Empire Rising

68

Inside the East Sea Fleet’s Command Center, Admiral Tsou stood at the back of the facility, his eyes skimming across six rows of consoles before coming to rest on the main screens at the front of the Command Center. The PLA was on the verge of capturing the last beachhead on Japan’s main island, and only an injection of American airpower could stave off the advancing PLA forces. America’s last aircraft carrier in the Pacific had launched its air wing, and China’s new Hongqi surface-to-air missile batteries had locked on to the first wave, the aircraft almost within range. China was about to deliver the fatal blow.

Scattered across Japan in PLA-controlled territory, red icons marked the location of over one hundred mobile missile batteries, while three waves of blue symbols over the Pacific Ocean speeding west represented Ronald Reagan’s air wing. The aircraft were accompanied by twice the usual number of radar-jamming EA-18G Growlers for protection. But China’s Hongqi missiles, far surpassing the capability of the Russian S-400 they had copied, would overwhelm them. In less than a minute, the lead missile batteries would begin firing, and America would be forced to accept defeat as the last remnant of their airpower in the Pacific was destroyed.

Tsou glanced at the timer on the main display as it counted down toward zero, when the first of their missiles would begin launching.

Only ten seconds remaining.

The consoles on the left side of the Command Center suddenly flickered off. In a cascade of darkening displays flowing left to right, console after console dropped off-line, their displays going black. The disciplined communications between console operators and their supervisors deteriorated into chaos as supervisors rushed to assist the nearest operators, directing them to reboot their consoles. One by one, the console screens turned blue, with white characters scrolling across the displays. After a few seconds, each screen went dark again. Operators frantically rebooted their consoles again, obtaining the same result; the displays went dark at the same point in the start-up process each time. Tsou looked toward the front of the Command Center. The main screens were frozen, no longer being updated. The entire Command Center was paralyzed.

Captain Cheng Bo, in charge of the Command Center, approached a moment later.

“A hard fault has occurred, Admiral. We must do a cold start of the entire system.”

“How long will that take?”

“Ten minutes, sir. But it might not fix the problem. We have no idea what’s wrong.”

“Are we the only command center affected?”

The Captain shifted uncomfortably on his feet before continuing. “No, sir. All command centers are down, including weapon systems in the field linked to our tactical networks.”

Captain Cheng’s report was alarming. Their most potent missile batteries were linked to their tactical networks. That meant the Hongqi batteries, Dong Feng anti-carrier missiles, and Hong Niao surface-to-surface missiles were inoperable.

Admiral Tsou checked his watch. If the batteries could be brought up again, ten minutes was acceptable. When their missile batteries returned to service, Reagan’s aircraft, and then Reagan itself, would be destroyed.

69

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra two-four, bearing two-six-zero. Classified submerged.”

Standing on the Conn with his crew still at Battle Stations, Commander Ramsey Hootman acknowledged Sonar’s report over the open mike. Ramsey glanced at the geographic display on the combat control console as a red half-circle appeared on the screen. It was almost certainly another one of the Yuan class submarines forming an underwater barrier two hundred miles east of the Japanese islands. And it was most likely the submarine that, earlier this morning, had almost sunk Annapolis.

He had pushed it too far, and they had barely escaped with their lives. Annapolis was stationed near the center of the Atlantic Fleet submarines, awaiting the arrival of both Ronald Reagan and their new torpedo software. In the meantime, their task was to probe the waters ahead, mapping out the defensive screen of Chinese submarines. The only wrinkle was — don’t get killed in the process. With no functioning torpedoes to defend themselves with, that was easier said than done.

Annapolis had been counter-detected by a Yuan class submarine, and it had been a harrowing three hours, attempting to shake the Yuan that had caught a sniff of them. Ramsey had been tempted to kick it in the ass, going to ahead flank and vacating the area quickly. But that would have announced his presence to every Chinese submarine in the area. Not knowing if others were nearby that could have taken a shot at him while he fled, he decided to take his chances with the submarine that had detected him. It had been a cat-and-mouse game, with Annapolis constantly maneuvering, preventing the Chinese submarine from obtaining a firing solution until Annapolis had sufficiently opened range and broken contact.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra two-four is a Yuan class diesel submarine.” Ramsey acknowledged Sonar. The cat was back, searching for its mouse.

Annapolis was at periscope depth now, its Type 18 periscope with its radio transmitter sticking above the water, along with the submarine’s main communication antenna, scanning the skies in search of a signal and the torpedo software they desperately needed. But there was nothing. The submarine broadcast and all tactical data links were still down.

Ramsey retreated to the HDW fusion plot, aft of the periscopes. It was blank, lacking oceanographic, tactical, and even the basic navigation data it usually displayed. Thirty miles to the east, the Reagan Task Force was rapidly advancing. But without a submarine screen, the task force would have to turn around. The few surface ships and their anti-submarine helicopters would be insufficient to protect the task force. Reagan needed submarines, and the submarines needed the new torpedo software. That China had so thoroughly crippled the United States’s military communications, robbing Ramsey of the software necessary to engage the enemy, was infuriating. He slammed his fist down on the HDW.

Seemingly in response to Ramsey’s admonition, the HDW came alive. Red and blue icons began cluttering the display, and the submarine’s GPS position appeared on the electronic chart. The Radioman’s excited voice carried across Control.

“Radio, Conn. Communication satellites are back up. In sync with the broadcast. Download in progress!”

Ramsey stepped into Radio as the list of broadcast messages emerged from the printer. At the top of the list was the torpedo software download. It was a massive file by broadcast standards, and he’d been wise to raise the High Data Rate antenna. Once the download was complete, the file would be transferred to the BYG-1 Combat Control System via the submarine’s SWFTS fiber optic tactical network, and from there to torpedoes loaded in their tubes, connected to Combat Control through a thick black cable attached to the torpedo tube breech door.

A few minutes later, with Ramsey back on the Conn, the Weapons Control Coordinator, Lieutenant Don Miller, announced, “Torpedo software update received and validated by combat control. Request permission to update weapons in tubes One through Four.”

“Update all weapons,” Ramsey ordered.

Lieutenant Miller acknowledged, and as he tended to the submarine’s torpedoes, Ramsey prepared his submarine for combat. “All stations, Conn, proceeding deep. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”

As Annapolis tilted downward, the Officer of the Deck lowered the scope into its well. Turning to the Chief of the Watch, Ramsey ordered, “Lower all masts.” The broadcast was complete and the submarine’s antenna no longer needed. Ramsey had skimmed through the several dozen messages, but none changed his immediate orders.

Sink all enemy combatants.

The one message Ramsey had scrutinized, however, detailed the changes to their torpedo software — and he had been pleasantly surprised. Not only had the malware been eliminated, making their torpedoes impervious to the Chinese sonar pulse, but the torpedoes were being reprogrammed to home on the pulse. The unique sonar frequency China had used to dud the American torpedoes would be used as a beacon.

The Weapons Control Coordinator called out, “Torpedoes in tubes One through Four have accepted the new software. Tubes One through Four are ready in all respects.”

Annapolis was finally ready to engage.

Commander Zhao Wei stood between the Search and Attack periscopes, surveying the men in Control with pride. His crew had performed well, sinking three American submarines so far, two of them the vaunted Virginia class. True, it wasn’t a fair fight. But it served the Americans right. They had no business interfering in the conflict between communist and nationalist Chinese.

This morning, Zhao and his crew had almost sunk a fourth submarine. The Atlantic Fleet fast attacks had arrived and had taken up stations along China’s defensive perimeter east of the Japanese islands, probing to determine the density and composition of the submarines opposing them. The Americans were skilled; Zhao’s sonarmen were able to detect only sporadic tonals, nothing they could lock on to. However, earlier today, a Los Angeles class submarine had ventured too close and Zhao’s sonarmen had been able to place a tracker onto one of its frequencies. They had been close to a firing solution on three occasions, but the American submarine had deftly maneuvered each time, just before the XO had gained enough confidence. Finally, the 688 had slipped away, its tonal disappearing from their sonar screens.

However, they now knew what frequency to look for, and Zhao had pushed his submarine to the forward edge of his operating area, searching for his American foe. The next time they detected it, the American submarine would not get away.

Ramsey peered over the shoulder of Lieutenant Armando Hogarth, examining the solution to Sierra two-four. Annapolis had gone deep to five hundred feet and turned to the north, and they were waiting for the towed array to stabilize after the turn. Unfortunately, they didn’t have much time to refine their target solution once it did.

The Japanese Self-Defense Force perimeter around the last remaining beachhead was collapsing, and Reagan and the Marine Expeditionary Forces were headed toward Japan at ahead standard. Ramsey figured he could get one leg in with Sierra two-four on his beam, and then he would have to push forward aggressively to stay ahead of the advancing surface ships. Such a high speed of advance was problematic, as it hampered Annapolis’s ability to search the surrounding waters and increased her detectability. But Ramsey had no choice. He’d been put between a rock and a hard place with the last-minute download of the new torpedo software.

The Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Mike Land, approached, unable to conceal his concern. “Sir, we received an update to our Common Operational Picture while at PD. The Reagan Task Force is only ten miles behind us now.”

“I understand,” Ramsey replied. He checked the clock on the combat control console. The array should be stable by now. He called out to the overhead microphone.

“Sonar, Conn. Report time to array stabilization.”

“Control, Sonar. Detect nuclear reactor coolant pump frequency, bearing zero-eight-zero. Correlates to Los Angeles class submarine.”

Commander Zhao smiled. They had found their adversary. He turned to the Helm. “Left standard rudder, steady course zero-eight-zero. Ahead full.”

Jiaolong was a diesel submarine, normally maneuvering at slow speed to conserve the battery. Perhaps he could surprise his American foes and close to within firing range before they figured things out.

As Zhao and his crew prepared to send yet another American submarine to the bottom of the Pacific, he wished for a greater challenge. This Los Angeles class submarine, compared to the two Virginia class he’d already sunk, was a relic. A Seawolf — one of the three Cold War behemoths built when money was no obstacle, with eight torpedo tubes and even faster than the new Virginia class — now that would be a challenge. But for now, sinking an old 688 would have to suffice.

“Fire Control Coordinator, PRI MATE. Possible target zig, Sierra two-four. Upshift in frequency.”

Ramsey listened to the report Lieutenant Hogarth made over the sound-powered phones. Hogarth had shifted to the Time Frequency display on his combat control console, analyzing changes in the contact’s frequencies over time. Sierra two-four had either turned toward them or increased speed. Or both. Lieutenant Commander Ted Winsor, Annapolis’s Executive Officer, in charge of the Fire Control Party, would have to sort through the possible new course and speed combinations.

The two Fire Control Technicians and Lieutenant Hogarth were already adjusting their solutions, utilizing frequency and bearing information. Lieutenant Hogarth passed his assessment to the XO, who examined all three combat control consoles.

Winsor spoke into his mouthpiece. “Confirm target zig. Sierra two-four has turned toward and increased speed. Set range … ten thousand yards.”

Ramsey stepped off the Conn, examining the new solution over Hogarth’s shoulder. His solution had the contact on a course of zero-eight-zero, speed fifteen. It was headed directly toward them. Ramsey glanced at the other two combat control consoles. Their contact solutions varied by as much as thirty degrees in course and five knots in speed. The XO didn’t have a firing solution. Even worse, with Reagan advancing toward them on one side, and now Sierra two-four headed toward them on the other, Annapolis was being squeezed from both sides.

Ramsey evaluated his predicament. He needed to sink Sierra two-four quickly. There wasn’t enough time to prosecute the Chinese submarine the way he had been trained. After sorting through the options, he decided to throw everything he’d been taught about prosecuting enemy submarines out the window. “Helm, left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course two-six zero. Ahead full.”

The XO, leaning over the shoulder of one of the Fire Control Technicians, stood erect, a surprised expression on his face. Winsor walked over to Ramsey.

“What are you doing, sir? You’re heading straight toward the contact, taking our towed array out of the picture. And at this speed, with the flow noise over the bow, we might lose him on the spherical array.”

“We don’t have a choice, XO. Reagan and the amphibs are moving ahead. We have to push forward and clear a path.”

“What’s your plan?”

“This is probably the same guy we slipped away from earlier today, and he’s being more aggressive. Let’s give him what he wants.” Ramsey called into the overhead mike. “Sonar, Conn. Line up to transmit mid frequency active, short pulse, forward sector, ten-thousand-yard range scale.”

Sonar repeated back the order, then a moment later reported, “Conn, Sonar. Ready to transmit MF active, short pulse.”

Ramsey ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Transmit MF active for ten seconds.”

“Target maneuver confirmed. Contact One has turned toward and significantly increased speed.”

Zhao Wei listened intently to the report from his Executive Officer. A turn toward a contact was not unusual — submarines maneuvered frequently to sort out their target’s course, speed, and range, occasionally pointing their target when held solely on the towed array. But a significant increase in speed made no sense. However, before he could contemplate the situation further, the Sonar Supervisor’s report carried across the speakers in the Control Room.

“Control, Sonar. Contact One has gone active. Ten-second duration.”

Zhao was perplexed by the new tactics of his American adversary. It was almost as if this American had grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game, and was taunting him. Daring him to shoot his torpedo and sink his submarine. It seemed the American believed his superior tactical skills and the speed of his nuclear-powered submarine could somehow save him and his crew.

Commander Zhao smiled. The American submarine would not get away this time.

He took his position on the Conn. “Prepare to Fire, Contact One, Tube One. Open muzzle doors, all torpedo tubes.”

“Range to contact, six thousand yards,” the XO announced. The two submarines were headed directly toward each other and closing rapidly. He tapped Lieutenant Hogarth on the shoulder. “Promote to Master.” Turning to the submarine’s Captain, he said, “I have a firing solution.”

Ramsey reviewed the contact solution on the geographic display on the top panel of Hogarth’s console. It was a risky plan, giving away Annapolis’s position with a non-covert pulse. But he had to increase the submarine’s speed to stay ahead of Reagan, and would have been counter-detected anyway. Better to control when and where that detection occurred. The geometry was exactly what he wanted.

“Firing Point Procedures, Sierra two-four, Tube One,” Ramsey announced.

The final preparations to shoot their torpedo, with its new software, began.

The XO verified the best of the three solutions was promoted to Master, then called out, “Solution ready!”

The Office of the Deck calculated the best torpedo evasion course and verified the submarine was ready to launch its torpedo decoys. “Ship ready!”

Finally, the Weapons Control Coordinator delivered the most crucial, and yet unverified report. “Weapon ready!”

Their MK 48 torpedo had accepted its target and search presets. But whether the torpedo was truly ready, its revised algorithms now impervious to the Chinese sonar ping, was still unknown. The two submarines were barreling toward each other, and Ramsey had little time to ponder the issue.

“Shoot on generated bearings!” He turned to the Helm. “Ahead flank!”

“Torpedo launch transients, Contact One!”

The Sonar Supervisor’s report blared across the speakers in Control, but Commander Zhao Wei listened calmly, waiting patiently for his crew to complete firing preparations. They were processing the orders smoothly and efficiently; there was no sense of urgency. The crew shared their Captain’s confidence. Their opponent was impotent, and his torpedo would be dealt with once they had launched theirs in return. The outcome was not in doubt.

The XO turned to Commander Zhao. “All launch preparations are complete. Tube One is ready to fire.”

Zhao nodded. “Fire Tube One.”

“Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-six-zero!”

After launching their MK 48 torpedo, Ramsey had maintained Annapolis headed straight toward the Yuan, waiting until his adversary fired his torpedo. As a result, the incoming torpedo would be fired on a line-of-bearing solution, giving Annapolis the maximum possibility to evade. Maneuvering this close to a torpedo launch was risky, but the Chinese had probably never seen a 688 maneuver at high speed up close, and had no idea what she was capable of.

The Sonar Supervisor’s report was what Ramsey had been waiting for.”Helm, hard right rudder, steady course three-five-zero. Launch countermeasure!”

Throwing the rudder over hard on a 688 while at ahead flank was a dangerous evolution if the crew wasn’t properly trained. As the submarine heeled over during the turn, the rudder turned into a quasi-stern plane, which would send the submarine plummeting down toward Crush Depth unless the Helm and Outboard quickly compensated with the stern and bow planes.

The Helm twisted the yoke hard right. The rudder dug in and Annapolis snap-rolled to starboard, heeling over forty-five degrees as the bow swung around. Everyone and everything not strapped down or hanging on to something went sliding across the Control Room. Fortunately, most watchstanders were strapped into their chairs and the supervisors behind them grabbed on to nearby consoles, and Ramsey held on to the Search Periscope. The Helm and Outboard were well trained, maintaining the submarine on depth during the rapid turn, and the deck evened out as Annapolis steadied up on her new course.

Ramsey checked the fusion plot behind him, verifying their torpedo decoy had been launched. Now the questions were — would the Yu-6 torpedo suck up on their countermeasure, and would the Chinese submarine be around long enough to wire-guide it toward the evading Annapolis?

“Target maneuver. Contact One has turned away.”

Commander Zhao listened to the report from his Executive Officer, watching the contact solution update on the plasma display above the bank of fire control consoles. This old Los Angeles class submarine was surprisingly nimble. However, it would not get away — it could not outrun their Yu-6 torpedo once it was wire-guided onto the submarine’s new course.

While the XO determined what that new course was, Zhao turned to a more pressing matter. The American torpedo was still inbound. He called to Sonar. “Transmit the MK 48 termination pulse.”

The Sonar Supervisor acknowledged, and a few seconds later, a single pulse echoed into the ocean. However, instead of the usual report from Sonar — MK 48 torpedo has shut down, Sonar reported, “Control, Sonar. MK 48 torpedo remains inbound. Termination pulse had no effect.”

Zhao quickly ordered, “Send MK 48 termination pulse again.” As Sonar acknowledged, he turned to the plasma screen above the combat control consoles again, studying the geographic display with renewed interest. The MK 48 torpedo was dangerously close and Zhao had kept his submarine at ahead full, headed directly toward their adversary and their torpedo. He had waited to dud the torpedo, not wanting to interrupt his torpedo launch preparations. The Sonar Supervisor’s excited report came across the Control Room speakers.

“Captain, Sonar. Second termination pulse sent. MK 48 torpedo has not shut down!”

Zhao called out, “Helm ahead flank! Right hard rudder! Launch decoy!” But he knew it was already too late. The MK 48 torpedo was less than two thousand yards away, and the decoy would not distract the American torpedo from the larger submarine beside it.

As Zhao’s submarine began to swing to starboard, Sonar reported, “MK 48 torpedo is increasing frequency and speed! Torpedo is homing!”

“Target acquired!” the Weapons Officer announced, reviewing the telemetry data being sent back to Annapolis over the torpedo wire.

The position of the Chinese submarine on the combat system updated, but there was little change. Their solution had been almost perfect. Ramsey watched on the display as the green inverted V closed on the red U, the two symbols merging a few seconds later.

An explosion rumbled through the Control Room, announcing their torpedo software had indeed been corrected and their adversary vanquished.

“Loss of wire continuity, Tube One,” the Weapon Control Coordinator announced.

Ramsey turned his attention to the Chinese torpedo, examining Lieutenant Hogarth’s geographic display. The Yu-6 torpedo was circling their decoy, and there was no submarine to wire-guide it toward Annapolis. Ramsey turned back toward the Ship Control Panel.

“Helm, ahead standard. Left ten-degree rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

Annapolis slowed, blending back into the ocean environment and reducing the flow noise across her sensors.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra two-five, bearing two-nine-three, classified submerged.”

Ramsey acknowledged Sonar. The Atlantic Fleet submarines now had functioning torpedoes. And they had plenty of targets to use them on.

The Unites States Submarine Force was back in business.

70

On the eastern shore of the Chiba Prefecture, only three kilometers from the Pacific Ocean, Major Suzuki Koki picked his way through the rubble of the Iioka Railway Station, offering encouraging words to the remaining men in his company. Less than half of his men were alive and half of those injured, including him. His limp was getting worse, but he tried to ignore the throbbing in his left leg from the shrapnel buried in his thigh. He tried to hide the pain and set an example for his weary men.

His men were firing through jagged holes blown in the railway station wall, attempting to repel the latest PLA onslaught. After completing his round, his senses numbed by the staccato firing of rifles and the rumbling explosions of incoming artillery rounds, Suzuki leaned back against the cool cinder block wall, taking care not to put weight on his left leg as he slid slowly to the ground. Placing his pistol on the floor next to him, he winced as he pulled his left knee up with both hands to examine the deep gash in his thigh, protected from the dust and rubble by a wrapping of blood-stained gauze. Lifting the edge of the bandage up, he confirmed the bleeding had stopped. After the never-ending flood of bad news over the last eleven days, this was good news indeed.

Eleven days ago, seated at his desk in the Ministry of Defense Headquarters in Tokyo, he had watched China’s surprise attack unfold on his computer monitor. Once the shock wore off, he had raced to the outskirts of Tokyo to join his unit. Japan was ill prepared for a land invasion, convinced their sea power would thwart any attempt. But China had prepared well and struck fast, devastating Japanese naval forces. With the American Pacific Fleet destroyed, there was nothing to deter the flow of Chinese soldiers and equipment onto the Japanese home islands.

The fighting had been fierce around the dozen Chinese beachheads on the western shore of Japan’s main island, but the PLA gained a foothold and once they broke out from their beachheads, Suzuki’s company, like the rest of the Japanese Ground Self-Defense Force, had been in full retreat mode. Until now, that is. Suzuki and the rest of 1st Division had been ordered to hold their position along the Sobu Rail Line at all cost; retreat or surrender was not an option. An explanation hadn’t been provided, but given their proximity to the eastern shore, Suzuki figured the sixty kilometers of Kujukuri’s straight, reef-less shore was the only viable beachhead remaining for America’s Marine Expeditionary Forces.

Major Suzuki was in command of the entire 34th Infantry Regiment now. The Colonel — hell, every officer senior to him — had been killed or injured, those surviving too incapacitated to issue commands. By good fortune, Suzuki’s regiment had linked up with a medical unit, and even now one of the Medics was making his way through the rubble, checking on the injured men assigned to the front line.

As the Medic made his way toward Suzuki, an explosion rocked the railway station. Twenty feet away, stone and men were blown backward as a gaping hole appeared in the railway station wall. As Suzuki gazed at the hole, he realized something had changed. This wasn’t the result of an artillery shell. He rolled to his side, peering through a ragged one-foot-wide hole in the cinder block wall. Emerging from the tree line, a dozen turrets appeared, and he heard the faint clanking of metal treads.

The Chinese had ferried tanks onto the island.

The situation was hopeless. They needed shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, weapons Suzuki’s company didn’t possess. Against advancing tanks, they’d be forced to wait until the tanks crashed through the railway station walls, then his men would toss grenades into the tank tracks, disabling them to prevent their advance toward the beach behind them. Unfortunately, there would be little left of Suzuki’s company afterward. Protected behind each tank, a platoon of Chinese infantry was advancing toward the railway station. Once the railway station walls were breached, what was left of Suzuki’s company would be overwhelmed.

However, his orders were clear.

This was their final stand.

There was a puff of white smoke from one of the tank turrets, and this time a section of the railway station to Suzuki’s right vaporized in a shower of debris, ricocheting in every direction. Suzuki shouted to his men, but he couldn’t hear himself — there was a loud ringing in his ears from the two explosions. No one responded as the dust drifted through the terminal, partially obscuring his vision. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain shooting through his thigh. If his men couldn’t hear him, he would lead by example. He climbed over the rubble toward the nearest injured man, grabbing him under his shoulders, dragging him away from the gaping hole in the wall. His men recovered from their daze, scrambling toward the injured, pulling them to temporary safety behind intact sections of the railway station.

Once the injured men had been pulled to safety, Suzuki peered through the nearest hole in the wall. The tanks, which had closed half the distance from the tree line to the terminal, had turned their attention to adjacent buildings along the Sobu Rail Line, occupied by other 1st Division units. One of the tanks swiveled its turret back toward the Iioka Railway Station, and Suzuki swore he was staring right down the turret barrel. He fought the instinct to cover his head with his arms — there was no way to protect himself from a direct hit.

As Suzuki stared at the tank, waiting for it to fire, the turret exploded in a fireball of orange flame and black smoke, and the tank ground to a halt. The two adjacent tanks also erupted in fireballs roiling upward, one of the turrets blown completely off the tank base. A few seconds later, Harrier jets streaked overhead, headed inland as bombs fell toward PLA formations farther back. The horizon erupted in a mass of red-tinged fireballs, black smoke spiraling upward.

For the first time in eleven days, Major Suzuki Koki smiled.

The Americans had arrived.

71

It was a small, windowless office in the South Wing of the Great Hall. A single desk — decorated with framed photos, assorted knickknacks, and a computer monitor — occupied most of the floor space. Against one wall, a plain wooden bookshelf was crammed with notebook binders, pamphlets, and loose papers that threatened to spill onto the floor at any moment. The office door was solid — no window — offering privacy to the room’s only occupant, who stood behind the desk searching through its drawers.

Earlier this morning, when Christine stepped from the communications center, the corridors in the distance had begun filling with civilians arriving for work. Although the East and Central wings of the Great Hall were locked down due to the SEAL team intrusion, the South Wing was open for business as usual.

She thought that was odd until she recalled the Pentagon on 9/11. After American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Defense headquarters, only a portion of the Pentagon was evacuated, and the secretary of defense met with the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the National Military Command Center in one part of the Pentagon, while fires raged in another. Political and military organizations had difficulty abandoning their communication hubs and would remain as long as they believed they were safe.

When she had reviewed the schematics of the Great Hall of the People this morning, searching for a way out, Christine had stumbled onto an idea. But first, she decided to duck out of the way, choosing an unlocked office belonging to someone low on the food chain. The room was small and the furnishings inexpensive. But it served Christine’s purpose, offering a reprieve from discovery while she collected her thoughts and formulated her plan. Wandering around the empty Great Hall in the early morning hours was one thing. A Caucasian woman traversing crowded corridors during the day was another matter.

On second thought, crowded corridors might work to her advantage. In a few hours, it would be lunchtime and there would be many workers traveling the hallways, and hopefully a few Caucasians. Her review of the Great Hall’s schematics told here there were representatives from several Western countries with offices in the South Wing. She might blend in long enough for her plan to work.

However, there were three items she needed, and as she riffled through the desk drawers, she finally spotted the first — a roll of tape. She required two more items. One was a badge. The personnel arriving for work wore badges, and she’d stick out like a sore thumb without one. The other item she needed was something she could hide her pistol in while traversing the halls. She had luckily selected a woman’s office to hide out in, and she would almost assuredly arrive with a purse.

There was a knock on the door, accompanied by a loud, demanding request. Christine’s heart leapt to her throat — it was most likely security guards searching the South Wing, room by room. With one and probably two dead SEALs in the Great Hall, they’d be searching for another man wielding an MP7, not a woman sitting behind a desk in her office. But that was true only as long as Huan was dead or unconscious. She cursed herself for not putting a bullet into his head. If he recovered, they’d know exactly who to search for and she wouldn’t stand a chance.

The door was locked and Christine stood frozen behind the desk, hoping whoever was outside would move on. But then she heard the metal jingling of keys, and the round doorknob twitched. Another jingle and twitch. Whoever was outside had master keys and would eventually find the right one. If they discovered her in the office after she ignored their request to open the door, they’d be suspicious and examine her closely.

Her only hope was to open the door.

Christine walked toward the door, searching her memory for a Mandarin phrase that would suffice in this situation. Halfway to the door, she selected one, calling out, “It’s nice to meet you!”

She winced after the words left her mouth, but it was all she could come up with on short notice, and she hoped the door muffled enough of her voice that her response was unintelligible. The keys stopped jingling and the doorknob fell still.

Christine forced a smile onto her face, then twisted the doorknob, disengaging the lock, and pulled the door open. There were three men in the hallway. The man in the middle, wearing a white shirt and blue tie, held a ring of keys in one hand. The other two men were uniformed security guards, their pistols drawn. Their eyes widened, no doubt surprised by the appearance of a Caucasian woman. If that wasn’t enough, Christine realized her inability to carry on a conversation with them in Chinese would be even more suspicious. Her only hope was to brush them off quickly. She strung together two phrases that might work.

“Good morning. How can I help?”

Christine had been prepared to utter the second expression during the planned meeting with her counterpart two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the few remaining phrases she knew were insufficient to carry on a conversation with the three men in front of her. She probably wouldn’t be able to work in “Thank you” and “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

The guard on the right replied to Christine’s greeting.

She had no idea what he had said.

Christine decided to cut the conversation short. That meant she had to answer the man’s question with something that made sense. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand his question. She guessed they were inquiring about the intruders in the Great Hall, wondering if she’d noticed anything suspicious. She decided to keep her answer simple.

“No,” she replied in Mandarin, then turned and headed to her desk, hoping her answer was sufficient and that the men would move on. However, as Christine settled into her chair, the guard moved into the doorway and asked a second question, the tone more demanding.

This question was probably more pointed and Christine had no idea how to answer it. As she stared at the man in silence, she sensed him growing impatient. She had to answer, but how? Glancing at a thick manila folder on top of the desk, she latched on to an idea.

Twisting her face into an aggravated expression, she picked up the folder, waving it excitedly at the man as she replied in English. “Does it look like I have time for this? I’ve got to finish translating this for the general secretary by noon! Do you want to explain to him why I’m not finished?”

Christine prayed the man understood English. It appeared he did, or at least enough to understand her response. Fear flickered in his eyes for a second, then he bowed his head slightly. After uttering something else in Chinese, the tone of his voice subdued, he stepped back and closed the door. Christine waited tensely for a few seconds, then her shoulders slumped in relief.

After a long moment, she stood, focusing on the next two items required to accomplish her goal. Their owner would hopefully arrive anytime now.

She had to be ready.

It was only a few minutes later, with Christine seated behind the door with the Glock in her right hand, when the doorknob turned. Christine stood as the door opened, and it began to swing shut after a Chinese woman stepped into the office, headed toward the desk. After the door shut, Christine reached over with her left hand and pressed the lock in the center of the doorknob. The woman stopped at the side of the desk, noting the absence of her chair. She dropped her purse onto the top of the desk as she turned with a perplexed look on her face, searching the office for the wayward chair. The woman spotted three things almost simultaneously — the chair by the door, a pistol pointed at her, and Christine with her index finger over her lips.

The woman’s jaw dropped but thankfully no sound came out. The finger over Christine’s mouth and the Glock pointed in her direction had communicated the desired response and consequence if directions weren’t followed.

“Do you understand English?” Christine asked.

The woman nodded, swallowing hard.

“Stay quiet and do as I say, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”

The woman nodded again.

Christine shoved the chair toward the woman. “Take a seat.”

A few minutes was all it took before the woman was taped to her chair, her chair taped to a leg of the desk, and her mouth taped shut. Before taping the woman’s mouth shut, no coercion was required to extract the required information. The woman confirmed the peak time for traffic in the Great Hall was during lunch. Christine didn’t relish the idea of waiting the next four hours in the small office where she would be cornered if discovered, but the wait was worth the risk.

Christine stepped back to examine her work. It was possible the woman could wriggle her way out of the tape after she left, but Christine figured it didn’t matter. She would need only a few minutes. In the meantime, the woman wouldn’t need her badge. Christine transferred the badge from the woman’s blouse to hers, then searched through the woman’s purse on top of the desk, retrieving a compact mirror, which she opened in her left hand.

Huan’s two punches to her face had done some damage, but thankfully the swelling had subsided. His first punch had caught her squarely on the left side of her face, but there was only a faint blue bruise along her jawline. The second fist to her face had done more damage, splitting open her upper lip. After entering the woman’s office this morning, she had wiped her face clean with a tissue from the box on the woman’s desk. She must have done a decent job, because the guard she encountered a few minutes ago didn’t seem to notice. As she examined her face in the small mirror, tilting her head from side to side, she was pleased. The split lip had sealed, forming a thin scab. She ran her fingers through her hair, making herself as presentable as possible, then returned the mirror to the purse.

Christine glanced at her watch. It would be a few more hours before lunchtime, when the corridors would be sufficiently crowded for her journey. As long as the security guards didn’t sweep by the office again in the meantime, her plan might work. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

72

In the Situation Room beneath the West Wing of the White House, Captain Steve Brackman took his seat at the conference table, waiting for the briefing to begin. Gathered around the table, with the president at the head, were Secretary of Defense Nelson Jennings and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on one side, Captain Brackman and senior members of the president’s Cabinet lining the other. At the front of the conference room, the image of Admiral Vance Garbin, head of Pacific Command, flickered on the large monitor.

“The SEAL team mission was a resounding success, sir,” the Admiral began. “All PLA communication nodes and command and control centers are off-line, as well as their newest missile systems. Also, our Atlantic Fleet SSGNs launched over three hundred Tomahawk missiles, destroying the older Chinese missile systems that weren’t networked. Between our Tomahawks, another round of B-1 bomber attacks, and the computer virus, Chinese air defense is practically nonexistent. Our aircraft have complete control of the skies over Japan.

“After our satellites came up, our submarines downloaded the new torpedo software, which has been extremely effective. The fast attacks sanitized the approach lanes for our MEFs, sinking over twenty Chinese submarines. Our fast attacks have penetrated the Nansei Island chain, and will soon be attacking Chinese ships ferrying men and supplies onto the Japanese islands.”

“How are the MEF landings going?” the president asked.

“The beachhead has been secured and the MEFs are off-loading men and equipment. The three Marine air wings are providing support as ground forces move inland. Once we’ve gained control of an airstrip or the Marines finish building one, we’ll begin moving Air Force fighter squadrons and Army troops in to assist. Unless something unforeseen occurs, Mr. President, this war is all but over.”

The president nodded, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. “What about the SEAL team that injected the virus?”

“I’m afraid that’s the only piece of bad news,” the Admiral answered. “The virus was inserted five hours ago, but no one has exited the Great Hall of the People. We have to conclude the team members have been either killed or captured.”

There was silence in the conference room as the president absorbed the Admiral’s assessment. The mission had been an enormous success, but the men — and woman — had likely paid with their lives.

“Thank you, Admiral,” the president replied. “Keep us informed if anything changes.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The view screen flickered off, and the president directed his attention to the men and women seated at the conference table. They were silent, awash in relief from the success of their counterpunch against China, but keenly aware of the probable death of the president’s national security advisor. Finally, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Hodson, expressed his condolences.

“Mr. President, I’m sorry to hear about Miss O’ Connor.”

The president remained silent for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the table, his forearms crossed in front of him. “How well do you know Christine?”

The chairman answered, “Not very well, I admit. Our interactions were limited to the various briefings we attended together.”

“Let me provide some background,” the president began. “There are two important things you should know. The first is that she’s a tenacious woman, willing to put up with a lot in an effort to achieve her goal. Hell, she puts up with me. And Hardison!” Hardison nodded glumly as the president continued. “She agreed to work in an administration of the opposite party, butting heads every day with the likes of me, Hardison, and SecDef, with the hope she could make sense out of our hare-brained national defense policies.

“The second thing you need to know is that Christine has a vindictive streak. You don’t want to cross her or the United States. Do you remember the Kentucky incident?” The General nodded. “And you remember what happened to Israel’s Intelligence Minister afterward?”

General Hodson replied, “He was assassinated by his own Mossad.”

“Not the Mossad,” the president replied. He kept his eyes locked on Hodson until what really happened dawned on him.

The General’s eyes widened. “Christine killed him?”

“She insisted on the assignment,” the President answered. “And she did a stellar job.

“My point, gentlemen,” the president added, “is that I wouldn’t underestimate Christine. She could very well be alive, somewhere in the Great Hall. And if so, my best bet is — she’s not thinking about escape.”

73

Xiang Chenglei entered the Politburo conference room, taking his seat at the head of the table. The lights were dim, matching the mood of the other seven Politburo members. Joining the Politburo today was General Cao Feng, head of the PLA’s Fourth Department, responsible for China’s cyber warfare, who was seated at the far end of the table. Also present — in electronic form — was Admiral Tsou, his grainy image displayed on the large monitor on the wall opposite Xiang.

It seemed impossible. Events this morning had unfolded at a whirlwind pace, quickly reaching a crisis level. Xiang found it difficult to believe the situation had deteriorated so drastically, and decided it was prudent to obtain the information firsthand. Surely, the data streaming into the Great Hall had been garbled. It was time to obtain an accurate update.

Xiang was about to address General Cao when the doors to the conference room opened and Huan, who had been unexpectedly absent all morning, entered. Wrapped around Huan’s head was a white gauze bandage, a tinge of red seeping through the right side. Huan settled gingerly into a vacant chair at the end of the conference table. Xiang decided his questions about Huan’s absence and physical condition could wait until after the meeting. He returned his attention to General Cao.

“What is the status of this American virus?”

General Cao cleared his voice. “A virus was uploaded into the main communications center here in the Great Hall, and it is spreading throughout the entire PLA command and control infrastructure, infecting all communication and tactical networks. The virus manifests itself in two ways. The first is that it corrupts the computer operating system, shutting down the computer and preventing start-up afterward. The second effect is that even when the computers are restarted from backup operating system discs, the virus corrupts the computer IP assignments, preventing the transfer of information between computers.”

“How long will it take to clear the virus and restore our communication and tactical networks?”

There was a pained expression on the General’s face as he answered. “It will take weeks to recover, Mr. President. All infected computers must be wiped clean — their hard drives erased, reformatted, and software reloaded. The IP links to other command centers and every unit in the field will have to be manually reentered.”

“How did this happen? We made an enormous investment in cyber warfare, and it was the one area we had supremacy over the Americans.”

“We have made an enormous investment,” General Cao replied, “and our command and control networks are impervious to outside attacks. However, we did not consider an attack from within, from inside the Great Hall of the People. That was our shortcoming.”

There was a momentary silence before Xiang turned to Admiral Tsou’s image on the monitor. “What is the impact on the People’s Liberation Army?”

Admiral Tsou replied, “All communication and tactical links are down, and the virus has also infected individual combat units, taking their IP voice circuits off-line. All of our newest, networked weapon systems are inoperative, leaving only legacy weapons, most of which have been destroyed by Tomahawk missiles and air strikes. As a result, America has control of the sky over Japan, protecting their Marine Expeditionary Forces, which are off-loading onto a beachhead on Honshu’s eastern shore.

“Additionally, our submarine fleet has been devastated in only a few hours. It’s hard to get a clear picture of what is occurring, but several of our submarines that have been sunk have relayed information via their emergency beacons on the surface. The American torpedoes can no longer be shut down by our submarine sonar pulse. It appears they are also now able to home on our submarines when they attempt to shut the torpedo down. The American fast attacks have sunk all of our submarines screening Honshu and have penetrated the Nansei Island chain, and they will soon cut off all reinforcements and supplies flowing onto the Japanese islands. If we don’t react quickly, our troops on Japan will become stranded.”

There was a long silence as Xiang and the other Politburo members absorbed Admiral Tsou’s words. America had defeated them. And if they didn’t act soon, hundreds of thousands of men would become prisoners of war.

China must retreat.

Xiang’s eyes moved around the table, surveying each member of the Politburo. Without asking, he saw the consent in their eyes. Xiang was about to address Admiral Tsou when Huan interjected.

“What about the PLA Air Force? If we sink Reagan and her escorts, can we continue the campaign?” There was desperation in Huan’s voice.

“Yes and no,” Tsou answered. “The PLA Air Force has fared well thus far in our campaign against Taipei and Japan, but the main reason is because we have avoided engaging American aircraft and their carrier strike groups, attacking them with missiles instead. Our aircraft technology and pilot training are no match for that of the Americans. However, we have a significant numerical advantage, and if we commit the PLA Air Force to a direct assault on the Reagan Task Force, I believe we can overwhelm their defenses and destroy Reagan and her escorts, along with their amphibious ships. Unfortunately, we will suffer significant losses — several hundred aircraft — and only delay the inevitable.

“With American submarines controlling the water between China and Japan, we will be unable to ship adequate supplies to our forces in Japan; our airlift capacity is insufficient. Also, once the four Atlantic Fleet carriers arrive, we will lose control of the airspace again, since we can no longer prevent the carriers from approaching Japan. Our new missile systems and submarines that were supposed to keep the carriers away have been defeated.

“America’s Marine combat units have already been transferred ashore, and although we can destroy their amphibious ships and whatever material remains aboard, we cannot dislodge the Marines from Honshu before the Atlantic Fleet carriers arrive. Once America has control of the airspace and is able to build an airfield for their Air Force to operate from and land Army units, it’s over.”

“We must make America pay,” Huan replied, turning toward Xiang, “in every way possible. If we can sink yet another carrier strike group, then we should. It will help teach the Americans a lesson.” Huan paused, then revealed the true intent of his recommendation. “There will be severe political implications once the people learn we have been defeated and so many lives lost for nothing. However, if we can claim we have destroyed the entire American Pacific Fleet, it will soften the blow. We can even retool the intent of our offensive, ending America’s domination of the Pacific.”

Xiang did not immediately respond, evaluating the situation and Huan’s proposal. Finally, he sat up, his shoulders straight as he spoke to Admiral Tsou’s image.

“Send orders to our PLA commanders through whatever communication circuits remain and begin their extraction from Japan. However, leave our units on Taipei. I will use our occupation of Taiwan as a bargaining chip during negotiations with the United States.”

Xiang paused for a moment, then continued. “Commit the PLA Air Force. Destroy the Reagan Task Force.”

Admiral Tsou acknowledged Xiang’s order, then his image faded from the display. There was a painful silence in the conference room as the men around the table digested the sudden turn of events. Finally, Xiang stood to leave, as did the seven junior members and Huan. Xiang stepped into the hallway and Huan joined him at his side, the two men flanked by Cadre Department bodyguards, who had been waiting outside the conference room. As the four men headed down the corridor toward the president’s office, Huan brought Xiang up to speed on what had occurred earlier that morning.

74

Off the eastern shore of Honshu, Captain CJ Berger leaned forward in his chair on the Bridge of USS Ronald Reagan. His eyes scanned the video screens mounted below the Bridge windows as he listened to Reagan’s strike controllers over the speaker by his chair. So far, things had been quiet in the air, and everything was proceeding smoothly ashore. The Marine Expeditionary Forces were incredibly efficient, rapidly off-loading their troops and equipment. All ground combat troops were ashore and their Harrier jets and Viper and Venom attack helicopters had been striking targets inland all morning. Within twenty-four hours, their remaining equipment would be off-loaded. In the meantime, it was the task force’s job to protect the vulnerable amphibious ships. That responsibility fell largely on Reagan.

The Atlantic Fleet submarines had cleared a safe path to Honshu’s shores, then expanded outward, preventing China’s Navy from approaching close enough to become a threat. The PLA Air Force, however, was another matter. They fielded over one thousand fourth-generation fighters, while the Reagan Task Force, augmented by the Marine Joint Strike Fighters, mustered only ninety-six fighter aircraft, of which only half were on station. Three of Reagan’s fighter squadrons, along with one of the Marine squadrons, were flying CAP — Combat Air Patrol — with one squadron on its way out to relieve and another squadron on its way back for replacement pilots and refueling. On the Flight Deck, the sixth squadron of Reagan’s fighters were performing hot-pump crew switch — refueling with their jet engines still running, turning off an engine on one side of the aircraft long enough for the pilots to swap out.

Against potential Chinese air attack, the Reagan Task Force employed a layered defense. The aircraft were on the perimeter, with Reagan’s escorts — only two cruisers and four destroyers — forming an inner ring, with Reagan and the amphibious ships in the center. The maximum range of Chinese air-to-surface missiles was debatable, but Intel’s current estimate was that the range of the most capable missile variants was 150 miles. As a result, Reagan had established its Combat Air Patrol at 250 miles to allow time for their fighters to engage and destroy any inbound Chinese aircraft before they could launch their air-to-surface missiles.

Any Leakers — hostile aircraft that made it through Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol — would be shot down by Standard SM-2 and extended-range SM-6 missiles launched by the task force’s cruisers and destroyers. Any missiles launched by the Chinese jets would also be engaged with Standard missiles. And finally, if Chinese missiles made it past the SM-2s and SM-6s, Reagan and the other ships would employ their close-in Ship Self-Defense Systems, which on Reagan consisted of the ESSM and RAM missiles and the CIWS Gatling guns.

Berger preferred to have his Combat Air Patrol farther out, but the Air Warfare Commander aboard the Aegis cruiser USS Chosin had made the decision to pull them closer in. Their aircraft were already stretched thin at 250 miles. Thankfully, half of the task force’s fighters were the new Joint Strike Fighters. They were extremely capable aircraft — on paper. None had been tested in combat. But that might soon change.

Berger’s attention shifted from the video screens on the bulkhead to the speaker by his chair. The strike controllers were directing the squadron of Joint Strike Fighters returning to Reagan to turn around and head back out.

In Reagan’s Combat Direction Center, Captain Debbie Kent watched airborne contacts populate her display. Their E-2C Hawkeyes, flying high above the task force, were transmitting tracks to the cruisers, destroyers, and carrier. Kent looked up from her console, examining one of the two eight-by-ten-foot displays on the Video Wall. It was littered with several hundred contacts streaming toward the Reagan Task Force from three directions — over Honshu and around the northern and southern ends of the island.

Kent waited as the E-2C Hawkeyes above queried the incoming aircraft using the IFF — Identification Friend or Foe — system. If they were friendly aircraft, the transponders aboard would transmit the correct response to the Hawkeyes’ challenge.

The inbound icons began changing color, switching from yellow to red.

The aircraft were Hostile.

A few seconds later, the Air Warfare Commander’s voice emanated from the speaker next to Kent. “Alpha Papa, this is Alpha Whiskey. Divide your CAP into three segments and engage incoming Hostiles. You are Weapons Free.”

Kent acknowledged the order, then relayed it to the Tactical Action Officer, who directed the strike controllers to begin vectoring their fighters toward the three streams of incoming aircraft. There were too many contacts for the strike controllers to individually assign to their aircraft, so targeting would be handed over to the pilots. This was going to turn into a free-for-all. She dropped her eyes to her Cooperative Engagement Capability display, reading the summary. There were over four hundred inbound aircraft: 4-to-1 odds.

This was not going to turn out well.

75

In the South Wing of the Great Hall, Christine leaned against the edge of the desk, checking her watch for the hundredth time. The last four hours had ticked by slowly, and she had spent the time alternately pacing the floor and leaning against the desk, periodically examining her captive to ensure she was still securely bound. The entire time, she worried the security guards would conduct another search. She had fumbled her way through the first one, but if they swung by again, she was done for. There was no way to hide her captive, taped to the chair. While she waited impatiently for lunchtime, her mind raced, reviewing her makeshift plan.

Earlier this morning, when she stepped from the communications center, she had pulled up the schematics of the Great Hall on the plasma panel, examining the locations of the security checkpoints, searching for an unguarded route out of the Great Hall. There were none. But in the process, she discovered there were no checkpoints between her and the Politburo’s main offices in the heart of the South Wing. She couldn’t make it out of the Great Hall.

But she could make it in.

She had a clear path to the president’s office. She had no idea how effective the virus she had uploaded was, but she figured a pistol to the head of the right man could end this war. Even if it didn’t, she could hold the man responsible for China’s aggression accountable. It was a preposterous plan and at one point she almost laughed out loud. But she told herself repeatedly it could work. At the moment, her confidence was brittle but intact.

Glancing at her watch again, she decided it was time.

Christine examined her blouse, eyeing the woman’s badge clipped to her lapel. There was no way the badge would pass close examination, but the picture on the badge was small and the hair color the same. As long as she kept moving at a decent pace, the dissimilarity between the picture on the badge and the woman wearing it shouldn’t be noticeable. For good measure, however, she unfastened the highest button of her blouse, revealing the top of her ample, rounded breasts. Anything to keep people from comparing her face to her badge. She figured she had the men sufficiently distracted.

Retrieving the Glock from the top of the desk, she slid it into the woman’s purse. She slung the purse over her left shoulder, leaving the top of the purse open so she could easily retrieve the pistol.

Badge. Purse. Glock.

She was ready.

After a final glance at her captive, Christine opened the door to the office, engaging the lock in the doorknob. Pulling the door shut behind her, she stepped into the corridor.

The hallway wasn’t as crowded as she had hoped, but there were enough people traversing the corridors that she didn’t stand out. The eighth person she passed was a Middle Eastern man, and a Caucasian woman passed by a few seconds later. Christine let out a silent sigh of relief. She wasn’t sticking out like a sore thumb and there was actually a possibility she would reach the president’s office unchallenged.

Her stomach tightened at the thought.

She had no idea what kind of security the president had. There weren’t any checkpoints between them, but she doubted the president of China would traipse anywhere, even in the Great Hall, without the equivalent of the Secret Service nearby. Hopefully there would be only a few men, and with surprise on her side, she would break through.

During her last review of the Great Hall’s schematics, she had memorized the path to the president’s office. Left at the second intersection. Right at the next. Left again. As she traversed the corridors, the throng of personnel thickened, and her trek through the Great Hall was uneventful until she turned the second corner. Two uniformed security guards were heading toward her, glancing at the badges and faces of the men and women passing by. Christine hesitated momentarily, then forced herself to continue walking, hoping neither guard had noticed the slight pause in her gait when she spotted them. She felt her heart pounding in her chest as she continued down the corridor.

As she prepared to pass between the two guards, she decided to ignore them, giving the two men an opportunity to let their eyes wander toward the top of her blouse. Her eyes were set straight ahead, but she concentrated on the periphery of her vision, attempting to detect any indication the guards had become suspicious. She fingered the strap of the purse hanging from her left shoulder, ready at an instant to retrieve the Glock. The two guards were only a few paces away now, and she prepared herself for the worst.

As the two guards approached, they turned their attention to Christine, their eyes examining her face for a moment before shifting down toward her chest. The two guards passed by and Christine continued on, listening for any reaction behind her. There was no indication of anything unusual. As she put distance between herself and the two guards, her pulse began to slow and she suppressed a smile.

At the end of the long hallway, Christine turned again, stepping into a wider corridor, its floor constructed of marble instead of terrazzo, its walls decorated with large oil paintings on canvas stretched between elaborate, ornately carved frames. She had entered the official Politburo spaces.

She was getting close.

Christine knew the corridor would T at the end, running into a perpendicular hallway containing the offices of the nine Politburo members.

Only a few hundred more feet.

Unfortunately, at the end of the corridor was a man wearing a business suit, standing behind a lectern, who would undoubtedly inquire about the purpose of her visit. She was confident she could get past him. What concerned her was what waited in the perpendicular hallway beyond.

One hurdle at a time.

As she approached the man at the lectern, she was thankful there was no one else in the corridor — it would make this part easier. When she was a few feet away, the man looked up from an appointment book, asking Christine a question. She slipped her right hand into her purse, retrieving the Glock. The man’s eyes widened, but before he could call out, Christine aimed and squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet in the man’s forehead. The pistol recoiled with a whisper and the man’s body hit the floor with a dull thud. She returned the pistol to her purse as she continued past the man without breaking stride, reaching the end of the hallway, turning right.

At the end of the corridor, just over fifty feet away, two men in black business suits stood outside a dark-stained wooden door, one man on each side.

Cadre Department bodyguards, no doubt.

These two wouldn’t be so easy.

Christine continued toward them, hoping she would close at least half the distance before she was challenged. She was a decent shot with a pistol at close range, but that was without being nervous and while taking time to aim carefully. Surprise would be on her side, but if she missed, she would not get a second chance. Instead of aiming for their heads, she settled on chest shots, increasing the odds she’d hit her mark.

When she was thirty feet from the door, the guard on the left called out. Christine needed to buy a few more seconds to get close enough to ensure she didn’t miss, but didn’t understand the question. She replied with a response that hopefully made sense.

“Good morning,” she said in Mandarin.

The guard replied, but Christine again had no idea what he said.

She had to act before either man had an inkling of what was about to occur. She’d rehearsed the sequence of events in her mind a hundred times, and it was finally time to execute.

Christine reached into her purse again, extracting the Glock. As she extended her arm toward the man on the left, she was shocked at how fast the two men were reacting; both were already reaching into their suit jackets.

She pulled the trigger and a bullet slammed into the man’s chest. She swung the pistol to the right and steadied up on the second man just as his hand came out of his jacket, a pistol in his grip. She squeezed off another round, the bullet also hitting him squarely in the chest.

She glanced back at the first man.

He was still standing. Something was wrong.

Things were occurring so fast they were blur, yet at the same time the details were clear. There was a bullet hole in the man’s shirt, but no blood. The bullet had dazed him, knocking him back against the wall, but his clouded expression cleared and he pulled his weapon from inside his suit jacket.

They were wearing bulletproof vests.

Christine swung her arm toward the first man again, this time aiming for his head. She halted her swing, raised her aim up slightly, and fired. Amazingly, the bullet hit the man between his eyes, jerking his head back. She watched him collapse onto the ground from the corner of her eye as she swung her arm back to the right, returning her attention to the second guard.

Like the other guard, he had been temporarily stunned. But he’d been faster than the first man, already pulling his pistol from inside his jacket before being shot in the chest. As Christine steadied up, she noticed he already had his arm extended and steady, his pistol aimed toward her.

She squeezed the trigger, praying she fired first and that her bullet hit its mark.

A gunshot echoed down the corridor, and her subconscious told her that was a bad sign. Her Glock had a silencer screwed into the end — it didn’t make that kind of sound. That meant …

Christine’s body jerked backward as white-hot pain tore through her left shoulder. The excruciating pain sapped the strength from her body and her legs gave way; she fell to her knees on the hard marble floor. She fought through the pain, trying to maintain her balance, trying to think clearly. She’d been shot, and if the second guard was still alive, another bullet was coming her way. She remembered squeezing the trigger of her pistol, but had no idea if she had fired or if the bullet found its target. She looked up, noticing the second man sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood spreading from beneath his head across the marble floor.

Warmth ran down her left arm, dangling by her side, and any attempt to move sent mind-numbing pain shooting through her shoulder. But despite her injury, her plan had been successful — she’d cleared the way to the president’s office. Unfortunately, the guard’s gunshot had announced her presence, and it wouldn’t be long before someone arrived to determine what happened. She’d better get moving.

As Christine climbed to her feet, the door to the president’s office opened. Xiang Chenglei, the president of China, appeared in the doorway.

Perfect.

Christine swung the pistol back up. “Don’t move!”

Xiang could easily have slammed the door shut as she raised the pistol — it would have been an instinctive reaction. Instead, Xiang opened the door wider, stepping out into the corridor. He stood there, waiting for further direction as he took in the scene, his eyes examining first one bodyguard, then the other, finally coming to rest on Christine.

“You’re injured,” Xiang said. “Let me call for medical assistance.”

“Not so fast. We’re going to have a talk first.” Christine moved toward him, her left arm dangling by her side, doing her best not to move her shoulder. She stopped a few feet away, pointing the pistol at Xiang’s head. “Into your office, before help arrives.”

“It would be best if we talked here.”

“Into your office!” Pain shot through Christine’s shoulder as she shouted. She clenched her teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. “Now,” she added in a more controlled effort.

“As you wish,” Xiang replied, then turned and stepped into his office.

Christine followed closely behind, her eyes set on his back, wary of any unexpected move. As she entered his office, she spotted another man from the corner of her right eye. Huan was standing by the door, his head wrapped in a white gauze bandage. His hand was high above him, holding something, and he swung it down toward her head.

She tried to duck out of the way but was too slow. A heavy object crushed into her skull and sharp pain sliced through her scalp. Her vision clouded in a yellow haze, the Glock falling from her hand as she crumpled to the floor.

76

“Shrek, tally two bandits on your six!”

Marine Corps pilot Stan Borum, call sign Shrek, glanced at the glass touch-screen display that spanned the front of his F-35B cockpit, locating the two bandits behind him. A second later, the F-35’s Barracuda electronic warfare system, which provided 360-degree surveillance, detected the targeting radar of the two aircraft, classifying them as J-11B Shenyang tactical fighters.

“I see ’em,” Shrek replied as he recalled the capabilities of the Chinese aircraft. The twin-engine J-11B was a fourth-generation tactical fighter — an upgraded version of the Russian Su-27SK, able to fly almost fifty percent faster than Shrek’s single-engine Joint Strike Fighter.

The voice of Shrek’s wingman came across his helmet speaker again. “I can’t help. I’m tied up with two of my own.” Shrek didn’t reply as he noted his wingman on his display, headed south with two bandits in trail.

With a six-foot, 230-pound barrel-chested body, Lieutenant Colonel Stan Borum had been awarded the call sign Shrek. He didn’t resemble the animated ogre that much, he thought. His skin wasn’t green. However, despite the connotation of his call sign, Shrek was secretly pleased. He was, after all, a Green Knight. He was the squadron leader of Marine Fighter Attack Squadron VMFA-121, the Green Knights, the first operational squadron of F-35 Lightning II stealth aircraft. Shrek felt fortunate this afternoon, seated in the cockpit of the most advanced fighter in the world. But even though he appreciated the technological advantage of his F-35B over the Chinese aircraft, Shrek figured he’d survived this far into the battle due to the most important ingredient in warfare.

Luck.

The first few minutes of combat had been overwhelming, the sky filled with a dizzying array of aircraft and missiles. Shrek had fired his wing-mounted ordnance as the two air forces approached each other, then evaded a barrage of incoming missiles. Moments later, the thirty-two U.S. fighters in this sector slammed into seventy Chinese aircraft. Who lived and died those first few minutes had been a crapshoot, each pilot dodging aircraft and missiles, dispensing chaff, and targeting enemy fighters while weaving through a sky lit up with exploding aircraft and streaking missiles.

The sky had thinned out now, with fifty Chinese fighters shot down along with twenty U.S. jets. Unfortunately, Shrek and the other American fighters were still on the wrong end of 2-to-1 odds; twenty Chinese aircraft against a dozen Americans. If that wasn’t bad enough, there were another seventy Chinese jets approaching fast.

Shortly after engaging the incoming aircraft, Shrek had determined the Chinese wave was divided into two echelons. The leading group of seventy aircraft were air superiority fighters, predominately the J-10 Chengdu and J-11 Shenyang, followed by another seventy fighter-bombers, primarily the Xian JH-7 and 7A, armed with air-to-surface missiles. The leading Chinese fighters were attempting to clear a path for their fighter-bombers so they could approach within range of their air-to-surface missiles. That, of course, was what Shrek and the rest of Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol were attempting to prevent.

Shrek had done well, shooting down four J-10s, splashing the last one only a few seconds ago. Despite his success, Shrek and the other American pilots hadn’t put a dent in the mass of JH-7 fighter-bombers rapidly approaching. Shrek needed to take out the two trailing J-11s quickly so he could focus on the JH-7s, which were the real threat to the Reagan Task Force. Unfortunately, he had only one missile left.

Shrek banked hard right to bring his F-35 around toward the incoming J-11s. Although the J-11s were much faster than his F-35, Shrek had the advantage when it came to weapon systems. He flicked a switch on his flight stick, then tapped his glass touch-screen display, selecting his remaining missile. The starboard weapon bay doors in the fuselage of the F-35 opened in preparation for firing. As Shrek’s F-35 came around, he turned his head to the right and targeted the closest J-11 simply by looking at it, the sensors in his helmet visor locking on to the aircraft.

Even though his F-35 was still thirty degrees off-axis from the J-11, Shrek fired his last missile, an AIM-120 AMRAAM, and he guided the missile toward the J-11 by keeping his head pointed at the aircraft. As the AMRAAM completed its turn, its internal radar took over, locking on to the J-11.

The J-11 dispensed chaff and banked hard left, but the AMRAAM detected the aircraft speeding away from the chaff burst and adjusted course. Shrek turned his attention to the second J-11B as it launched one of its missiles, and a moment later Shrek’s Barracuda classified it as a PL-12, an air-to-air missile similar in capability to the AMRAAM.

There was a bright burst of an explosion to Shrek’s left. His AMRAAM had found its target, evidenced by the disappearance of both the AMRAAM and the J-11 from his touch-panel display. Splash another one. However, that still left the second J-11, along with the PL-12 missile, closing fast.

Shrek banked right and went inverted, turning his F-35 upside down. He pulled back on his flight stick, aiming his jet down toward the water, fifteen thousand feet below. He pushed the throttle past the détente, engaging his afterburner. As he rocketed toward the ocean’s surface, he checked his touch-screen display. The PL-12 was chasing down after him. With a speed of Mach 4, the missile would reach Shrek in a few seconds. He had even less time before he hit the water. The F-35’s Bitching Betty audio warning system activated, a woman’s soothing voice informing Shrek of the impending danger. “Altitude. Altitude. Altitude.”

“Shut up, Betty.”

The F-35’s voice recognition system turned off the alarm.

At five thousand feet, Shrek dispensed a round of chaff and yanked back on the stick. He eased off on the throttle as he monitored the g-force displayed on his touch screen, praying he didn’t pass out as his F-35 hit eight g’s. The legs of his G suit filled with air, helping to keep the blood in his head. He tightened his abdominal muscles and grunted through the turn, attempting to keep as much blood in his brain as possible.

Shrek leveled off at a thousand feet, then banked right to get a visual. The PL-12 missile had passed through the chaff, but the chaff had done its job. The missile had stayed focused on the reflective cloud of aluminum-coated fibers, allowing Shrek’s F-35 to slip out of the missile radar’s field of view. The missile continued downward, plowing into the ocean.

He turned his attention to the J-11. The pilot had followed Shrek down and was just now leveling off at a thousand feet, two miles behind him. Shrek didn’t have much time to think about his next maneuver, because Betty came across his headset again.

“Missile inbound.”

The J-11 had fired another missile, classified by Shrek’s Barracuda as another PL-12. He had only one more burst of chaff left and wanted to save it, so he tapped the glass display again, activating the F-35’s electronic jammer. He watched the missile closely to see what happened. The missile immediately adjusted course, aiming toward his jet. Shrek turned off the electronic jamming. This PL-12 variant had a home-on-jam feature.

He checked his display. A mass of forty JH-7s was approaching fast, and Shrek decided he couldn’t afford to get tied up with this J-11 in a dogfight that could last who-knew-how long. He needed to shed this guy fast. The home-on-jam feature gave him an idea.

Shrek banked left again, returning to his original course, putting the missile and J-11 behind him. Just as the PL-12 closed the remaining distance, Shrek dispensed his last burst of chaff and went vertical, kicking in his afterburners. The missile stayed locked on the chaff and passed through the reflective cloud. With Shrek above the chaff and climbing, the missile lost contact. The missile turned left for a few seconds, searching for its target, then right for a few more seconds. Finding nothing, the missile turned skyward.

But Shrek had already gone inverted, turning back toward the incoming J-11. He rolled his F-35 back to a normal orientation, then checked the distance to the PL-12 and J-11. His adversary was staying close to the water, avoiding Shrek while his missile was still in play.

Shrek activated his electronic jammer again. The PL-12 missile immediately turned in Shrek’s direction and increased speed. As the PL-12 gained on Shrek, he adjusted the trajectory of his F-35, angling down on an intercept course with the incoming J-11. The Chinese pilot realized what Shrek was doing and turned away. But Shrek adjusted course and passed barely a hundred feet above the J-11 as it continued its turn. Shrek turned his electronic jammer off as he passed above the Chinese fighter, and the PL-12 resumed using its radar-seeking head. The missile locked on to the larger radar signature of the Chinese fighter, slamming into the fuselage of the jet a second later. The J-11 morphed into a cloud of fire and shrapnel.

Checking his display again, Shrek located the group of JH-7 fighter-bombers. They were surging through a gap in Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol six thousand feet above. The Chinese fighter-bombers were headed in at Mach 1.7 and Shrek’s F-35 was capable of only Mach 1.6. He wouldn’t be able to run them down once they got past. Shrek kicked in his afterburner, climbing quickly toward the Chinese aircraft. His Barracuda alarmed again. Not far behind, two more J-11Bs were headed his way.

Now that Shrek was out of missiles, his only recourse was to fall in behind the JH-7s and shoot them down with his Equalizer four-barrel Gatling gun. To Shrek’s left, another F-35 and two F/A-18 Super Hornets were also falling in behind the Chinese fighter-bombers. Apparently the three aircraft were also out of missiles, as they engaged the inbound JH-7s with their guns, the interspersed red tracer rounds streaming toward the fighter-bombers. The JH-7s weaved all over the sky to avoid the cannon fire, but maintained their overall inbound track.

Shrek checked the J-11s behind him. The two J-11s must also be out of missiles, because none were headed his way. But the J-11s were dangerously close now. He had only a few more seconds before they were a threat. Shrek steadied up behind the nearest JH-7, selected his Equalizer gun on his flight stick, then squeezed the trigger. The 25mm bullets and red tracer rounds streamed toward the Chinese aircraft, missing it just to the right. Before the pilot could react, Shrek tweaked his aim left and the tracers cut across the fuselage of the Chinese jet. The JH-7 began trailing orange flames and black smoke from its starboard engine, and seconds later the fuselage exploded. Shrek juked to the right to avoid the debris from the expanding fireball.

Red tracer rounds passed over his canopy. The nearest J-11B was firing. Shrek juked left and right at random intervals, hoping to prevent the Chinese pilot from getting a bead on him. Although the J-11Bs were his most pressing concern, Shrek had another problem. The inbound JH-7s were approaching the range at which Reagan’s cruisers and destroyers would engage incoming aircraft with Standard missiles. This was as far as he could follow the Chinese fighter-bombers. The other three U.S. planes disengaged and turned away from the JH-7s, met by a half-dozen J-10s and J-11s in pursuit. Shrek activated his radio, contacting his strike controller on Reagan.

“Alpha Papa, Knight One. Disengaging from incoming Hostiles. You’ve got thirty-five Leakers.”

It was now up to the cruisers and destroyers.

Shrek banked hard right, looking through the cockpit window at the two J-11s. Both adjusted course, angling toward him.

Inside Reagan’s Combat Direction Center, Captain Debbie Kent stared at the displays on the Video Wall. She had watched their Combat Air Patrol almost disintegrate under the Chinese onslaught; less than a third of their fighters remained. They had performed admirably, shooting down an impressive number of Chinese aircraft, but a significant number of Chinese fighter-bombers made it through. As Kent counted the number of inbound aircraft on the display, she realized they weren’t dealing with Leakers. It was a flood. Between the three streams of contacts headed toward Reagan and her escorts, there were over one hundred inbound Hostiles.

Now that the Chinese aircraft had penetrated Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol, the cruisers and destroyers would take over. Kent would be a bystander for this phase, watching as Reagan’s escorts engaged with Standard SM-2 and SM-6 missiles. There were so many contacts that they would have to turn things over to the computers aboard their ships. The Air Warfare Commander aboard USS Chosin reached the same conclusion.

“All units, this is Alpha Whiskey. Shift Aegis Warfare Systems to auto. You are Weapons Free.”

Kent watched as the computers aboard the two cruisers and four destroyers began automatically “hooking” contacts, assigning them to missiles in the ships’ vertical launchers. The Aegis computers worked together, communicating with each other so that no ship targeted the same contact. Missiles began streaking skyward from the six ships.

As the missiles headed toward the incoming Chinese aircraft, the number of contacts on Kent’s display began to multiply. In a few seconds, the original one hundred contacts had morphed into over five hundred. The Reagan Task Force had engaged the Chinese fighter-bombers too late, and they had launched their air-to-surface missiles, which apparently had a longer range than expected. The Aegis computers continued to hook the incoming targets, now concentrating on the faster-moving group of four hundred contacts rapidly closing Reagan and her six escorts. Kent did the math. There were more incoming missiles than Standard missiles.

It was like watching a video game, streams of blue icons headed out in three directions, approaching the incoming red icons. The two waves of icons intercepted each other, and the Standard missiles intercepted the majority of inbound contacts. But not all. Over fifty missiles continued inbound, targeting Reagan and her escorts. It was time for the self-defense phase. Kent looked over at her Tactical Action Officer.

“Shift SSDS to auto.”

The TAO acknowledged, then shifted Reagan’s SSDS — Ship Self-Defense System — to automatic. Like the Aegis Warfare Systems aboard the cruisers and destroyers, Reagan’s SSDS would automatically assign contacts to their RAM and ESSM missiles, then target any Leakers with their CIWS guns. It was out of Kent’s hands now. All she could do was watch.

The TAO called out, “Inbound missiles. Brace for impact!”

Kent reached up and grabbed onto an I beam, watching as the SSDS automatically targeted the missiles streaking toward Reagan. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Two missiles made it through and Kent felt the ship shudder twice as the missiles impacted Reagan. On the Damage Control Status Board, red indications on the starboard side of the carrier marked the missile impact and damage radius. Thankfully, the Hangar Deck hadn’t been penetrated, nor the carrier’s Island superstructure damaged. Reagan had survived the Chinese missile onslaught relatively unscathed.

The surviving Chinese aircraft swept past the Reagan Task Force, their missiles expended, headed back to China. Kent examined the display in front of her, surveying the carnage. Only thirty of the ninety-six American fighters remained aloft. However, China had paid dearly. The American fighters and Standard missiles had shot down over three hundred Chinese aircraft. Kent let out a sigh of relief. Reagan had survived, as did the amphibs, which hadn’t been targeted. The cruisers and destroyers, however, did not fare as well.

Several of the screens on the Video Wall in front of Kent switched to real-time video feeds. Black plumes rose from all six escorts, and USS Chosin was engulfed in flames, black smoke billowing upward. Chosin was their Air Warfare Commander and one of only two cruisers. They could ill afford to lose her.

Kent picked up the Navy Red phone next to her. “Alpha Whiskey, this is Alpha Papa. Report operational status, over.”

There was no response. Only static on the line.

Kent repeated her request. “Alpha Whiskey, this is Alpha Papa. Report operational status, over.”

A few seconds later, there was a response, but it was from the other cruiser, USS Port Royal. “Alpha Papa, This is Alpha Bravo. Alpha Whiskey has dropped off the grid. I am assuming duties of Air Warfare Commander.”

“Alpha Bravo, this is Alpha Papa. Understand. What is the status of the destroyers and air-defense inventory?”

“Three destroyers are operational, but all units on the grid are Winchester on SM-2 and SM-6 missiles.”

The last part of Port Royal’s report hit Kent in the gut. They were out of Standard missiles, leaving only close-in self-defense systems. They could now only target missiles approaching their own ship. Reagan and the amphibs were on their own. It was time to bring the remaining thirty F/A-18s and Joint Strike Fighters back for refueling and rearming.

As Kent turned her attention to the aircraft on the display, icons began populating the edges of her monitor. Three more streams of contacts were inbound, and the icons soon switched from Unknown to Hostile. It was a second wave of Chinese fighters — another four hundred.

Kent hung her head. With only thirty fighters aloft, their missile inventory and decoys no doubt expended, their CAP would be wiped out. With no Standard missiles to shoot down incoming fighter-bombers or their missiles, it was going to be a one-sided bloodbath. There was no way the Reagan Task Force would survive.

77

Christine had no idea how long she lay sprawled on the floor of Xiang’s office; the room was spinning and she fought the urge to vomit. Blood was seeping into her right eye, and the side of her head throbbed with every heartbeat. She wiped the blood from her eye, and as her vision slowly cleared, she saw Huan standing above her, a one-foot bronze statue of Mao Zedong in his hand.

“Quid pro quo, my American friend.”

She could hear the smugness in his voice.

Christine struggled to climb to her feet. She paused on her knees and right hand, waiting until the room stopped spinning.

Huan addressed her again, his voice agitated this time. “You will pay for what you’ve done.” His right foot added an exclamation mark to his threat, connecting solidly with Christine’s already-broken ribs.

Pain shot through her chest and the kick took the wind from her lungs, simultaneously knocking her onto her side. She heard Xiang’s stern voice, but he was speaking Mandarin and she had no idea what he said. The only thing she could focus on was the pain coursing through her body. Every breath was pure agony, joining the pain shooting through her shoulder and head. Huan was bent on killing her, and death would be a blessed relief. But there was one thing that kept her going.

I’m gonna kill Huan if it’s the last thing I do.

More easily thought than done, however. She glanced at the Glock, only a few feet away. If she ignored the pain, she could scramble for it. Huan caught her glance at the pistol and stooped down, grabbing it before Christine could make a dash for it.

Before she could focus on a new plan, Huan spoke. “On your knees, Christine.”

Xiang spoke again, his words terse. Huan turned toward him, and Christine could hear the hatred in the younger man’s voice as the two men exchanged heated words in Mandarin. Finally, Huan turned back to Christine as Xiang glared at him.

“On your knees,” Huan repeated.

Christine eyed Huan’s shoes warily as she pushed herself gingerly onto her right hand and knees again.

“Tell us how to disable the virus you injected into our command and control system,” Huan said, “and I will let you live.”

She looked up at Huan. “I have no idea if it can be disabled. But even if I knew how, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Huan studied her a moment before replying. “You lie.” He raised the pistol, leveling it at her head. “Tell me how to disable the virus.”

Christine stared at the pistol pointed at her head, then looked up at Huan. “Take a hike.”

Huan’s face clouded as he tried to decipher Christine’s response.

There was a loud knock on the door, followed by a muffled question in Chinese. Christine could hear the concern in the man’s voice, no doubt raised by the two dead bodyguards sprawled on the floor outside the president’s office. Huan lowered his gun and opened the door, revealing two additional Cadre Department bodyguards.

After a brief exchange of words, one man took station outside the president’s office, while the other headed down the corridor. Huan returned to his position in front of Christine, but this time left the gun at his side.

“If you don’t know how to disable the virus, perhaps your friend does. We’ll see how much he values your life.”

There was another knock on Xiang’s door a few minutes later. Huan opened the door to reveal Lieutenant Harrison standing in the doorway, his hands handcuffed behind his back, with a Cadre Department bodyguard behind him. Huan issued an order and Harrison was pushed into Xiang’s office. Harrison looked pale and his face was bruised and swollen, and the left side of his rugby shirt was caked with dried blood. Despite his worn exterior, however, his eyes remained bright, shifting between Christine and the men in the room. He stopped beside Christine, while the Cadre bodyguard moved to the side of the room.

As she wondered what had happened to Harrison after she stepped onto the ledge, her subconscious gnawed at her, telling her there was something important she was overlooking. She examined Harrison again, then the Cadre Department bodyguard, and she suddenly recognized the guard. He was Yang Minsheng, head of Xiang’s security detail.

The man who had set her free from the Great Hall and given her the flash drive.

Yang gave no indication he was willing to assist them, however. He stood with his hands at his sides, awaiting further orders. Still, there was a glimmer of hope.

“What is your friend’s name, Christine?” Huan asked. “I’m afraid he hasn’t been forthcoming with any useful information, including his name.”

Christine refused to answer.

“Well,” Huan said, “perhaps it’s not necessary.” He spoke to Harrison. “Tell us how to disable the virus and I will let Christine live. Refuse, and she dies.”

Harrison said nothing, staring blankly across the room.

Huan raised his pistol, pointing it at Christine’s head. “I’ll give you one more chance. Talk or she dies.”

Harrison stared at Huan dispassionately for a moment, then looked at Christine. “I’m sorry, Chris. You know I can’t help them.”

Even though she knew that would be Harrison’s response, his words stung nonetheless. Deep down, she wanted Harrison to love her enough to do whatever it took to save her life.

“It’s okay,” Christine replied.

Looking at the pistol in Huan’s hand, she focused on his index finger, wrapped around the trigger. As long as the flesh remained pink, there was hope. But when the flesh turned white, it would be over.

She glanced at Yang, but he remained as still as a statue. Christine then realized that Yang had killed the guard and given her the flash drive in secrecy — no one knew it was him. But to save her life, Yang would have to expose himself in front of Huan and Xiang. Would he? Or was his position within China’s highest body of government more important than her and Harrison’s lives?

As Christine prepared to meet her fate, Xiang interjected, speaking to Huan from behind his desk. The tone of his voice was unmistakable. A man in charge of an entire country, giving an order to a subordinate. Huan ignored Xiang’s words, pushing the cold metal barrel of the Glock against Christine’s forehead.

Huan turned his head toward Xiang as he spoke in English, apparently for Christine’s benefit, maintaining the pistol pressed firmly into her forehead.

“I do not disobey you lightly, Chenglei, but I must take revenge for what she has done. She destroyed years of painstaking preparation, and China is humiliated again by an imperial power. The lives of many men will amount to nothing.”

Xiang replied, also in English. “No one will obtain the revenge they deserve. Not me, for what was done to my mother, not America, for the lives lost in this conflict, and not you. Put down the gun.”

Huan ignored Xiang’s command. Turning back to Christine, he spoke in English.

“Time to die.”

Terror tore through Christine’s mind. Up to this second, she believed she would live; that she would somehow find a way out of her predicament. Her breathing turned shallow and her pulse began to race. She felt light-headed and she braced herself with her right hand, but that only caused her to lean forward, pressing her forehead more firmly into the pistol barrel.

Huan’s finger turned from pink to white as he began squeezing the trigger.

There was a flash of movement along the side of the room. Yang pulled his pistol from its holster, leveling it at Huan as he shouted in Chinese. Huan’s expression transitioned from surprise to malevolence, then he slowly lowered his gun and tossed it onto the floor.

The president’s stern voice captured Christine’s attention. He was yelling at Yang.

Yang ignored China’s president, keeping his eyes fixed on Huan as he reached into his pocket and tossed Christine a key. “Unlock your friend’s handcuffs. We’re going to need his help getting out of here.”

Christine pulled herself to her feet using Harrison’s arm for assistance, as Huan verbally lambasted Yang. A torrent of Chinese streamed from his mouth, his face turning red as he no doubt cursed Yang for his treason. Christine unlocked Harrison’s handcuffs, and he rubbed his wrists as he turned toward Christine and Huan. He was about to say something when a gunshot rang out.

Yang’s body jerked backward. Christine’s eyes went first to Yang. He’d been shot in the side. She looked across the room toward Xiang, still standing behind his desk, the top right drawer open. Xiang held a pistol in his hand, aimed at Yang.

Yang swiveled toward Xiang as China’s president fired again, this time hitting Yang in the chest. Yang collapsed onto the floor, his gun falling from his hand.

As the second shot rang out from Xiang’s pistol, Harrison was already moving. He took two steps toward Xiang, then launched himself headfirst over the president’s desk. Xiang swung his arm toward Harrison as he crashed into Xiang with a flying tackle. The two men disappeared behind the desk as they fell to the floor, and Christine could hear them struggling. There would normally be no doubt as to who would prevail, but Harrison was injured, with a bullet in his shoulder.

Christine looked at Huan, only a few feet away from her. Their eyes locked for an instant, then Huan’s eyes went to Yang’s pistol on the floor. Christine suddenly realized her peril. He was closer to the gun and would reach it first. She glanced down, locating her Glock ten feet away where Huan had tossed it.

Huan ducked down, reaching for Yang’s gun while Christine dove for hers. She landed on her stomach, sliding across the floor, ignoring the pain stabbing through her chest and left shoulder. Her outstretched right hand found the Glock, and she grabbed it. She slid her finger over the trigger as she twisted onto her back. Huan had Yang’s gun and was swinging it up. Christine took aim as Huan’s hand steadied, and both fired simultaneously. Huan’s bullet tore into Christine’s right thigh as her bullet hit him in the chest. He dropped to his knees, the gun tumbling from his hand.

As the sound of the gunshots faded, the door to Xiang’s office burst open. In the doorway stood the Cadre Department bodyguard who had taken station outside the president’s office. His gun was drawn and held extended with both hands. He surveyed the situation in Xiang’s office — Huan, Christine, and Yang on the floor, with the sounds of a struggle coming from behind the president’s desk. His eyes went back to Christine and the gun in her hand, and he took aim at her.

Christine swung the pistol toward the bodyguard and fired first. The bullet hit him in the chest, jerking his aim as he fired. The wood floor by Christine’s head splintered as a bullet impacted an inch to the left of her ear.

The bodyguard stumbled backward a step, but remained standing. He regained his balance, showing no indication he’d been injured. Christine then remembered the two bodyguards outside Xiang’s office had been wearing bulletproof vests. She raised her pistol, steadying up on the bodyguard’s head and squeezed the trigger again.

The pistol hammer fell on an empty chamber.

She was out of bullets.

Christine glanced at Yang’s pistol on the floor near Huan. He was still on his knees, supporting himself with both hands, oblivious to what was happening.

The Cadre Department Bodyguard adjusted the aim of his pistol. Christine knew there was no way she could reach Yang’s gun in time. The bodyguard’s hand steadied, his pistol pointed squarely at her head, and a shot rang out.

Christine flinched, but no bullet penetrated her body.

Instead, the bodyguard jolted backward again as two more shots were fired. Two bullets hit him in the chest, and a third in his forehead. His head snapped back and he fell to the ground.

Christine looked around and spotted Harrison standing behind Xiang’s desk, the president’s pistol in his hand. Behind him, Xiang was slowly pulling himself to his feet, his hand on the edge of his credenza along the back wall. Harrison moved quickly, heading toward the door to Xiang’s office. He dragged the bodyguard inside, then closed the door and locked it. He turned to assess Christine and the two men on the floor.

Both Huan and Yang were alive. Huan was still on his knees, his head bowed and hands on the floor, blood spreading across his shirt from the bullet hole in his chest. Yang was trying to push himself into a sitting position. Harrison kicked the gun away from Huan, then after a quick glance at Christine’s leg, hustled over to Yang, propping him against the wall. Harrison examined Yang’s wounds, glancing occasionally at Huan and Xiang.

Christine stood, doing her best to ignore the pain shooting through her thigh, and retrieved Yang’s pistol from the floor. She had unfinished business. She turned and leveled the gun at Xiang, who was standing behind his desk again.

“Order your military to stand down,” Christine said. “End this war.”

Xiang said nothing, glaring at Christine instead.

“Terminate all military operations,” she said, “or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

Xiang finally responded, “You would not kill an unarmed man in cold blood.”

Christine studied Xiang, searching for a way to coerce him. She needed to convince Xiang she was serious about killing him — in cold blood as he described it. As she stood with the pistol aimed at China’s president, pain from her broken ribs sliced through her chest with every breath, blood trickled down the side of her face from the laceration in her scalp, and blood from the bullet hole in her thigh soaked her pants leg. She glanced at Huan, the man responsible for all three injuries, still kneeling on his hands and knees a few feet away.

Christine swung the pistol toward Huan. He looked up at her, hatred burning in his eyes. She steadied her aim and squeezed the trigger. The back of Huan’s head exploded outward and he slumped to the floor.

Harrison, who had been tending to Yang’s wounds, stood and turned toward Christine, examining Huan’s body. “What the hell are you doing, Chris?”

Christine ignored Harrison as she swung the pistol back toward Xiang. “Let’s try this again. Order your military to stand down, or I’ll put you down.”

Xiang’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he reached for his phone.

“No funny business,” Christine said. She glanced at Yang, sitting up against the wall. “Are you lucid enough to listen to what he’s saying?”

Yang grimaced, then replied, “Yes.”

Xiang lifted the receiver to his ear and punched one of the buttons on the phone. A few seconds later, he spoke into the mouthpiece in Chinese. After a short pause, he hung up the phone. Christine looked at Yang, who nodded his head.

Christine returned her attention to Xiang, keeping her gun pointed at him.

“Thank you, Chenglei. Now it’s time for you to pay.”

Harrison intervened. “He’s done what you asked, Chris. There’s no reason to kill him.”

Christine replied, “This man is responsible for the death of tens of thousands. He needs to suffer the consequences for what he’s done.”

“You can’t kill him. He’s the president of China.”

“He’s the head of their army,” Christine said. “He deserves to suffer the same fate many of them have.”

“Put the gun down, Chris.”

Christine didn’t reply, focusing her attention on Xiang again. He stood there, stoically, giving no indication he feared for his life. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you,” she said.

Xiang was silent for a moment, then replied, “Because if you kill me, you will not make it out of the Great Hall alive. You are not simply choosing between my life and death, you are deciding yours. Let me live, and I will ensure you and your friends receive medical care and a safe return home.”

Christine considered Xiang’s words. He had a point. By killing him, she’d be sentencing herself, Harrison, and Yang to death. There was no way they could fight their way out of the Great Hall of the People.

“How can we trust you?” Christine asked.

“Despite what you may think, I am an honorable man, Miss O’Connor. You have my word.”

Christine’s hand wavered as she evaluated her options. Finally, her hand steadied as she made her decision.

78

On the Bridge of USS Reagan, Captain CJ Berger examined the two displays on the bulkhead in front of him. One, connected to the ship’s organic sensors, was void of enemy contacts, failing to display the danger headed toward them. The other monitor, however, told the real story. Connected to the Link 16 system, it recorded the location of every contact reported by the E-2C Hawkeyes above them, and well as every ship on the grid. Streaming in from three directions were another four hundred Chinese aircraft.

Despite the impending onslaught, it was eerily quiet on the aircraft carrier. The Air Boss on the Tower Deck had no incoming aircraft to direct, and the Flight Deck below was empty. All of Reagan’s aircraft were aloft, and there was no time to bring them back to refuel or rearm them.

Berger watched as the Chinese aircraft steadily closed the distance to the remaining thirty U.S. fighters. The Chinese would slice through the remnants of Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol like a hot knife through butter, then unleash a barrage of missiles that would overwhelm Reagan’s self-defense systems.

There was a slim chance the aircraft carrier would survive. She was a huge ship and could weather dozens of air-to-surface missile strikes, depending on where they hit. Reagan’s cruiser and destroyer escorts were not as fortunate. They were much smaller and would be devastated by even a few missiles. The amphibs were large but some of them had less capable self-defense systems.

The TAO’s voice crackled across the speaker next to Berger. He could hear the desperation in the TAO’s voice as he directed the strike controllers to engage all incoming Hostiles. As the orders went out from the strike controllers, Berger’s eyes returned to the displays in front of him, surprised by what he saw. The red icons had halted their advance toward Reagan.

Berger picked up the microphone, selecting CDC, his eyes still fixed on the display. “OPSO, Captain. Report status of inbound Hostiles.”

Captain Kent’s voice came across the speaker. “Captain, OPSO. We’re evaluating, but it appears all Hostiles have turned to an outbound course.”

Berger studied the display. Sure enough, the icons began inching outward. It took a moment for him to process the information. He had no idea why, but the Chinese aircraft were heading home.

He watched the display a while longer, verifying that the Chinese aircraft were indeed returning to base, then he finally allowed himself to relax. He knew that down in CDC, they would be relieved as well. But there would be no cheering. They had lost too many good men and women today.