder of the enemy awaiting them, and Christine decided to return to the Control Room. Wilson was still standing on the Conn, his arms folded across his chest, conversing with the Engineer and Navigator. As Christine approached the three men, the Navigator asked, “Why don’t we stay on the bottom after the reactor start-up is complete, then wait until the Chinese submarines depart.”

The Engineer shook his head. “Michigan isn’t designed to sit on the ocean bottom. Our main seawater intakes are near the bottom of the hull, and we sucked in a significant amount of silt during the short time it took to shut down the reactor. If we stay on the bottom more than a few minutes after start-up, we’ll foul the main condensers and lose all propulsion and electrical power.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the high-pitched chirp of the 2-JV sound-powered phone system. Wilson picked up the 2-JV handset, flipping on the speaker so his two department heads could hear the report from the Engineering Officer of the Watch in the Engine Room. “Conn, Maneuvering. The battery has begun reversing. Three cells have changed polarity.”

Three of the battery’s 126 cells had been drained and were now attempting to recharge themselves, adding an additional demand on the remaining cells. As more and more cells reversed, the situation would rapidly deteriorate until the battery was completely drained, leaving no power for the reactor startup.

“Maneuvering, Conn,” Wilson replied. “This is the Captain. Understand cell reversal has begun.” Wilson placed the handset back into its cradle, looking back at the Engineer. “Looks like we can’t wait any longer. Commence Fast Recovery Start-Up.”

The Engineer acknowledged the Captain’s order. As he left Control, Wilson approached the front of the Conn. His silver hair appeared almost blond in the yellow lighting from the emergency battle lanterns. He addressed all twenty-three watchstanders in the crowded Control Room, his breath condensing into fog as he spoke.

“Attention in Control. The battery has begun cell reversal, so we’re commencing a reactor start-up. As we bring up the seawater, condensate, and feedwater pumps, we’ll become more detectable, and we’ll be helpless until we get an electrical turbine and propulsion restored. However,” Wilson continued, “Petty Officer Walsh believes he can fix our torpedoes, making them impervious to the Chinese sonar pulse. He’s working on two now, and they should be ready by the time we complete reactor start-up.”

The crew sat up at their consoles as Wilson spoke, but when he finished, there was little for them to do. Their consoles were still dead, staring back at them with dark displays. Christine pulled back the left sleeve of her thick green jacket, checking the time. The reactor start-up would be complete in about an hour. She settled into the Captain’s seat on the starboard side of the Conn, preparing to wait as the minutes ticked by.

Christine shivered inside her foul-weather jacket, observing Lieutenant Kris Herndon, the Officer of the Deck, standing between the two lowered periscopes, supervising the dormant Control Room. Michigan still tilted to starboard at a ten-degree list, but no one seemed to notice aside from the Night Baker, who entered Control carrying a tray of coffee mugs held at a slight angle. Petty Officer Sam Meade had somehow managed to brew hot coffee without any electrical power. Steam rose from the ceramic mugs as Meade made his round, exchanging twelve empty cups for full ones. He delivered the last three to the Conn before retreating down the ladder toward Crew’s Mess.

Christine wrapped her cold hands around the hot mug as she took a sip of black coffee, savoring the heat more than the flavor. Wilson flipped on the 2-JV speaker, listening to the communications between Engine Room watchstanders and Maneuvering, where the Engineering Officer of the Watch directed reactor plant operations. They had commenced withdrawing control rods from the reactor core, adding a significant drain on the battery as the Control Rod Drive Mechanisms lifted the rods inside the uranium fuel cells. Additional battery cells began reversing, and Christine glanced at Wilson each time to assess his reaction. His face was placid, exhibiting no reaction to the news. Suddenly, an announcement came across the 2-JV.

“The reactor is critical.“

Christine glanced at Wilson again, wondering if something had gone wrong, but there was still no response from the submarine’s Captain. Lieutenant Herndon noticed the concerned look on her face, and spoke softly. “That’s normal,” she said. “It means the neutron fission rate in the core is self-sustaining, exactly where we want it. Neither too few fissions, eventually shutting down, nor too many, escalating out of control. Just like Goldilocks.” Herndon smiled, and Christine almost laughed at the unexpected simile.

A few minutes later, another report emanated from the speaker. “The reactor is in the power range. Commencing reactor plant heat-up.”

The minutes ticked away as the reactor plant increased temperature until another report came across the 2JV. “Opening Main Steam One and Two.”

While the Engineering watch section worked quickly to bring up the electrical turbine generators, the emergency battle lanterns in Control continued to fade. Sonar was still down, and the combat control, navigation, and ship control consoles remained deenergized. The only indication of electronic life aboard Michigan was the Ballast Control Panel, the red and blue indicating lights casting an eerie glow on the Chief of the Watch’s face. Another loud sonar ping penetrated Michigan’s hull, followed by a report over the 2-JV speaker.

“The port and starboard turbine generators are ready for electrical loading.“

Upon hearing this report, the watchstanders in Control straightened in their seats, turning back toward their dark consoles, and one of the Fire Control Technicians cracked his knuckles in anticipation. A moment later, the bright white fluorescent lighting overhead flickered on and the emergency battle lanterns extinguished.

There was a chirp from the 2-JV circuit, and Lieutenant Herndon picked up the handset. “Conn. Officer of the Deck.”

“Conn, Maneuvering. The electric plant is in a normal full power lineup. Main Engine warm-up in progress.“

Herndon acknowledged, then turned toward Wilson, who ordered, “Secure the rig for reduced electrical.” Herndon passed the order, and moments later, the Control Room sputtered to life, start-up screens appearing on the combat control consoles. The Ship Control Panel illuminated, as well as a plethora of displays and indicators on the Conn, and the ventilation fans began blowing welcome warm air from the vents.

The XO turned to the Captain. “Sonar reports cold start-up in progress. Six minutes remaining.”

Wilson acknowledged, ordering Sonar to resume making reports over the 27-MC.

The combat control consoles completed their start-up before Sonar’s, and the Weapons Officer peered over the Fire Control Technician’s shoulder at the Weapon Launch Console, monitoring the status of their torpedoes. Weapons appeared in two of the submarine’s four torpedo tubes. Tubes One and Two remained empty.

Wilson called out to the Weps, “Report status of Tubes One through Four.”

The Weps turned toward the Captain. “Tubes Three and Four are loaded, flooded down, outer doors open. Weapons powered up. Still reassembling the torpedoes for Tubes One and Two. Estimate twenty minutes before we’re ready to load.”

Lieutenant Stewart’s response was followed by a report over the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Start-up complete. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-nine, bearing two-eight-zero. Analyzing.”

Sonar bearings appeared on three of the combat control consoles, and the two Fire Control Technicians and Lieutenant Cordero began manipulating the trackballs by their keyboards, their hands moving faster than Christine’s eyes could follow. The men flipped through various multicolored graphical displays, adjusting the contact’s course, speed, and range. Behind them, the submarine’s Executive Officer reviewed the three different solutions, eventually tapping one of the Fire Control Technicians on the shoulder.

“Promote to Master.”

The Fire Control Technician complied as the Executive Officer read off the contact’s estimated solution. “Sierra four-nine bears two-eight-five, range six thousand yards, course zero-one-zero, speed four.” The XO turned toward Wilson. “But’s that’s a rough solution. We’ll have a better estimate once we can maneuver and drive bearing rate.”

“We’ll come off the bottom once the main engines are ready,” Wilson replied.

As the XO acknowledged, the overhead lighting in Control flickered, followed by another announcement from the 2-JV speaker.

“Loss of vacuum, starboard main condenser.”

The report from the Engine Room was followed by the chirp of the 2-JV. Wilson retrieved the handset, and Christine listened to the conversation over the speaker.

“Conn. This is the Captain.”

“Captain, Engineer. The starboard main condenser is fouling and we’ve shifted to a half-power lineup on the port turbine generator. We need to come off the bottom so we can restore vacuum and bring up the starboard side of the Engine Room.”

“Understand,” Wilson replied. He replaced the handset, turning to Lieutenant Herndon. “Hover at seven-six-zero feet.”

Herndon gave the order. “Dive, engage Hovering. Set depth at seven-six-zero feet.”

The Dive relayed Herndon’s order to the Chief of the Watch seated beside him, manning the Ballast Control Panel. The Chief dialed in 760 feet and energized the submarine’s Hovering system. Blue circles illuminated on the Ballast Control Panel, indicating valves in the hull were opening. The Chief of the Watch called out periodically as the submarine’s hovering pumps pushed water from Michigan’s variable ballast tanks, increasing the submarine’s buoyancy.

“Ten thousand pounds out.”

The Chief of the Watch reported every ten thousand pounds out, and at the forty-thousand mark, Michigan began tilting to port, righting itself from its starboard list as it lifted off the ocean floor. A sonar ping echoed through Control just as Michigan began drifting upward, a stark reminder that at least one Chinese submarine was still searching for them. Christine shivered involuntarily from the combined cold and nervousness. She didn’t know how sophisticated the Chinese sonar systems were and whether they could detect a submarine hovering forty feet off the ocean floor, or whether Michigan would still look like a rock on the ocean bottom.

“On ordered depth, seven-six-zero feet,” the Dive announced.

Wilson removed the 2-JV handset from its holder. “Maneuvering, this is the Captain. We’re forty feet off the bottom. Recover the starboard side of the Engine Room.”

The Engineering Officer of the Watch repeated back the Captain’s order, and as Wilson slipped the handset into its holder, another sonar ping echoed through Control. Sonar followed up a few seconds later, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice emanating from the speaker. “Active pings bearing two-nine-zero. Correlates to Sierra four-nine. Classified Yuan class submarine.”

The Executive Officer monitored the three men at their combat control consoles as they continued adjusting the contact’s course, speed, and range. The contact solution was updated, followed by an announcement from the XO. “Hold Sierra four-nine on a course of zero-three-zero, speed three, range five thousand yards.”

Before Wilson could acknowledge, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice echoed from the 27-MC speakers again. “Upshift in frequency, Sierra four-nine. Contact has zigged toward.”

Hands began moving again at the three combat control consoles as the operators updated their solution.

The Executive Officer called out, “Confirm target zig. Contact has maneuvered to a new course of one-one-zero.” The XO stopped behind Lieutenant Cordero, directing him to shift to the geographic display. After a quick glance at the target solution, the XO looked up at the Captain. The Yuan class submarine had turned directly toward them.

Wilson picked up the 7-MC microphone. “Maneuvering, Captain. How much longer before the starboard side of the Engine Room is recovered?”

“Captain, Engineer. Estimate five minutes.”

Another ping echoed through the Control Room, this one stronger than the previous ones. Wilson replaced the handset, his eyes scanning the combat control displays. Christine could feel the tension in the air, but the conversations in Control remained subdued. Lieutenant Cordero and the two Fire Control Technicians continued their target motion analysis, adjusting parameters, refining the target’s new course, speed, and range.

After a moment, Wilson called out, “Designate Sierra four-nine as Master One. Firing Point Procedures, Master One, Tube Three. However,” Wilson added, “we will not shoot unless fired upon. We will continue hovering near the bottom and hope we look enough like a rock outcropping that Master One won’t expend a torpedo to find out.”

As Wilson fell silent, the watchstanders began preparing to fire the torpedo in Tube Three. The Executive Officer stopped briefly behind each of the combat control consoles, examining the target solution on each one, finally tapping the middle Fire Control Technician. The Technician pressed a button on his console and the XO called out, “Solution Ready.”

The Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console sent the course, speed, and range of their target to their MK 48 torpedo in Tube Three, along with applicable search presets, and a few seconds later, the Weapons Officer announced, “Weapon Ready.”

Lieutenant Herndon followed up, reporting, “Ship Ready with the exception of full propulsion. Ready to answer bells on the port main engine only.”

Michigan was cocked and ready, a single button push away from firing its torpedo.

Another sonar ping echoed through the Control Room, increased again in intensity. A report from Sonar followed shortly thereafter. “Sonar ping received at plus ten D-E. Corresponds to a depth of four hundred feet.”

There was bright white trace on Michigan’s port beam, growing stronger by the minute. The XO cast frequent glances in Wilson’s direction, waiting for the order to shoot. Christine knew what the XO was thinking. If they shot first, maybe they could surprise their target.

But that was risky. At this range, the Chinese submarine would detect Michigan’s torpedo launch. Walsh’s modified torpedoes weren’t ready yet, and the Chinese submarine might have enough time to dud their unmodified torpedo, then return fire. Wilson’s alternatives were to either shoot first and almost guarantee their own destruction, or sit tight and play the odds their target would pass by without firing. Neither option seemed to offer a high probability of survival.

Another sonar ping penetrated Michigan’s hull, but this one was followed by two more pings in rapid succession. There was no visible reaction from Wilson, even though Michigan had apparently been detected and the Chinese submarine was refining its firing solution. A moment later, Wilson glanced at the clock above the Quartermaster’s stand. It had been exactly five minutes since the Engineer’s last update on the Engine Room start-up.

As if in response to Wilson’s glance, the Engineer’s voice emanated from the Conn speaker. “Conn, Maneuvering. Ready to answer all bells.” But before Wilson could respond to the Engineer’s report, the Sonar Supervision’s voice blared across the 27-MC.

“Torpedo launch transients from Master One, bearing two-nine-zero!”

Wilson shouted out, “Helm, ahead flank! Launch countermeasure!”

The Helm twisted the Engine Order Telegraph fully clockwise, and Christine felt the submarine’s engines spring to life, sending tremors through the deck. A few seconds later, a Fire Control Technician manning one of the combat control consoles called out, “Countermeasure away!” The torpedo decoy was launched none too soon, because Sonar followed up with a second announcement.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing two-nine-zero!”

The XO turned in Wilson’s direction, awaiting the order to counter-fire. However, Wilson simply stood there, evaluating the sonar display on the Conn. After a moment of silence, interrupted only by Sonar’s updated bearing to the torpedo over the 27-MC, the Executive Officer spoke. “Sir, recommend counter-fire.”

“No,” Wilson replied. “It’ll be a wasted shot unless we can get close enough so they don’t have time to dud the torpedo.”

Wilson stepped off the Conn, stopping next to the Navigation table, examining the display. A bright white dot representing Michigan marched away from a scalloped circle annotating their torpedo decoy. A half-dozen red lines were drawn out from the submarine’s track, recording the torpedo bearings called out by Sonar every ten seconds. Wilson attempted to determine whether the torpedo was headed toward Michigan or their decoy. It was difficult to assess because Michigan was still close to their countermeasure.

“Torpedo range, one thousand yards. Impact in one minute.”

Christine’s stomach tightened, realizing their fate would be determined by the effectiveness of their decoy. She felt helpless, sitting on the Conn as they counted down what might be the last minute of their lives. After the next announcement, her stomach settled low and cold in her gut.

“Torpedo is range-gating! Torpedo’s homing!”

The torpedo had increased the rate of its sonar pings to more accurately determine the range to its target, so a refined intercept course could be calculated. The important question was whether the torpedo was about to intercept Michigan or their decoy behind them.

“Thirty seconds to impact!”

Michigan was approaching ahead flank and was a decent distance away from their decoy now.

“Fifteen seconds to impact!”

The torpedo’s high-pitched pings could now be heard through Michigan’s hull. Conversation in Control ceased, the silence interrupted only by the periodic sonar echoes, which increased in intensity as the torpedo closed the remaining distance. Throughout Control, the crew braced themselves for the impending explosion as they counted down the remaining seconds.

Michigan shuddered as an explosion roared through the Control Room. Christine tensed, as did everyone in Control, listening for an emergency report. The seconds on the clock by the Quartermaster’s stand ticked upward in slow motion as the crew waited.

After an agonizing fifteen seconds, Wilson ordered, “Helm, all stop, right full rudder.” Michigan hadn’t been hit. The torpedo had been distracted by their decoy, eventually locking on to the same rock outcropping as the previous Chinese torpedo.

Christine felt the tremors in the deck fade as the main engines fell silent. As the torpedo explosion echoed through the water, she wondered why Wilson had ordered all stop.

Wilson called out, “Attention in Control. I’ve secured the main engines so we can blend back into the ocean noise, masked by the echoes of the torpedo explosion. If Sierra four-eight continues down our trail, we’ll have a nice surprise for him. We’re not going to be where he expects us to be.” Wilson looked at the Weapons Officer. “Speaking of surprises, how long until Tubes One and Two are loaded?”

The Weps answered, “Ten more minutes before both torpedoes are buttoned up, then we’ll begin loading. However,” Lieutenant Stewart added, “we won’t know if the torpedoes are operable until we power them up and attempt to assign presets.”

“I understand,” Wilson replied. “We don’t have ten minutes anyway. I intend to prosecute Master One with the unmodified torpedo in Tube Three once we regain contact.” Wilson turned to the watchstanders in Control. “Check Fire, Tube Three. Resume tracking Master One.”

Christine wondered what Wilson was up to. How were they going to employ an unmodified torpedo without it being dudded?

The geographic display on Lieutenant Cordero’s console showed Michigan curling to the right, back toward the Chinese submarine, which was maintaining a straight course. Christine realized Wilson was attempting to circle around behind the Chinese submarine, their approach masked by the torpedo explosion still reverberating through the water. Michigan was temporarily invisible, and Captain Wilson was using that to their advantage.

The Helm called out, “Request orders to the Helm. Rudder remains right full, no ordered course.”

Stopping behind the geographic display, Wilson evaluated the solution for Master One. Michigan had traveled almost in a complete circle, its speed bleeding off to five knots and still decreasing, with the submarine still hugging the ocean bottom at 760 feet, blending into the occasional rock outcroppings. The Chinese submarine was directly behind them again, steady on a course of one-one-zero at ten knots, depth four hundred feet.

Wilson finally answered the Helm’s request for orders. “Steady course one-one-zero.”

As Michigan lined up on the identical course of its adversary, the Chinese submarine remained steady on course, attempting to regain track of the American submarine as the echoes from the torpedo explosion faded. Just as Michigan completed it full circle, Christine heard the loud churn of a propeller through Michigan’s hull as the Chinese submarine traveled overhead at four hundred feet, apparently unaware of the American submarine lurking below.

As the Chinese submarine passed above, a determined look settled on Wilson’s face. He called out, “Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth four hundred feet. Use five up.”

The Helm rang up ahead two-thirds on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Dive ordered full rise on the fairwater planes and a five-degree up-bubble on the submarine. The Outboard watchstander, seated on the Helm’s left, tilted the stern planes until the submarine was pitched upward to the ordered angle.

The main engines returned to life, increasing Michigan’s speed to ten knots, matching its target. At the same time, Michigan drifted up toward four hundred feet. Christine glanced at the geographic display. They were only a thousand yards behind Master One, directly in its sonar baffles. Assuming the Chinese submarine wasn’t employing a towed array, Michigan would remain completely undetected.

“On ordered depth, four hundred feet,” the Dive announced.

Wilson stepped back onto the Conn as he called out, “Firing Point Procedures, Master One, Tube Three. Set tactics to Low speed/Low speed, passive search only. Extend enable point to intercept range.”

The Weps acknowledged Wilson’s order and relayed it to the Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console, who modified the presets of the torpedo in Tube Three. The Executive Officer stopped briefly behind each of the combat control consoles, examining the target solution on each one, finally tapping Lieutenant Cordero. Cordero pressed a button on his console and the XO called out, “Solution Ready.”

Immediately following the XO, the Weapons Officer announced, “Weapon Ready.”

Lieutenant Herndon followed up, reporting, “Ship Ready.”

Wilson replied, “Shoot on generated bearings!”

Christine heard the whirr of the torpedo ejection pump as the four-thousand-pound torpedo was ejected from Tube Three. The Sonar Supervisor announced the torpedo milestones.

“Own ship’s unit is in the water, running normally.

“Fuel crossover achieved.

“Steady on preset gyro course, Low speed.”

Wilson’s eyes shifted to the Weapon Launch Console, depicting their torpedo as a green inverted V heading toward a red semicircle representing Master One, which remained steady on course and speed — giving no indication it had detected the incoming torpedo. Thirty seconds after launch, Michigan’s torpedo had closed to within five hundred yards of its target. Wilson called out, “Wire guide Tube Three. Shift search speed to High-One and Enable the weapon.”

The Weapon Launch Console operator sent the new commands to their torpedo over the thin copper wire trailing behind it. The Fire Control Technician reported, “Unit Tube Three accepted commands.”

Sonar confirmed the torpedo was responding properly, announcing, “Own ship’s unit has shifted to High-One and has gone active.”

A few seconds later, the Weapons Officer called out, “Unit Tube Three is homing! Telemetry range, four hundred yards.”

Their torpedo was sending data back to Michigan over its guidance wire, and the Michigan’s crew could adjust the target solution if the contact evaded. However, no adjustments would be necessary. The torpedo had begun homing and would adjust course on its own.

The Weps followed up. “Unit Tube Three still homing! Two hundred yards to contact.”

Christine watched as the torpedo’s track on the Weapon Launch Console merged with Master One.

A few seconds later, an explosion rumbled through Control.

Michigan shuddered as a shock wave passed by, followed by Sonar’s report. “Explosion in the water, bearing one-one-zero!” Cheers erupted in Control, quickly dying down as Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Breaking-up noises, bearing one-one-zero.”

Michigan had survived, and now they had to clear the area quickly. If there were other Chinese submarines nearby, they would converge on the explosion.

Wilson ordered, “Helm, ahead standard. Right full rudder, steady course two-eight-zero.”

Michigan began reversing course to the west, away from the explosion reverberating through the ocean depths. Christine took in a deep breath, realizing only now how shallow her breathing had been. However, as the tension eased from her muscles, a powerful sonar ping echoed through Control.

Seconds later, the Sonar Supervisor’s announcement struck fear back into her heart. “Torpedo launch transients, bearing three-one-zero!”

58

“Hold a new contact, designated Sierra five-zero, bearing three-one-zero! Yuan class submarine.” Sonar’s follow-up report echoed from the 27-MC speaker on the Conn.

Another Chinese submarine had materialized from the murky waters. This time, however, Michigan wasn’t hugging the ocean bottom, masked by the reverberations of a torpedo explosion.

Before Wilson could engage the second Chinese submarine, he had to deal with the incoming torpedo. “Helm, ahead flank! Steady course two-two-zero. Launch countermeasure!”

The Helm acknowledged Wilson’s order and rang up ahead flank, maintaining his rudder at right full. Michigan’s powerful main engines surged to life and a Fire Control Technician launched one of Michigan’s decoys into the water. Christine felt the engines vibrate through the deck again as Michigan swung rapidly toward its torpedo evasion course. However, as Michigan approached its new course of 220, there was another report from the Sonar Supervisor.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing two-three-zero! Hold a new submerged contact, bearing two-three-two, classified Yuan diesel submarine.”

Christine was beginning to hate the sound of the Sonar Supervisor’s voice. She followed Wilson’s eyes to the sonar display on the Conn, where a second bright white trace had appeared next to an accompanying faint white line. Michigan was now heading directly toward another Chinese submarine and its torpedo. These two diesel submarines were probably the other two of the trio of Chinese submarines that had chased Michigan into the ocean bottom a day earlier.

“Launch countermeasure! Helm…” Wilson hesitated.

There was no good course to maneuver to. The Chinese submarines had Michigan bracketed. If Wilson put one torpedo on the beam in an attempt to drive out of its path, the other torpedo would end up directly ahead or behind, a recipe for disaster. Yet they had to turn somewhere, and fast. They were barreling directly toward the second torpedo.

Wilson finally completed his order. “… shift your rudder, steady course one-five-zero.”

The Helm shifted the rudder to left thirty degrees, reversing Michigan’s turn to starboard. Wilson had decided to place the second torpedo on the beam, but that meant the first torpedo was chasing right up Michigan’s tail. At least they were headed away from it, buying precious time while Wilson developed a plan to save everyone’s bacon.

Wilson calmly stepped off the Conn, stopping behind Lieutenant Cordero again. “Geographic display with geoplot overlay,” Wilson commanded. Cordero pulled up the requested display as Wilson was joined by the XO. “We’re going to maneuver between the two torpedoes,” Wilson said. “To do that, I need to know their courses.” Both men turned toward Lieutenant Cordero, who spoke calmly into the mouthpiece of his sound-powered phones.

“Sonar, PRI MATE. Report Sonar Search Plan range, Yuan class submarine.”

Christine couldn’t hear Sonar’s response over Cordero’s headset, but a few seconds later, Cordero began manipulating one of the trackballs, adjusting the range parameters of the torpedo solutions, overriding the automated algorithms. His hand fell still and he looked up at Captain Wilson, awaiting further direction.

“Use High Speed for a Yu-6 torpedo,” Wilson ordered.

Cordero returned his attention to his display as he adjusted the speed of both incoming torpedoes, forcing them to fifty knots. Wilson examined the results of Cordero’s analysis, then turned to the Ship Control Panel.

“Helm, left full rudder, steady course zero-nine-zero.”

The Helm acknowledged and a second later Michigan was turning to port again. As the submarine steadied on course 090, Wilson returned to the Conn and addressed his crew. “Attention in Control. Both torpedoes were fired on a line-of-sight bearing vice corrected intercept. That means our best evasion course is to the east. If our countermeasures fail to decoy the torpedoes, we’ll have to hope they don’t detect us as they pass by. Carry on.”

The Executive Officer ordered Lieutenant Cordero to enter the torpedo solutions into Combat Control, and the geographic display updated with projections of both torpedoes. Their paths formed a giant X, crossing two thousand yards behind Michigan.

It was quiet in Control, the silence interrupted only by the periodic torpedo bearings. Christine could see the strain on the crew’s faces as they attempted to discern whether their countermeasures would decoy the torpedoes — and if not, whether the torpedoes would pass behind them without detecting their submarine speeding away.

Another 27-MC announcement. “First torpedo bears three-zero-zero. Second torpedo bears two-four-zero.”

Two new bearing lines appeared on the geographic display. Both torpedoes were drawing aft, continuing their crisscross pattern. Christine watched the two torpedoes approach the decoys Michigan had left in its wake, waiting for a sign the countermeasures had worked.

“First torpedo bears two-nine-five. Second torpedo bears two-four-five. Both torpedoes approaching countermeasures.”

Christine’s eyes went to the geographic display again. Both torpedoes were within a hundred yards of Michigan’s decoys.

“First torpedo bears two-nine-zero. Second torpedo bears two-five-zero. Both torpedoes have passed our countermeasures.”

The geographic display updated, verifying the Sonar Supervisor’s report. Both bearings marched onward, giving no indication the torpedoes had been fooled by the decoys.

And so it had come down to this. Michigan would thread the needle between both torpedoes, hoping each would pass by without detecting them. Christine studied the geographic display, watching the red inverted Vs gradually gain on the white dot in the center. The two torpedoes continued their crossing pattern, drawing closer together as they converged on Michigan.

“First torpedo bears two-eight-zero. Second torpedo bears two-six-zero.”

The Executive Officer joined Wilson on the Conn. Lieutenant Commander Greenwood was the Fire Control Coordinator, responsible for generating a firing solution for their targets. But he had no firing solutions; Michigan was evading at ahead flank and they had lost both Chinese submarines due to the turbulent flow of water across the submarine’s sonar dome. Besides, it seemed pointless to Christine to launch another torpedo now. At least not until one of the two torpedoes Petty Officer Walsh was reassembling was ready.

Seemingly in response to Christine’s thoughts, the Weapons Officer announced, “Reassembly of both torpedoes is complete. Loading Tubes One and Two.”

Wilson acknowledged the Weps’ report, his eyes never leaving the geographic display.

“Both torpedoes bear two-seven-zero.”

The two torpedoes were now at their closest point of approach, and Christine heard the faint, high-pitched chirp of the torpedo sonars. She gripped the Conn railing tightly, hoping there was enough distance between Michigan and the torpedoes behind them.

“First torpedo bears two-six-five. Second torpedo bears two-seven-five.”

Christine could feel the collective sigh in the Control Room. Both torpedoes were continuing on their original courses, which meant they hadn’t detected their target. But now, instead of a narrow stern aspect, the torpedoes would pass by Michigan on its beam, getting a much clearer look at the 560-foot-long submarine. Although the torpedoes were now gradually opening, the danger hadn’t passed.

“First torpedo bears two-six-zero. Second torpedo bears two-eight-zero.”

Christine listened intently as the torpedo bearings marched up Michigan’s port and starboard side, until both torpedoes were abreast Michigan and opening. Christine assumed the torpedoes could look only in front of them, and apparently her assessment was correct, as the tension in the Control Room faded. The men at their consoles and the Supervisors began conversing and passing reports between them again.

They had survived. Michigan could now speed away and return later, attempting to slip through the Chinese submarine blockade at some other location. But instead of heading away, Wilson did the opposite.

“Helm, all stop. Left full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

Christine’s jaw almost dropped. Michigan was turning around, pointing toward the two Chinese submarines behind them. Wilson explained.

“Attention in Control. We’re going to turn and fight. We have a timeline to meet with respect to inserting our SEAL team, and we can’t keep running away every time we’re detected. We’ll have surprise on our side — the last thing the Chinese expect is for us to turn and fight with a Torpedo Room full of defective torpedoes. Our opponents believe they are invincible, and we’re going to use that belief against them. I’ve ordered all stop, reducing our noise signature so the Chinese submarines will lose contact on us. We’ll wait until they’re close and shoot two torpedoes in their face, and hopefully the Chinese sonar pulse won’t shut down our modified torpedoes. Carry on.”

Captain Wilson was placing a lot of faith in Petty Officer Walsh. Turning to fight would be either a brilliant tactical move or suicide, depending on whether Walsh had successfully modified the two torpedoes.

Michigan completed its turn to the west, gradually drifting to a stop while Lieutenant Herndon and Wilson stood on the Conn, scanning the sonar display for evidence of the Chinese submarines pursuing them. After a few moments, two faint white lines appeared on the display, accompanied by a 27-MC report from Sonar.

“Conn, Sonar. Regained Sierra five-zero and five-one, bearing three-zero-zero and two-four-zero respectively.”

“Very well, Sonar.” Wilson acknowledged Sonar’s report, then announced loudly so everyone in Control could hear. “Designate Sierra five-one as Master One and Sierra five-zero as Master Two. Track Master One and Two.”

Wilson glanced at his Executive Officer, who was already engrossed in the task of determining the course, speed, and range of the two Chinese submarines.

The Executive Officer finally called out, “I have a firing solution for both contacts.”

Christine’s eyes shifted from the sonar monitor on the Conn to Captain Wilson, expecting him to order Firing Point Procedures. But he just stood there. As Christine wondered what he was waiting for, her thoughts were interrupted by the Weapons Officer’s report.

“Tubes One and Two are loaded. Powering up both weapons.”

Wilson remained silent, and for the first time, Christine sensed the tension in his posture. Petty Officer Walsh hadn’t been sure the torpedoes would function with the primary Signal Processing card removed, yet Wilson’s plan hinged on two functional torpedoes.

“Both weapons have powered up, communicating with combat control,” the Weps announced.

Wilson ordered, “Firing Point Procedures. Salvo from Tubes One and Two. Assign Tube One to Master One, Tube Two to Master Two. Tube One first-fired. Set Short Range tactics and change Search Speed to High-One, both units.”

The Executive Officer bounced between the three combat control consoles, eventually tapping Lieutenant Cordero and one of the petty officers on the shoulder as he announced, “Solutions ready.”

Lieutenant Herndon reported, “Ship ready.”

The Weapons Officer followed up. “Both tubes flooded down. Opening outer doors, Tubes One and Two. Sending presets to both units.” Lieutenant Stewart returned his attention to the Weapon Launch Console as Wilson and the rest of the personnel in Control waited quietly. For what, Christine wasn’t sure, but Wilson’s eyes were fixed on his Weapons Officer.

As the crew waited for Weps’ next report, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice carried across Control. “Downshift in propeller blade rate, both contacts. Master One and Two are slowing.”

There was no reaction from Wilson as he acknowledged Sonar. Lieutenant Herndon moved close to Wilson, speaking quietly. “Sir, we are at all stop. I recommend we put speed on the ship. If either submarine fires, we’ll need speed to evade.”

“No,” Wilson replied. “I don’t want them to realize we’re pointed at them. What we lose in speed we’ll gain in surprise.”

Herndon nodded as the Weapons Officer called out, alarm in his voice. “Sir, weapons not ready! Neither torpedo is accepting presets.”

Wilson snatched the 27-MC microphone from its holster, punching the button for the Torpedo Room. “Torpedo Room, Captain. Put Walsh on.”

A moment later, the Torpedoman answered. “Petty Officer Walsh.”

“Neither torpedo is accepting presets. Is there something we need to do?”

“No, sir,” Walsh replied. “There’s nothing we can do. It could be both torpedoes are running additional start-up diagnostics now that their primary SP cards are missing. Or maybe I should have left them in and short-circuited them, but I didn’t know how to do that. I recommend we give them a little more time.”

A powerful sonar ping echoed through the Control Room. Wilson’s eyes went to the sonar display, showing a bright white blip on the bearing of Master One. “Time is a luxury we don’t have, Walsh.”

“Give them a few more seconds, Captain.”

A second sonar ping penetrated Michigan’s hull, this one coming from the bearing corresponding to Master Two.

The XO turned toward Wilson as the Captain slid the 27-MC microphone back into its holster. “Both contacts have closed to three thousand yards and have slowed to ten knots.”

Wilson acknowledged the XO, then called out, “Weps, report weapon status.”

“Sir, both torpedoes are still refusing to accept presets.”

An uneasy silence settled over Control as Wilson stepped off the Conn to examine the geographic display at Cordero’s console. The two Chinese submarines were closing on Michigan, one from thirty degrees off the bow to starboard and the other from thirty degrees to port. It wouldn’t be long before one or both submarines calculated a firing solution and sent a torpedo down Michigan’s throat.

Christine wondered what the two submarines were waiting for when she heard Captain Wilson mutter under his breath, “That’s it, you overconfident bastards. Get nice and close, so your torpedoes won’t miss this time.”

It seemed this was part of Wilson’s plan, remaining dead in the water, drawing their adversaries in close. For what purpose, Christine didn’t know. But she figured she’d find out soon enough.

“Conn, Sonar. Master One and Two are opening torpedo tube outer doors.”

The Executive Officer followed up, “Sir, both contacts have closed to within two thousand yards.”

Wilson returned to the Conn, his eyes shifting between the sonar monitor and the geographic display. He seemed on the verge of issuing new orders when the Weapons Officer called out, “Both torpedoes have accepted presets! Weapons ready, Tubes One and Two!”

Wilson responded, “Match Sonar bearings and shoot! Helm, ahead flank!”

The two Fire Control Technicians at the combat control consoles updated the firing solution for each contact, and the Fire Control Technician manning the Weapon Launch Console pressed the launch button at the bottom of his display.

There was a high-pitched whirr as Michigan’s starboard torpedo ejection pump jettisoned the four-thousand-pound torpedo from Tube One, followed by the Weapons Officer’s announcement, “First fired unit running, wire good, merging on bearing to Master One!” Seconds later, the unique whirr filtered through Control again as Michigan’s second torpedo was ejected from Tube Two. “Second fired unit running, wire good, merging on bearing to Master Two.”

Meanwhile, the Helm had rung up ahead flank and Michigan was now surging directly toward the two Chinese submarines, splitting the distance between them.

Sonar’s reports echoed through Control as they monitored their torpedo milestones.

“First fired — fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Shifting to High-One speed.”

Sonar repeated the announcements for their second fired unit. It appeared both torpedoes were functioning as expected. Whether they were now immune to the Chinese sonar pulse was another question, which would be answered soon. Another powerful sonar ping echoed through Control, this one at a slightly higher frequency.

The Weapons Officer hunched over the Weapon Launch Console, examining the data being transmitted back over the wire from each of Michigan’s torpedoes. Christine was relieved when Lieutenant Stewart called out, “Both units functioning normally!”

Wilson responded, “Pre-enable and shift both units to Slow speed.”

Christine wondered what Wilson was up to as the Weps repeated back the order, then sent the commands to each torpedo over their guidance wire. Michigan’s two torpedoes turned off their sonars and coasted down, giving the impression they had been dudded by the Chinese sonar pulse.

Although an important element of Wilson’s plan appeared on track, there was another aspect of his plan that worried Christine — they were barreling directly toward the two Chinese submarines, which would no doubt fire back.

Sure enough, Sonar reported, “Torpedo in the water, bearing two-four-zero!” Seconds later, the Sonar Supervisor followed up, “Second torpedo in the water, bearing three-zero-zero!”

The two Chinese submarines had counter-fired, and Christine wondered which direction Wilson would turn the ship to evade the torpedoes. But Wilson did nothing, leaving Michigan on a course of 270, headed between both torpedoes. He didn’t even launch a torpedo decoy, but that was understandable, given the decoy would be ejected behind them and do nothing to distract the torpedoes racing toward Michigan.

Wilson seemed oblivious to the danger speeding toward them. Instead, he focused on the geographic display, watching Michigan’s two torpedoes continue toward their contacts. The MK 48 torpedoes had reduced their speed, but instead of coasting to a halt, were continuing toward their targets at Slow speed, and were now only five hundred yards away. Apparently that was what Wilson was waiting for.

“Enable and shift Search Speed to High-Two, both units!”

The commands were relayed to Michigan’s torpedoes, and a moment later, Sonar confirmed the orders had been accepted. “Sonar, Conn. Both units have gone active, shifting to High-Two.” Seconds later, the Weps called out, “First fired unit has acquired!” followed almost immediately by, “Second fired unit has acquired! Both units are homing!”

With both torpedoes at maximum speed, they closed the remaining distance in only fifteen seconds, the arrival of the first torpedo at its target announced by a deafening explosion rumbling through Control.

The Weapons Officer called out, “Loss of wire continuity, first-fired unit.” A second explosion erupted as the first one died down. “Loss of wire continuity, second-fired unit.”

An announcement from Sonar followed, confirming Michigan’s two torpedoes had hit their mark. “Breaking-up noises from Master One and Master Two.”

Unlike earlier, when they had sunk the first Chinese submarine, there was no cheering in Control. Two torpedoes were still bearing down on Michigan, both less than four hundred yards away. Wilson remained on the Conn, monitoring the sonar display, paying no attention to the red inverted Vs angling toward them.

Christine braced for the torpedo explosions as the red inverted Vs merged with Michigan’s white dot. But instead of jolting explosions, a loud metallic clank echoed from the port side of the ship, followed by an identical clank on the starboard side.

Sonar announced, “Both torpedoes have impacted the hull. Neither detonated.”

Questioning eyes turned toward Wilson, who let out a slow breath. “That’s what I was banking on. These were Yu-6 torpedoes, with a minimum arming distance of one thousand yards. We were able to close both torpedoes before they armed.”

Wilson had calculated everything perfectly, and they had sunk three Chinese submarines blocking their path toward the coast. Turning his attention to the SEAL team insertion, he ordered, “Helm, ahead standard. Right ten degrees rudder, steady course two-nine-zero.”

The Helm acknowledged and rung up ahead standard as he twisted the rudder to right ten degrees. Michigan slowed, melting back into the ocean.

59

“Be very careful with this.”

In the Radio Room just forward of Control, Christine watched Chief Jeff Walkup hand a USB flash drive to Lieutenant Harrison, standing beside her. The Chief held out the flash drive with two hands, cradling it like a vial of nitroglycerin as he added, “This is the electronic equivalent of the bubonic plague.”

Harrison took the flash drive, placing it into a black, waterproof pouch he sealed as the Chief explained how to inject the virus into the Chinese communication center.

“Any USB port will do. The flash drive should load onto the desktop, regardless of the operating system used by the computer. Open the drive and inside you’ll see a single icon. Double-click on the icon and the virus will take care of the rest.”

Christine digested the Chief’s instructions as her thoughts dwelt on the preceding forty-two hours. After sinking the three Chinese submarines, Michigan had headed quietly toward the Chinese coast, searching the surrounding waters for signs of other Chinese submarines. They had avoided detection as they closed on the SEAL team launch point, proceeding to periscope depth an hour earlier at exactly 4 A.M., as instructed.

A satellite of some type had been repositioned, allowing communications with Michigan for one hour, twice each day. During its last pass above the Western Pacific, it had downloaded the lethal computer virus to Michigan.

Harrison turned to Christine as he slid the pouch into the left breast pocket of his camouflage uniform. “Are you ready to suit up?”

“Into what?” Christine asked.

“You don’t think you’re going on a mission dressed like that, do you?” Harrison’s eyes darted to her blue coveralls for a second. “You’ll need something more appropriate.”

An hour later, the Michigan was back at three hundred feet, heading steadily toward the Chinese coast. Christine was seated in the Executive Officer’s stateroom as Harrison arrived with a stack of equipment in his arms. After closing the door behind him with his elbow, he placed the gear on the XO’s desk.

“This is your wet suit.” Harrison held up a one-piece black wet suit with a zipper up the front and a hood. “We’ll be traveling in water that’s fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit this time of year, and hypothermia will set in unless you’re protected.” He placed the wet suit back onto the desk, picking up a pair of rubber shoes in his right hand and a harness in his left. “Rubber booties and a double tank harness. We’ll be underwater for a while, so you’ll need two air tanks. Rubber boots, but no fins for you. I’ll get you to the surface without them.” Harrison returned the gear to the desk and he picked up the final piece of equipment. “A full-face mask, which supplies air you can breathe through your mouth or nose.”

Harrison piled the equipment into a neat stack. “You wear nothing under your wet suit except underwear. Let me know if you need help getting dressed.” Harrison flashed a mischievous grin. “I’ll be waiting outside your stateroom.”

Christine offered a condescending smile and matching tone of voice. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Five minutes later, after wriggling into her wet suit, Christine had donned the gear Harrison had deposited on the XO’s desk. She opened the door to find Harrison leaning against the bulkhead, his muscular arms folded across his chest. He turned and eyed her from head to toe, reaching out to adjust the harness straps over her shoulders.

“Not bad for a novice.” Harrison smiled warmly this time. “Wait in your stateroom while I suit up. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Harrison headed aft while Christine returned to her stateroom, closing the door behind her, settling into the XO’s chair. As she waited in silence, outfitted in Navy SEAL gear, she reflected on the upcoming mission. Harrison believed their odds of making it out of the Great Hall were slim to none. Until this moment, she had refused to dwell on the possibility that she might not survive. But now, less than an hour from launch, a cold shiver slid over her body. Although her outward demeanor remained calm, inside she was beginning to panic.

Christine drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to calm her nerves. She told herself that, one way or another, she would survive and return to Michigan. They would all survive.

Another knock and the door opened, revealing Lieutenant Harrison decked out in a matching wet suit and associated gear. He said nothing and Christine stood without a word. He turned and she followed him down the passageway, through the watertight hatch into Missile Compartment Second Level. The four SEALs who would accompany them were standing outside Missile Tube One, dressed like Harrison. They eyed Christine without greeting her. Their faces were grim.

Also wearing dour expressions were Captain Wilson and Commander John McNeil. Harrison and Christine stopped beside the six men, and it was Commander McNeil who spoke first.

“Does everything fit correctly?”

It seemed an odd question for some reason, like he was inquiring whether a new pair of shoes felt comfortable. She wondered if there was a more direct question he wanted to ask.

Are you ready to die?

Commander McNeil stared at her, and Christine realized she hadn’t answered. “Everything fits fine, Commander.”

McNeil nodded, then turned toward the four SEALs beside him, motioning to the first man. “Accompanying you is Chief Dan O’Hara, the senior enlisted man on the mission.” O’Hara was the oldest of the four SEALs, the sides of his short red hair speckled with gray. O’Hara extended his hand. “Glad to have you with us, Miss O’Connor.”

O’Hara’s light blue eyes conveyed the sincerity of his words. As she shook his hand, McNeil continued the introductions. “Also on the team is Drew Garretson — Communicator; Tracey Martin — a Breacher, an explosives expert; and Kelly Andrews — Rappeler.” Christine recognized Tracey and Kelly as the girls Harrison had mentioned during the mission brief, apparently due to their feminine first names. Both SEALs, however, were over six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

Christine shook each man’s strong hand, ending with, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

McNeil added, “You’ll be riding with Lieutenant Harrison in one SDV, with the other four SEALs in the other. Do you have any questions?”

Christine shook her head slowly.

“Let’s get going then.” Upon McNeil’s order, Harrison approached an open hatch, about waist high, in the side of Missile Tube One, while the four other SEALs headed toward Missile Tube Two.

As Christine followed Harrison toward the hatch, Wilson reached out and touched her shoulder. She stopped, turning toward him as he spoke. “Be careful, Christine.”

She eyed the submarine Captain, searching for the right response. She had no idea what to expect in the coming hours, or whether Harrison was right — that she would be more hindrance than help.

Christine nodded, then stepped through the hatch into the missile tube. Behind her, the hatch swung shut with a faint clank, and she watched the handle spin as the hatch lugs were engaged, sealing her and Harrison inside.

The seven-foot-diameter missile tube was brightly illuminated by fluorescent lights mounted overhead. Harrison and Christine stood on a metal grate in the second level of the missile tube, containing a steel ladder leading up two levels to another hatch. Harrison adeptly climbed the ladder and Christine followed carefully. She paused at the top of the ladder, peering into the relative darkness, bathed in diffuse red light. A hand thrust downward, and after she grabbed Harrison’s hand, he pulled her up into the Dry Deck Shelter.

The Dry Deck Shelter was a conglomeration of three separate chambers — a spherical hyperbaric chamber at the forward end to treat injured divers; a spherical transfer trunk in the middle, which she and Harrison were currently in; and a long, cylindrical Hangar section containing the SEAL Delivery Vehicle — a black mini-sub resembling a fat torpedo — twenty-two feet long by six feet in diameter. The Hangar was divided into two sections by a Plexiglas shield dropping halfway down from the top of the Hangar, with the SDV on one side and controls for operating the Hangar on the other side.

Harrison stepped into the Hangar and Christine followed, to find the Hangar already populated with five Navy divers; one on the forward side of the Plexiglas shield to operate the Hangar controls, and the other four divers in scuba gear on the other side of the shield. Harrison sealed the hatch behind him, then ducked under the Plexiglas shield.

Christine followed, stopping at the forward end of the SDV, which was loaded nose first into the Dry Deck Shelter. The SDV had two seating areas, one in front of the other, each capable of carrying two persons. Two large, black duffel bags occupied the rear compartment.

Harrison lifted a pair of scuba tanks from a rack in the DDS bulkhead, dropping them into Christine’s harness behind her. After connecting her air hose to the tanks, he donned two tanks of his own, then helped Christine into the front seat of the SDV. Harrison put on his fins and climbed in beside her, then manipulated the controls in front of him. The SDV displays energized, illuminating the cockpit in a soothing green glow. A contour of the Chinese coast appeared on the navigation display. They were ten miles from shore.

Harrison put his facemask on, motioning for Christine to do the same. Then he popped his head out the top of the mini-sub, rendering a thumbs-up to the diver on the other side of the Plexiglas shield.

A few seconds later, dark water surged into the DDS, gushing up from vents beneath them, pooling at the bottom of the Hangar and rising rapidly. The DDS was soon completely flooded down, except for a pocket of air on the other side of the Plexiglas shield, where the Navy diver operated the Dry Deck Shelter. Christine heard a faint rumbling grind as the circular hatch at the end of the DDS opened. Through the murky water, illuminated by the green glow from the SDV console, she watched the two divers on each side of the SDV glide toward the chamber opening with a kick of their fins.

The divers pulled rails out from the Hangar onto the submarine’s Missile Deck, and the SDV began moving backward. As they emerged from the chamber, Christine spotted the other four SEALs in a second SDV being hauled out of the other shelter, guided aft along rails by divers floating beside them.

The SDV exited the Dry Deck Shelter and Christine felt a subtle thud as the backward motion of the submersible ceased. Harrison manipulated the SDV controls and a gentle vibration began coursing through her body. The SDV’s propeller had begun spinning, and the submersible lifted off its rails. It rose slowly, then began moving forward, passing above the Dry Deck Shelter and then along the starboard side of Michigan’s sail. After passing the sail, Christine spotted the other SDV on the port side of the submarine, and the two SDVs cruised over the submarine’s bow fifteen feet apart. Turning around, Christine watched the black silhouette of USS Michigan fade into the murky water.

60

Christine lost all sense of time as she cruised toward the Chinese coast. The underwater world was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the SDV console. Despite her insulated wet suit, a chill had set in and her muscles were tense from the cold. Christine sat quietly in the SDV as she tried to pass the time and chill away.

The vibrations pulsing through the SDV suddenly ceased and the mini-sub began slowing. Harrison looked up from the SDV console, peering ahead, and Christine followed his gaze. Barely discernible in the darkness, barnacle-encrusted wood pilings drifted toward them. Harrison deftly maneuvered the SDV, angling alongside the pilings, letting them pass slowly down the starboard side of the vehicle. A rusted metal ladder appeared between two of the wooden pilings, and Harrison shifted the propeller into reverse, then cut the engine after the SDV slowed to a halt. After a few taps of the controls, the SDV drifted downward, coming to rest on the sandy ocean bottom. A few seconds later, the other SDV settled on the ocean floor beside them, only a few feet away. Another tap and the SDV console went dark.

Yellow lights wavered on the water’s surface, faintly illuminating the eerie underwater world. Christine watched as Harrison and the four other SEALs deftly extracted themselves from their SDVs. Harrison helped her out of the SDV, depositing her onto the side of the mini-sub where she hung on with one arm draped inside the cockpit. Then he grabbed the two black duffel bags from the back of their SDV, slung both bags over his shoulder, and sidled up against Christine as one of the other SEALs ascended toward the surface.

A minute later, the SEAL returned, offering a thumbs-up. He grabbed one of the duffel bags, rejoined the other three SEALs, and all four surged toward the surface. A moment later, Harrison gripped Christine’s arm firmly and propelled them both upward with a powerful kick.

They slowed as they approached the surface, angling toward the rusted metal ladder. Christine grabbed on to the ladder while Harrison removed his fins, motioning for her to follow him up. After climbing a few of the rusted metal rungs, Christine’s head emerged from the dark water. She pushed her facemask onto her forehead, taking a deep breath of the cool night air.

Harrison reached the top of the ladder and disappeared. Christine continued climbing, and after a few more rungs, reached the top of a wharf, framing what looked like an abandoned quay. The first four SEALs were arranged in a semicircular perimeter about twenty feet in diameter, each man on one knee wielding a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun — a compact assault rifle barely more than a foot long with an extendable stock, an optical sight, and a suppressor screwed onto the barrel.

The wharf extended for several hundred yards in each direction, and a few hundred feet to the left was an abandoned two-story building. A sign above the dark entrance, inscribed in English, identified the building as the Xingang Port Passenger Terminal, which had been abandoned after the new terminal had been built a few miles away. They were in Tianjin, Beijing’s neighboring port city.

Christine pulled herself onto the wharf, moving awkwardly toward Harrison; her muscles were stiff from the cold underwater journey. Harrison opened his duffel bag and retrieved a flashlight that he pointed inland, energizing it briefly three times. As Christine stopped next to Harrison, a pair of headlights appeared in the distance, and a white van soon approached the deserted wharf, stopping next to the five SEALs and Christine. A side door slid open, revealing one of the men from the CIA safe house.

Harrison picked up the duffel bag and guided Christine into the van, and they were joined by the four other SEALs as they collapsed their perimeter. The van sped away and Christine and the five SEALs settled into seats lining both sides of the van, while the Chinese man remained standing, gripping handholds suspended from the top of the van. He eyed Christine and the five men briefly before speaking.

“I am Tian Aiguo. Welcome to China.”

In the back of the van, the SEALs shed their scuba gear, stripping the wet suits from their bodies, and put on the trousers and shirts that Tian pulled from a sack at his feet. Harrison helped Christine remove her gear and glanced at her wet suit.

“Tian has clothes for you, if you don’t mind stripping down in the van. We won’t look.”

The underwater journey had sucked the heat from Christine’s body, and the prospect of warm, dry clothing instead of a cold, damp wet suit outweighed her modesty. “I’ll change.”

Tian handed her a white towel, along with a loose-fitting white shirt and baggy khaki pants with a drawstring at the waist. Christine pulled her arms from her wet suit, wrapping the towel around her chest as she pulled the rest of the suit away from her body, steadying herself with a grip on Harrison’s shoulder as the van jostled along the highway. True to Harrison’s word, the six men averted their eyes as she changed into dry clothing.

“All clear,” she announced, then tossed the towel back to Tian as he turned toward her.

Christine returned to her seat next to Harrison. Even though she’d changed into dry clothing, she was trembling from the cold. She could sense Harrison wanted to wrap his arm around her and pull her close, warming her with the heat of his body. But instead, he sat stiffly as the van bounced along. Minutes turned into hours as the van traveled through the night, and Christine found herself drifting into sleep occasionally, awaking each time to find herself leaning against Harrison’s shoulder. He gave no indication that he noticed, and neither he nor the other four SEALs appeared tired. They sat staring ahead, occasionally murmuring something to each other in the darkness that she couldn’t quite make out over the rumble of the van.

The outskirts of a large city became visible as dawn crept across the countryside, tall skyscrapers rising in the distance. They were traveling along a six-lane highway, three lanes in each direction, heading north into Beijing. The immense steel and glass oval structure of the Beijing South Railway Station appeared in the distance, and it seemed like it was a lifetime ago that she had boarded the white bullet train out of the city with Peng.

The van exited the highway onto Kai Yang Lu Street, and four kilometers later, the vehicle stopped in front of the same CIA safe house she’d left two weeks ago. Tian opened the side door from inside the van and stepped onto the sidewalk, then after a quick glance in each direction, waved them out. Chief O’Hara led the way, followed by the other three enlisted SEALs, then Christine and Harrison.

Fatigue set in as she stepped into the safe house. The underwater transit, followed by the uncomfortable journey in the back of the van had taken its toll, and her body was in desperate need of sleep. The plan, according to Harrison, was to sleep most of the day, then after a final mission review, head out after dark. From that point on, there would be no opportunity for sleep until the mission objective had been accomplished and the team had returned to Michigan, lurking just off the coast. If everything went according to plan.

61

Huan Zhixin strode briskly through the corridors of the Great Hall of the People, making the transit from his office on the perimeter of the South Wing to its center, where President Xiang and the other Politburo members had their offices. The floor transitioned from terrazzo to marble, and he passed between fluted columns on each side of the hallway, marking the beginning of the Politburo’s official spaces.

Huan’s plan to gain membership to the elite ruling Politburo was proceeding flawlessly. The American Pacific Fleet had been destroyed and although Admiral Tsou was the plan’s mastermind, Huan, as head of the People’s Liberation Army, would receive much credit. When it came time to fill Bai Tao’s vacant seat, no other candidate could defeat him. However, the United States was up to something. It was important Xiang be briefed, so if things did not turn out well, Huan could somehow twist the situation around and make Xiang responsible.

Huan reached the president’s office, ignoring the two Cadre Department bodyguards stationed outside as he knocked. He heard Xiang’s voice through the door and entered, settling into a chair across from the president’s desk.

Xiang ignored Huan’s presence, continuing to review a document in a folder on his desk. Xiang’s failure to acknowledge him was deliberate, he thought, treating him like a second-class Party member. Huan began to fume at the blatant disrespect. As he waited, he savored his pending election to the Politburo. Then, with his uncle Shen’s support, it would be only a matter of time before he obtained the necessary votes to supplant Xiang as China’s supreme leader. Xiang would pay for his insolence.

Finally, Xiang signed the document and looked up. “You have news?”

Huan got straight to the issue. “The American SEAL Team has reached Beijing.”

“Where are they now?” Xiang asked.

“They’re at the CIA safe house.”

“Why are they here?”

“We don’t know yet. However, our informant has been directed to determine the objective of their mission. Then we will send in our special forces and eliminate them.”

“I thought you didn’t know the location of the safe house.”

“We do now,” Huan answered, then explained. “We thought O’Connor’s escape from the Great Hall was inconsequential, and not worthy of compromising our penetration of the CIA here in Beijing. We were not aware until later that a secure flash drive was missing, and that she might have it. The SEAL Team, however, poses a clear threat, and we have obtained the location of the safe house by paying our informant a very large sum.”

Huan waited for additional questions, and Xiang asked the most important one. “When will the SEAL Team be eliminated?”

“Today,” Huan answered, “after we determine the objective of their mission. Or nightfall, whichever comes first.”

62

A light rain was falling from dark overcast skies, pattering softly against a grimy, four-pane window in a small second-story bedroom, furnished with a twin bed next to a rickety wooden end table. Christine’s eyes fluttered open in the semidarkness as she stretched under the soft brown blanket. It was either dusk or dawn, based on the gray light filtering through the window. She poked her left hand out from beneath the covers, and brought her watch close to her face. After scrutinizing her watch in the dim light for a moment, she concluded it was 7 P.M.

She had slept most of the day. After arriving at the safe house, Tian had cooked breakfast for Christine and the SEALs, peppering them with questions about their mission. The SEALs were tight-lipped — they hadn’t even told Tian their names — and Harrison had cut her off with a sharp, disapproving glance when she had begun to answer one of Tian’s questions. Christine caught the hint — as did Tian, who apologized for prying. After cleaning up after breakfast, Tian took Christine and the SEALs’ measurements for clothing that would allow them to travel from Guang Chang Boulevard to the Great Hall of the People without attracting attention.

Christine pushed the blanket aside, swinging her feet onto the cold wooden floor as she sat up on the side of the bed. Glancing at the end table, she eyed a travel kit Tian had dropped off. She grabbed it as she stood, then headed down the hall to the bathroom. After freshening up and returning the travel kit to her nightstand, she descended the stairs to the main floor.

Harrison and the other four SEALs were already downstairs. The Lieutenant and Chief O’Hara were standing in the living room while the other three SEALs — Garretson, Martin, and Andrews — huddled around a laptop computer on the small dining room table, the dark brown curtains by the dining room window drawn closed. The scarred wooden table their laptop rested upon was illuminated by a yellow, incandescent lamp hanging from the ceiling.

All five SEALs were dressed in civilian clothes — black trousers with the legs covering the top of their combat boots, each man wearing a different dark-colored polo shirt. Harrison and O’Hara were trying on black, loose-fitting windbreakers. Both SEALs had their MP7s attached to slings draped around their necks and under one shoulder. After zipping up their jackets, each man turned to examine the other.

“They’ll do,” O’Hara said as he unzipped and shrugged his jacket off, tossing it onto three other jackets lying across the back of the couch. Leaning next to the couch were three black backpacks Tian had also apparently procured, lying next to the SEAL duffel bags — now empty. Harrison left his jacket on and she could see a slight bulge in his right pocket, most likely the sealed pouch containing the flash drive loaded with the virus.

Lieutenant Harrison looked up as Christine reached the bottom of the stairs. “Good evening, Miss O’Connor. It’s about time you woke up. I was about to knock on your door.”

O’Hara turned toward her as did the other three SEALs, who looked up from the computer, and Christine suddenly realized she was wearing a thin white T-shirt with no bra. It was chilly in the room and the men noticed her body’s reaction, their eyes moving from her face to her breasts, the outline of her nipples clearly visible through her T-shirt.

Christine crossed her arms across her chest as the front door opened. Tian appeared in the doorway, carrying a shopping bag in each hand. He kicked the door closed with his left heel as he entered the foyer and moved into the dining room, depositing the bags onto the table as Garretson closed the laptop lid.

Tian pulled the contents from the first bag, stacking them neatly on the table. “I’ve purchased suitable clothes for you, Miss O’Connor, along with an assortment of makeup products. I wasn’t sure if you wanted any and I didn’t want to wake you, so I took the liberty of picking up a few things.”

Christine joined Tian at the table, noting a black pair of slacks, long-sleeve dark blue satin shirt, and a short black coat. Tian upended the second bag, dumping a shoe box and an assortment of makeup products onto the table. Christine opened the box and examined a pair of flat-soled shoes with a critical eye before deciding they’d be suitable for running if the situation demanded it. She slipped one on, verifying it fit.

Christine returned the shoe to its box, and after reviewing the products on the table, decided she’d skip the makeup.

“Thanks, Tian.” Christine placed the clothes and makeup back into their bags and Tian disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a platter bearing a bottle of baijiu — a clear liquor sometimes referred to as Chinese vodka — and seven shot glasses, which he placed on the dining room table.

The three SEALs at the table perked up, and one of the girls, Tracey Martin, broke into a wide grin. “Now we’re talking.”

Harrison checked his watch. “We’ll be leaving soon. No drinks.”

“Oh, come on, Lieutenant,” Martin pleaded. “One drink won’t hurt anything. We’ve got a few hours to work it off.”

Chief O’Hara interjected. “Shut your trap, Martin. You know better. No drinks.”

The smile disappeared from Martin’s face as the other girl, Petty Officer Kelly Andrews, smacked Martin across the back of the head. “What answer did you expect?”

Martin rubbed his head. “It can’t hurt to ask.” His eyes shifted from Andrews to the bottle of baijiu, then back to the computer. “Let’s get back to business, then.” He looked up at Lieutenant Harrison. “We’re ready to run through it one more time, sir.” He glanced at Tian, still standing next to the table.

Tian frowned, then returned to the kitchen as Garretson opened the top of the laptop, pulling up a satellite image of the Great Hall of the People. Harrison and O’Hara joined the three SEALs around the table as Christine scooped up her new clothes in one arm, the shoe box in the other.

Ten minutes later, Christine returned downstairs wearing her new clothes. They fit perfectly. Harrison and the other four SEALs were still gathered around the laptop, their eyes focused on the screen. Harrison looked up as Christine descended the stairs, but said nothing.

Tian exited the kitchen, appraising his selection of clothing. “You look fantastic, Miss O’Connor. I take it everything is suitable?”

“Yes, Tian. Thank you.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Tian added, “I have a few errands to run. I’ll be back in an hour.” Tian grabbed his jacket from the foyer coatrack, exiting the town house without another word.

As the front door closed, Harrison left the other four SEALs and headed toward Christine. O’Hara picked up the platter of baijiu and shot glasses from the table, entering the kitchen as Harrison guided Christine over to the living room where he dropped into a brown, dingy sofa. Christine settled in beside him.

“So,” Harrison began. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Christine answered. “Although I’m still tired.” She could tell Harrison wanted to talk about something important. He was just breaking the ice.

“That’s typical,” Harrison replied. “Long transits in cold water sap the strength from you. Even more so for someone not used to it. You’ll bounce back soon enough, though.” There was an awkward silence as Christine waited for Harrison to work toward what he really wanted to discuss. Finally, he continued. “This is a dangerous mission, Chris. I have no idea what we’re going to run into once we enter the Great Hall, and I don’t want to put you in harm’s way. So I’m leaving you outside. Once you unlock the door to the Great Hall, I want you to return to the car and wait with Tian.”

Christine shook her head. “That’s not a good idea, Jake. There’s no telling how many security doors you’ll need to pass through once you get inside.”

Harrison shrugged. “We’ll manage.”

Christine knew she had a point, so she pressed it. “We’ve already discussed this. I’m coming with you. The whole way, not just to the front door.”

Harrison’s eyes searched hers for a moment, then he nodded reluctantly. “Okay, Chris. You always were headstrong, and I see that hasn’t changed. But I had to try.” He stood, offering Christine his hand, pulling her to her feet.

As Christine stood, the dining room curtains billowed inward, small holes appearing in the fabric as high-pitched zings pierced the quiet town house. Christine froze, watching bullets puncture the bodies of the three SEALs gathered around the dining room table. She watched in stunned silence as the middle of the three SEALs slumped onto the table, his head coming to rest on the laptop, and the other two SEALs fell backward in their chairs onto the floor. She had no idea how long she stood there, but it must have been only a second before she felt Harrison’s body slamming into her, knocking her onto the wooden floor.

Shards of glass from the dining room window and chunks of plaster ricocheted throughout the town house as Harrison protected her with his body. Turning her head to the side as bullets streamed into the town house, she spotted Chief O’Hara burst from the kitchen in a crouch, sliding next to the dining room table. One glance at the SEAL slumped over the table told O’Hara what he needed to know — blood trickled from a bullet hole in the center of Garretson’s forehead onto the laptop, flowing over the sides of the computer and collecting in a red pool spreading slowly across the table’s surface.

O’Hara extracted the laptop from under Garretson’s head, then flung it across the floor toward Harrison and Christine. The other two SEALs were still alive, crawling toward the living room, leaving slick red trails behind them. Harrison rolled off Christine, joining O’Hara as each man grabbed an injured SEAL by the collar of his shirt, dragging them into the living room as bullets continued pelting the town house through the dining room window.

“Get the computer!” Harrison shouted to Christine as he grabbed one of the black backpacks and O’Hara grabbed a second. “Stay low to the ground!”

Christine crawled over to the computer, which had come to rest only a few feet away, as Harrison shouted again. “The back of the town house!”

Crawling on her hands and knees, Christine followed Harrison and O’Hara, pushing the computer down a narrow hallway as plaster fragments from the town house walls rained down on her. They reached the back of the town house, where a narrow door led to the alley from which Christine had entered the safe house with Peng two weeks ago. Harrison and O’Hara propped the two injured SEALs against the washer and dryer in the laundry room, then Harrison stood and drew his MP7 from the sling inside his jacket and approached the back door. He twisted the knob slowly, opening the door an inch. As he peered through the slit into the back alley, wood splinters began ricocheting past Harrison’s head as the doorframe was peppered with bullets.

Harrison slammed the door shut, then retreated to the laundry room. “Four men to the left.” He squatted to help O’Hara tend to the two wounded SEALs as Christine leaned against the far wall. Harrison checked Andrews’s pulse, but Christine could tell he was already dead. Leaning against the dryer, Andrews had a gaping hole in the side of his neck and the blood had stopped flowing; his eyes were frozen open and glazed. Martin was wounded in the chest and was having difficulty breathing. O’Hara ripped open Martin’s shirt to examine the wounds. Christine could see red air bubbles forming as blood flowed from two bullet wounds, one on each side of his chest. Harrison and O’Hara exchanged grim looks.

“I know,” Martin said. “Both lungs punctured.” He grimaced as he spoke, then held his hand out. “Backpack.”

Harrison opened one of the backpacks for Martin. “What do you have in mind?”

“The alley,” Martin answered. “It’s only a few feet wide. Blow a hole in the wall on the other side, and you can enter the adjacent building while the alley is clouded with debris.” Martin rummaged through the backpack as Christine digested his plan — blow a hole into the building across the alley, then dash across as four men filled the alley with lead.

Piece of cake. But Christine couldn’t think of a better idea.

“We’re not leaving you behind,” Harrison replied.

“Yes you are. I’ll be dead in a few minutes, and you know it.” Martin paused as he was wracked by a coughing spasm, spraying the floor with red specks. “If there’s any chance of escape, you’ll have to travel light and fast. That means without me.”

Harrison and O’Hara exchanged glances again, and O’Hara nodded slowly. Harrison turned back to Martin as the injured SEAL pulled four thin blocks of C4 explosive from the backpack, each block wrapped in an olive-drab Mylar film. Martin peeled off the protective paper covering the adhesive on the back of three of the blocks, pressing all four blocks together as he explained.

“Assuming the wall across the alley is one foot thick, you’ll need five pounds of untamped C4 placed against the base of the wall to blow a hole large enough for you to pass through.”

Martin reached into the backpack again, retrieving a spool of detonating cord and a Gerber tool — a military version of the Swiss Army Knife — and cut off a four-foot length of det cord. He tied one end of the cord into a triple knot, then cut off the Mylar wrapper from one of the blocks of C4. Martin carefully sliced a wedge from the white, claylike plastic explosive, placed the knot of det cord into the divot, then molded the wedge of C4 over the knot so the det cord was firmly embedded in the five-pound block of explosive.

Another reach into the backpack retrieved a handheld initiator and a detonator clamp. Martin unscrewed the bottom of the small, cylindrical initiator, pulling out the detonator — a thin metal tube three inches long, connected to the initiator by shock tube, even thinner, hollow plastic tubing only three millimeters in diameter containing an explosive charge. Martin pulled out ten feet of shock tube, then slid the detonator into one opening of the clamp and the det cord into the adjacent opening. Martin squeezed the clamp shut, ensuring the det cord and detonator were held firmly in place. All in all, it had taken Martin just over a minute to assemble their Get Out of Jail Free card.

“This should do it.” Martin wheezed the words out.

Harrison took the explosive assembly from Martin while O’Hara pulled the MP7 from Martin’s sling, handing it to him grip first.

Martin nodded as he wrapped his fingers around the weapon, but then he placed the MP7 on the floor. “I have a better idea. Leave one of the backpacks with me.” His breathing was already turning shallow and the color had drained from his face, leaving it a pasty white, dotted with perspiration.

After another glance between Harrison and O’Hara, Harrison began transferring items from one backpack to another, handing Martin a half-full backpack. Martin emptied the backpack onto the floor, creating a pile of additional blocks of C-4, det cord, and initiators. The injured SEAL began pressing eight more blocks of the plastic explosive together.

The steady stream of bullets piercing the front of the town house stopped, leaving behind an eerie silence. “Get going,” Martin said.

Harrison took the laptop from Christine and placed it in his backpack, then stood and slung the backpack over his shoulder. He and O’Hara pulled their MP7s, taking up stations on either side of the door. Harrison turned to Christine. “Up against the wall, between the door and O’Hara.” Christine complied, pressing her back against the wall. Harrison added, “I’ll go first, then you, then Chief. Understand?”

Christine nodded, then Harrison pulled the safety clip from the initiator. He cracked the door open and tossed the block of C4 into the alley against the far wall. The doorframe splintered from another round of bullets, and Harrison stepped away from the door, flicking up a lever at the top of the initiator with his thumb.

An explosion rocked the alley, shattering the door as it blew back into the town house, the pieces flying down the hallway. Debris was still ricocheting inside the town house when Harrison jumped through the doorway, and Christine felt O’Hara’s strong hand on her shoulder, pushing her forward. Christine stepped into the doorway, then bolted into the alley.

The alley was clouded with debris and the men guarding it must have been stunned, because there was no sound of gunfire as Christine followed Harrison into a dark opening across the alley. Harrison pulled to a stop a few feet into the adjacent building and Christine almost ran into him. A second later, O’Hara was at her side, the two SEALs assessing the situation.

They were in an old warehouse filled with stacks of crates about thirty feet high, illuminated by a string of lights along the perimeter of the building. The stacks of towering crates formed passageways down the length of the building, and Harrison took off in a sprint into the nearest aisle. Christine and O’Hara followed as Harrison turned right at the first intersection, then left after two more, resuming their original direction.

Christine and O’Hara caught up to Harrison at the other end of the building, where he had stopped in front of a locked door. Harrison fired twice into the lock mechanism, then kicked the door open. After a cautious glance outside in either direction, he disappeared through the doorway.

Christine followed, emerging into a deserted street, faintly lit by street lamps spaced every fifty feet. It was raining and a cold drizzle drifted down from an overcast sky, blocking out the moon and stars. Harrison sprinted toward a door in the building opposite them, firing into the lock mechanism as he approached, knocking the door open with his shoulder. But then he sprinted back toward the center of the street. Christine headed toward him, wondering what he was planning as they pulled to a halt beside a circular, three-foot-diameter manhole cover in the road.

After letting his MP7 fall to his side on its sling, Harrison lifted the heavy cover with both hands, sliding it aside, revealing a rusted metal ladder that disappeared into the darkness. Harrison descended, followed by Christine as the sound of voices and footsteps raced toward them from inside the warehouse. O’Hara dropped down into the hole after Christine, pausing at the top of the ladder, his chest still above street level. He took aim on the nearest two street lamps, one in each direction, squeezing off two quick rounds, dropping their section of the street into near darkness. He then pulled the manhole cover back into place. A low metallic grinding sound reverberated in Christine’s ears until the plate dropped into its recessed location with a metallic clank, enveloping the two SEALs and Christine in pitch black.

Harrison’s voice reached out to her in the darkness. “Sit tight.”

Christine froze where she was, gripping the metal ladder.

A few seconds after Harrison’s order, Christine heard a commotion above them; men shouting, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots. As she waited in the darkness, clutching the rusted metal ladder rungs, the ground trembled, followed by the rumbling sound of a distant explosion. Martin had detonated his C-4.

There was a burst of commotion from the men above them, but the sounds soon faded, eventually ceasing altogether. There was no sign of movement from the two SEALs, until the darkness surrounding Christine was dispelled by a beam of red light. Glancing down, she spotted a flashlight in Harrison’s hand, which he shined around them, then down. They were in a concrete access shaft about five feet in diameter, descending another twenty feet into a tunnel. The light reflected off the tunnel floor, and Christine heard the sound of running water. She wondered if they were about to wade through a sewer pipe, but there was no offensive smell, only the ferrous tang of rusted metal.

“Let’s go,” Harrison whispered as he began descending the ladder.

Christine followed, glancing up occasionally at O’Hara and the manhole cover above him, which thankfully remained in place. As she worked her way down the ladder, she took the opportunity to catch her breath — she was winded from the sprint through the warehouse. Harrison and O’Hara, however, weren’t even breathing hard, a testament to their conditioning. Christine made a mental note — if she survived this ordeal, she’d hit the treadmill more often. You never know when you’ll have to flee for your life.

Shortly after resuming their descent, Christine reached the end of the ladder. Harrison was already standing on the tunnel floor, his boots immersed in a six-inch-deep stream of water. Christine stepped off the ladder into the cold water, rushing past the top of her ankles, and was joined by O’Hara a second later.

Harrison shined his flashlight down the tunnel, first one way, then the other. They were in a ten-foot-diameter concrete tunnel, containing nothing but a relatively clean stream of water flowing along the bottom.

“Looks like we’re in a storm drain,” Harrison commented quietly as he turned to O’Hara. “Which way?”

O’Hara glanced down at their feet. “I’d follow the water.”

Harrison nodded his agreement, then began jogging down the tunnel, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness ahead. Christine fell in behind Harrison, with O’Hara behind her.

Christine followed Harrison through the underwater maze, frequently reaching intersections where a decision was required. Each time they chose to follow the stream of water, which gained in volume at each intersection until it was now up to her knees, slowing down their pace. As they sloshed through the dark water, Harrison pulled to a stop, turning off his flashlight. In the distance, a faint white light penetrated the darkness.

“Stay here, Chris,” Harrison ordered.

Harrison and O’Hara moved cautiously forward. She could barely hear them as they waded through the water toward the faint disc of light ahead. The two men disappeared, and it wasn’t until then that she realized how cold she was again. She rubbed both arms with her hands, hoping to increase her circulation, but it made her shiver instead. Her hands were ice cold, sucking what heat remained in her arms through the thin satin shirt.

Christine had no idea how long she waited for the SEALs to return, finally spotting a red beam of light in the distance. Her eyes followed the swaying beam as it approached until Harrison materialized out of the darkness only a few feet away, the flashlight in his hand.

“We’ve reached the exit to the storm drain,” he said. “It’s safe.”

He turned and Christine followed him a few hundred feet, pausing at the end of the storm drain, the stream of water continuing into a canal. Although it was still dark outside, the rain had ceased and the clouds had departed, leaving behind an array of stars shining down from a clear night sky. On Christine’s right, the storm drain opening was illuminated by a street lamp atop a steep embankment crowned with a guardrail, and she heard an occasional car passing by.

Christine suddenly realized Harrison was no longer wearing his backpack or black jacket, and there was no sign of Chief O’Hara.

Harrison seemed to read her mind. “He’s gone to figure out where we are.”

The Lieutenant retreated twenty feet inside the storm drain, toward a four-foot-wide concrete ledge about waist high jutting from the side of the tunnel, where the backpack was sitting. He slid onto the ledge, his feet hanging over, then rummaged through the backpack until he pulled out what looked like a ruggedized BlackBerry. Christine joined him on the ledge as Harrison punched a number into the PDA, bringing it to his ear. After a moment, he frowned, tossing the PDA back into the backpack.

“Nothing,” he said. “Satellite communications are still down.”

Chief O’Hara appeared at the entrance to the storm drain. The older SEAL shrugged Harrison’s jacket off, revealing his MP7 hanging from its sling around his shoulder. He tossed the jacket to Harrison.

“We’re on the west side of a canal beneath Jiaosha Road,” O’Hara said.

“Thanks, Chief, but it doesn’t look like that info will help. Comms are down. I can’t get ahold of anyone to let them know where we are. Looks like we’ll have to make it back to the coast on our own.”

“We’re not heading to the coast,” O’Hara replied. His voice was determined, and as the street lamp illuminated the silhouette of his face, Christine could see his jaw muscles working. “We lost Drew and the girls, and I’m not about to turn tail and call it a day without payback.”

Harrison nodded almost imperceptibly. “What do you recommend?”

“We continue the mission. If we don’t insert the virus, the Reagan Task Force is toast.”

“You don’t think the objective has been compromised?” Harrison asked.

“I don’t,” O’Hara answered. “Only the six of us knew our destination.” He looked away for a moment before turning back. “I should have seen it coming. Tian was prying for information. Once he realized he was outta luck, he let his friends move in.”

Like O’Hara, Christine figured she should have seen it coming. Her trip from the safe house to the coast two weeks ago hadn’t gone as planned. Only now did she see the obvious signs. Chinese officials somehow knew she was headed to Tanggu, and they were checking the trains and watching the subway exits. Tian was the man who had held the car door open for her as she left the safe house, and although he hadn’t known the details, he was aware of the basic plan to smuggle Christine to the coast. Her resolve crystalized. If she made it out alive, she’d see to it that Tian was tracked down and killed. What she would do between then and now, however, was up to Harrison.

Harrison considered the Chief’s words at length, finally nodding his agreement. “We’re behind schedule, but there’s still time. As long as we get the virus loaded by 0700, there’ll be time for our submarines to download the new torpedo software. We’re low on ammo though. The extra magazines were in the third backpack. Transportation is going to be a problem too. I can’t get ahold of anyone, and I don’t like the prospect of stealing a car and driving into the city. Public transportation is out — we’ll stick out like sore thumbs.”

“Transportation won’t be a problem,” O’Hara replied.

Harrison raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

O’Hara gestured toward Harrison’s jacket, lying on the ledge beside the Lieutenant. “Check the left pocket.” Harrison shot O’Hara a questioning look as he reached into his coat pocket, retrieving an iPhone. O’Hara added, “There’s going to be one pissed-off dude when he wakes up from his five-knuckle nap.”

Harrison cracked a wry smile as he turned on the iPhone. “Great job, Chief.”

Christine watched as Harrison launched the Apple App store, her curiosity growing as he searched for and then downloaded a free app. Harrison noticed Christine’s keen interest as he launched the application. “Don’t ask,” he said, the smile spreading across his face.

The application launched and the screen turned black except for a password entry, which Harrison typed in. The app accepted the password and a numeric keypad appeared on the screen. He punched in an eleven-digit number, then placed the phone against his ear.

After a moment, he spoke. “Harrison, Jake Edward.” There was a short pause, then he followed with an eight digit alphanumeric code before continuing. “The team was ambushed in the safe house. Three down. O’Hara and Christine O’Connor also remain. Mission objective is still confidential and remains a go. Require transportation.” There was another pause, then Harrison spoke again. “I need a large, loose-fitting jacket and four MP7 forty-round magazines.” Harrison nodded thoughtfully, then added, “We’re in a culvert emptying into the west side of a canal beneath Jiaosha Road.” There was silence again before Harrison ended the call with, “Understand. Standing by.”

He pulled the phone from his ear — the screen had already gone blank — placing it on the ledge next to him.

“How long?” O’Hara asked.

Harrison shrugged. “Not sure. They’ll call back once arrangements have been made.”

“I’ll take the first watch,” O’Hara said. He looked at Christine as she sat on the ledge, his eyes surveying her from top to bottom. “You’re soaked. We’re going to need to warm you up.”

The Chief’s comment reminded Christine how cold she was. She was chilled to the bone and was shivering uncontrollably.

“You happen to be in luck,” Harrison added. “You’re in the company of highly trained SEALs, experts in thermal rewarming.”

O’Hara grinned as he turned and headed toward the storm drain entrance, taking the first watch as Harrison slid next to Christine. He draped his jacket over her shoulders, then put his arm around her, pulling her close against his warm body. She rested her cheek against his muscular chest, instinctively wrapping her arm around his waist. Even though it’d been twenty-four years since he’d held her in his arms, it seemed natural. His fingers brushed a lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and that simple gesture brought back strong memories of chilly winter nights in the back of his Ford Escort, fogging up the windows, Jake holding her close afterward in his strong arms.

“You should get some sleep,” he said softly. “This might be your last chance for a while.”

Christine murmured her agreement as she closed her eyes. She could feel the fatigue seeping in. The sound of the water gurgling past her into the canal, combined with the heat radiating from Harrison’s body, helped ease the tension from her muscles, and sleep began to wash over her like a warm sea. She had almost dozed off when the iPhone next to Harrison vibrated. Her eyes opened as Harrison picked up the phone. He typed his password again, then placed the phone against his ear.

After a short wait, Harrison replied with a single word. “Understand.”

Christine closed her eyes again as Harrison placed the iPhone back on the ledge.

“Morning,” was all he said.

63

It was still dark when Christine woke, her arm still around Harrison’s waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. She pulled him closer as the cobwebs slowly cleared.

“Miss O’Connor,” she heard him say, only his voice was different somehow.

She wrapped her arm tighter around his waist and snuggled deeper under his arm.

“Miss O’Connor,” he said again in a strange voice.

She opened her eyes and looked up, confused when she saw the face of Chief O’Hara in the dim light. His arm was draped around her shoulders and she had her arm tight around his waist. Christine sat bolt upright, coming to her senses.

O’Hara seemed unfazed by her reaction. “It’s almost time, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “Transportation will be here soon.”

Christine examined her surroundings — she was sitting where she had snuggled next to Harrison. The two SEALs must have switched places during the night for Harrison’s turn on watch. She searched the storm drain, spotting the Lieutenant sitting near the opening where the water gushed into the culvert, staring into the distance. She glanced at her watch but couldn’t determine what time it was in the faint light coming from the street lamp atop the embankment.

She turned to O’Hara. “What time is it?”

“Five A.M.”

O’Hara stood, slinging the backpack over his shoulder with one hand while extending the other to Christine, helping her to her feet. She followed him to the storm drain opening where they sat next to Harrison without a word.

A few minutes later, a car stopped on the road atop the embankment. She could only see the top of a white sedan, its red hazard lights blinking in the darkness. An elderly Chinese man, with creased face and silver hair, appeared next to the guardrail, hands in his pockets.

Christine followed the two SEALs as they emerged from the storm drain and headed up the embankment. She stepped over the guardrail as Harrison and O’Hara stopped beside the man. There was a quick exchange of words and the three men headed toward the car.

“In back with Chief, “Harrison said as he opened the front passenger door. Christine followed Harrison’s instructions and slid into the rear seat behind the driver. The four doors closed with solid thuds, and the elderly man turned to Christine.

“I am Yuan Gui,” he said. He reached down toward Harrison’s feet and pulled up a small canvas bag, retrieving three bottles of water he passed to Christine and the two SEALs. Christine eyed the bottled water in her hand suspiciously. After everything they’d been through, she wondered whether she could trust Yuan. However, Harrison and O’Hara broke the bottle cap seals and quenched their thirst, and Christine did the same as Yuan reached into the canvas bag again, retrieving a pistol.

“I have no extra magazines for your MP7s. However, I have two SIG P226s, with four magazines each. Will they do?”

Harrison and O’Hara exchanged glances, with O’Hara shaking his head. “We’ll go with our MP7s,” Harrison answered.

“Then how about this for the lady?” Yuan reached into the bag again, pulling out a small semiautomatic pistol with a silencer screwed into the end of the barrel. “A Glock 26.”

“No thanks,” Harrison answered, but Christine leaned forward quickly, taking the small subcompact pistol from Yuan’s hand. “That’ll be just fine,” she said.

Harrison turned toward her. “Put the gun back.”

Christine ignored him as she verified the safety was on, then dropped the magazine into her hand — ten rounds — then pulled back the slide valve, verifying the chamber was empty. She reinserted the magazine, then released the slide, chambering a round, then slid the subcompact pistol into the waistband of her pants. She looked up, and Harrison was staring at her with the same stern eyes he’d had when he tried to talk her out of joining them on their mission. She stared back at him with a dispassionate glare.

“Put the gun back,” he said again. “Having you help will do more harm than good.”

Harrison’s overprotectiveness, combined with his dismissal of her ability to help, aside from gaining entry to the Great Hall, was a source of lingering irritation.

“My ex-husband taught me to shoot,” she said. “At twenty-five feet, I can put a bullet through a man’s head or heart, whichever is more appropriate.” She glared coldly at Harrison.

O’Hara grinned, but she could see anger smoldering in Harrison’s eyes. She wasn’t giving the gun back, but she needed to diffuse the situation. “I promise not to use it unless you tell me first,” she offered.

Harrison and Christine stared each other down, until Harrison finally acceded. “Have it your way,” he said, “but let’s get one thing straight. You will do exactly what I say from here on out or you’ll be staying in the car with Yuan. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Christine said dryly.

There was a momentary silence, broken as Yuan reached into the bag again, retrieving one final item — a black windbreaker, which he handed to O’Hara.

“So, where to?” Yuan asked as O’Hara took the jacket.

“The Great Hall of the People,” Harrison answered.

Yuan raised an eyebrow, studying first Harrison, then O’Hara. Convinced Harrison wasn’t joking, he engaged the clutch and shifted into first gear. The manual transmission grinded momentarily as the sedan pulled away from the guardrail into a U-turn, steadying up on the two-lane road leading back into Beijing.

64

Six hundred miles east of Japan, USS Reagan surged west at ahead full. Standing on the Bridge, Captain CJ Berger peered through the windows at the Flight Deck fifty feet below. The first four Super Hornets were in tension in their catapults, their engine exhausts glowing red in the darkness, waiting for the order to launch. Along both sides of the ship, the four elevators were loaded and rising upward, bringing additional Super Hornets topside from the Hangar Deck below. Not far behind Reagan, the three MEFs aboard their amphibious assault ships trailed, banking on the ability of the Atlantic Fleet submarines in front of them to clear a safe path ashore. Berger would have preferred to wait until the submarines had downloaded new torpedo software, but time was running out.

As anticipated, Japanese resistance had deteriorated, leaving only one beachhead in JSDF hands, and Reagan and the MEFs could wait no longer. Unfortunately, satellites and tactical data links were still down and Chinese command and control and their missile batteries were still fully operational, able to engage the carrier and its air wing as they approached Japan. In a few minutes, Berger would commence flight operations, launching Reagan’s air wing just outside range of China’s DF-21 missiles. However, the aircraft had insufficient fuel to complete a round-trip to their current location; Reagan would have to close to within range of the DF-21 missiles to retrieve the aircraft after their missions were complete. With its small escort of only six surface combatants — all heavily damaged — the Reagan Task Force was ill equipped to defend against even a modest attack of DF-21 missiles. Chinese command and control and their missile batteries had better be disabled within the next two hours, or Reagan would end up on the bottom of the Pacific, just like its five sister carriers.

In front of Reagan, the Submarine Force had established a protective cone of submarines, proceeding in front of the carrier strike group and wrapping back along the sides of the trailing amphibs. However, they were currently nothing more than a sophisticated underwater alarm system. Although they could communicate with Reagan via line-of-sight comms and report enemy submarines, there was nothing more they could do. Their torpedoes were still infected with malware and would dud as soon as they received the first Chinese sonar pulse.

Reagan’s Air Wing Commander, Captain Emil Jones, stopped beside Berger, his eyes following CJ’s to the Flight Deck below. The two men stared through the Bridge windows in silence for a moment, until their thoughts were interrupted by the Air Boss’s voice over the 23-MC. “Request Green Deck.”

Berger pulled the mic from its holster as he pressed the green button. “Tower, Bridge. You have Green Deck.”

Orders were relayed to the Flight Deck, and seconds later, the first Super Hornet, locked into CAT One, screamed toward the carrier’s bow, the aircraft’s white-hot engine exhaust fading in the darkness as it rose into the sky. The succeeding three aircraft were hurtled from the carrier’s deck as the catapults shot forward, and additional Super Hornets moved toward the catapults, continuing the steady flow of aircraft launched into the darkness.

65

Night was still clinging to the city as a white sedan pulled to a stop along the side of Guang Chang Boulevard in the center of Beijing. Three doors opened and two men and a woman stepped from the car onto the sidewalk, the woman intertwining her arms through those of the two men, one on each side of her as they began strolling north. There were no other pedestrians within view as the sedan pulled away, and a moment later, the three individuals disappeared into the ringlet of cypress and pines surrounding the Great Hall of the People.

Christine paused for a moment to get her bearings, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. Her pulse was racing and she commanded herself to relax. But her heart kept pounding in her ears as O’Hara dropped the backpack from his shoulders, retrieving Christine’s Glock, which she had handed over so it could be concealed in the backpack as they strolled along Guang Chang Boulevard.

O’Hara handed Christine the pistol, which she slipped back into the waistband of her pants, then focused on the reason she had accompanied the SEAL team — to discreetly gain access to the Great Hall. That meant finding the alcove she had entered when she escaped from the Great Hall two weeks ago. To Christine’s left, the gray marble columns of the Great Hall’s central entrance were illuminated by bright white landscape lighting. That meant the alcove was a few hundred feet to her right. Christine turned and led the two SEALs north.

Christine halted at the edge of the trees. The alcove was directly ahead, across twenty feet of paved road. The camera mounted above the door was operational this time, its red LED illuminated. Gaining access to the Great Hall would be easy if Christine’s palm print remained in the system. Gaining access undetected was another matter. Fortunately, six feet above the camera, a decorative balcony with black wrought iron railing extended over the exit, protecting the camera and the plasma display from the weather.

O’Hara dropped the backpack from his shoulders again, retrieving a black rappelling harness. After shedding his windbreaker and MP7, Harrison donned the harness, from which dangled a metal carabiner attached to a gear loop on the waist strap. Reaching into the backpack again, he pulled out a coil of thin nylon rope, a Mini Maglite with red lens, and a Gerber multi-tool. Harrison draped the rope over his shoulder and slid the Gerber and flashlight into loops sewn into his waist strap, securing each in place with a Velcro tab.

Reaching into the backpack one final time, Harrison retrieved the final device he needed, a metal shunt, which he attached to the carabiner on the front of his waist strap.

“All set,” Harrison said, looking at Christine. “Wait here until I signal for you.”

Christine’s stomach knotted. Guards traversed the perimeter of the building, and she had no idea how long it’d be before the next pass. Once Harrison climbed the balcony and began disabling the camera, he couldn’t duck back into the foliage if guards approached.

Without another word, Harrison and O’Hara dashed across the paved road, stopping against one of the ten-foot-tall walls forming the C-shaped alcove. O’Hara interlocked his fingers, forming a foothold for Harrison, which he used to scale the alcove wall. From there he was able to pull himself onto the balcony and over the railing as O’Hara sprinted across the paved road again, joining Christine along the tree line.

“You look left,” he whispered, “and I’ll watch right.”

Christine acknowledged and peered left as directed. As she stared into the shadowy distance, she listened carefully to her surroundings. The chirping crickets she’d heard during her escape were still vocal, and there was the occasional car passing by on Guang Chang Boulevard. Thankfully, there was no indication — sight or sound — of approaching guards.

Harrison tied the end of his nylon rope to the wrought iron railing and gave it a firm tug to verify the railing was sturdy enough to handle his weight. Convinced it was, he slipped the nylon rope into the shunt attached to his harness, then tossed the free end of the rope over the railing. He climbed over the railing and stood facing outward, with his heels between the bars, then tilted forward as he fed the rope through the shunt with his right hand. A moment later his body was horizontal, dangling just beneath the balcony. A small kick sent Harrison slowly spinning, turning 180 degrees until he faced the building. He lowered himself slowly until he was just above the camera. After locking the shunt in place, Harrison retrieved the Maglite and the Gerber multi-tool, and began disassembling the camera.

Christine glanced back at Harrison periodically. It seemed like he was taking forever, but there was finally a double flash of the red Maglite in their direction, and Harrison dropped down into the alcove a second later.

“Let’s go,” O’Hara said after a final glance in both directions, grabbing the backpack beside him. Christine followed O’Hara across the concrete path, joining Harrison inside the alcove. Above them, two cut wires dangled from the top of the camera, and the red LED light was dark.

Harrison shed his rappelling harness, which he handed to O’Hara in exchange for his MP7. O’Hara returned the harness to his backpack, which he slung over his shoulder. Harrison turned to Christine. “Your turn.”

Christine stepped in front of the plasma screen beside the door, flexing her hand involuntarily. She reached toward the screen, hesitating with her hand an inch away from the monitor, unable to shake the uneasy feeling something was about to go wrong.

“Only one way to find out,” Harrison said.

Christine placed her palm firmly against the cold glass. The screen activated immediately, a vertical red line scanning her palm from left to right. The red line reached the edge of the screen and the monitor went dark. She waited for the door to unlock, her hand still pressed against the glass, but nothing happened. Seconds ticked away and there was still no reaction from either the plasma monitor or door.

There was a sinking feeling in Christine’s gut and she was about to pull her hand away from the display when the door unlocked with a metallic click. She breathed a sigh of relief as O’Hara pulled the door open and Harrison peered around the doorframe. After looking in both directions, he waved them in, and Christine followed Harrison and O’Hara into the Great Hall of the People.

66

The door into the Great Hall of the People opened to a corridor that ran several hundred feet in both directions. The two SEALs took station on either side of the door, each monitoring a different direction while Christine stopped in front of the plasma display on the inside. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes to recall the characters Yang had tapped to pull up the building schematics. After convincing herself she knew the correct ones, she opened her eyes, then pressed the top right tab. A new screen appeared and she touched the middle right tab, her effort producing yet a third screen. A final tap returned the desired result; the schematics of the Great Hall of the People appeared on the display, each room labeled in Chinese.

After examining the schematics, Christine concluded she was looking at the main floor. Beside her, Harrison reached into his back pants pocket, pulling out a small green notebook. Flipping to the first page, he held it open next to the display. At the top of the page were two Chinese characters.

“We’re looking for this room, on the third floor of the South wing.”

Christine studied the characters, then returned her attention to the display, tapping the up arrow once to display the second floor. After surveying the schematics briefly to determine the best route upward, she tapped the display again and the third floor appeared. She shifted the schematics to the South wing with a swipe of her fingers. A moment later, she spotted the two Chinese characters atop a room in the center of the wing. The communication center was in the Politburo section, inside a ring of security checkpoints.

Figures.

“The communications center is here,” Christine pointed to the room as Harrison peered over her shoulder. “We’re in the northeast section of the Great Hall on the main level. We’ve got two problems. The first is that the central section of the Great Hall contains several large auditoriums we’ll need to avoid and there are only a few corridors that cut across that wing. Best bet is the third floor, since there are a few extra corridors that pass over some of the smaller halls. The second problem,” Christine pointed to several red symbols, “are the security checkpoints at the entrances to the South Wing, guarding the Politburo section of the building.” Christine paused, waiting for Harrison’s response.

“What about the sub-floors?” he asked. “Can we get to the South Wing below ground, then go up?”

Christine pulled up the first subfloor, then the second. After a quick examination, she shook her head. “The subfloors exist only in the North and South Wings, not in the Central section. Looks like the third floor is the best bet.”

“I agree,” Harrison replied. “What’s the best stairwell to take?”

Christine selected the main floor again, noting a staircase in the farthest northeast corner of the building. “How about this one?”

Harrison nodded. “Looks good.” He turned to O’Hara, who was alternately watching both ends of the corridor. “That way, Chief.” Harrison pointed past O’Hara, down the long corridor.

O’Hara turned without a word and headed down the hallway at a slow jog. Christine followed, with Harrison a few yards behind. As O’Hara approached the first intersection, he stopped and shrugged his backpack from his shoulder, extracting a device with a small display and a thin, flexible snakelike cord. O’Hara pressed a button on the top of the display, turning it on, then with his back against the wall, fed the tip of the snakelike cord around the corner.

A camera on the end of the cord fed an image to the display in O’Hara’s hand. The adjacent corridor was empty. It was still early, only 6 A.M. Without another word, O’Hara retrieved the backpack and crossed the hallway. After stopping at two additional intersections, examining each one in the same manner, O’Hara turned right, and after a few hundred feet, reached a staircase. O’Hara was about to begin the ascent when he froze. Christine heard footsteps echoing from the stairwell opening.

Harrison grabbed Christine’s arm, pulling her away from the staircase as O’Hara slowly backed up as well. By the sound of the approaching footsteps, the individual would reach their level any second. O’Hara halted his retreat and raised his MP7 to the firing position.

A second later a man wearing a charcoal suit and red tie emerged from the stairwell, stepping onto the main floor of the Great Hall. O’Hara fired immediately and the man crumpled to the floor, blood flowing from a hole in the center of his forehead. The MP7, with the attached suppressor, barely made a whisper. Harrison checked the hallway for unlocked doors, locating one a few feet behind them. Finding the room vacant, Harrison helped O’Hara drag the dead man into the empty office, wiping up the trail of blood with the man’s jacket.

After closing the office door, O’Hara returned to the lead, proceeding cautiously up the stairwell. Christine and the two SEALs soon emerged onto the third floor. It was thankfully unoccupied. From the length of the corridor, Christine could tell it extended across the central section of the Great Hall. O’Hara returned to a jog, with Christine and Harrison following him down the empty hallway.

The corridor turned to the right after a few hundred feet, and O’Hara pulled to a stop, extending the camera probe around the corner as he had done earlier. This time, O’Hara made a quick hand signal. Without a word, Harrison moved next to O’Hara, examining the display as Christine looked past Harrison’s shoulder.

Around the corner and thirty feet down the hallway was a security checkpoint. The corridor was blocked by a metal detector and a baggage X-ray machine, manned by two armed guards. One man was standing on their side of the detector, chatting with the second guard, who was on the other side of the checkpoint, seated behind the X-ray machine. The first guard was standing in the open and would be easy to take out. However, the second guard was partially protected by the X-ray machine.

Harrison tapped his chest and then touched the display, pointing to the guard partially hidden behind the X-ray machine, then pointed across the corridor. O’Hara nodded; Harrison would go long, stepping out to the middle of the hallway to take out the guard behind the X-ray machine, while O’Hara wheeled around the corner simultaneously, taking out the other man.

O’Hara placed the camera on the floor by his feet, gripping his MP7 while Harrison moved in front of him. Harrison held his left hand up with four fingers extended, retracting one finger, then another, counting down. There were only two fingers remaining when a shout echoed down the corridor behind them.

Christine and the two SEALs turned toward the noise. Two armed security guards had turned the corner thirty feet behind them. Both men were dressed identically to the men at the security checkpoint, and were reaching for their pistols. It was just their luck. They had reached the security checkpoint at the end of a shift, and the two replacement guards had caught Christine and the SEALs by surprise.

O’Hara responded immediately, turning and firing four times, hitting both men twice in the center of the chest just as they drew their pistols from their holsters. Both men crumpled to the floor.

One of the security guards around the corner called out, the challenge unmistakable in the tone of his voice. Although O’Hara’s MP7 had barely made a sound, the security guard had heard the shout from the other guard.

Harrison picked up the camera and poked the probe around the corner again, his eyes fixed on the display. One of the guards was walking down the hallway toward them and was less than fifteen feet away now. His pistol was drawn and ready, and the second guard had shifted his position, his body completely blocked by the metal detector.

“New plan,” Harrison whispered to O’Hara. “You take out the lead while I go long, then we both advance until one of us gets a clear shot on the second.”

O’Hara nodded, then turned to Christine. “Stay here until we call for you.”

Christine was about to respond but never got the chance. O’Hara’s eyes widened as he looked past her, then he shoved her against the wall with his left arm. Before she could figure out what was going on, a gunshot echoed down the corridor and O’Hara’s head jolted backward. The SEAL dropped to his knees, then collapsed onto the ground, blood flowing from the right side of his forehead. Christine turned and looked down the corridor.

One of the two guards was still alive, lying prone on his stomach with his pistol in his hand, pointed toward them. From the corner of Christine’s eye, she saw Harrison’s hand swing up and he fired a single round, which hit the top of the guard’s head in a red puff. The guard’s face dropped to the floor, blood spreading across the terrazzo. Christine’s eyes went back to O’Hara. Blood was pooling beneath his head and his eyes were frozen open.

Things quickly went from bad to worse. The guard advancing from the security checkpoint turned the corner, and it took only a second for him to assess the situation. As Harrison turned back around, the guard fired at point-blank range. Harrison seemed unaffected though, ducking and twisting around, firing up toward the man twice with his MP7. The guard’s face went slack and the gun fell from his hand as he collapsed onto the floor.

A second later, a loud wailing alarm filled Christine’s ears, and she could hear shouting from around the corner. She looked toward Harrison, only then seeing the pain in his eyes. His left shoulder slumped downward, arm dangling by his side, and a red stain was spreading over the shoulder of his shirt and down his sleeve.

Harrison glanced at O’Hara, then turned to Christine. “Follow me.” He sprinted back down the corridor. Following closely behind, Christine could see the bullet hole in Harrison’s shirt, behind his left shoulder. He turned left at the first intersection, and as Christine followed him down the maze of corridors, she realized he was working his way toward the perimeter of the building. A moment later, they reached the end of the hallway.

The wailing alarm suddenly ceased, and behind them, Christine heard men shouting. Harrison checked the last door on the left. It was unlocked and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door after Christine joined him inside what appeared to be someone’s office. An oak desk was decorated with the usual assortment of paraphernalia — photos, in-box, penholder, and computer display, with a matching oak bookcase against one wall. Based on the quality of the furniture, it clearly wasn’t a Politburo-level office, but the owner of the small office was high enough in the pecking order to warrant an office with a view; dark green curtains framed a closed, two-paned window.

Harrison stopped by the window and twisted the latch, swinging the two panes inward. Poking his head out the window, he looked to his left a moment before turning back toward Christine. His face was pale and beads of sweat were collecting on his brow, and he winced each time he drew in a breath.

“We’re going to part ways here, Chris.” His clipped his words short as he spoke, and Christine could hear the pain bleeding through his voice. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved the flash drive. He grabbed Christine’s right hand, placing it into her palm. “They know we’re here, and it’s unlikely we’ll make it past the security checkpoints. But there’s a small ledge that runs the perimeter of the building. You can work your way past the security checkpoints and into the Politburo section of the building, then make your way to the communications center. I’ll do my best to keep them occupied in the meantime.”

Christine closed her fingers around the flash drive, absorbing Harrison’s request. The success of the mission had literally been placed in her hand. She was at a loss for words as she slipped the drive into her pants pocket.

“The ledge is wider than a balance beam,” Harrison added, “so I know you can do it. Work your way left until you get to the South Wing, then break into an empty office.”

Christine was standing close to him and could smell the pungent scent of fresh blood. She glanced at his left shoulder, which was bleeding heavily. If it didn’t abate, he wouldn’t last long. “Let me take a look.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said curtly.

She was about to argue when he suddenly stepped toward her, pulling her against his body with his good arm. As she looked up, his lips met hers, crushing against them as he pulled her even closer, his MP7 pressing into the small of her back.

The kiss was short but passionate. He stepped back, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he spoke. “Good luck, Chris. It’s up to you now.”

It was another few seconds before she broke from his gaze, then leaned out to examine the ledge. It was barely six inches wide, disappearing into the darkness after a few feet in each direction. Forty feet below her, perimeter lights illuminated the grounds surrounding the Great Hall. The ledge was two inches wider than the balance beams she had spent almost twenty years training on. She could easily work her way along the outside of the building. However, there was no padded mat four feet below. If she slipped off the ledge, she wouldn’t survive the forty-foot drop.

It was the only viable option. Christine’s pulse raced as she steadied herself with a hand on each side of the window, then lifted her right foot over the sill and onto the ledge. After a deep, shaky breath, she glanced one final time in Harrison’s direction, then stepped out into the cool night air.

67

Christine leaned against the exterior wall of the Great Hall of the People, her toes hanging over the edge of the six-inch-wide ledge. Shuffling along one step at a time, she worked her way toward the South Wing. Another twenty feet and she would reach the first office in the Politburo section of the building. Thus far, the ledge had proved sturdy and her travel unremarkable. However, as she took another step, voices reached out to her in the darkness.

To Christine’s left and below, there was the faint sound of men talking. Four men were approaching, each man wielding a flashlight, the white beams of light scouring the grounds outside the Great Hall. Christine froze, pressing her back against the building, hoping their attention remained focused on the ground below and not the ledge she was perched on. The men’s voices became more distinct as they approached, and to her dismay, the men stopped almost directly below her as another four men approached from her right.

The eight men gathered beneath her, their conversations drifting into the air, their flashlight beams pointing toward the ground or into the ringlet of trees farther out. Christine prayed the men would move on, her anxiety increasing with each additional second they remained below. Finally, Christine sensed their conversation drawing to a close and she was about to let out a sigh of relief when the ledge under her right foot suddenly gave way, crumbling under the weight of her body.

She shifted her weight quickly onto her left foot, retaining her balance as several chunks of stone rained down toward the men beneath her, bouncing off the ground near the building in an impossibly loud crescendo of falling debris.

Flashlight beams shot toward the Great Hall, scouring the ground beneath her. A moment later, one of the shafts of light began working its way up the building’s facade, examining the windows on the first floor, then the second. As the beam of light reached the third floor, Christine began to panic. To her right, she watched the light examine one window, then the next, moving methodically toward her, cutting from one window to the next.

Christine searched frantically for a solution. Glancing to her left, she spotted a window only six feet away. Perhaps, if she moved fast enough, she could hide inside the edge of the windowsill, where the ledge deepened to about a foot and a half. The flashlight beam shifted to the window on Christine’s right. She had to move now.

She shuffled left in three large steps, ducking into the recessed window ledge as the flashlight cut across the building, pausing to examine the window where Christine stood. She plastered herself against the cold stone, hoping her body was concealed in the darkness. The light illuminated the window for what seemed like an eternity, then moved on, continuing its trek across the building’s facade. As the beam of light reached the next window, a pair of pigeons took flight. A few seconds later, the light dropped to the ground and the two groups of men continued in opposite directions, continuing their search along the building’s perimeter, their bright shafts of light fading into the distance.

Christine let out a deep breath — her pulse was racing and her body was trembling. She waited a few seconds, letting her heartbeat slow down as she collected her thoughts. It was only going to get tougher, she told herself. Her resolve solidified and she began moving again, working her way left toward the South Wing without further incident until a step with her left foot found nothing but air. After pulling her foot back onto the ledge, she looked down. The ledge ended.

Perfect.

She contemplated breaking into one of the offices she had passed, but that would put her on the wrong side of the security checkpoints. She needed to break into an office in the South Wing, not the Central Wing. And she needed to do it soon. The approaching day was an orange glow on the horizon — it wouldn’t be long before she’d be easily seen on the ledge outside the building, and she was running out of time. The virus had to be inserted into the Chinese command and control network by 7 A.M. or the Reagan Task Force would be forced to abandon their mission to land the Marine Expeditionary Forces on Japan.

Christine’s eyes went back to the ledge, noticing it began again after a four-foot gap, marking the transition between the Central and South wings. The only way to continue was to jump the four-foot gap.

Under normal circumstances the jump would be a piece of cake — she had spent eighteen years training and had become an Elite gymnast. Unfortunately, she would have to jump from an awkward stance, and when she landed, her left shoulder and hip would hit the building. She’d almost certainly lose her balance and fall off the ledge. She didn’t have any choice though. Searching through her repertoire of beam jumps, she decided a half-turn leap might work — she would twist her body ninety degrees while in the air and land facing the wall, which solved the issue of her shoulder and hip hitting the building. But if her leap was off and she didn’t land squarely on the ledge …

She’d come too far to turn back now: four dead SEALs, with Harrison injured and unlikely to make it back out alive. A four-foot jump was a risk she had to take. Turning to her left, she bent her knees carefully, lowering her body into a crouch, doing her best to maintain her balance. After a deep breath, she sprang toward the ledge four feet away.

At the apex of her leap, Christine twisted toward the building, her feet searching for the ledge as she fell. It seemed like she fell downward much longer than the one second it should have taken, but just when she was convinced she had missed the ledge, both feet landed on hard stone. Unfortunately, her jump was slightly off and only the balls of her feet hit the ledge. She was unable to flex her ankles quickly enough to maintain her balance, and she began tilting backward. She clawed at the building but there was nothing to grab on to. There was no way to stop it — she was falling off the ledge.

As her body tilted backward, she tried the only maneuver that gave her a chance. Instead of waiting until she completely lost her balance, she cut to the chase — she jumped off the ledge.

It was only a small jump backward, but it allowed her to fall from the building while her hands were still within reach of the ledge. As she fell, she swung her arms forward, hands outstretched, searching for the narrow ledge. Her palms hit the cold stone and her grip held as her body swung toward the building and smacked against the hard granite wall. The impact almost knocked the breath out of her, but her grip held.

Hanging from the stone ledge, Christine realized the six-inch ledge wasn’t wide enough to pull herself onto it. She looked to her right, noticing another window a few feet away. Beneath the window, the ledge widened to a foot and a half again, giving her enough room to pull herself back onto the ledge. But to work her way to the window, she’d have to let go with one hand, supporting her weight with the other as she shuttled down the ledge. She tested the grip of her left hand — the ledge was still damp from the evening’s rain, but her grip seemed firm.

After another deep breath, Christine shifted her weight onto her left hand as she slid her right down the ledge. Her left hand held and her body swung back to the right, shifting weight back onto both hands. She repeated the process until she was directly below the four-by-four-foot window. The curtains were drawn, a sliver of yellow light leaking though a vertical seam where they met. Christine pulled herself onto her elbows, then swung her right foot up onto the ledge. Here’s where it got tricky. With a final heave, she lifted her body up and twisted inward, rolling onto the ledge, her back coming to rest against the window.

Climbing to her feet, she placed her eye against the window where the sliver of light leaked through. Inside was a well-appointed office. On the far wall, a built-in bookcase filled with leather-bound books overlooked a red upholstered sofa and two matching chairs arranged in a semicircle. The center of the dark wood floor was covered with a thick, pale blue rug with a five-foot-diameter ruby-red star embroidered in its center. She heard the murmuring of people talking, and as she shifted her eye first to the left, then right, she spotted two men in the room. The chairman of China’s Central Military Commission, Huan Zhixin, was facing her, seated at a desk. Standing in front of the desk, with his back to Christine, was another man.

The two men were engaged in a heated conversation. Based on Huan’s facial expression and animated gestures, he was upset about something. The discussion ended when Huan slammed his fist on his desk. He picked up a red folder, shoving it toward the man across from him, then stood abruptly and headed toward a door in the back of his office. The other man turned as Huan passed by, a malevolent glare in his eyes as they bored a hole in Huan’s back, offering Christine a clear look at his face.

Tian, from the CIA safe house.

Her suspicions were confirmed. Tian had betrayed the United States, first during her transit to the coast two weeks earlier, then last night. She fingered the Glock, still stuck into the waistband of her pants. She needed to break into one of the offices in the South Wing of the Great Hall. This one was as good as any, and if she could slip into the office unnoticed, she could pay Tian back for his treachery.

The door to the office closed as Huan left, and Tian turned back around, placing the folder on Huan’s desk. His back was to Christine as he opened the folder and studied the first page of the document inside. Christine pushed gently against the middle of the window and the two sides swung inward an inch. The window was unlocked.

Christine kept her eye on Tian as she pushed the window open a few more inches, wide enough to slide her hand through. She reached in, carefully pushing the right-side curtain out of the way, listening closely to ensure the movement created no sound. Christine froze as Tian reached down toward the desk, but he simply flipped the first page of the document over. Christine exhaled slowly, then pushed the other side of the curtain back, providing enough clearance to open the window wide enough for her to slip through. She glanced down through the glass panes — there was nothing beneath the windowsill inside the office, just a four-foot drop onto the wood floor.

Christine slowly pushed the two sides of the window open, then pulled the Glock from the waistband of her pants, disengaging the safety with her thumb. Kneeling down and supporting her weight with her left hand, she slid her left leg through the window, resting her thigh on the windowsill as she pulled the other leg through into a sitting position on the windowsill, her legs dangling over. She looked up at Tian, still studying the document. With a firm push off the windowsill, Christine landed on the wooden floor with a soft thud.

Tian turned around as Christine raised the Glock to a firing position. There was a shocked expression on his face as he slowly raised his hands. “What are you doing here?”

She should have pulled the trigger immediately and continued on. But there was one question she wanted to ask. She moved closer to Tian, keeping the Glock pointed at his chest. “Why did you betray us?”

Tian’s surprised expression faded, his eyes turning cold, calculating. “I did not betray you. My colleagues were the traitors and they deserved their fate. As far as your SEAL friends go, they are enemy combatants and they paid the price.” Tian’s eyes went to the pistol in Christine’s hand, then back to her face. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

Christine ignored his question again, suddenly curious why Huan was upset with him, considering the aid Tian had given. “Why was Huan angry with you?”

Tian frowned as he dropped his hands, folding his arms across his chest. “Because I failed to determine the objective of your mission. I called in our special forces too early.”

Early enough.

Her curiosity satisfied, Christine decided it was time to move on. She’d already spent more time here than she should have. It was time for Tian to meet his fate.

Tian sensed her decision. “Kill me and your friend will also die.”

Christine hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“One of your SEAL friends is in custody and is being interrogated. You can ensure his safety if you surrender and reveal the objective of your mission.”

Had Harrison been captured? Or was Tian lying, buying time?

Christine searched Tian’s eyes again and examined his expression, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. His face was an impassive mask, offering no clue. But after mulling his proposition, Christine decided it didn’t matter.

“No deal,” Christine replied.

It looked like Tian was about to plead his case again when there was a sound of a door opening behind Christine. Tian’s eyes flicked over her left shoulder.

Huan had returned to his office. Christine squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet into the center of Tian’s chest, then turned toward the door. But Huan had already closed the distance, blocking her right arm as she swung the Glock toward him. A second later, the air was knocked from her lungs as Huan punched her in the stomach. Christine doubled over as one of Huan’s hands clamped firmly around her right wrist, and she could sense his other hand going for the pistol.

She felt Huan’s grip on the Glock, twisting it from her hand. In desperation, Christine tried the only move she could think of. She lunged forward and tackled Huan, clamping her left arm behind his knees as she buried her shoulder into his waist. As Huan fell backward, he instinctively reached out with his right hand in an attempt to brace his fall, temporarily abandoning his attempt to wrest the Glock from her hand. But his left hand was still firmly clamped around her right wrist.

Huan landed on his back and Christine fell on top of him. She clambered to a sitting position with her legs straddling his waist and tried to aim the gun toward his head. But Huan had his arm extended, and she couldn’t bend her wrist far enough. As she tried to determine what her next move should be, Huan’s right hand swung up, his fist connecting solidly with the left side of her jaw.

Huan’s punch almost knocked her off him, but she was able to maintain her balance as pain coursed through the side of her face. Huan’s right hand reached toward the pistol.

Two can play this game.

One of the fundamental principles Christine learned during her self-defense course was to hit the perpetrator where it hurt. She pulled her left hand back and slammed her fist down into Huan’s nose with all the force she could muster. Huan cried out in pain as blood spurted from his nostrils. His grip on her wrist loosened, and with a twist of her arm, she wrenched her hand free from his grasp.

She bent her arm toward Huan, hoping to get a clear shot at him, but Huan blocked her again with his left arm, then chopped across and down on her wrist with his right. The impact knocked the Glock from her hand and it slid across the smooth wooden floor, coming to rest under the sofa.

Without the gun, the encounter would turn into a physical battle she was sure to lose. Her only hope was to retrieve the Glock.

She pushed down on Huan’s chest with both hands, springing to her feet, then dove toward the sofa. But Huan grabbed her left ankle as she leapt, and she fell onto her stomach, her outstretched hands at the edge of the sofa, only a foot away from the Glock. A second later, the distance to the pistol began to grow as she slid backward across the floor. Huan had scrambled to his feet and was pulling her away from the sofa by her ankle.

Christine twisted onto her back, kicking at his hands with her other foot, but her shoes were flat-soled and had little effect. After Huan dragged her to the center of his office, he released her leg and stomped down on her stomach. Christine doubled over from the pain, turning onto her right side, away from Huan. He circled around so he faced her, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.

“What are you doing here?”

Christine looked up at the man towering over her. “I thought I’d stop by for tea.”

Huan kicked her in the stomach.

The kick caught her at the bottom of her rib cage, and she felt the bones crack. The pain was intense, magnified with each inward breath. Trying to protect herself from another kick, she curled into a ball, covering her face with her forearms, pulling her knees up to her elbows. Huan’s kick had sapped the strength from her, and she needed a moment to recover.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said, “and I will let you live.”

Tilting her head up slightly, she peered between her forearms at Huan. As the pain coursed through her body, she realized there was a silver lining to her beating. As long as Huan interrogated her by himself, there was a chance she could escape. Once security guards arrived, it would all be over. She had to keep him engaged. As she looked up at him, she noticed the anger glowering in his eyes. She needed to keep him angry.

“Go screw yourself.”

Huan kicked her again, but this time his foot glanced off her shins. Realizing his kick had little effect, he reached down, grabbing Christine by her hair and left arm, pulling her to her feet. White-hot pain shot through her ribs as she stood erect. Christine dropped her arms, protecting her ribs as best as possible. As soon as she dropped her arms, Huan pummeled her with another punch to her face.

Pain sliced through Christine’s mouth as she reeled backward, tripping over Tian’s body, her back smacking against Huan’s desk as she landed on the floor. Blood trickled down her chin from a split lip as she tried to pull herself to her feet, her arms reaching out on top of Huan’s desk. But before she could stand, Huan closed the distance, clamping his right hand around her neck. She tried to pry his hand away, but Huan grabbed her right wrist, pinning it on top of the desk. She continued prying with her left hand, but Huan was too strong.

Huan tightened his grip, pushing her head back against his desk at such a sharp angle it felt like her neck would snap any second. Pain shot through her chest as she arched back, trying to ease the angle. The tangy taste of blood seeped into her mouth between clenched teeth as Huan spoke again.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Why did you come here?”

His hand squeezed her neck so tightly she doubted she could speak — she could barely breathe. Her plan to distract Huan from calling security had bought some time, but her situation hadn’t improved. It was time for Plan B.

Whatever that was.

Out of the corner of her left eye, she noticed a lamp on top of Huan’s desk. An emerald-colored glass lampshade, supported by a round column of one-inch-thick green marble, attached to an ornately carved metal base. It looked nice and heavy. And it was just within reach.

Plan B.

But she needed to distract him while she grabbed the lamp. Huan was standing over her, his feet straddling her thighs. Christine pulled her right knee up against her chest, ignoring the pain shooting through her ribs, then kicked up as hard as she could. Huan winced, but his grip around her neck held firm. He glanced down as Christine prepared for another kick, and that was all the distraction she needed. She stopped trying to pry Huan’s hand from her neck and reached for the lamp. Her palm hit the marble and she closed her fingers around the smooth stone.

Huan noticed her movement, but it was too late. Christine’s arm was already swinging upward. The base of the lamp hit Huan squarely on the side of the head, impacting his skull with a solid thud. Huan’s hand around her neck went limp, and he collapsed onto the floor next to Tian, blood oozing from a four-inch gash in his scalp.

Christine dropped the lamp, then pulled herself to her feet, assessing the situation. Huan was either dead or unconscious — that was the good news. The bad news was that she couldn’t stand straight without pain shooting through her chest. Pushing the pain from her mind as much as possible, she bent down, dragging Huan, then Tian behind the desk.

After pulling Tian on top of Huan, Christine stopped by the sofa, kneeling down to retrieve the Glock. With the pistol back in her hand, she paused at the door to Huan’s office, glancing back to assess her work. Both men were hidden behind the desk, and by the time someone discovered the bodies, Christine would have uploaded the virus. The communications center was only a short distance away.

Turning the knob, she slowly pulled the door open, peeking out into the hallway. No one was there. Opening the door wider, she stepped into the corridor and turned right.

Christine hurried down the hallway, pausing briefly at two intersections to peer around the corner. Thankfully, the hallways were empty. Turning left at the second intersection, she stepped into a long corridor lined with doors along the right side. The entrance to the communications center was easy to identify. It was the only one with a security panel.

Stopping beside the door, Christine shifted the gun to her left hand, then placed her right on the center of the display. The bright red line appeared again, scanning her palm. A few seconds later, the door unlocked with an audible click. After returning the Glock to her right hand, Christine pushed against the door.

The door opened, revealing a dimly lit room containing computer consoles lining the far wall. There were four terminals, each one containing a keyboard and two displays, one above the other. Two of the consoles were occupied — one on the far left and the other on the far right, each by a man seated with his back to Christine. During her transit down the corridors, she had thought ahead, planning to coerce whatever information was required from whoever was in the communications center, tying them up or locking them in a closet afterward. She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her as both men turned in her direction. Their eyes widened when they spotted the pistol in her hand.

“Freeze! Do as I say and I won’t harm you!” Christine hoped they understood English.

Apparently not.

The man on her left lunged forward, his outstretched hand reaching toward a red button protected beneath a hinged, plastic cover.

Christine aimed the pistol at his shoulder. She didn’t want to kill him — one or both of the men might be instrumental in figuring out how to upload the virus. But there was little time to aim carefully before she squeezed the trigger.

The Glock recoiled in her hand with a whisper. Christine’s aim was off and the bullet hit the man in the side of his neck. An unbelievably large gush of blood began spurting from the bullet hole. Christine stared in horror as the man clamped his hands around his neck, but blood continued to pulse from between his fingers. It was only a few seconds before the man slumped onto his console. Blood continued to ooze from the man’s neck, coating his console and running onto the white tile floor in thin rivulets.

There was a flash of movement to Christine’s right. The second man had bolted from his chair, headed to a side exit door only six feet away. Christine fired quickly, aiming for the center of the man’s back. This time her aim was perfect and the bullet hit him right between the shoulder blades. The man collapsed against the door, then fell onto his stomach, his face turned to the side. His eyes were open and moving, but he was otherwise immobile. So much for the humane approach; her plan hadn’t worked out too well.

After a final glance at the man by the door, Christine slid the pistol into her waistband and retrieved the flash drive from her pocket. Her eyes scanned the communications center, spotting two USB ports on the vertical portion of the first man’s console. Christine stopped by his chair, pausing to examine him. The blood had stopped flowing from his neck; he was clearly dead. Christine shoved him onto the floor and took his seat, doing her best to avoid the blood coating the workstation. She inserted the flash drive into one of the ports, turning her attention to the two displays. On the bottom screen, various icons were loaded on what appeared to be a desktop, and Christine waited impatiently for the computer to recognize the flash drive.

A few seconds later, a new icon appeared. The name of the icon was written beneath it in Chinese characters she couldn’t read, but she was certain it was her drive. Noticing a flat metal touchpad on the right side of the keyboard, she slid her finger across it and the arrow on the screen moved. After positioning the cursor over the icon, Christine tapped the pad twice and the icon opened into a window containing a single file. She repositioned the cursor and tapped twice again.

A horizontal status bar appeared on the display, with the color of the bar changing from left to right, turning from gray to bright blue. Beneath the bar, a digital timer appeared, starting at two minutes, counting down the time remaining until the process was complete. Christine watched the timer tick down, and when the time reached zero, the status bar turned green.

The status bar disappeared a few seconds later, leaving the desktop blank except for its icons. Christine waited for something to happen. She had no idea what to expect, and couldn’t tell if the virus had accomplished its intended effect. She waited a minute, listening for approaching personnel as she examined the various displays in the communications center.

Nothing.

There was no indication that a lethal cyber virus had been injected into the Chinese command and control system. Deciding that waiting any longer would do no good, she pulled the flash drive from the USB port, sliding it into her pocket as she stood, turning her thoughts to escape from the Great Hall of the People for the first time.

The SEALs were supposed to get her out of the Great Hall, but she was on her own now. She needed a plan. She was inside the Politburo security perimeter, and successfully shooting her way out was iffy at best. She could head back out the way she came in, shuffling along the ledge outside the building, but it was daylight by now and she would be clearly visible, even to a casual observer. She needed a better exit plan, and the communications center wasn’t the place to sort through the possibilities.

And then there was Harrison. Where was he? Had Tian told her the truth and Harrison had been captured, or was he hiding in an office somewhere, leaning against the wall as he bled to death?

Either way, she had to take care of herself now. She turned and headed toward the exit, stopping at the door. After listening for sounds, she cracked the door open and peered into the hallway. There was no one present. She stepped into the corridor, then turned around toward the plasma display beside the security door and pulled up the schematics of the Great Hall of the People. As she searched for an escape route from the building, an idea began to take hold.