Empire Rising

33

Seated alone at a table for two on the patio of the Miraflores Café, Daniel DeVor leaned back in his chair, a drink in his hand, admiring the crimson sun as it set into the lush green canopy of the Arraiján rain forest. He wished instead he could have watched the sun sink below the waters of the nearby Pacific Ocean, hoping to observe a rare flash of emerald green as the last light of day slipped beneath the horizon. According to legend, one who has seen the Green Ray is able to see closely into his own heart and read the thoughts of others. To Daniel, only the first part mattered. He didn’t care what motivated his Asian friend. Understanding why he had agreed to the man’s plan was where his thoughts dwelt tonight.

The decision had been a difficult one, and even now Daniel struggled with his conscience. Three years ago, the family farm in West Virginia was about to go under. The rising price of fuel, combined with four summer droughts, had wiped out what little savings his father had squirreled away and no bank was willing to extend additional credit. Fortunately, an opportunity arose from an unlikely source. Chris Stevenson was a complete stranger the day he pulled up a chair at this very café three years ago. But while Daniel knew nothing about Stevenson, the thin Asian — with a fake American name, no doubt — knew everything about Daniel’s dire situation.

A pact had been proposed and after much consideration, Daniel had accepted. No one would be injured and his family would benefit. That’s what mattered, he told himself. His father’s debt was paid and a comfortable annuity established for Daniel’s parents. In return, Daniel had agreed to complete a predetermined task.

Three years had passed without hearing from Stevenson and Daniel had slowly convinced himself he would never be asked to complete the task. But Stevenson had been waiting in his car by the curb when Daniel stepped from his house today. The conversation was short and Stevenson left behind the brown satchel currently at Daniel’s feet, along with a clear warning of what would happen should Daniel fail to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Daniel finished his drink, placing the glass onto the thin cardboard coaster on the table. Pulling a ten dollar bill from his wallet, he placed it next to his glass, then stood, grabbing the brown satchel firmly. With one last glance at the Panama Canal stretching before him, he turned and headed toward the café’s exit.

Ten minutes later, Daniel approached the security checkpoint to the Panama Canal’s Miraflores Locks. With his heart racing, he emptied his pockets into a small container and placed it on the X-ray machine conveyor belt next to his satchel, then stepped through the metal detector. The technician monitored the display as the briefcase exited, sliding slowly toward Daniel. As he reached for his satchel, he froze when the technician spoke.

“Bag check.”

The conveyor halted, Daniel’s satchel only a few inches away from his outstretched hand. A second security guard stopped across from him, retrieving the satchel from the conveyor belt. With feigned disinterest, Daniel looked past the guard toward the lock entrance, only twenty feet away.

After taking the satchel to a side table, the guard opened the case. Daniel’s heart hammered in his chest as the guard eyed the contents suspiciously, tilting the case as he examined the assorted items, finally pulling out an old iPod, one of two Chris Stevenson had given Daniel earlier that day. Both were filled with an explosive supposedly ten times more powerful than C-4.

The guard glanced at the iPod in his hand and the matching device in the satchel. “Why do you have two iPods?”

“They’re older versions and don’t have much memory. I need two to hold all my songs.”

The guard studied the iPod in his hand. “Yeah, these are pretty old. Why don’t you buy a new one?”

“Easier said than done, with what they pay us around here.”

The guard grunted in commiseration. “Don’t I know it. You should get a new iPod Touch. You can even watch movies on those things.”

“Already on my list.” Daniel smiled.

After a final examination, the guard started to return the iPod to the satchel when it slipped out of his hand. Daniel watched the iPod fall, almost in slow motion, toward the concrete floor. He lunged forward, his hands closing around the iPod just before it hit the ground.

“Sorry,” the guard said sheepishly. He took the iPod from Daniel’s hands and placed it back into the satchel. “Thank you,” he said as he handed the bag back to Daniel, the guard’s eyes already shifting to the next person in line.

Daniel took the satchel and exited the security checkpoint, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

Fifteen years ago, Daniel had been hired by the Panama Canal Authority to oversee maintenance of the canal’s elaborate lock system. Ships entering the canal on either end were raised eighty-five feet as they passed through the locks, and lowered back to sea level after their transit. Each set of locks had gates, which, when closed, formed a chamber within which the water level could be adjusted. Each gate was over six feet thick, with some as tall as eighty-two feet, weighing over seven hundred tons.

Instead of heading to his office, Daniel crossed over one of the Miraflores Locks’ massive gates, headed toward a center causeway separating the dual lock system. After stepping onto the causeway, Daniel descended a narrow staircase. The smell of damp, century-old concrete greeted him as he continued down the steps leading to one of two tunnels that ran the length of the locks. Daniel stopped where East Gate 3 was attached to the center causeway on a pair of two-foot-diameter pintle hinges. Destroy one of the hinges while there was a water level imbalance, and that half of the gate would shear away, disabling the lock for weeks, if not months.

Opening his satchel, Daniel retrieved one of the iPods and placed it against the metal access plate where grease was periodically pumped into the upper hinge. The magnet on the back of the iPod adhered to the metallic frame. After a few taps and swirls of the iPod’s click wheel, the timer was set for ten minutes. Another tap and the timer began counting down. Daniel hurried to the adjacent tunnel, running parallel to this one, where he affixed the second iPod in a similar location for West Gate 3. Checking his watch, Daniel set the iPod timer to seven minutes, synchronizing both iPod countdowns.

Five minutes later, Daniel was in his office, standing at the window overlooking the Miraflores Locks, counting down the remaining two minutes. Container ships had just exited both of the upper locks, and their water level was twenty-seven feet higher than the locks below. Just as he checked his watch again, the floor of his office rumbled and windows rattled. He looked up to see half of East Gate 3 shear away from its upper hinge. The massive gate tilted back toward the lower lock, ripping away from its bottom hinge. Twenty-six million gallons of water in the upper lock, no longer held in place, surged into the lower lock, spilling over the lower gates into the Pacific Ocean. Seconds later, Daniel felt another rumble, and half of West Gate 3 also sheared away.

The Panama Canal was now impassable.

34

Caleb Malcom knelt in the darkness, his knees sinking into the soft sand at the base of the escarpment, sloping thirty feet up toward the clear night sky. His knees sank farther than they would normally have, for tonight he carried an extra sixty pounds slung across his left shoulder and in the black rucksack strapped to his back. The two men accompanying him, one on each side, also knelt low to the ground, their features illuminated by bright white security lights located just over the top of the embankment. Each of the two men, also clad in black, carried a matching rucksack and identical weapon slung across their shoulder.

There was no cloud cover tonight and the temperature had plummeted. Malcom’s breath condensed into fine white mist as he exhaled, recovering from his sprint across the flat expanse of sand between the security fence and the base of the escarpment. The security patrol had passed by only three minutes ago, so they had seventeen minutes to accomplish their task and retreat through the hole they had cut in the fence. Their vehicle was just over the ridge, and they’d be long gone before the security forces arrived. Malcom glanced at each man beside him, ordering both men to begin their ascent in ten seconds.

After ten years in the military in one of the Army’s elite units, Malcom had been hired by Bluestone Security, spending six years protecting supplies en route to forward bases. However, after America withdrew from Iraq, his employment had been terminated due to lack of contracts, and with no job came no money. After becoming accustomed to a $200,000 annual salary, it wasn’t long before Malcom racked up serious debt and was willing to entertain more creative methods of employment.

Chris Stevenson had approached Malcom two weeks ago, offering a lucrative deal. Malcom considered declining, but only for a moment. Someone would take the job, and it might as well be him. It would be easy to accomplish the mission; he knew men who would assist, had access to the required weapons, and knew contacts in the region who could perform reconnaissance. The decision was easy.

It was difficult tonight, however, climbing the steep embankment. Malcom’s feet slipped in the loose sand, but less than a minute later, all three men crested the top of the escarpment. Stretching into the distance in both directions lay the 120-mile-long Suez Canal, and directly in front of Malcom transited the Aegean Empress, a 200,000-ton oil tanker passing from the Red Sea into the Mediterranean. A half-mile in front of the Empress was another tanker, and behind, a third. He had timed it perfectly.

Malcom slipped the RPG-29 from his shoulder and shrugged off his rucksack, as did the two men beside him. It took only five seconds to load the anti-tank round, another five to stand and hoist the launcher into position, and another five to take aim on the Aegean Empress. After a quick glance at the two men beside him, Malcom shouted his order. All three men fired simultaneously, their projectiles streaking through the darkness.

The anti-tank round sliced through the Aegean Empress’s hull just above the waterline, igniting the ship’s oil tanks in a jarring explosion. A fireball billowed hundreds of feet skyward, illuminating the three men atop the escarpment in a burst of orange light. Two rumbles in the distance followed, accompanied by similar pulses of light.

There was no time to be wasted. Security forces would be converging on their location within minutes. Malcom slung the RPG over his shoulder but then paused, staring dispassionately at the oil tankers burning brightly in the darkness. He found it odd, but he felt no adrenaline rush from his destructive endeavor. The thought of what awaited him in his bank account, however, was quite exciting. Reaching down, he grabbed his rucksack and slung it over his other shoulder as he began working his way down the steep embankment.

35

USS Nimitz surged south at ahead full, alternately launching and recovering aircraft on its patchwork Flight Deck. Twenty miles to the north, USS Lincoln followed behind as the two carrier strike groups entered the northern entrance of the Taiwan Strait. Arrayed to the west, cruisers and destroyers mirrored the carriers’ movement, establishing a screen against Chinese missiles. Unseen in the waters ahead, twelve fast attack submarines straddled the width of the Strait, searching for Chinese submarines. Meanwhile, two hundred miles to the south, another twelve American submarines were headed north, leading the other two carrier strike groups through the Strait’s southern entrance.

Nimitz was at General Quarters, and Captain Alex Harrow stood his watch on the Bridge, supervising his carrier’s flight operations. Their aircraft had fared well thus far, losing only ten percent of their fighters. Anti-air missile defense and enemy fighter resistance was almost nonexistent as Nimitz’s F/A-18 jets struck supply nodes along the Chinese coast and beachheads on the west coast of Taiwan.

It would take another twenty-four hours to completely cut off the supplies flowing across the Strait. The number of ships ferrying equipment from China to Taiwan was impressive, but the four carrier strike groups had been whittling away at the small transports all morning.

Harrow looked out the Bridge windows, observing one Super Hornet descending from the Flight Deck to the Hangar on Elevator 1 while another ascended on Elevator 3, the fighter’s normal allotment of self-defense missiles cut in half, increasing its payload of anti-ship missiles. There had been only sporadic Chinese fighter jet activity, and CAG Captain Helen Corcoran had decided to alter the mix of defensive and offensive weapons, increasing the wing’s kill rate.

It was just too easy. Harrow’s gut told him something was wrong, but there was nothing to confirm his fear. Everything was proceeding exactly as simulated in countless war games.

36

Just above the island of Taipei, a shimmering orange sun was climbing into a deep blue sky, bathing the cliffs rising from the Chinese mainland in gentle warmth. Deep inside the volcanic cliffs, harsh fluorescent lighting illuminated a cavern carved from the mountain’s innards. Through the center of the mile-long cavern, with wharves lining each side of the man-made harbor, a channel flowed into the Taiwan Strait. Moored to the wharves were twenty-four Yuan class diesel submarines, their crews assembled topside, standing in formation. A hundred feet above the submarines at the inland end of the cavern, Admiral Tsou Deshi stood behind a narrow terrace, surveying Yǐn Bishou and the East Sea Fleet’s flotilla of attack submarines with pride.

It had taken ten years to construct Yǐn Bishou, its creation concealed from America and their satellites in orbit. The United States was focused on Sanya, another underground base at Hainan Island. China had stationed their nuclear-powered submarines at Sanya, knowing it would focus America’s attention there, and help keep Yǐn Bishou concealed.

America believed the only threat to their Navy was China’s nuclear-powered submarines. If the Pacific Fleet had remained in deep water east of Taipei, that assessment would have been correct. But that wasn’t the case today. The Pacific Fleet had been lured into the Strait. True, America had sunk many submarines and destroyed hundreds of missile batteries, but that was part of the plan.

In the next two hours, twenty-four new Yuan class submarines, just as advanced as their nuclear counterparts, would sortie to sea. Additionally, these submarine crews wielded a potent advantage. But before his crews sank the dagger into the American Navy, Admiral Tsou felt it fitting to offer a few words of encouragement.

Tsou spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “Today, you will battle America, an enemy bent on the destruction of our country. They send their fleet to the shores of our homeland, attempting to subjugate us to their will. But their Pacific Fleet is overconfident. Today, America will feel the full might of China’s Navy, and you will deliver a death blow, ending America’s domination of the high seas.” Tsou paused a moment before continuing. “I am proud of the men standing before me, ready to serve the people. This will be our finest hour.”

Tsou turned to Admiral Guo Jian, commander of the East Sea Fleet, standing beside him. “Commence operations.”

37

“This is taking forever.”

Inside the four-story National Maritime Intelligence Center in eastern Maryland, Cindy Pon stood with a coffee mug in her hand, peering over Jay Wood’s shoulder, examining his computer monitor. She had stayed late tonight, in case her analytical and language skills were required, but the decryption algorithms were still crunching away, the contents of the secure flash drive still unknown. Cindy took a sip of her coffee; it was 10 P.M. and she needed a caffeine jolt before the drive home.

Sitting at the workstation in front of her in the windowless, high-security enclave, Jay monitored the progress of the algorithm running on the computer, attempting to break the encrypted flash drive they had received from Okinawa two days ago.

“Have faith,” Jay said without taking his eyes off the monitor. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Only twenty-seven years old, Jay Wood was ONI’s best cryptologist. He had spent the last two days running various algorithms on the drive, evaluating how each algorithm performed before selecting the next. He had already determined which algorithm had been used to encrypt the flash drive, and was now attempting to determine the encryption key. Unfortunately, the key permutations were almost endless, and the process took time. The encryption key at the bottom of the monitor continued morphing — it had now increased to fifteen digits, each digit rapidly scrolling through the over-fifty-thousand characters of the Chinese language. Cindy had a hard time wrapping her mind around the number of permutations possible. A trillion had twelve zeros. The number of permutations in a Chinese encryption key with fifteen digits had seventy zeros. It definitely could take forever.

“I’m calling it a day,” Cindy said. “If you happen to decrypt the drive before morning, give me a call. Also let Jina Hong know. She’s got the night shift and will take a look at whatever you’ve got before I get in.”

Jay nodded absentmindedly. He was focused on the monitor. Several of the encryption key digits had stopped changing, each displaying a different Chinese character. One by one, the other digits locked.

“Bingo!” Jay said. “Don’t go anywhere, Cindy.” He opened up a new windowpane on the monitor, displaying the icon of the flash drive they were attempting to access, then positioned the pane above the encryption key. He double-clicked on the icon, and several Chinese characters appeared on the screen.

“Your turn,” he said.

Jay slid his chair out of the way as Cindy pulled one up, taking Jay’s place at the workstation. She read the Chinese instructions on the monitor — they directed her to enter the encryption key. She had to type in the fifteen Chinese characters displayed below. The problem was she was using a computer keyboard with English letters and Arabic numbers.

Fortunately, this computer was loaded with the necessary software, allowing Cindy to type Chinese characters using pinyin — a method of writing Chinese using the English alphabet. She typed in the pinyin name for the first Chinese character, selecting the exact variation of the character from a pop-up menu. One by one, she entered the encryption key, then looked over at Jay.

Jay nodded. “Hit Enter.”

Cindy reached over and hit the Enter key, and the icon on the screen opened, revealing a folder. She double-clicked on the folder and it opened to reveal eleven files with names in Chinese. The first four were titled after the PLA’s four main branches: Ground Forces, Navy, Air Force, and 2nd Artillery Corps, the last branch being in charge of China’s nuclear and conventional ballistic missiles. The second set of files was named after China’s seven military regions. An analyst at the Office of Naval Intelligence, she opened the Navy file first.

The file opened up into a PDF document. Cindy skimmed the Chinese characters, attempting to gain a basic understanding of the content. As she translated the Chinese to English in her mind, she realized she was reviewing a battle plan. She digested page after page, soon realizing the battle plan was divided into two phases. As she began to read Phase 2, she broke into a cold sweat. She slowed down, reading and then rereading the key elements of the plan.

‘My God,” she said, not realizing she was thinking out loud.

“What is it?” Jay asked.

She turned to Jay. “If China has developed the capabilities in this document, the Pacific Fleet is in big trouble.” She reached for the phone and dialed the Director’s home number, wondering if it was already too late.

38

Course 170, Speed 10, Depth 200.

In the crowded Control Room, Commander Jim Latham leaned next to the Quartermaster, reviewing the ship’s log as USS Texas searched the surrounding waters. They’d been at Battle Stations for twenty-seven hours straight, beginning with the assault on the Chinese blockade of the northern entrance to the Taiwan Strait, with Texas near the center of the twelve fast attack submarine juggernaut. Chinese submarine resistance had been dense but inept. Only one American submarine had been lost while all twelve Chinese submarines opposing them had been sunk, and Texas and the other American fast attack submarines were now headed south, sanitizing the entire Strait.

Latham had shifted his crew to a port and starboard Battle Stations rotation at the sixteen-hour point. He could push his crew only so far before they began to lose their effectiveness. Luckily, there appeared to be few Chinese submarines remaining. They had encountered only two in their operating area after breaking through the blockade, and both of them were the oldest and noisiest submarines in the Chinese Navy, easily sunk.

After reviewing the ship’s position in their operating area, Latham stepped away from the Navigation table, headed toward the Officer of the Deck’s Tactical Workstation near the front of Control, examining the Combat and Sonar consoles along each side. It had taken him a while to get used to the design of the Virginia class submarine, with Sonar in Control instead of a separate room, the Sonar consoles lining the port side of the ship, the combat control consoles on starboard. And while Sonar had been added to Control, the periscopes had been removed. Virginia class submarines employed photonics masts, which didn’t penetrate the pressure hull — there was no periscope to press your eye against or dance with for countless hours in endless circles. The Officer of the Deck instead sat at his workstation, raising and lowering one of their two photonics masts with a flick of a switch, rotating it with a joystick, like a kid’s video game. The image was displayed on one of two monitors at his workstation.

Even more unsettling was the Virginia class ship control watch section. The four watchstanders on previous submarines — the Helm and the Outboard, who manipulated the submarine’s rudder and control surfaces; the Diving Officer of the Watch, who supervised them; and the Chief of the Watch, who adjusted the submarine’s buoyancy and controlled the masts and antennas — had been replaced by two watchstanders — the Pilot and Co-Pilot — who sat at the Ship Control Panel. The Pilot controlled the submarine’s course and depth while the Co-Pilot adjusted the submarine’s buoyancy and raised and lowered the masts and antennas.

As Latham stopped behind the Officer of the Deck, a report from Sonar came across the speakers in Control. Even though the Sonar Supervisor stood only a few feet away, he spoke into his wireless headset.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact on the towed array, designated Sierra five-seven, bearing two-zero-zero, classified submerged. Analyzing.”

“Sonar, Conn. Aye,” Latham replied as he turned to his left, examining the display on one of the Sonar consoles. A faint white trace had appeared to the south. Apparently, at least one Chinese submarine remained. Hopefully this would be another of the noisy Ming class, an easy kill. Latham decided to maintain course to keep the submarine’s towed array, streaming a half-mile behind Texas, stable while Sonar analyzed the contact’s frequency tonals.

A moment after the initial report, the Sonar Supervisor followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-seven is classified Yuan class diesel submarine.”

Latham’s stomach tightened. Intel messages had reported the entire inventory of Yuan class submarines had been sunk. Those reports were obviously wrong, and Texas was now facing the most capable diesel submarine in the Chinese Navy.

Commander Latham stopped beside his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander John Milligan, to examine the contact solution on one of the BYG-1 Combat Control System consoles. The Yuan class submarines were quiet, which meant this contact would be much closer when detected than the previous two Chinese submarines. That meant there was a higher probability Texas would be counter-detected.

Milligan examined the three combat control consoles in front of him, then turned to Latham. “Ready to maneuver.”

Latham decided to turn to the west, placing the contact on his submarine’s beam. “Pilot, right full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

The Pilot acknowledged as he tilted his joystick to the right, and Texas began swinging to starboard. A moment later, Texas was steady on its new course. A few minutes later, after their towed array straightened out behind them, data streamed into their combat system again. As the Fire Control Party analyzed the contact’s new bearing rate, another report from Sonar came across the Control speakers.

“Conn, Sonar. Now hold Sierra five-seven on the spherical array sonar.”

Latham exchanged a concerned glance with his Executive Officer. The spherical array was less capable than their towed array, picking up contacts at closer ranges. In this morning’s water conditions, Yuan class submarines would become detectable on the spherical array at eight thousand yards. Sierra five-seven was approaching too close for comfort.

Lieutenant Commander Milligan noted Sonar’s report, ordering the three men manning the combat control consoles to override the automated algorithms.

“Set range to Sierra five-seven at eight thousand yards, speed four.” Their target was a diesel submarine, most likely searching the water at slow speed. Milligan guessed four knots.

With a target range of eight thousand yards and a four-knot speed, the ship’s combat control system slewed the contact’s solution to a course heading almost directly toward them. Latham wondered if the Chinese submarine had already detected Texas, but there had been no indication thus far; no change in contact course or speed; and more important, no torpedo launch transients. Latham examined the combat control automated algorithm. It had converged on a similar solution to what the Executive Officer had forced, off by only six hundred yards in range, one knot in speed, and twenty degrees in course. Close enough for a firing solution.

The Executive Officer agreed. “Sir, I have a firing solution.”

Latham announced, “Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, Tube One.”

Thirty seconds later, Commander Latham began receiving the expected reports.

“Solution ready,” the Executive Officer announced.

“Weapon ready,” the Weapons Officer called out.

“Ship ready,” the Officer of the Deck reported.

Texas was ready to engage.

Latham gave the order. “Shoot on generated bearings.”

The firing signal was sent to the Torpedo Room, initiating the launch sequence for the torpedo in Tube One. Latham listened to the whirr of the submarine’s torpedo ejection pump and the characteristic sound of the four-thousand-pound torpedo being ejected from the submarine’s torpedo tube, accelerating from rest to thirty knots in less than a second.

Sonar monitored their torpedo, referring to it as own ship’s unit so their reports wouldn’t be confused with information about an incoming torpedo.

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

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Shifting to medium speed.”

Their MK 48 Mod 7 torpedo had turned onto the ordered bearing and was speeding toward its target.

Less than a minute later, their MK 48 torpedo went active, filling the water with sonar pings, searching for its target. It took only three pings before the Chinese submarine was detected and verified, and Sonar picked up the characteristic torpedo response.

“Own ship’s unit is increasing speed and ping interval.”

The Weapons Officer followed up, confirming Sonar’s observation as he read the telemetry data being sent back to the ship over the thin guidance wire trailing behind the torpedo.

“Own ship’s unit is homing!”

Latham turned toward the combat control consoles, monitoring the performance of his weapon. Everything was proceeding well.

A powerful sonar ping echoed through the submarine. A report from the Sonar Supervisor followed. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-seven has gone active.”

Before Latham could acknowledge, the Weapons Officer called out, “Own ship’s unit has shut down!”

Latham responded coolly. “Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, Tube Two.”

The Fire Control Party repeated their previous preparations, readying another one of their MK 48 torpedoes for launch. The required reports flowed from Latham’s well-trained crew.

“Solution ready!”

“Weapon ready!”

“Ship ready!”

Latham quickly ordered, “Shoot on generated bearings!”

A second torpedo was ejected from Texas, and Latham waited expectantly for Sonar to announce the torpedo milestones as it pursued its target. Their first torpedo had malfunctioned. Torpedoes weren’t one hundred percent reliable — there were too many single-point failures, from its electrical, fuel, and hydraulic systems, to the microprocessors in the torpedo’s brain and the algorithms loaded onto them.

Their new MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes had performed exceptionally well thus far, all eight of their previous shots finding their mark. Latham figured they were due for a bad apple. His crew responded swiftly, placing a second torpedo in the water before their target counter-fired. Latham listened closely as Sonar called out this torpedo’s milestones.

“Second fired unit is in the water, running normally.”

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Shifting to medium speed.”

Latham turned his attention to the nearest combat control console, displaying an electronic map of their operating area, with an inverted green V representing their torpedo speeding toward the red icon representing their target. A moment later, the Weapons Officer called out the next torpedo milestone.

“Second fired unit has gone active.”

A few seconds later, another powerful sonar pulse echoed through Control.

As the echo from the sonar pulse faded, the Weapons Officer called out, “Second fired unit has shut down!”

A pit formed in Latham’s stomach. His mind churned as he initiated the process to send a third torpedo after their adversary.

“Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, Tube Three!”

The Fire Control Party responded quickly, preparing the MK 48 torpedo in Tube Three for firing. But Latham could see the worried looks on his crew’s faces as they cast furtive glances at each other and in their Captain’s direction. The odds of a malfunctioning MK 48 torpedo were very low; the probability of two consecutive failures infinitesimal. And both torpedoes had shut down immediately after their contact had gone active.

The idea that their adversary could shut down every torpedo was terrifying. It meant their submarine was defenseless and the outcome of this engagement unfavorable, to say the least. There was only one way to determine, without a doubt, whether their torpedo shutdowns had been unlucky coincidence — and that was to put a third weapon into the water.

But before Latham could give the order, he heard the Sonar Supervisor shout into his headset, “Torpedo launch transients, bearing one-nine-five. Correlates to Sierra five-seven!”

Latham turned toward the Sonar consoles as a bright white trace appeared on the spherical array broadband display.

The Sonar Supervisor followed up a few seconds later. “Torpedo in the water, bearing one-nine-five!”

Latham responded instantly. “Torpedo Evasion! Pilot, right full rudder, steady course two-eight-five. Launch countermeasure!”

The Pilot twisted his joystick to the right and rang up ahead flank on his display, sending the propulsion command to the Engine Room where the Throttleman began spinning open the ahead throttles. The fast attack submarine’s powerful main engines sprang to life, churning the water behind them as the propeller accelerated Texas to maximum speed. As Texas began turning to starboard, one of the Fire Control Technicians clicked the Countermeasure Launch button on his display, ejecting a torpedo decoy into the water.

“Torpedo bears one-nine-five!”

Sonar called out the bearing to the incoming torpedo every ten seconds, and Latham carefully monitored its bearings. As the fast attack submarine initiated evasive maneuvers, the disciplined Fire Control Party completed the steps required to launch another MK 48 torpedo.

“Solution ready!”

“Weapon ready!”

“Ship ready!”

Latham gave the order to shoot, and the Fire Control Party’s eyes were glued to the Weapon Coordinator’s screen and their ears tuned for Sonar’s report, awaiting word on the performance of their third torpedo. It achieved its initial milestones, turning toward its target. But shortly after it went active, another powerful sonar ping from Sierra five-seven echoed through Control, and the dreaded report from the Weapons Officer followed.

“Third fired unit has shut down!”

Commander Latham stood there a moment, absorbing the somber truth. Texas was defenseless, unable to sink their adversary. His job now was to extract Texas from this disastrous scenario, figure out what had gone wrong, and correct it before returning to battle.

“Torpedo bears one-nine-three!”

Latham observed the red lines appearing on the combat control display. Both bearings cut across the location of their decoy.

“Torpedo bears one-nine-one!”

The incoming torpedo was falling behind as it homed on their decoy. But before Latham could breathe a sigh of relief, another report from Sonar blasted across the speakers in Control.

“Torpedo launch transients, bearing one-eight-zero!”

Their adversary had also determined their first torpedo had been fooled by a decoy and had launched a second torpedo. The first decoy had worked. Hopefully a second would perform just as well. Latham called out, “Launch countermeasure!”

A moment later, a second decoy was ejected from the submarine’s external launchers in the ship’s hull, its position annotated on the geographic display as a white scalloped circle. Latham waited to determine whether the decoy would suck up the second torpedo chasing them.

“First torpedo is range-gating, bearing one-nine-zero! Second torpedo bears one-eight-zero.”

The first torpedo was still homing on their decoy. However, the verdict was still out on the second torpedo.

“Second torpedo bears one-eight-zero!”

Latham looked up at the Ship Control Panel. Texas was at maximum speed now, but its propeller was making a tremendous amount of noise. He had traded stealth for speed, but he had no choice. He had to put enough distance between Texas and the torpedoes chasing them to prevent the torpedoes from detecting the submarine.

“Second torpedo bears one-eight-zero!”

Concern worked its way across Latham’s face. The second torpedo remained on a constant bearing. That meant it had detected Texas and was adjusting its course to close on its target. He examined the geographic display again, confirming his assessment. Based on the bearing lines, the second torpedo had passed by their decoy and was headed straight for them.

“Second torpedo bears one-eight-zero. Range gating. Torpedo is homing!”

The torpedo had locked on to Texas. Latham’s options were limited. He constructed the scenario’s geometry in his mind. With Texas on a westerly course and the torpedo on a constant bearing of one-eight-zero, that meant the torpedo was on an intercept course, angling northwest. Texas had to turn to the northeast.

“Pilot, right hard rudder, steady course zero-six-zero!”

The crew held on to their equipment consoles as the Pilot tilted his joystick to hard right. Submarine maneuvers were normally benign, but a hard rudder at ahead flank would whipsaw the submarine around. Latham grabbed on to the Officer of the Deck’s workstation as Texas banked to starboard. As Texas steadied on its new course, he returned his attention to the geographic display, attempting to discern whether his maneuver had had the intended effect. The rapid turn had put a knuckle in the water, which would temporarily blind the torpedo as it passed through.

“Second fired torpedo bears one-eight-five!”

Commander Latham held his breath, waiting for the next report from Sonar. It appeared the torpedo had maintained course. But sonar bearings occasionally wobbled. The next bearing to the torpedo would determine whether his maneuver had been successful.

“Second fired torpedo bears one-nine-zero!”

Latham let out a sigh of relief. The second torpedo was speeding behind them. But just when things appeared to be looking up, the Sonar Supervisor made another report.

“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo launch transients, bearing zero-eight-zero!”

Latham spun toward the sonar display. A second white trace had appeared — another torpedo in the water from a different submarine — this time fired from almost directly ahead. The sonar trace was burning in much brighter than the torpedo behind them. This torpedo had been fired from close range.

“Conn, Sonar! Third torpedo is homing, bearing zero-eight-zero!”

The torpedo’s pings echoed through the submarine’s hull, growing louder at each interval.

This torpedo was already homing, which meant it was within two thousand yards. Texas was barreling straight toward it and would close the distance in just over a minute. Latham quickly evaluated the few options that remained.

One minute to impact.

Launching a torpedo decoy wouldn’t work, even if Texas turned out of the way. The larger fast attack submarine would remain in front of the decoy, attracting the incoming torpedo.

“Third torpedo bears zero-eight-zero!”

Silence gripped Control as Sonar reported the torpedo’s bearing every ten seconds. Latham searched for a way out of their predicament, and they were running out of time.

Fifty seconds to impact.

There was one option left — an Emergency Blow, filling the water around the submarine with a massive burst of air. The air pockets would distort the torpedo’s sonar pings, blinding the torpedo momentarily while Texas ascended. Hopefully, the torpedo would pass under the submarine.

Forty seconds to impact.

But if Texas blew, they’d be a sitting duck. They’d end up on the surface, vulnerable and noisy, unable to submerge while it waited for its Main Ballast Tanks to vent the air trapping the submarine on the surface.

Thirty seconds to impact.

But if they didn’t Emergency Blow, the torpedo would blast a hole in the submarine’s pressure hull.

Latham made his decision.

“Emergency Blow all Main Ballast Tanks! Full rise on the Stern and Bow Planes!”

The Co-Pilot reached up and tapped the Emergency Blow icon on his screen, opening the valves to the ship’s high-pressure air banks. Thousands of cubic feet of high-pressure air spewed into the submarine’s Main Ballast Tanks, pushing the water down and out through the flood grates in the bottom of the submarine.

Twenty seconds to impact.

Latham held on to the OOD’s console as the ship pitched upward thirty degrees. As Texas ascended, the air finished pushing the water out of the ballast tanks, then spilled out through the grates in the ship’s keel, and Texas left massive air pockets in its wake as it sped toward the ocean surface. The torpedo chasing them was temporarily blinded, but would it pass underneath them without regaining contact? The rumble of the air spewing from the flood grates began to ease.

Ten seconds to impact.

Latham counted down the final seconds in his mind, gripping the edge of the OOD’s workstation as he reached zero.

But nothing happened.

Had the torpedo passed by, or had he calculated the time to impact incorrectly?

He waited a few more seconds, in case his mental calculations had been off. But then Sonar’s report clarified what had just occurred.

“Third torpedo bears two-six-zero.”

The torpedo had passed underneath Texas and was now on the other side, speeding away.

“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo is opening range.”

Texas pitched forward, returning to an even keel. Latham checked the submarine’s depth; they had reached the surface. Now that they had arrived there, it was time to leave. They were trapped on the surface by the air in the Main Ballast Tanks, and modern submarines traveled more slowly surfaced than submerged due to their hull design. Plus, their propeller cavitated on the surface, a beacon of sound for the Chinese submarines pursuing them. They needed to submerge again before they got another torpedo rammed down their throat. But before he gave the order to vent the Main Ballast Tanks, another report from Sonar echoed across Control.

“Conn, Sonar. Up Doppler on third torpedo! Torpedo is turning toward us!”

Latham cursed under his breath. Their adversary must still have wire guidance to their torpedo, inserting a torpedo steer back toward Texas. Still, the course of action was the same. He called out, “Vent all Main Ballast Tanks!”

The Co-Pilot tapped his display on the Ship Control Panel again, opening the vents to the submarine’s Main Ballast Tanks. Latham knew that geysers of water spray were jetting into the air from the bow and stern of the submarine as the tanks vented, allowing water to flow back up through the flood grates in the keel. But would they submerge in time?

With the third torpedo racing back toward them, he needed to move Texas out of the torpedo’s path before it acquired them again. He examined the sonar display on the Conn, selecting the optimal course.

“Pilot, hard left rudder, steady course three-five-zero.”

Sonar’s next report cut off the Pilot’s acknowledgment.

“Third torpedo is homing, range two hundred yards!”

Twenty seconds.

Latham considered launching another torpedo decoy. But Texas was wallowing on the surface, unable to put much distance between the submarine and the decoy. The torpedo would lock on to the much larger, more realistic target.

Ten seconds.

It was hopeless. There was no way they could evade the incoming torpedo. Latham grappled with his grim conclusion.

USS Texas was going to the bottom.

However, there was one essential task they had to complete before then. Latham shouted out, countermanding his earlier order. “Co-Pilot, shut all Main Ballast Tank vents! Raise the Multifunction Mast!”

The Co-Pilot looked up in surprise but quickly complied, shutting the vents. Another tap and he raised the communication antenna. Latham didn’t get an opportunity to explain, because Texas jolted as a deafening sound rumbled through Control. The Flooding alarm began wailing throughout the ship, followed by a report on the 4-MC emergency circuit.

“Flooding in Operations Compartment! Flooding in Operations Lower Level!”

Latham shouted into the open microphone. “Radio, this is the Captain. Patch me to CTF 74! Whatever lineup is fastest!”

As he waited for Radio to complete the lineup to his operational commander, Latham hoped he had bought enough time. He’d shut the vents, trapping the air inside the Main Ballast Tanks to add buoyancy to the submarine, counteracting the flooding. Texas was still going to the bottom, but it would take a few seconds longer, hopefully long enough for him to inform his superiors that China had discovered a way to dud his torpedoes.

The red light on the handset by the side of the OOD’s workstation lit up, followed by Radio’s report over the 27-MC. “Captain, Radio. Patch complete.”

Latham grabbed the handset, then, over the roar of the inrushing water, which had filled the bottom of the Operations Compartment and was now spewing into Control, he yelled into the mouthpiece, hoping the Radioman on the other end understood him.

39

Standing at the back of the East Sea Fleet command center, Admiral Tsou studied the pair of ten-by-fifteen-foot flat screens at the front of the room, surveying the status of China’s war with the United States. The screen on the right displayed a map of the earth, overlaid with American military and GPS satellites in their orbits around the planet. The screen on the left displayed a map of the Taiwan Strait. Blue icons depicted U.S. surface ships, which had entered the two-hundred-mile-wide waterway, while red icons along China’s coast marked the positions of forty Hong Niao surface-to-surface missile batteries, which had remained concealed thus far in the war.

The positions of China’s and America’s submarines were not marked, as their locations were unknown. But earlier today, China’s submarines had surged to sea, and Tsou eagerly awaited the results of their engagements with their American counterparts.

Captain Cheng Bo, in charge of the East Sea Fleet Command Center, approached, stopping in front of Tsou. “I have good news, Admiral. The captain of Jiaolong has reported in. The Yuan sonar pulse is working as expected, shutting down the American torpedoes. Jiaolong sank a Virginia class submarine, and we have detected six additional underwater explosions. I expect the results of those engagements to be favorable as well.”

Tsou did not respond, waiting for one additional report.

Cheng continued, “General Cao has also notified the command center. All Fourth Department cyber warfare units are ready, awaiting your command.”

Admiral Tsou nodded this time, then replied, “Bring all missile batteries on-line and order the Fourth Department to commence operations.”

Captain Cheng acknowledged, then headed toward the Command Center supervisor, seated at his workstation behind six rows of targeting consoles. After a short discussion, the supervisor typed orders into his computer. At the front of the command center, red flashing Chinese symbols appeared on the left screen, directing all console operators to order the Hong Niao batteries on-line and assign contacts to their launchers. Tsou watched as the red icons along China’s coast switched to green.

Tsou’s attention turned to the right screen, displaying the American military and GPS satellites in orbit. A moment later, the icons turned from green to red as the Fourth Department cyber warfare units initiated the first phase of their attack.

China’s preparations over the years had come down to this moment.

40

Along the shore of the East China Sea, in a dark room deep inside sloping cliffs, Captain Zhou Pengfei stood tensely behind one of the eight consoles in the control room, his face illuminated by blue icons moving south through the Taiwan Strait. As Zhou studied the display, his thoughts drifted back a few days, to the unexpected visit by his country’s president. That Xiang Chenglei had visited three times meant his missiles would play a crucial role in the battle. But none had been fired so far. However, he had received orders a few minutes ago. All forty batteries were to open fire precisely at noon. He checked the clock on the nearest console, its red numbers contrasting with the blue icons on the monitor below.

Two minutes to go.

Zhou stepped next to his Targeting Officer, reviewing the missile assignments. Their thirty-two missiles had been assigned to the lead American carrier strike group heading south. Five quad-launchers would target the carrier, with the remaining dozen missiles directed against the cruiser, destroyer, and frigate escorts. One missile was enough to cripple an escort, but an aircraft carrier was another matter. It would take several direct hits to seriously harm one, and a few torpedoes to finish it off. However, with the aircraft carrier’s escorts destroyed and fires raging inside the carrier, it would make it easier for their submarines to move in for the kill.

One minute remaining.

Captain Zhou reached up, pressing a button beneath the display. Turning toward a second monitor, Zhou watched the portal at the front of the missile battery casement retract slowly upward, providing a flight path for the missiles. A wide, yellow shaft of light streamed into the dark launch chamber, reflecting off the missiles’ white skin. Zhou glanced at the electronic clock above the display, counting down the seconds. When the clock reached noon, he gave the order to his men.

“Fire!”

41

The General Alarm was sounding throughout the carrier as Captain Alex Harrow slid down the ladder to 3rd Deck. Nimitz was fifty miles into the Taiwan Strait when things took a turn for the worse. At five minutes before noon, the Navigator reported all satellites had gone down — GPS, tactical links, even their communications satellites were unresponsive — leaving only line-of-sight voice, which was cumbersome at best. Moments later, the first barrage of missiles appeared on the horizon, slamming into the carrier’s escorts.

Harrow decided to swing by CDC before heading to the Bridge. He stepped into the noisy Combat Direction Center, locating the Operations Officer, Captain Sue Laybourn, huddled over the Tactical Action Officer’s shoulder. Laybourn looked up as Harrow stopped next to her, updating the ship’s Captain. “The first round of cruise missiles was targeted at our escorts. The Lake Erie and Shiloh have been hit, along with four destroyers and one frigate.”

Captain Helen Corcoran exited Air Ops at the back of CDC, joining Harrow as the three Captains examined the Video Wall on the aft bulkhead, the left eight-by-ten-foot monitor displaying a video feed of their escorts to the west. Black smoke spiraled upward from seven ships; half of their escorts had been hit. As Harrow wondered how badly they were damaged, Captain Laybourn filled in the missing details.

“Our cruiser and destroyer Aegis Warfare Systems are completely off-line. They went down just before noon, when we lost our satellites. They’re trying everything, but their systems won’t respond. It seems China fooled us into thinking we had a solution to their malware in our Aegis Warfare System, saving their real assault for now.”

“What does this mean for the strike group?” Harrow asked.

“Our escorts still have their close-in weapon systems,” Laybourn replied. “But they’re not very effective against these Chinese missiles. They’re a new variant we haven’t seen before. They travel at Mach speed and hug the ocean’s surface. They also make last-second evasive maneuvers, making it difficult for our CIWS systems to lock on to, resulting in a seventy-five percent miss rate.”

As Harrow digested the grim news, red icons began populating the right display on the Video Wall, annotating another wave of incoming missiles. Twenty-eight missiles were targeted at the seven undamaged escorts, four per ship. Harrow watched tensely as each ship was able to shoot down only one of the four incoming missiles. Harrow felt helpless as the twenty-one surviving missiles slammed into his seven remaining escorts.

Black-fringed orange fireballs billowed up from the stricken ships, and Harrow wondered how they could remain in operation. But his concern was overshadowed by another wave of red icons appearing on the display. It didn’t take long to determine that twenty missiles were headed toward Nimitz. With the carrier’s escorts unable to defend Nimitz, that task fell to Captain Laybourn. Harrow looked on as Laybourn ordered Weapons Free and put the ship’s missile and CIWS systems in auto.

With both sets of missiles traveling near the speed of sound, it took only a few seconds for the scenario to play out. Five of the carrier’s ESSM and Rolling Airframe missiles hit their targets, and the remaining fifteen Chinese missiles continued onward. The carrier’s CIWS Gatling guns activated as the missiles approached, churning out 4,500 rounds per minute. But the missiles began evasive maneuvers as they approached the carrier, veering left and right at unpredictable intervals, and only two of the fifteen missiles were destroyed by the carrier’s last-ditch self-defense system.

Seconds later, the thirteen remaining missiles slammed into Nimitz. Explosions rumbled through CDC, and thirteen sections of the Damage Control Status Board illuminated red. All thirteen missiles had impacted the starboard side of the carrier, below the Flight Deck. Two missiles penetrated the Hangar Deck, and secondary explosions rippled through the ship as ordnance staged for reloading aircraft detonated. Nimitz had well-trained Damage Control Parties, and Harrow knew they were responding quickly. But thirteen simultaneous fires, compounded with secondary explosions, would strain his crew.

Harrow glanced at the monitors, displaying black smoke rising from every surface ship in his carrier strike group. They could not continue their mission, launching sorties against targets in China and Taiwan. They’d be lucky to exit the Strait alive. His job now was to recover his aircraft and retreat to the far side of Taiwan, where they could regroup and lick their wounds.

Harrow picked up the microphone. “Bridge, Captain. Reverse course and exit the Strait at ahead flank.” He turned to Captain Corcoran. “Recover the air wing. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to conduct flight ops.” He followed up with an order to Captain Laybourn. “Direct all escorts via line-of-sight comms to reverse course and exit the Strait at maximum speed.”

Corcoran and Laybourn acknowledged Harrow’s orders as a bright flash lit up the Video Wall. USS Lake Erie had disintegrated in a massive explosion. The fires must have reached her magazine. A somber quiet descended upon CDC as Harrow and his crew reflected on the loss of the cruiser and the men and women aboard.

Harrow returned to the Bridge as Nimitz sped north, black smoke trailing behind the carrier. Only six of the thirteen surviving escorts had managed to keep up, black smoke likewise rising from their superstructures. As Nimitz continued north at ahead flank speed, a gut-wrenching sight greeted Harrow’s eyes. The scattered remnants of the Lincoln Carrier Strike Group were adrift, eleven of the carrier’s fourteen escorts ablaze, with three oil slicks on fire marking where the three missing warships had sunk beneath the ocean waves.

Thick, black smoke was pouring from every opening of USS Lincoln, and she was dead in the water. There were dozens of black puncture wounds in the side of the aircraft carrier where she had been struck by missiles, and the carrier’s Island superstructure was completely destroyed, reduced to a mangled heap of blackened, twisted metal. Lincoln was also listing twenty degrees to starboard. She’d been torpedoed as well. Lincoln would not survive. Without propulsion, it was only a matter of time before she was finished off.

Harrow couldn’t pull his eyes from the burning aircraft carrier. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The United States Navy was the most powerful navy in the world. Yes, a few ships would be lost in an all-out confrontation with China or Russia, but the United States would easily prevail. At least that’s what the war games had proven. Disbelief washed over Harrow.

How had they been so wrong?

The aircraft carrier’s Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Commander Michael Beresford, stopped beside Harrow, staring at their sister ship. Harrow’s thoughts turned to the status of their aircraft when Beresford spoke. “Lincoln’s air wing has been directed to land on Nimitz.”

Harrow nodded. It looked like Captain Helen Corcoran had picked up yet a third air wing. It was going to be a crowded ship. Luckily, the fires on the Hangar Deck had been extinguished, and the elevators between the Hangar and Flight Deck were still operational.

Harrow’s thoughts returned to Lincoln, listing even farther to starboard now. Lincoln had been torpedoed, so Chinese submarines were out there, and Harrow struggled to understand where they had come from. Both strike groups had been traveling at ahead full, so whatever submarine had torpedoed the Lincoln couldn’t have snuck up from behind. It must have slipped through the fast attack screen in front. But Harrow had difficulty believing the Chinese submarines had defeated their American counterparts.

With his thoughts dwelling on the underwater threat, he glanced at the MH-60R anti-submarine warfare helicopters, hovering nearby with their sonars dipped beneath the ocean surface, searching for Chinese submarines. The carrier’s fast pace was hindering the MH-60Rs, forcing them to reposition frequently to keep up.

The first indication that Nimitz was in jeopardy was when a torpedo suddenly dropped from one of the MH-60Rs hovering eight thousand yards off the starboard bow. Harrow’s eyes followed the Lightweight torpedo into the ocean, his eyes drawn to a thin streak of light green water headed toward Nimitz. The information coalesced quickly in Harrow’s mind. The MH-60R had detected a Chinese submarine and attacked it. But not before the submarine had launched a Heavyweight torpedo toward Nimitz.

Lieutenant Commander Beresford also noticed the light green streak of water. He assumed the Conn from the more junior Conning Officer as he bellowed out, “Lieutenant Commander Beresford has the Deck and the Conn! Left full rudder!” The Helm acknowledged and Nimitz began twisting to port. After assessing the torpedo’s approach angle, Beresford followed up, “Steady course three-three-zero!”

Nimitz steadied up on its new course and Harrow watched as the torpedo traveled in a straight line; it hadn’t detected the carrier and would pass behind them. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he remembered the Chinese Yu-6 torpedo, when fired in surface mode, was a wake homer. It would detect the carrier’s white, frothy wake, then turn back and cross it again and again, weaving its way up the carrier’s trail.

There was no point in launching torpedo decoys. As a wake homer, the Yu-6 was programmed to ignore acoustic decoys. As the light green trail crossed the carrier’s wake, Harrow watched the torpedo turn toward Nimitz, beginning its snakelike approach, weaving back and forth across the carrier’s wake, slowly gaining on them. Their only hope was to confuse the torpedo by maneuvering the aircraft carrier back across its own wake, forcing the torpedo to decide which way to continue. However, Harrow was no ship-driver; like all aircraft carrier commanding officers, he was a pilot. To evade the incoming torpedo, he would have to rely on the experience of his General Quarters’ Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Commander Beresford.

“Left full rudder!” Beresford called out. The Helm complied and the hundred-thousand-ton carrier tilted to starboard as the pair of twenty-by-thirty-foot rudders dug into the ocean. Beresford kept the rudder on as the carrier circled around. Beresford was conducting an Anderson turn, a complete circle. As the torpedo followed behind them, once Nimitz crossed its wake where they began their turn, the torpedo would be forced to choose which wake to follow. Hopefully, it would choose the wrong one.

Nimitz crossed its original wake a minute later, the torpedo not far behind. “Shift your rudder!” Beresford ordered, “Steady course north.”

Beresford was steering the carrier off on a thirty-degree tangent to their original course, hoping the torpedo chose the wake heading to the left rather than the right. All eyes on the Bridge turned aft, watching the snaking torpedo reach the two intersecting wakes. Harrow momentarily lost the torpedo’s light green trail as the torpedo traveled into the intersection of the wakes, his hope rising each second the torpedo failed to reappear. Finally, a light green trail emerged, snaking along the starboard wake.

The torpedo hadn’t been fooled.

By now the torpedo was a thousand yards behind Nimitz. Harrow estimated they had less than a minute before it reached the carrier’s stern, the last place he wanted to get hit by a torpedo. It would destroy the rudders and propellers, reducing the carrier to a drifting hunk of metal, awaiting the coup de grâce. As the torpedo steadily gained on Nimitz, Harrow glanced forward. One of Lincoln’s escorts, USS Bunker Hill, with black smoke billowing upward from fires raging inside the cruiser, was adrift just off the port bow, five hundred yards ahead.

“Head for Bunker Hill!” Harrow shouted to his Officer of the Deck.

Beresford looked ahead, quickly deciphering Harrow’s plan. “Helm, come left to course three-five-zero.”

The Helm complied, and Nimitz steadied up on its new course, headed toward Bunker Hill. The Helmsman turned to the ship’s Officer of the Deck, looking for a new Helm order.

Beresford replied calmly, “Steady as she goes.”

Lieutenant Commander Beresford had maneuvered the carrier perfectly. They would collide with the cruiser in a glancing blow just before the torpedo reached Nimitz. As Nimitz passed by Bunker Hill, the expanding wake would encapsulate the cruiser, and it was possible the torpedo would detonate on Bunker Hill instead of the carrier speeding away. Harrow had no idea if it would work. But it was a plan that offered hope.

Hell, it was his only plan.

Beresford took station next to the Helm, talking quietly to the nervous Helmsman as he maintained Nimitz on the ordered course, speeding toward the cruiser. Returning his attention to the torpedo chasing them, Harrow watched it slowly close on the carrier’s stern. The torpedo was now centered in the carrier’s wake, only two hundred yards behind. Harrow shifted his gaze from the torpedo chasing them to the cruiser they were about to ram. Counting down the seconds, Harrow braced himself for impact.

A screech of metal tore through the air as the starboard side of the carrier’s bow collided with the cruiser. Nimitz listed slightly to port as the cruiser scraped down the starboard side of the carrier, sparks flying. Nimitz rolled back to even keel as Bunker Hill cleared the carrier’s stern, and Harrow stared aft at the torpedo chasing them. Bunker Hill was now encapsulated within the carrier’s wake, and the torpedo veered toward the cruiser, exploding a second later.

A two-hundred-foot-high plume of water jetted into the air, whipsawing Bunker Hill like a rubber toy, breaking the cruiser’s keel, splitting the ship in half. The two halves of the cruiser started taking on water, the stern and bow tilting upward as Nimitz sped away with a new lease on life.

Nimitz’s six escorts had fallen far behind by now, struggling to keep up with the speedy aircraft carrier. There wasn’t much Harrow could do for his escorts. Nimitz would remain at maximum speed. Now that they had successfully evaded the torpedo, he could return to base course and initiate flight operations, retrieving the air wings circling above. Due to losses sustained to date, Nimitz’s and George Washington’s air wings were about half-strength, with Lincoln’s around eighty percent. It was going to be a crowded carrier. They were going to have to pack them in tight on the Hanger and Flight Decks.

Harrow was about to issue orders when the Tactical Action Officer’s report blared across the Bridge speakers. “Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-four-zero relative!” Harrow looked up through the Bridge windows.

Forty degrees off the starboard bow, a light green trail had appeared in the water, streaking toward Nimitz. Before Beresford could order evasive maneuvers to the west, the TAO reported, “Torpedo in the water, bearing three-zero-zero relative!” Another light green streak appeared just off the port beam.

Two other Chinese submarines had joined the hunt for Nimitz, bracketing the carrier.

There was nowhere to turn. Reversing course wasn’t an option, with the first submarine following behind. Turning to port or starboard wouldn’t work either, with torpedoes closing from both sides. Harrow evaluated the options, eventually deciding to maintain course. Maybe, if Nimitz was able to increase speed, the carrier could thread the needle between the two torpedoes. But Nimitz was already at ahead flank. Harrow needed more speed, and the only option was increasing reactor power above the authorized limit. Harrow had done it successfully once. Perhaps he could do it again.

Harrow picked up the 23-MC, issuing orders to DC Central. “RO, Captain. Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred twenty percent power.”

The Reactor Officer acknowledged, and Harrow felt vibrations in the deck as the main engines began straining under the increased steam load. Nimitz surged forward as the carrier’s four propellers churned the water, and Harrow watched his ship increase speed, first one knot and then another. Stepping close to the forward Bridge window, Harrow studied the trajectory of the incoming torpedoes. Both torpedoes were continuing in a straight line, and just when it looked like there was a chance the torpedoes would pass astern of the carrier, first one, then the other torpedo veered toward Nimitz. Both torpedoes had been wire-guided toward the carrier.

A few seconds later, the first torpedo hit Nimitz. An explosion on the starboard side of the ship rocked the carrier, and a geyser of water jetted a hundred feet above the ship, falling down upon the Island and Flight Deck like rain. A moment later, a second deafening explosion rocked Nimitz, this time on the port side.

The Flooding Alarm sounded, followed by emergency announcements, reporting flooding in both Engine Rooms. He could feel his ship begin to slow, and a glance at the ship’s speed displayed on the Voyage Management System confirmed that Nimitz was coasting to a halt.

The aircraft carrier’s fate was sealed.

Without propulsion, the ship no longer had its most important asset — speed. It would be a sitting duck, waiting to be finished off by however many torpedoes it took. And there would be no place for Nimitz’s and Lincoln’s air wings to land. There was a bitter taste in Harrow’s mouth as he turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Order the air wings to land on one of the carriers to the south.”

Lieutenant Commander Beresford stared at Harrow in silence. The blood had already drained from Beresford’s face and it seemed to pale even further after Harrow’s order. Beresford stuttered as the words tumbled from his mouth. He started over, and Harrow soon realized the reason for his OOD’s ashen features.

“Sir, the Stennis and Vinson have been sunk. CDC reported the loss of both carriers a half-hour ago.”

Harrow had been preoccupied, focused on saving his ship and hadn’t taken the time to get an update on the other carriers. As he contemplated the fate of the six thousand men and women on each carrier, as well as the air wings that had nowhere to land, the TAO’s voice boomed across the MC speakers again.

“Torpedoes in the water!”

Six more torpedo trails had appeared, three approaching from the port side of the ship and three from starboard. As the torpedoes raced toward Nimitz, Harrow realized there was nothing more he could do. He dwelt at first on the fate of his crew — the men and women who would not return home. But then his thoughts turned to the carriers they’d lost — George Washington, and now Lincoln, Stennis, and Vinson, with Nimitz soon joining their fate. Only now did Captain Alex Harrow appreciate the enormity of the Pacific Fleet’s defeat.

42

A brisk morning breeze blew across the lower reaches of the Yangtze River, flowing up the eastern slope past Xiang Chenglei as he stood alone at the edge of a moat surrounding the Wall of Victims. To his left and right, rising from granite flagstones surrounding the memorial, bronze statues depicted the suffering: a man carrying dead and maimed relatives away; a dead mother sprawled on the ground, her baby suckling her breast; a family fleeing toward safety. In front of Xiang, one memory rose taller than the rest — a twenty-foot-high statue of a mother mourning, her face turned skyward as she held a dead child in her arms. Xiang dropped his eyes from the mother’s face, and as he turned east toward the orange glow on the horizon, it was fitting his next thought was that of the rising sun.

Japan, the Empire of the Rising Sun, was guilty of atrocities difficult to comprehend. In December 1937, Nanjing — the capital of China at the time — fell to the Japanese Imperial Army. In the following six weeks, over 300,000 unarmed men, women, and children were slaughtered by Imperial soldiers; firing squads and beheadings were common. Mass graves were prevalent throughout the city, and beneath Xiang’s feet lay the remains of ten thousand corpses. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, which raged from 1937 to 1945, the Japanese Imperial Army slaughtered 23 million ethnic Chinese.

Even more repulsive was that the atrocities weren’t simply the result of out-of-control army units. Murder and rape of civilians was endorsed by the Japanese High Command, even sanctioned and encouraged by Japan’s supreme leader. Emperor Hirohito’s “Three Alls” edict, promulgated in 1942, directed the Japanese Imperial Army to “kill all, burn all, and loot all.” After the war, the Japanese people and their emperor refused to acknowledge the magnitude of their cruelty, choosing to minimize what had occurred. Perhaps a sincere apology after the war would have assuaged, to some degree, the resentment harbored by the Chinese people; provide some measure of comfort to mitigate the hate.

Comfort and Hate. As a child, the word comfort — even the concept — was forbidden in Xiang’s home. His mother loved him, he knew, but she would never comfort him. She wouldn’t speak the word or even allow it to be uttered in her presence. It was not until Xiang became a young man that he learned the gut-wrenching reason for his mother’s aversion to the word. Although Japanese atrocities during the war knew no bounds, many attractive Chinese women were spared; they had their uses. As the Japanese Army occupied eastern China, Comfort Houses stocked with women of every Asian ethnicity were established to satiate the physical desires of the Imperial solders. One of those young women was Xiang’s mother.

Only fifteen years old, Lijuan was raped day and night for months. Serving up to thirty men each day, Xiang’s mother came to truly understand the Japanese meaning of the word comfort. After a year of sexual slavery, she was discarded in a back alley in Nanjing, gaunt and listless, her body and mind broken. She was one of the lucky ones. Only twenty-five percent of comfort women survived, with the vast majority of those unable to bear children due to the injuries inflicted and venereal diseases contracted.

Japan had never formally apologized for the atrocities committed against the Chinese people, and some government leaders even asserted the Nanjing massacre had never occurred. Halfhearted attempts had been proffered by various government officials, but true dogenza had never been performed. That, however, would be rectified, and the emperor of Japan would soon bow before Xiang, his forehead touching the ground at the feet of China’s supreme leader.

A movement at the edge of the memorial caught Xiang’s attention. Striding across the gray granite slabs, Huan Zhixin approached, flanked by two members of the Cadre Department in their black suits.

Huan stopped next to him. “Everything is ready, General Secretary. Your helicopter awaits.”

Xiang’s eyes lingered on the bronze statue of the mother holding her dead child. After a long moment, he turned away, joining Huan as they moved toward the waiting aircraft.

The rhythmic beat of the Harbin Z-15’s twin engines filled Xiang’s ears as the helicopter sped northeast toward the coastal city of Yancheng. Xiang peered through the window as the outskirts of Yancheng appeared through a break in the clouds. A moment later, he caught his first glimpse of the Nanjing Army Group, comprised of the 1st, 13th, and 31st Armies, which would spearhead the assault on Japan. The 130,000 men were assembled in formation on the parade field below, bleeding over into the adjoining grassland. The mass of men in their green camouflage uniforms stretched to the horizon, the red pendants at the head of each unit fluttering in the breeze.

Xiang had traveled the 120 kilometers from Nanjing in silence, collecting his thoughts. The North Sea Fleet, held in reserve up to now, had been augmented with twenty-four Yuan class diesel submarines and what remained of the East and South Sea Fleets. Xiang knew Admiral Tsou had stood before his men yesterday, inspiring them to serve the people. This morning, it would be Xiang’s turn to stand before the Army, explaining why he had been forced to make this decision. Explaining why many of them would not return home.

The helicopter landed gently on the black tarmac. An escort was waiting, headed by General Zhang Anguo, who would command the three army groups leading the assault. The stocky General with short-cropped, silver hair saluted as Xiang stepped out of the helicopter. Xiang returned his salute, then extended his hand.

Zhang’s grip was firm and strong as he greeted his president. “The men are assembled for your review. Loudspeakers have been placed throughout the formation so every man can hear your words.” Xiang nodded his appreciation, walking between Huan and General Zhang toward the platform. Like Xiang, Zhang and Huan were quiet, all three men lost in their own thoughts.

Xiang ascended the ceremonial podium and stopped behind a wooden lectern near the front, while Huan and General Zhang took their seats in a single row at the back. Xiang placed his hands along the lectern’s edges, feeling the strength of the purple-brown zitan wood. He hesitated before he began, searching for the strength that had suddenly become elusive. The strength to send even more men to their death.

Japan was a more formidable opponent than Taiwan, but with the United States Pacific Fleet unable to assist, success was inevitable. The price China would pay, however, was unclear; how many of the men standing before him would die on Japan’s shores was unknown. He told himself again his actions were justified, that the prosperity of the many required the sacrifice of the few. America had given him no choice.

With the destruction of the Pacific Fleet, the only threat to China’s flank was the Japanese Navy. By themselves, Japan could be dealt with. Unfortunately, although the Pacific Fleet had been destroyed, America had two fleets, and its Atlantic Fleet would soon be on its way. Once China’s true intent was revealed, Japan and America would undoubtedly join forces. That was something Xiang and Admiral Tsou would not allow. In the process, a long-standing wrong would be rectified.

Xiang lifted his gaze to the mass of men assembled across the countryside, then issued the traditional greeting his troops were expecting.

“Welcome, comrades.” His voice boomed from the loudspeakers.

“Greetings, Leader!” The 130,000 men responded in unison, their voices reverberating across the field.

“Comrades, you are working hard!”

“To Serve the People!”

As the echo of the Nanjing Army Group’s response faded, Xiang was filled with pride. The men standing before him were no less dedicated to their country than he, willing to sacrifice their lives. But as they prepared to land upon the shores of Japan, Xiang must ensure his men understood the reason for their assault. This was not about revenge. He would not let his men commit the same atrocities their parents and grandparents had endured.

As he began his speech, he told himself again that this was an honorable task. He — as well as the men standing before him — truly Served the People.

43

Dawn was beginning to break across the east coast of China as a black sedan headed toward a four-story windowless building in the distance. Admiral Tsou sat in the back of the car along with his aide, neither man speaking. Even though it was morning, Tsou felt weary, having slept only four hours each night since the Chinese offensive began. It was here, eight days ago, that he had briefed his admirals on the plan, sending them to sea with the confidence they would defeat America’s Pacific Fleet. They had accomplished the seemingly impossible task, paving the way for the next phase of the campaign.

Tsou’s sedan pulled to a stop at the front of the East Sea Fleet headquarters. The two men stepped from the car and entered the building, proceeding to the underground Command Center. Tsou paused after entering the room, examining the dual ten-by-fifteen-foot displays at the front of the Command Center. The map on the left screen had shifted north, displaying China and the Japanese islands. Along China’s coast, green icons crowded the eight major ports of the North Sea and East Sea Fleets, the icons annotating the location of China’s three army groups that would lead the assault. Further inland, another mass of icons was blinking green, indicating the second wave of three additional army groups had begun their transit to the coast.

Along China’s shore across from Japan, more green icons depicted the location of mobile missile launchers that had been moved into position to support the assault. At sea, Chinese surface ships loitered near the northern end of the Taiwan Strait, only five hundred miles from the southernmost Japanese main island, giving no indication they would soon be heading north at ahead flank speed. China’s submarines, however, had already begun the transit, and were just now approaching Japanese surface ships at sea, preparing to attack.

The screen on the right displayed the order of battle of the first three army groups, their icons lined up neatly in columns. Over one hundred infantry, armor, artillery, and support units had loaded aboard their amphibious assault ships during the night, their icons toggling from red to green as they completed boarding their transports. Tsou’s timing was perfect; the last of the icons turned green.

Admiral Tsou headed to the communications suite at the back of the Command Center, settling into a chair at the head of the conference table in the small, rectangular room. Seated around the table were several admirals, including Admiral Guo Jian, commander of the East Sea Fleet, on Tsou’s left, and Admiral Shi Chen, in command of the North Sea Fleet, on Tsou’s right. But the most important man was not present — General Zhang Angou’s image appeared on the video screen at the front of the conference room, broadcast from the Nanjing Military District headquarters, where he would oversee the amphibious assault on Japan. The General stood stiffly at the other end of the transmission.

Tsou smiled inwardly. Even when Zhang was relaxed, he looked like he was standing at attention. It was always difficult to interpret the general’s formal facade. Tsou knew that Zhang, like him, had never been enamored of his assignment. But both men had prepared diligently. Tsou would use China’s Navy and Air Force to clear a safe path to Japan and transport Zhang’s men and equipment ashore. Zhang would take over from there. It appeared that all army units were ready, but Tsou needed confirmation.

“Good morning, General,” Tsou began. “I have indication that all army units are loaded aboard their transports. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Admiral. All three army groups have boarded their assault ships and we are ready to commence operations.”

Tsou replied, “I will inform you once all Japanese surface ships have been eliminated and a safe corridor for the transit has been established by our submarines. Good luck, General.”

General Zhang nodded, then his image disappeared from the screen.

It was quiet in the conference room as the admirals waited for Tsou to speak. The Fleet Admiral examined the solemn faces of the men seated at the table, then gave the order.

“Begin the assault on Japan.”

44

Seated at his desk on the third floor of the Ministry of Defense headquarters, Major Suzuki Koki riffled through the papers in his in-box, searching for the monthly report on enlisted recruiting results. Finally locating it, he placed the manila folder in front of him, pausing to gaze out his window at the grove of camphor trees abutting the south side of the Ministry complex. Through a break in the trees, he could see his favorite coffee shop along the busy Yasukuni Dori Boulevard. He glanced at the empty coffee mug on his desk. Time for a refill.

Only three months ago, he was the Commanding Officer of an infantry company in 34th Regiment, and coffee would have been served upon his arrival at work and refilled at the nod of his head. But now that his tour had ended and he had been reassigned to the Ministry of Defense headquarters, Suzuki was small fry — a term he learned working at the American Embassy in Tokyo earlier in his career — barely senior enough to garner an office cube with a view. As he reached for his coffee cup — he’d have to refill it himself this morning — the wail of the city’s emergency warning sirens carried through the building.

Suzuki searched his memory, but as far as he knew, no emergency drills were scheduled for today. As people around the office stood in their cubes, staring at each other with puzzled expressions, Suzuki swung toward his computer and pulled up the calendar containing Japan’s emergency drill schedule. His memory was correct; there was nothing scheduled. He switched his monitor over to the classified computer system in case it was a real emergency. Messages from the Japanese Self-Defense Force communication center began filling his in-box.

Suzuki skimmed the contents of each message, disbelief spreading across his face. What was occurring was inconceivable — a direct assault on the Japanese mainland. During World War II, America had been forced to abandon its plans to conquer the Japanese islands; the casualty estimates were unacceptably high. President Truman decided instead to drop two atomic bombs on Japan, forcing a swift and relatively painless — at least from the American perspective — end to the war.

But the Japanese military was a shell of its former self. Politicians unwilling to believe war was a real possibility had gutted the Japanese Self-Defense Force over the years. Japan’s leadership had abdicated its responsibility to defend their people, depending instead on the improbability of conflict and the might of the United States. As long as the American Pacific Fleet prowled the ocean, China could not threaten Japan. But America’s Pacific Fleet had been destroyed.

Japan would have to defend itself without America’s assistance, pitting its paltry military against the might of the People’s Liberation Army. The Japanese Self-Defense Force Navy consisted of only eight guided missile destroyers, twenty-nine small destroyers, and sixteen submarines of various ages — and the Army could muster only eight combat divisions and six brigades, barely eighty thousand combat troops, spread across the four main islands.

With a few mouse clicks, Suzuki shifted from the classified messages to the tactical display fed from the Command Center in the reinforced bunkers below ground. The Chinese assault was massive and well coordinated: Japanese radar installations and missile batteries had dropped off-line, satellites were down. JSDF warships, both pierside and underway, were being bombarded with missiles skimming across the East China Sea from the Chinese mainland.

China and Japan were at war again.

Suzuki decided there was no further need to review the paperwork in his in-box. He, along with thousands of other augmentees, would leave their desk jobs in the city, reporting to infantry units to reinforce the front lines. There was no hesitation. Suzuki left his computer on as he headed for the stairway, grabbing his uniform hat hanging from the coatrack along the way.