Empire Rising

23

Commander Zeng Yong rotated swiftly on the attack periscope of his Shang class nuclear-powered submarine, the CNS Chang Cheng, pausing for longer than he should have. It was a sight to behold: one of America’s great aircraft carriers sinking. Zeng swung the periscope around, stopping to examine his target, the second carrier, marked by a single black plume on the horizon. Resuming his clockwise scan, he spotted two destroyers — one on each side of his submarine — forming a screen in front of his target. In a few minutes, Zeng and his crew would pass between the two warships and their helicopters equipped with dipping sonars and lightweight torpedoes. A few minutes more and their target would be within range of the Chang Cheng’s heavyweight Yu-6 torpedoes.

The Chang Cheng’s Periscope Attendant, standing between the submarine’s two scopes, called out loudly, “Time!”

Zeng stepped back, pressing the Lower Periscope button on the bulkhead behind him. The scope had been up for thirty seconds, the time limit he had set for periscope exposure. Not only did Zeng need to worry about being detected by the sonar systems aboard the destroyers and their helicopters, he also had to ensure his ship wasn’t detected by periscope search radars.

The attack scope descended to the bottom of the well and Zeng turned his attention to the fire control consoles just forward of the two periscopes, studying the red symbols on their screens. The two destroyers were holding steady on course and speed, giving no indication they had detected Zeng’s submarine. It appeared the aircraft carrier was dead in the water, making his job that much easier.

Four days earlier, Zeng had left port along with two other Shang class submarines, and they had caught an American submarine monitoring the port of Zhoushan. Zeng’s orders were clear. He had been surprised at how easy it was; the American submarine hadn’t even fired back. Either the submarine’s captain had been caught unprepared or the vaunted American Submarine Force was more propaganda than capability. Not a single United States submarine remained in the Western Pacific — every submarine on deployment had been sunk.

The Americans were arrogant, sending in their aircraft carriers without submarines to protect them. Is that how little they thought of their Chinese counterparts? The Shang class submarines were a marvel of engineering, built with the latest sound-quieting enhancements and new, sophisticated sensors, and his crew was well trained. Zeng’s thoughts moved past the glorious moment when he would sink the American carrier, to his first engagement with a prepared American fast attack.

The Periscope Attendant called out, “Prepare!”

Zeng took station behind his attack periscope again, and a few seconds later, the Periscope Attendant followed up. “Next observation!” Zeng pressed the Raise Periscope button on the bulkhead, folding down the periscope handles as the scope emerged from its well. Placing his eye to the periscope, he swung it in the direction of the closest American destroyer, pausing to examine it for a second before continuing on to the second. Satisfied that neither destroyer had maneuvered toward them and no helicopters had repositioned along his path, Zeng stopped on the bearing to the American aircraft carrier. It was clearly visible now, no longer a gray speck beneath a spiraling black plume.

“Prepare for observation, Contact One!” Zeng called out.

The Fire Controlman announced, “Ready!”

“Bearing, mark!” Zeng pressed a red button on the right periscope handle, sending the bearing of the contact to fire control. “Range, one division, high power! Angle on the bow, starboard ninety!”

He stepped back and pressed the Lower Scope button as the Periscope Assistant announced, “Range, sixteen thousand, eight hundred yards!”

Zeng compared the visual range to the distance calculated by the submarine’s automated fire control system. The range was an exact match, and the calculated speed of their target was indeed zero. Zeng smiled. With the American aircraft carrier dead in the water and a starboard ninety-degree angle on the bow, his torpedoes couldn’t miss. The only question was how many torpedoes it would take.

One heavyweight torpedo would sink most combatants. An aircraft carrier would take several, depending on where along the carrier’s keel the torpedoes exploded. Zeng decided to play it safe. The Chang Cheng had six torpedo tubes and they would therefore launch a salvo of six torpedoes. He wouldn’t get a second chance. Once the torpedoes were detected, every anti-submarine sensor and weapon would be directed his way. He’d be forced deep, sprinting to safety before he could return to periscope depth, hopefully in time to savor the last minutes of the aircraft carrier sinking beneath the ocean waves.

Checking the fire control solution, Zeng calculated they would be within firing range in another two minutes. It was time to prepare their torpedoes. Standing between his submarine’s two periscopes, Zeng gave the order.

“Prepare to fire, Contact One, all tubes!”

The men in Control responded immediately, powering up the Yu-6 heavyweight torpedoes loaded in their tubes and sending the target solution to the torpedoes’ guidance and control computers. A minute passed and the submarine’s Executive Officer announced, “Ready!”

“Open muzzle doors, all torpedo tubes!”

A minute later, Zeng received the report that all doors were open. Satisfied all preparations were complete, he approached the periscope for a final observation. Pressing the Raise Periscope button, he announced loudly, “Final Observation, Contact One!”

Zeng placed his eye to the scope again, swinging it in the direction of his target. At this range, he could almost see the texture of the black smoke spiraling upward. The target was still dead in the water. Zeng pressed the button on the periscope handle, sending a final bearing to fire control. Stepping back, he lowered the periscope. But just before giving the command to launch their six torpedoes, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice blared across the speakers in Control.

“Incoming torpedo, bearing zero-nine-zero! An American MK 48!”

24

Standing in the Control Room of his Virginia class fast attack submarine, Commander Jim Latham peered over Petty Officer Colby Marshall’s shoulder, watching the green inverted V on his console speed toward the red semicircle to the west. His crew was at Battle Stations, every console in Control manned, with supervisors crowding behind them. Commander Latham noted with satisfaction that there was little change in their target’s position or course. In less than a minute, their torpedo would detect Master One.

Texas had been speeding west at ahead flank for the better part of four days, reactor power pegged at one hundred percent from the moment they received their orders. They’d had a head start on the rest of the Pacific Fleet; Texas was already outbound on the first leg of her six-month West Pac deployment, headed to relieve USS Jacksonville in the East China Sea. But as Texas surged westward, Latham had been informed they would not relieve the Los Angeles class submarine. Jacksonville had been sunk.

Texas, however, was no Los Angeles class submarine. She was the second of the new Virginia class, quieter at ahead full than a Los Angeles class submarine was tied to the pier. And Texas had a full Torpedo Room of the Navy’s newest Heavyweight torpedo, the MK 48 Mod 7 CBASS, built with state-of-the art processors loaded with advanced search algorithms.

Commander Latham had timed it perfectly. The Chinese submarine hadn’t detected the launch of their quiet MK 48 torpedo and he had let it close to almost point-blank range before activating the torpedo’s sonar. The Chinese crew probably had no idea they had less than a minute to live. Data from the torpedo began streaming into the combat control system through the thin wire trailing behind their weapon. Their torpedo was increasing speed and the frequency of its sonar pings. It was homing on its target.

Zeng spun toward the sonar display between the two periscopes, observing the bright white trace burning in at 090 degrees. How had an American submarine approached to within firing range undetected? That was an important question, but the most pressing issue was evading the incoming torpedo. That effort began with speed, and his submarine was at periscope depth, lumbering along at five knots.

He shouted out his orders. “Helm, ahead flank! Hard left rudder! Launch torpedo decoy!”

Confusion reigned in Control as the Chang Cheng began evasive maneuvers. They were still in the middle of Firing Procedures, their torpedoes locked on to the disabled aircraft carrier. Zeng needed a torpedo to fire back at the American submarine. To do that, he would have to cancel his Firing Order. Zeng decided the carrier could wait; it would still be there after the American submarine was dealt with.

“Cancel Fire, Contact One! Reactive Fire, bearing zero-nine-zero, Tube One!”

The Chang Cheng’s Weapons Officer acknowledged the Captain’s order, reassigning the torpedo in Tube One to the initial bearing of the incoming torpedo, back down the throat of the American submarine that had fired it. It would take less than thirty seconds; their torpedoes were already powered up and the torpedo outer doors were open, but Zeng was distracted by the frantic report from Sonar over the speakers in Control.

“Torpedo is homing! Ignoring torpedo decoy!”

Zeng’s face went slack. They had detected the American torpedo only twenty seconds ago and it was already homing on his submarine, disregarding the decoy they had launched. The American submarine Captain had placed his weapon perfectly, giving Zeng insufficient time to react. As the pings of the incoming torpedo’s sonar echoed through the Chang Cheng’s hull, Zeng realized the American Submarine Force was as capable as China feared.

The fast attack submarine shuddered and the sonar screens whited out as the shock wave from the explosion swept past USS Texas. Latham’s Weapons Officer called out, reporting their torpedo had exploded.

“Loss of wire continuity. Final telemetry data correlates with Master One.”

Less than a moment later, the Sonar Supervisor confirmed their torpedo had sunk its target. “Hull breakup noises, bearing two-seven-zero.”

Latham glanced at the geographic plot on one of the combat control consoles. Where there was one Chinese submarine, there would soon be another. They had to stay focused and begin their search for the next one. However, Texas would not hunt alone. Two fast attack submarines from Guam were close on Texas’s heels, only an hour away. And not far behind them, twenty-four more fast attack submarines from Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States were surging west at ahead flank speed. China had caught the three deployed American submarines by surprise. The remaining twenty-seven fast attack submarines in the Pacific Fleet would not be caught unaware, and China would pay dearly for what it had done.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra one-five, possible Shang class nuclear submarine, bearing two-five-zero.”

Latham acknowledged Sonar’s report. A second Chinese submarine, just south of the first one, was no doubt creeping toward Nimitz. He stood erect, making his announcement loudly so everyone in Control could hear. “Designate Sierra one-five as Master Two. Track Master Two.” Turning to his Weapons Control Coordinator, Latham followed up. “Assign presets for Master Two to Tube Two.”

Sonar called out again. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra one-six, also possible Shang class nuclear submarine, bearing two-eight-eight.”

Latham frowned. They’d have to prosecute both submarines simultaneously, engaging first one, then the other. “Designate Sierra one-six as Master Three. Master Two is Primary contact of interest, Master Three is Secondary. Assign presets for Master Three to Tube Three.”

Texas had its hands full, engaging two submarines at once. Unlike the Chinese submarine they’d just sunk, these two crews knew an American submarine was in the area and would not be surprised. Still, Texas was the quieter submarine, carrying more sophisticated sensors and weapons. It looked like Commander Latham and his crew were going to have a busy day.

25

The gentle vibration pulsing through Christine’s body finally woke her up. Her eyes fluttered open but her vision remained shrouded in darkness. Breathing was an effort for some reason, and she felt something over her face. The upholstered seat of her sedan had somehow turned into hard metal, and she was cold, shivering beneath a thin, metallic blanket. There was a source of heat on her right side. She leaned toward it and her arm ignited in pain, clearing the fog from her mind.

Christine realized she had a full-face diver’s mask on, and the pieces of the puzzle came together. She was underwater. Looking around closely, she made out the dim outline of the vehicle she was in — a James Bond — like mini-sub with two men in black scuba gear seated in front of her in the open-top submarine. Between the two men, she could see the faint illumination of green electronic displays. A third diver sat beside her on the right, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.

The man beside her noticed her movement and released his arm from around her. He reached down, retrieving a thin tube he bent with both hands. The tube began to glow a soft green and he held up one hand, displaying five fingers. Christine shook her head, not understanding. The man retracted one finger, then another, until there were none left, then returned to five fingers. Christine nodded her head this time, pretty sure he meant they would reach their destination in five minutes.

The man dropped the glow stick over the side and wrapped his arm around her again. Christine had no idea who he was, but she welcomed the warmth of his body, shifting her weight gently toward him, careful not to place too much pressure on her arm. She felt around inside the thin blanket. She was still in her clothes, but a bandage had thankfully been taped to her arm. The last thing they needed was a trail of blood in the water. With her luck tonight, sharks wouldn’t be far behind.

Five minutes later, Christine felt the submersible slowing, and for the first time she noticed there was a second, identical mini-sub ten feet to her left with four divers in it. It drifted to a halt as Christine’s vehicle continued toward a mammoth black shape materializing out of the darkness. They were headed toward a submarine, coming up from astern over the submarine’s missile deck. At the forward end of the deck, just aft of the sail rising before her, were two nine-foot-diameter chambers, each with their door swung open ninety degrees.

Christine’s submersible slowed to a hover behind the right chamber, sinking until it came to rest with a gentle bump on a set of rails extended from the chamber. Two divers appeared along each side of the submersible, quickly latching it to the rails as the two men in front of the mini-sub and the one beside her pushed themselves up and out of the vehicle. The man next to Christine extended his hand, guiding Christine out of her seat as she shed her blanket. With a powerful kick of his fins, he pulled Christine into the chamber.

Christine joined the three men from her submersible on the starboard side of the chamber, and once their vehicle was retracted inside, they were joined by the four divers who had tended to the mini-sub. The large chamber door shut with a gentle thud. Red lights flicked on, and an air pocket soon appeared at the top of the chamber, the water level gradually lowering. When the water level fell below her neck, Christine and the divers removed their facemasks.

The man next to Christine turned toward her, and she stared into the eyes of someone she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Jake Harrison flashed a brief smile before he spoke.

“Welcome aboard Michigan, Chris. It’s been a long time.”

Before Christine could respond, Harrison continued, “How’s your arm? I did the best I could underwater.”

Glancing down, Christine noticed what looked like two giant Band-Aids taped to her arm, one on each side. The bullet had passed clean through, entering the back of her triceps and exiting the front of her arm.

She looked up at Harrison, her teeth chattering between words. “You did great.” She knew she should say more, but had difficulty finding the right words. She would need time to process her thoughts. And emotions.

The water finished draining from the chamber and Harrison stood. “Do you feel strong enough to make it on your own?”

Christine nodded. Although her arm ached, she felt fine otherwise, except for the deep chill throughout her body. Harrison shed his scuba gear and assisted with Christine’s, then escorted her to the rear of the chamber, dropping down through two hatches. Christine followed, shivering uncontrollably, climbing carefully down a metal ladder inside what looked like a missile tube. Two levels down, she stepped onto a steel deck in a space outfitted with showerheads along the perimeter of the tube.

Harrison spun the hand wheel of a two-foot-diameter hatch in the side of the tube, and the hatch opened outward. He stepped through, thrusting his hand back inside to help. Christine took his hand and slid through feet-first. She emerged to be greeted by Harrison and three men wearing blue coveralls — a Commander and two enlisted petty officers based on the insignia on their collars — standing in a narrow passageway.

The Commander surveyed Christine with a critical eye, glancing at her arm as he wrapped a thick blue blanket around her. “I’m Commander Joe Aleo, Miss O’Connor, the Medical Officer aboard. I understand you’ve been shot in the arm. Do you have any other injuries?”

Christine shook her head, still shivering. “I think I’m fine otherwise.”

“Let me get some quick vitals on you first, then we’ll get you warmed up.”

He guided Christine to a short equipment cabinet nearby, using it as a makeshift chair. Christine slid onto the top of the cabinet, her teeth chattering as one of the petty officers wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her left arm and the Commander pulled a small flashlight from the breast pocket of his coveralls. After a quick examination of her pupils, heart rate, blood pressure, and injured arm, Commander Aleo seemed satisfied.

Stepping back, he turned to Harrison, hovering nearby during Christine’s evaluation. “We’ve got it from here. Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Sure thing, Doc. I’m going to warm up in the shower,” Harrison replied, then turned to Christine. “See you around, ma’am.” He stepped back through the hatch into the missile tube, pulling the door shut behind him.

Aleo turned to the two petty officers. “We need to warm Miss O’Connor up as well.”

One of the petty officers replied, “Should we kick Lieutenant Harrison out of Tube One and send him to Tube Two with the other SEALs?”

Aleo thought for a moment. “No. We’ll need more privacy to coordinate everything. Take her to one of the Missile Compartment heads.” He returned his gaze to Christine, his eyes examining her from her chest to her feet. “I’ll get some dry clothes for you, and do my best to find something that fits. What size shoes do you wear?”

“Size seven and a half, women’s.” Aleo gave her a blank stare for a second before Christine clarified. “That’d be a size six in men’s.”

Aleo smiled. “Thanks, Miss O’Connor. I’ll see what I can do.”

The two petty officers acknowledged Aleo’s order, then led Christine to a staircase at the forward end of the compartment. After descending to the next level, they headed to the starboard side, then aft until they reached a bathroom, which consisted of a pair of shower stalls on one side and four sinks on the other, with a bank of three toilets against the far wall.

“Stay in the shower until you’re warmed up,” one of the petty officers said. “Just holler if you need anything. We’ll be waiting outside.”

The petty officer closed the door and Christine turned her attention to the three-by-three-foot showers. She selected the first stall, adjusting the water temperature to as hot as she could stand it, then stripped her wet clothes off, dropping them on the floor. Stepping into the shower, she pulled the curtain closed behind her. She let the hot water cascade over her head and down her shoulders, letting the warmth seep in, alternately letting the water flow over her chest and down her back.

The submarine began to tilt and Christine braced herself against the shower wall until the deck leveled out. She stood under the shower, her skin eventually changing from pasty white back to its normal color. The chill faded from her body, yet she was still shivering. She wondered why, then realized she wasn’t shivering; she was trembling.

She had survived by the narrowest of margins. Along the way, Peng and their driver hadn’t been so fortunate. Why did she get to live while others died? She was going to chalk it up to luck, but then she recalled a flash of metal and strong hands pulling her from the car at the bottom of the lagoon. No, it wasn’t luck. One of the SEALs, probably Harrison, had cut her seat belt and pulled her from the wreck. Christine took a deep breath, forcing herself to breathe slower, trying to release the tension from her body. Her trembling gradually eased, then stopped.

Deciding the shower had done its job, she turned off the water and pulled back the curtain in search of a towel, and was startled to find another woman leaning against the bank of bathroom sinks, towel in hand. She was dressed similarly to the men she’d seen so far, wearing one-piece blue coveralls and white sneakers. Her blond hair was cropped short and she was remarkably tall, almost six feet.

She stepped forward, handing the towel to Christine. “Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, Miss O’Connor. Welcome aboard Michigan.”

Christine took the towel and began drying herself as Kelly continued her introduction. “I’m the submarine’s Supply Officer and one of three female officers aboard.”

Christine recalled that the Navy had finally decided to integrate women into the Submarine Force, and in 2012 the first wave of female officers, in sets of three due to the officer stateroom sleeping accommodations, had begun reporting aboard Ohio class SSBNs and SSGNs.

As Christine finished drying herself, her eyes went to a stack of clothes on the sink next to the Lieutenant Commander. Kelly followed her gaze. “I was able to scrounge up two female coveralls that should fit. We call them poopie suits.” She paused, eyeing Christine’s naked body critically. “Although they’ll be a tight fit in the chest area for you. I think they do that on purpose.” Kelly offered a wry smile. “As for underwear, we don’t have any in supply, so I had to borrow some. Doc said you were pretty close in size to Lieutenant JG Clark.” Kelly placed her hand on the set of white bra, panties, and socks. “As long as wearing someone else’s underwear doesn’t squick you out.” She offered another wry smile. “Hmmm, bra size is going to be a problem. Lieutenant Herndon may be able to help out. Just skip it for now.”

“No worries,” Christine said as she exchanged the towel for the clothing. “Anything dry right now will be wonderful.”

“Great,” Kelly replied. “Let’s get you dressed and introduced to the ship’s Captain. Or would you rather go straight to Medical?” Kelly eyed the bandage on Christine’s arm.

“I feel fine. Just a flesh wound,” Christine said, wondering if Kelly would get the Monty Python reference.

Kelly laughed. “All right. Captain first, then Medical. Then we’ll get you settled in. You’ll be berthing with the XO. He’s got a spare bunk in his stateroom and a private bathroom he shares with the Captain. Overall, it’s probably better than cramming you into our stateroom and forcing Clark and Herndon to hot-rack. Plus, all the dignitaries sleep in the XO’s stateroom. We can’t be treating you any different because you’re a woman, right?”

“Right.” Christine agreed in principle, although she honestly preferred to be crammed in with the women.

As Christine donned the dry clothing, she asked Kelly about her age. “You look a bit older than I’d expect a new submarine officer to be, fresh out of college.”

“I’m thirty-three,” Kelly replied, “on my third sea tour, although this is my first submarine. The first trio of female officers sent to a submarine typically includes a more senior Supply Officer who can provide guidance to the two junior officers. I’ve already been around the block a few times, just on top of the ocean’s surface, not beneath.”

Christine zipped up her coveralls, which fit remarkably well aside from being tight around her chest, then donned a pair of new white sneakers, which turned out to be a perfect fit. She tied her hair into a knot behind her head, then examined herself in the mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, with no makeup and wet, stringy hair dyed jet black, she looked like death warmed over. But at least she was alive. And she had delivered the flash drive to the submarine.

She bent down to her wet slacks on the floor, sliding the flash drive, still in its waterproof bag, from the slit in the seam, and deposited it into the right pocket of her coveralls.

She stood and turned toward Kelly, who opened the door to the bathroom.

“Follow me, ma’am.”

Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas led the way forward, describing the submarine compartments along the way, then up a staircase, which the crew called a ladder, two levels into Control. There were about ten men in the twenty-by-thirty-foot Control Room, crammed with equipment consoles and two periscopes, both lowered. Haas and Christine stopped near four men leaning over an electronic display table — a Captain, a Lieutenant Commander, and two Lieutenants. The four men didn’t notice Christine’s arrival in Control; they were engaged in a quiet conversation as they examined an electronic map of the coast and nearby islands, filled with dozens of red symbols.

The four men looked up as Lieutenant Commander Haas spoke. “Excuse me, Captain. Miss O’Connor is here to meet you.”

The Captain turned to greet Christine. He was much older than the other three men, by at least ten years, his gray hair giving away his age. He extended his hand, accompanied with a warm smile on his face. “Welcome aboard Michigan, Miss O’Connor.”

Christine rarely read people wrong, and she noticed a darkness in the Captain’s eyes that belied his friendly demeanor. Glancing at his nametag on his blue coveralls, she realized why. A pit formed in her stomach and she felt the blood drain from her face. Moments earlier, she had laid eyes on a man she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Now, she stood before the last man she wanted to meet.

Captain Murray Wilson.

26

Standing on Vulture’s Row, on the port side of the aircraft carrier’s Island superstructure, Captain Alex Harrow leaned over the railing in the brisk wind, surveying the damage to Nimitz’s Flight Deck. Black smoke from the fires raging belowdecks billowed upward from the forty-foot-wide crater, but the immediate danger had passed. Although the fires still burned, the carrier’s ammunition magazines were no longer threatened. USS Texas had also arrived, already sinking two Chinese submarines and prosecuting a third. Unfortunately, while Nimitz had been given a reprieve, the two air wings circling above weren’t as fortunate.

Carrier Air Wing ELEVEN Commander, Captain Helen Corcoran, joined Harrow on Vulture’s Row, assessing the damaged Flight Deck in silence. The Iraq War veteran didn’t need to say anything; her eyes said it all. In less than twenty minutes, her jets would begin falling from the sky, their fuel tanks empty. Likewise for George Washington’s air wing, circling in tandem with Nimitz’s above the lone remaining carrier. Corcoran had considered Bingoing all aircraft to Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, until the Air Force fighters recalled by 18th Wing had been shot down by another swarm of missiles. Their aircraft were safer inside Nimitz’s screen of destroyers and cruisers. However, if Harrow didn’t return Nimitz to flight operations, figuring out how to land jets on three-fourths of a Flight Deck, what remained of two air wings would crash into the Pacific Ocean.

Restoring the nuclear reactors to operation was crucial. Control rods in both reactors had unlatched from the impact of the DF-21 missile, and both plants had been shut down by the reactors’ core protection circuitry. Reactor Department personnel were frantically inspecting both reactor plants for damage, and Harrow had already given permission to conduct Fast Recovery Start-Ups if no damage had been incurred. If there was any possibility of returning to flight operations, Nimitz needed both reactors on-line. He needed speed.

The only way Corcoran’s jets could land was if Nimitz was racing into the wind, allowing the aircraft to land at a relatively slow speed. Not only had the missile blasted a crater in the Flight Deck, it also damaged the four arresting cables. The jets normally latched one of the arresting wires with their tailhooks as they landed, slowing the aircraft to a halt in two seconds. Without arresting cables, the aircraft would have to slow using nothing but their brakes. Even with the carrier at ahead flank, recovering aircraft without arresting cables and with a forty-foot hole in the Flight Deck would normally be an impossible feat.

Thank God for bad weather. Harrow looked up into the overcast skies, blustery winds blowing beneath a heavy blanket of steel-gray clouds. The winds were now howling from the south at sixty knots. If Nimitz could restore propulsion and head into those winds at maximum speed, they might have a chance. As Harrow wondered how much longer it would take to restart the reactors, the lights inside the Bridge flickered. The normal fluorescent lighting blinked on, and the yellow emergency lighting faded. Harrow left Vulture’s Row, stepping inside the Bridge as a report came across the announcing circuit.

“Bridge, DC Central. Fast Recovery Start-Up of both reactors is complete. Ready to answer all Bells.”

Harrow turned to the Conning Officer, Lieutenant Nathan Reynolds. “Bring her into the wind and increase speed to ahead flank.”

Lieutenant Reynolds complied. “Helm, all ahead flank. Right full rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.” As Harrow’s wounded carrier turned into the wind, his eyes shifted between the Voyage Management System — displaying ship’s speed — and the MORIAH wind velocity display. Captain Corcoran stopped beside him, no doubt doing the mental calculations, determining if the carrier’s speed combined with the blustery headwind were enough to offset the speed of the aircraft as they landed.

As Nimitz steadied on course 180, the Air Boss, stationed in the Tower one deck above the Bridge, reported over the 23-MC, “Bridge, Tower. I need a Green Deck. Aircraft 612 is on emergency fuel and making its approach. 714 and 628 are also inbound.”

Harrow looked aft through the Bridge windows, but couldn’t see the approaching aircraft. Thick black smoke from the fire belowdecks roiled upward through the gaping hole in the Flight Deck, obscuring his vision. Landing would be even more perilous than he had envisioned. Land too early and the aircraft’s landing gear would catch on the twisted metal edges of the crater, tearing the jet to pieces. Land too late and the aircraft would careen off the front of the carrier’s bow. To complicate matters further, the pilots would be landing blind, their vision obscured by the thick black smoke trailing behind Nimitz.

To compensate for the lack of visibility, Corcoran had ordered automated landings, directing combat systems to recalculate the landing point to just forward of the crater in the Flight Deck. Unfortunately, that solved only one of the problems. The other was wind speed.

“It’s not going to work,” Corcoran said.

Harrow turned back to examine ship and wind speed, then ran the numbers, confirming Corcoran’s assessment. The relative speed of the approaching aircraft was still too high; they wouldn’t be able to stop before running out of runway. Harrow worked through the calculations again, determining how much faster Nimitz would have to travel.

They needed five more knots.

But the carrier was already at maximum speed, both reactors operating at one hundred percent power.

Harrow turned toward Corcoran, his eyes locking with hers. In a few minutes her jets would begin dropping from the sky, the pilots ejecting as their engines flamed out — two entire air wings lost, with the pilots splashing into waters infested with enemy submarines. With only Texas protecting them, Nimitz couldn’t loiter while the strike group rescued their pilots. As distasteful as it was, the safety of his carrier and the six thousand men and women aboard were a higher priority. He would be forced to abandon the pilots. There was nothing he could do about it.

The hell there was.

Harrow picked up the handheld wireless. “DC Central, Bridge. This is the Captain. Put the RO on line.”

A few seconds later, the Reactor Officer responded. “RO.”

Harrow needed to eke out five more knots from the main engines. With both reactors already at full power, there was only one option.

“RO, Captain. Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred ten percent power.” There was silence on the line. Harrow knew what his Reactor Officer was thinking. He’d been ordered to break the most sacred rule in the nuclear power navy.

Violate reactor safety.

But Harrow had the authority and no alternative. He wasn’t going to lose what was left of two air wings because of a measly five knots. It was likely there was enough of a safety margin to allow reactor operation at one hundred ten percent power for the time required to retrieve the two air wings. If the reactors required new cores when this was over, so be it.

The Reactor Officer finally acknowledged Harrow’s order. “Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred ten percent power, both reactors, RO, aye.”

Harrow returned his attention to the Voyage Management System, and a moment later, the carrier’s speed began inching upward. The Air Boss’s voice came across the 23-MC again. “Bridge, Tower. One minute before the first recovery. I need a Green Deck and I need it now!”

The digital speed indicator ticked upward, increasing in one-tenth-knot increments as the first jet descended toward the carrier’s Flight Deck. Harrow moved next to the Captain’s chair. He had no choice. Reaching over to the communication console, he pressed the small green button, giving the Air Boss a Green Deck for flight operations.

Harrow joined Corcoran at the port Bridge windows, looking aft as his stomach turned queasy, waiting to learn if they had increased speed enough. The incoming pilot would be blind now, enveloped in the thick black smoke trailing behind the carrier. The seconds ticked away and there was still nothing.

The first jet emerged from the black plume, its wheels touching down just past the edge of the crater. The Hornet’s ailerons flared upward and a puff of white smoke appeared by the jet’s tires, the smoke trailing from the aircraft’s landing gear as it sped toward the bow. Harrow leaned forward, urging his ship faster through the water, buying the extra few feet that would let the aircraft stop before it ran out of real estate. The jet screeched to a halt with its nose landing gear only four feet from the end of the Flight Deck.

Harrow let out a sigh of relief as the jet turned sharply to starboard, moving slowly out of the way as a second jet emerged from the black smoke, touching down with a screech and a puff of white smoke from its tires. As the first jet moved toward the forward starboard elevator, the second jet also ground to a halt four feet from the carrier’s bow.

One by one, Captain Corcoran’s air wing, followed by George Washington’s, landed safely aboard USS Nimitz.

27

In the submarine’s Radio Room, just forward of Control, Christine stood between Captain Murray Wilson and the ship’s Executive Officer, waiting while the submarine’s leading Radioman, Chief Jeff Walkup, slid Christine’s flash drive into a laptop computer. It was their last chance to retrieve the data from the small device she’d been handed in the Great Hall of the People. Although Michigan’s crew was normally prohibited from inserting flash drives into their computers for fear of viruses, they’d been given the go-ahead to use stand-alone computers. Unfortunately, none of the computers so far could access what appeared to be a simple flash drive.

The last few hours aboard Michigan had passed quickly. Following her introduction to Captain Wilson, the submarine’s Medical Officer had followed up with an extensive evaluation, replacing the ad hoc Band-Aids applied by Lieutenant Harrison during her underwater journey with a white gauze bandage wrapped around her upper arm. There was little collateral damage aside from the small hole in her arm, which Commander Aleo had thoroughly disinfected, then stitched shut on both ends. Her arm now rested in a sling, which made traversing through the submarine’s hatches difficult, with only one arm to keep her balance.

As Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas explained, Christine had moved in with the Executive Officer. She’d been given his bunk, with the submarine’s second-in-command moving to the spare upper rack. She hadn’t had a chance to interface much with Lieutenant Commander Paul Greenwood though, as he had been busy assisting Wilson in Control during their tense transit through the Bohai Sea.

Chief Walkup removed the flash drive from his computer, turning to Christine and the two officers beside her. “It’s a secure flash drive, which requires an encryption key.”

“Encryption key?” Wilson asked.

“A password,” Walkup explained. “But good luck breaking it. Depending on the length of the password, you could be talking over a trillion possibilities. And if the password uses Chinese characters instead of English letters and numbers, you can add a lot more zeros to that number. If you want to break into this flash drive, we’re going to need to get it to one of our three-letter agencies.”

Chief Walkup handed the flash drive back to Wilson.

Wilson studied the flash drive in his palm before replying. “The Pentagon wants this data immediately, by whatever means required.” Wilson handed the flash drive to his XO. “Prep for UAV launch.”

A few minutes later, Christine stood next to the Executive Officer in the aft port corner of Control as Michigan prepared to ascend to periscope depth. As the Officer of the Deck made final preparations, Lieutenant Commander Greenwood filled Christine in on the details of Michigan’s UAVs. “We’ve got two types of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles aboard. The first is the Switchblade, which we launch out the bottom of the submarine from our Trash Disposal Unit. Unfortunately, our little shit-bird — pardon the French — doesn’t have the required range. We’ve got to get the flash drive to Okinawa, which means we’ll have to use one of our large UAVs. We have seven UAVs instead of Tomahawks stored in Missile Tube Ten.”

Moments earlier, Greenwood had handed Christine’s flash drive to an awaiting Missile Tech, who opened a hatch in the side of the missile tube and removed an access panel in the launch canister, inserting the drive into a compartment in the UAV. Greenwood explained the UAV would be ejected to the ocean’s surface, where its container would pop open and deliver an electric charge to the UAV, launching it. The UAV was an electric fuel cell-powered X-wing airfoil with just enough range to reach the Air Force base on Okinawa.

Lieutenant Cordero, the submarine’s Officer of the Deck, announced Michigan was proceeding to periscope depth, and all conversation in Control ceased. It was imperative they ensure there were no Chinese forces nearby that could detect their launch. As the submarine rose toward the surface, Christine leaned forward, compensating for the ten-degree up angle. The only sound in Control was the occasional depth report from the Diving Officer of the Watch.

The submarine’s angle leveled off and Cordero began circling on the Conn, twisting the periscope in a continuous clockwise rotation, searching the horizon for nearby ships.

After determining there were no ships that were a collision hazard, Cordero announced, “No close contacts!”

Muted conversations resumed in Control, accompanied by the faint staccato chirp from the early warning antenna mounted on top of the periscope, searching the surrounding airwaves for enemy radars. Cordero followed up with several revolutions with the periscope optics at maximum elevation, scouring the sky for aircraft capable of detecting their periscope.

A moment later, Sonar reported no contacts, followed by the operator in Radio who monitored the submarine’s Electromagnetic Surveillance Measures (ESM) equipment, who reported there were no contacts exceeding a signal strength of five, and none with threat parameters. Lieutenant Cordero, meanwhile, followed his quick assessment of the surface and air with a detailed survey of all quadrants in high power, finally reporting to the submarine’s Captain that the ship held no air or surface contacts.

Satisfied it was safe to launch their UAV, Captain Wilson rose from his chair on the Conn and entered Michigan’s Battle Management Center, located aft of the Control Room, where the submarine’s crew conducted Tomahawk mission planning and coordinated its SEAL operations.

Christine followed Wilson into the room, which was crammed with twenty-five tactical consoles, each with a keyboard and dual trackballs plus two color displays, one mounted over the other. Thirteen of the consoles were mounted on the port side of the ship with an aisle between them — seven consoles facing outboard and six inboard, while the other twelve consoles on the starboard side faced aft, arranged in four rows of three. Mounted on the aft bulkhead were two sixty-inch plasma screens, along with a third sixty-inch display on the forward bulkhead behind Christine.

Only one of the twenty-five consoles was manned this morning, and Captain Wilson stopped behind the petty officer manning the middle console on the port side. Wilson glanced at the display on the forward bulkhead, watching a video feed from a camera mounted on the back of the submarine’s sail.

Next to Wilson stood the ship’s Weapons Officer, Lieutenant Karl Stewart, who wore a sound-powered phone headset, a communication system that functioned using the energy of the speaker’s voice, a critical circuit should the submarine lose electrical power. Stewart held the mouthpiece close to his lips, waiting for the order from Captain Wilson.

“Prepare to launch UAV.”

Stewart acknowledged Wilson’s order, then ordered Missile Control Center, one deck below, “Open Missile Tube Ten.”

On the video screen in the Command Center, Christine watched the muzzle hatch atop Tube Ten lift slowly upward, coming to rest in its open position a few seconds later.

“Ready to launch UAV from Missile Tube Ten, MAC One,” Stewart announced.

“Launch UAV,” Wilson ordered.

Lieutenant Stewart relayed the Captain’s order over the sound-powered phones and a few seconds later, a canister was ejected from Missile Tube Ten, disappearing as it streaked toward the ocean’s surface.

Wilson’s and Stewart’s attention turned to the petty officer in front of them. A minute later, after manipulating a trackball and flipping through several screens on the lower display, the petty officer announced, “Positive control of UAV obtained, sending landing coordinates now.”

A few seconds later the evolution was complete — Michigan’s UAV was on its way to Okinawa.

28

In the Situation Room beneath the West Wing of the White House, the conversation took a turn for the worse as the president aimed pointed questions at the next man in the military chain of command. The president was seated at the head of the conference table, flanked on his left by Secretary of Defense Nelson Jennings and Captain Steve Brackman, while on his right sat chief of staff Kevin Hardison and Secretary of State Lindsay Ross. The rest of the chairs around the table were empty. Jennings had planned to bring along the Joint Chiefs of Staff for today’s meeting, but at the last minute decided to leave them in the Pentagon for a final review of Pacific Command’s plan for full response, now that three additional carrier strike groups were almost within striking distance of Taiwan. Jennings was well briefed on the plan and could explain it to the president. But first, he had to explain what had happened to the first two strike groups.

“How the hell did they sink one of our carriers?” the president asked.

“We almost lost both carriers,” Jennings clarified, not helping the situation. The president stared at Jennings, waiting for an answer. Jennings continued, “China was able to insert malware into our Aegis software build, then activate it via our own tactical data links. The malware disrupted the Aegis Warfare Systems aboard our cruisers and destroyers, and they couldn’t shoot down most of the incoming missiles.

“The good news, however, is that Lake Erie was able to bring up her Aegis fire control system using a software build that was loaded on the cruiser for developmental testing. It’s a new version, which didn’t have the malware embedded in the Fleet release software.”

“What are we doing about this malware and China’s hijacking of our tactical data links?”

“General Krae at Cyber Warfare Command, along with everyone at N6, is working to identify and close the holes in our tactical data links. Concerning the malware in our Aegis software, now that we know what to look for, NAVSEA has already identified the malicious code and has developed a software patch to remove it.

“As far as the larger malware issue goes, we’re combating a difficult problem. All China has to do is flip a programmer at one of our defense contractors, who inserts a segment of code that lies dormant during normal operations. If the code remains dormant during developmental and operational testing, there’s really no way for us to find it.

“We’re actually very lucky, Mr. President,” Jennings continued. “If NAVSEA hadn’t been able to identify the malware and confirm they can remove it, I’d be sitting here advising you to throw in the towel. Without the ability to shoot down China’s DF-21 missile, we couldn’t risk bringing our carriers within launch range of Taiwan. And without carrier strike group support, we can’t land our Marine Expeditionary Forces. It would have been game over. China has prepared incredibly well for this campaign and we’re still in it by sheer luck.”

“It could have been far worse,” Captain Brackman added. “Our war plans called for initial support with only two strike groups. If we had waited and engaged with the entire fleet, we could have lost every Pacific Fleet carrier. At first blush, it seems like losing a carrier was a serious blow, but in hindsight, we were fortunate. We forced China to reveal their hand, and now we can compensate when the entire fleet engages.”

“Speaking of engaging,” the president replied, turning to Secretary of State Ross, “how are we doing on the diplomatic front? I’ve talked with Russia’s president and Japan’s prime minister, and although they agree with our response, I haven’t been able to convince them to assist us militarily. What are you seeing at your level?”

“We’ve had discussions with the Japanese,” Ross answered, “but Article 9 of their constitution prohibits offensive military action. Since Japan hasn’t been attacked, they can’t aid our defense of Taiwan. Russia is unwilling to intervene, fearing a potential land battle against a standing army of over one million men, with another two million reserves who can be called up.”

Ross added, “South Korea has North Korea breathing down its neck, and it can’t afford to suffer significant losses in an engagement with China. Our other Pacific Rim allies have also refused to assist, afraid of provoking China into a retaliatory attack.”

“What about a U.N. resolution, condemning China and authorizing military force to defend Taiwan?” Hardison asked.

“Member nations are extremely upset at China’s use of force to unify the two Chinas, and a resolution condemning China’s aggression should be approved within the next day or two. However, a resolution authorizing military force by the United Nations must come from the Security Council. Unfortunately, China is one of the five permanent members on the Security Council and will veto any resolution authorizing the United Nations to intervene militarily.”

Ross examined the solemn faces of the men at the table, then returned her attention to the president. “I’m afraid that no one in the region is willing to engage China.”

The president frowned. “So it looks like we’re going it alone.” He paused for a moment, then directed his next question at SecDef Jennings. “How are we going to compensate for the Aegis malware and new Chinese surface-to-air missiles? I don’t want to lose another four carriers and their air wings.”

Jennings replied, “First, we’ll download the Aegis software patch to all our cruisers and destroyers in the Pacific. It’s risky, since it hasn’t gone through operational testing, but it’s our only option.”

“Why not use the new version Lake Erie used?” the president asked.

“It doesn’t have full functionality,” Jennings replied. “It was loaded to test new variants of our Standard SM-2 and SM-6 missiles, and thankfully it had SM-3 capability. But it’s not fully integrated with the rest of the Aegis Warfare System yet.”

The answer appeared acceptable to the president, so Jennings continued. “Second, we need to address the new Chinese surface-to-air missiles. They’re a mix of new-generation radar-guided and heat-seeking missiles. We’ll compensate for the radar-guided missiles by doubling the number of radar-jamming Growlers accompanying each cycle of fighters, and using the telemetry data we received during the first encounter, we’re modifying the Growler’s infrared-red jammers to be more effective against these new heat-seeking missiles. These changes should significantly increase the air wings’ survival rate.

“One piece of good news,” Jennings added, “is that Christine made it safely aboard USS Michigan. She suffered a minor injury — a gunshot wound to her arm — but will be fine. The even better news is that she delivered the flash drive she was given by the head of President Xiang’s security detail, and it’s been transported by one of Michigan’s UAVs to Okinawa. Unfortunately, we don’t know what’s on the flash drive, because the drive is encrypted. It’s being transported to a cryptology center at the Office of Naval Intelligence, and they’ll inform us once it’s been decrypted.”

“That is good news,” the president affirmed. “I’ve been worried about Christine. Should we wait to find out what’s on this flash drive before we engage China again?”

“We don’t have that luxury,” Jennings answered. “We have no idea how long it will take to decrypt the drive, and we can’t wait. We have to land our MEFs before we lose the last beachhead on Taiwan. At the current rate of China’s advance across the island, we can’t delay.”

The president sat back in his chair for a moment, evaluating the information discussed this evening. Finally, he sat up, a hard gaze focused on SecDef Jennings. “I realize things don’t go as planned during war, gentlemen, and China has had a few surprises up their sleeve, giving them the advantage up to now. It’s time we turn the table on our Chinese friends. When will the rest of Pacific Fleet be ready to engage?”

“The three additional strike groups will be within launch range by tomorrow night, Mr. President. Nimitz is conducting repairs and should also be able to participate.” The president nodded as Jennings continued. “I have to warn you, sir, that we’re placing the entire Pacific Fleet at risk. Everything hinges on this Aegis software patch — it’s not fully tested. We’ll be bringing all four carriers within range of their DF-21 missiles, and if the patched Aegis software build malfunctions, we could lose every carrier.”

After a moment of quiet reflection, the president replied, “I understand. Continue with your plans.”

29

Four hundred miles east of Taiwan, USS Nimitz loitered in placid waters under a clear blue sky, a light breeze the only reminder of the passing storm. With the sun a few degrees above the horizon, the orange sunlight reflected off glassy waters as Captain Alex Harrow stood on the Flight Deck, a foot from the edge of the crater created by the DF-21 missile. The fires belowdecks had been extinguished and two-thirds of the forty-foot-wide hole had already been covered, thick metal plates welded into place and supported with I beams. Red sparks and molten slag spit into the air as the ship’s welders continued repairs.

Harrow hadn’t asked the Chief Engineer which bulkheads had been cut down to obtain the material; sealing the hole was the only thing that mattered. Now that the storm front had passed, Harrow could no longer use the strong winds to his advantage. Nimitz would launch its air wing soon, and when it returned, the aircraft would need the entire Flight Deck to land.

They didn’t have much time to complete the repairs. The rest of the Pacific Fleet had arrived and the other three carriers were preparing to launch their air wings. To the south, Harrow could see USS Lincoln, a tiny speck on the horizon. Farther south were Stennis and Vinson, and arrayed in front of the four carriers were the strike groups’ fifty-six cruisers, destroyers, and frigates.

Lagging behind, well out of range of Chinese ballistic missiles, were the Pacific Fleet’s two Marine Expeditionary Forces, embarked aboard amphibious assault ships, transport docks, and landing ships — two divisions of Marines plus two Marine air wings, waiting for the Fleet to clear a safe path to Taiwan.

The DF-21 missiles still posed the most significant threat. Until the launchers were taken out, the Fleet would have to rely on SM-3 missiles for defense. Fortunately, the DF-21 missile appeared to have one weakness. Although the missile had a theoretical range of seventeen hundred miles, Navy intelligence had determined the missile could be effectively targeted out to only seven hundred miles, which corresponded to the range at which Nimitz had been attacked two days earlier. The four carriers would soon close to within range of the DF-21, and Harrow hoped this time the outcome would be much more favorable.

In a few minutes, Harrow would turn Nimitz west again and order ahead flank speed, generating headwind to assist his aircraft during launch. Thankfully, both reactors could be brought up to full power. Radiation levels and chemistry analysis of primary coolant had determined that neither reactor had sustained damage during the few hours operating above one hundred percent power.

As the first Hornet rose toward the Flight Deck from the Hangar Deck below, Harrow felt a deepening uneasiness. China had prepared well for America’s initial response, and would undoubtedly be prepared for the onslaught of the entire Pacific Fleet. The United States Navy would not make the same mistakes this time, underestimating not only the capability of Chinese missiles, but the accompanying cyber warfare that made the missiles much more lethal. Their Aegis escorts had new software, their fighters were loaded with additional chaff, and each wave of aircraft would be supported by the Wing’s entire complement of EA-18G Growlers, the aircraft refueled in-flight so they could support all three cycles. As Harrow turned and headed toward the carrier’s Island, he wondered if those adjustments would be enough.

30

As the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine leveled off at periscope depth, the top of the sail four feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Christine checked her watch. Standing in the aft port corner of Control, Christine waited for Captain Wilson to man Battle Stations; in less than twenty minutes, Michigan was supposed to begin launching her Tomahawk missiles. As Wilson peered through the submarine’s periscope, Christine’s thoughts drifted to the orders that had been streaming into the submarine over the radio broadcast. Michigan had been tasked with launching all of her Tomahawk missiles. That wasn’t surprising considering the circumstances. What was surprising was that the missiles would be launched without a single target assigned.

The Tomahawk missiles loaded aboard Michigan were the new Block IV Tactical Tomahawk, or TACTOM variant, capable of loitering after launch, doing donuts in the air while awaiting targeting information. Although Tomahawk cruise missiles were extremely accurate, capable of flying through the window of a house, it took hours for launch orders to be generated, transmitted, and loaded aboard older variants, plus additional time spent during the missile’s transit to its destination. During that time, enemy units or mobile launchers could reposition, resulting in the Tomahawk destroying a vacant building or deserted patch of dirt. The new TACTOM missiles overcame this deficit. They would already be launched and loitering nearby, reducing the time between identification and ordnance-on-target from hours to mere minutes.

Wilson stepped back, turning the scope over to Lieutenant Cordero as an announcement came over the Conn speakers. “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”

Cordero acknowledged ESM’s report as Wilson stepped toward the communications panel on the Conn. Wilson pulled the 1-MC microphone from its holster and issued the order his crew had been waiting for.

“Man Battle Stations Missile.”

The Chief of the Watch, stationed at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control, twisted a lever on his panel, and the loud gong, gong, gong of the submarine’s General Emergency alarm reverberated throughout the ship. As the alarm faded, the Chief of the Watch picked up his 1-MC microphone, repeating the Captain’s order. “Man Battle Stations Missile.”

Men streamed into Control, taking their seats at dormant consoles, bringing them to life as they donned their sound-powered phone headsets. Sonar Technicians and Radiomen passed through Control on their way to the adjoining Sonar and Radio Rooms, while supervisors gathered behind their respective stations in Control.

Wilson stepped off the Conn, leaving the safety of the ship in the XO’s and Lieutenant Cordero’s capable hands, then headed down the ladder to Operations Compartment Second Level. After receipt of launch orders yesterday, Wilson had briefed Christine, explaining the process and where she could observe if desired. She followed Wilson down the ladder and a short distance aft, stepping into Missile Control Center.

Like the Navigation Center behind the Control Room, which had been converted into a Battle Management Center, Missile Control Center had also been transformed during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. The refrigerator-sized computers had been replaced with servers one-tenth their size, and a Tube Status Control Display was now mounted along the starboard bulkhead. The ballistic missile Launch Console on the aft bulkhead had been replaced with four consoles of the same type used in the Battle Management Center and in Control. The two workstations on the right were Mission Planning Consoles. The third workstation was the Launch Control Console, and the fourth workstation, on the far left, displayed a map of Michigan’s operating area, which was overlaid with one green and several red hatched areas.

Wilson stopped behind the Launch Control Console next to Lieutenant Karl Stewart, the submarine’s Weapons Officer, who had been up all night supervising the Tomahawk mission planning teams. Stewart looked over one shoulder of the second class petty officer manning the console, while Wilson looked over the operator’s other shoulder. Glancing at the fourth console, Wilson verified that Michigan was within the green hatched area — the submarine’s launch basket, where all of Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles were within target range.

Lieutenant Stewart reported to the Captain, “Five minutes to window. Request permission to launch Salvo One.”

Wilson replied, “Permission granted. Launch Salvo One.”

Following Wilson’s order, there was no flurry of activity. Stewart simply turned back toward the Launch Control Console, his eyes focused on the time display as it counted down the remaining five minutes. At ten seconds before the scheduled launch, the launch button on the Launch Control Console display, which had been grayed out until this point, turned a vivid green. The Launch Operator announced, “In the window, Salvo One.”

Lieutenant Stewart replied, “Very well, Launch Operator. Continue.”

Finally, the digital clock on the Launch Operator’s screen reached 00:00:00. The Launch Operator clicked the green button, and Michigan’s automatic Tomahawk Attack Weapon System took control.

“Opening Tube Seven,” the Launch Supervisor reported as the green indicating light for Tube Seven turned yellow. Shortly thereafter, the indicating light turned red. “Hatch, Tube Seven, open and locked.”

A few seconds later, the Launch Operator reported, “Missile One, Tube Seven, away.”

The first of Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles had been ejected from the submarine, the missile’s engines igniting once it was safely above the ocean’s surface. In rapid succession, another missile followed every five seconds, with the Tomahawk Attack Weapon System automatically opening and closing the Missile Tube hatches as required. Michigan’s Tomahawks were streaking west; the Pacific Fleet’s counteroffensive had begun.

31

It was 7 P.M. when the president stepped into the Situation Room, taking his seat at the head of the rectangular conference table. Seated next to the president and across from SecDef Nelson Jennings, Captain Steve Brackman held the remote control in his hand, pointing it toward the ten-foot-wide monitor on the far wall. The president said nothing as the nine men and women seated at the conference table stared at the display in silence, watching their Pacific Fleet move west toward Taiwan.

As the president’s senior military aide, Brackman had the honor of manipulating the display, zooming in and out upon request, and shifting to alternate displays as the battle unfolded. The monitor was zoomed out to a bird’s-eye view of the Western Pacific, displaying the east coast of China, Taiwan, and the Japanese islands to the north. On the right side of the screen, four blue symbols, representing their carrier strike groups, moved across a red dashed line marking the effective range of China’s DF-21 missile.

A few minutes after the president’s arrival, an inverted U, shaded light blue, appeared next to each carrier strike group as they began launching their air wings. Brackman’s grip on the remote tightened. If China employed the same tactics they had used against Nimitz and George Washington, it wouldn’t be long before a barrage of missiles emerged from the Chinese coast and the occupied portions of Taiwan, speeding toward the carriers and their air wings.

Minutes ticked by like hours as the first cycle of each air wing assembled above their carriers, the eighty aircraft finally speeding west toward Taiwan. When they were halfway to the island, red symbols began appearing over China’s coast and Taiwan, moving east. The launches continued for several minutes, the missiles breaking into two groups. The nomenclature next to the symbols told Brackman that China had launched eighty DF-21 missiles toward the four carriers and over three hundred anti-air missiles toward the incoming aircraft. Shoulders tensed and eyes tightened as the men and women in the Situation Room watched the red and blue symbols march toward each other.

The last three carrier strike groups had been loaded with every SM-3 missile in the Navy’s arsenal. The Navy had downloaded the software patch for the Aegis fire control system onto their cruisers and destroyers, and everyone in the Situation Room was nervous about whether the Aegis Warfare System would remain functional. But what if China simply launched more DF-21 missiles than the Pacific Fleet had SM-3s to shoot them down with? Brackman ran the numbers. They had sufficient SM-3s to handle the first wave of eighty incoming DF-21s.

Turning his attention to the missiles speeding toward their aircraft, Brackman wondered if the modifications made to the air wings would also suffice. The three air wings aboard Lincoln, Vinson, and Stennis had been augmented with additional radar-jamming Growlers, stripped from the Atlantic Fleet’s air wings. The density of China’s anti-air missile attack against Nimitz’s and George Washington’s aircraft had been astounding, and additional Growlers were essential.

Meanwhile, what wasn’t on the display were the locations of their twenty-seven fast attack submarines. Each submarine had a chunk of ocean assigned, and they could be anywhere inside their operating area, hunting down their adversaries. The performance of the fast attacks was critical, ensuring the four aircraft carriers were safe from submarine attack, as well as clearing a path to shore for the two Marine Expeditionary Forces.

The twenty-seven fast attacks were divided into three sets of nine. The first nine submarines were positioned in front of the carrier strike groups, pushing forward in narrow operating lanes as they searched for Chinese submarines. The other two formations of nine submarines were located on the flanks, angling toward the north and south entrances of the Taiwan Strait. Their mission was to break through the Chinese submarine blockade, clearing a path for the four carrier strike groups to sweep inside the Strait, cutting off the flow of supplies to the Chinese troops on Taiwan.

Brackman’s attention returned to the DF-21 missiles speeding toward the carriers. Blue symbols began appearing next to each carrier strike group, angling toward the incoming DF-21 missiles. Their Aegis class destroyers and cruisers were launching a matching barrage of eighty SM-3 missiles. There was a collective sigh of relief in the Situation Room — their Aegis Warfare Systems were still functional.

Brackman zoomed in until the individual SM-3 missiles from the Nimitz Carrier Strike Group and the incoming DF-21 missiles were shown on the monitor. One by one, the SM-3 missiles intercepted their counterparts, performing admirably. Of the twenty DF-21s targeting Nimitz, only three made it through. Seconds later, another round of SM-3 missiles streaked toward the remaining DF-21s, and the last three missiles were destroyed.

Shifting the display to the other three carrier strike groups, Brackman observed similar results. The aircraft carriers had survived the initial attack. Brackman then examined the anti-air missiles racing toward the carrier air wings. Leaving the display on the unit level, he selected the first cycle of aircraft as they approached Taiwan.

The eighty jets were arranged in a linear formation, with each group of twenty aircraft escorted by four EA-18 Growlers, one at each end and the other two above and below the center of the formation. The Growler jamming worked well, as the majority of the missiles streaked past the aircraft. But a substantial number found their mark, indicated by the blinking — then disappearing — blue symbols. It was surreal, watching men and women die, their deaths represented by icons vanishing from the screen. As the red symbols streaked by and faded into oblivion, Brackman tallied up the losses: fifteen of the eighty aircraft had been shot down. But even though it was difficult to accept the loss of life, the men and women in the Situation Room realized they had weathered the storm of Chinese missiles.

Now it was time to strike back.

Satellites in orbit had been repositioned to identify the location of the Hongqi surface-to-air and Dong Feng DF-21 missile batteries, and while the president and his entourage had been watching the battle unfold in the Situation Room, men and women in Tomahawk Mission Planning Centers had been working furiously, sending targeting coordinates to Michigan’s and Ohio’s Tomahawks loitering in the Taiwan Strait, circling just above the ocean waves. Brackman figured half of them had already received their targeting information and were now heading toward the Chinese coast. But Tomahawks weren’t the only weapons headed China’s way. Additional ordnance was plummeting from high above.

As the Tomahawk missiles streaked along the ocean’s surface toward the Hongqi missile batteries, one hundred B-1B bombers were releasing two-thousand-pound bombs with GPS-guided JDAM kits at their targets — the DF-21 ballistic missile launchers. Whether China had additional DF-21 missiles would quickly become a moot question. They would soon lack the batteries to launch them.

Brackman shifted the display and zoomed in until icons representing the Chinese missile launchers appeared. The Hongqi missile batteries were located sporadically in Taiwan and densely along China’s east coast, with the DF-21 missile launchers farther inland. Brackman watched as the blue symbols representing Tomahawk missiles and GPS-guided bombs reached their targets, each red symbol blinking in response. Unfortunately, destruction of those batteries couldn’t be confirmed immediately; the flashing icon simply indicated ordnance had arrived at the missile battery location. Whether the launchers had been destroyed would be determined via optical satellites. Unfortunately, that assessment would take several hours.

Now that the carriers and their air wings had weathered the initial onslaught, the men and women around the conference table settled in for the long haul. Tension eased from their bodies as they leaned back in their chairs. It was going to be a long night.

Brackman took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, placing the white Styrofoam cup onto the conference table where it joined another two dozen partially full and empty cups. The tension and silence of the first few hours had been replaced by the murmur of quiet conversations, loosened ties, and unbuttoned shirt collars as the men and women around the table monitored the battle’s progress and awaited word of the underwater conflict. So far, the SOSUS arrays on the ocean floor and the towed arrays deployed from SURTASS ships had reported thirty-one underwater detonations: eleven in front of the carrier strike groups and ten each along the north and south entrances to the Taiwan Strait. Only three American submarines had been confirmed sunk. The other twenty-eight detonations were presumably the demise of a Chinese counterpart.

As the American submarines advanced, a path was being cleared for the Marine Expeditionary Forces. On the monitor in the Situation Room, the ocean between the carrier strike groups and Taiwan was divided into twelve squares — four columns wide by three rows deep. The first two rows had turned a solid green, 7th Fleet confirming that the eight operating areas had been cleansed of Chinese submarines. One of the nine American submarines in that sector had been sunk, and four of the remaining fast attacks had moved into the last row of operating areas while two loitered on each flank, ensuring no Chinese submarines slipped in behind the front line. Finally, the indication everyone awaited appeared on the monitor.

One of the squares in the third row turned green, and a minute later, a second one adjacent to it also illuminated a matching color. A safe path to Taiwan had been established. Within minutes, the two Marine Expeditionary Forces would begin surging toward beachheads on Taiwan’s coast.

But that was only half of the battle. As long as China maintained their supply lines intact, time was on their side. To defeat the Chinese invasion of Taiwan, the Pacific Fleet had to cut off the flow of supplies across the Strait. Unfortunately, the Fleet couldn’t do that with the carriers stationed east of Taiwan.

It was a simple numbers-and-distance problem. With the carriers stationed east of Taiwan in deep water, it would take time for the aircraft to make the trip inside the Strait, locate and destroy their target, and return to their carrier for refueling and rearming. If the Chinese had been supplying their troops on Taiwan with only a few large supply ships, this wouldn’t have been a problem; their supply lifeline would have been severed within hours.

But China had built thousands of small supply ships, most only twenty feet long and powered by a single outboard motor, ferrying supplies across the Strait in a dizzying array of activity. As a result, the Pacific Fleet could not take out the supply ships fast enough. They needed to shorten the fighter turnaround time — they needed to get the carriers inside the Strait. The United States knew it, and so did China. They had blockaded the Strait with a dozen submarines on both the northern and southern entrances. The Pacific Fleet had its work cut out for it.

As Brackman wondered how their effort to break through the blockade was progressing, a small window appeared in the lower right corner of the monitor, displaying the image of a Navy Admiral. Brackman manipulated the remote control in his hand, and the Admiral appeared full screen. It was Admiral Vance Garbin, in charge of Pacific Command.

“Good evening, Mr. President.” The Admiral’s voice warbled over the long-distance encrypted video feed from his command center in Hawaii.

“Evening, Admiral. What have you got?”

“Satellite recon of Chinese missile battery sites confirm ninety-eight percent of the missile launchers have been destroyed. What remains can be easily handled by our carrier strike group cruisers and destroyers. Also, I have confirmation from 7th Fleet that our submarines have broken through both ends of the Chinese blockade of the Taiwan Strait. With your permission, Mr. President, I will order the Pacific Fleet into the Strait to cut off the Chinese invasion.”

The president glanced at SecDef Jennings, who nodded his concurrence. Turning back toward the monitor, the commander-in-chief spoke firmly. “Order the carrier strike groups inside the Taiwan Strait.”

32

In the South Wing of the Great Hall of the People, Admiral Tsou strode briskly down the corridor, his lone footsteps echoing off marble walls. At the end of the long corridor, urgently assembled in the conference room, Huan Zhixin and the eight members of the Politburo awaited his report. Although Admiral Tsou would normally have been flanked by two Captains — his aide on one side and his chief of staff on the other — he would deliver the news alone today. It was only fitting; the amphibious assault on Taipei had been his plan. His and his alone, convincing the Politburo it was the only path to success.

Tsou reached the end of the corridor, pausing momentarily with his hand on one of the two immense wooden conference room doors. He found it difficult to contain his emotions. For any man, especially one in his position, it would not be proper to display such a lack of control. Straightening his back, he pushed the door firmly. It swung noiselessly inward, revealing the impatient faces of President Xiang and the other seven Politburo members seated around the conference table, plus Huan Zhixin, seated along the perimeter.

Taking his place at the front of the conference room, Admiral Tsou faced the eight men in China’s Politburo. Their faces were difficult to read. As was his, he supposed. After clearing his throat, he began.

“As you are aware, the American Pacific Fleet launched a counteroffensive with four carrier strike groups and twenty-seven fast attack submarines. The Americans were able to discern the malware in their Aegis software and implement a fix, and as a result, our Dong Feng missiles have been rendered ineffective. Their submarine force has proven extremely capable, clearing a path to Taipei for their Marine Expeditionary Forces, and has broken through our blockade of the Taiwan Strait. We’ve lost all submarines assigned to the blockade, with confirmed kills of only three American submarines.

“The United States has dealt equally well with our Hongqi missile batteries, destroying all but seven launchers. There is nothing left to deter the American carrier strike groups from entering the Taiwan Strait, cutting off supplies to our one hundred thousand troops on Taipei. Even now, satellite reconnaissance reports the four American strike groups are entering the Strait, two through the northern entrance and two from the south. Their air wings are now within striking distance of all resupply nodes.”

Admiral Tsou paused, waiting for the Politburo to absorb the information and its implications. His eyes met President Xiang’s for a moment, then passed over each man in the room. Finally, Tsou could no longer contain the emotion. A broad smile spread across his face, matched by wide grins displayed by Huan and the eight men around the table.

The smile faded from Admiral Tsou’s face as he continued, his features returning to their normal, stoic state. “Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.”