Empire Rising

45

Night was settling over the nation’s capital as a trio of black Suburbans passed over the Arlington Memorial Bridge, crossing the Potomac River into Virginia. In the backseat of the middle SUV, Captain Steve Brackman sat next to the president as their vehicle took the first exit after the bridge, turning south on Jefferson Davis Highway before peeling off toward the Pentagon. In the distance, bright lights lit the Pentagon’s River Entrance portico and the stepped terrace extending two hundred feet toward the Potomac River. While the river’s waters flowed calmly east toward the Chesapeake Bay, Brackman knew the mood inside the Pentagon was nothing less than frantic.

Two days ago, bad news began streaming into the military’s headquarters, growing progressively worse until leadership had been forced to accept the unthinkable. The United States Pacific Fleet had been defeated. But it hadn’t simply lost the battle, returning home to fight another day; almost the entire Fleet had been sunk. The military high command was scrambling to understand how that had occurred and to identify their options. They’d been unable to tear themselves away from the Pentagon to brief the president, so the president decided to visit them instead.

The three Suburbans pulled to a stop in front of the Pentagon, and moments later the president and Brackman, accompanied by the usual entourage of Secret Service agents, were striding down Corridor 9 toward the National Military Command Center, relocated to the Pentagon’s basement during the last phase of the building’s fifteen-year renovation. Upon reaching the entrance, Brackman entered the cipher code, holding the door open for the president of the United States.

The scene inside Command Center was chaotic. The secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were standing around the main conference table, its surface strewn with papers, arguing among themselves, while three other flag officers gathered at end of the table, engaged in an animated discussion. The twenty-by-forty-foot monitor hanging from the far wall was a veritable cemetery map, marking the locations where the Pacific Fleet ships had been sunk, their blue icons blinking against the black background. The conversation in the Command Center ceased when the president entered the room, the admirals and generals turning in his direction.

The president headed toward the conference table, taking his seat without a word. SecDef Nelson Jennings and the nine flag officers followed the president’s example, quietly settling into their chairs while Brackman took the twelfth and final spot at the other end of the table, directly across from the president. The president turned to Jennings, seated to his right, and spoke calmly.

“Bring me up to date.”

Jennings looked uncomfortably across the table before beginning, his eyes scanning the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The chairman, General Mark Hodson, sat across from Jennings on the president’s left, flanked by the four service chiefs — Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps. On the other side of the table, beside SecDef Jennings, sat the vice chairman and three additional flag officers Brackman recognized as Rear Admiral Michael Walker, head of Naval Special Warfare Command; Major General Carl Krae, head of Cyber Warfare Command; and Rear Admiral Tim Moss, Program Executive Officer (Submarines). Jennings turned toward the president, answering his question.

“As you’re aware, Mr. President, the Pacific Fleet has been virtually destroyed and China now controls the entire island of Taiwan. Unfortunately, China has their sights set not only on Taiwan, but on Japan as well. They’ve landed three army groups — over one hundred thousand men — on Japan’s four main islands, with another three army groups moving toward China’s coast. To prevent us from assisting Japan, China has also attacked every American military facility in the region with DF-21 missiles, including all of our air bases. The largest combat wing in the Air Force, located at Kadena Air Base, is completely out of action. Every runway has been destroyed, as well as seventy-five percent of the wing’s tactical aircraft. The situation is the same on every air base — the runways are too damaged to use.

“We can replace the aircraft, but without an air base in the region to operate from, China has taken Air Force tactical air support out of the mix. The only way we can provide persistent airpower is with our carriers, and they’ve addressed that issue as well. We’ve lost four more carriers, leaving no operational carrier in the Pacific.

“It appears China is neutralizing all threats along its coast, creating an almost impenetrable defense along the inner island chain. Without the Pacific Fleet to penetrate that barrier, China will have secured its flank.”

“Secured its flank for what?” the president asked.

“Our best guess is this is a prelude to a push south, toward resources vital to their economy.”

“So this is what it’s all about.”

Jennings nodded. “Yes, sir. Taiwan was just a feint, drawing the Pacific Fleet into the Strait where it could be destroyed.”

The president replied curtly, “What do we have left? How can we help Japan?”

Jennings glanced at Admiral Grant Healey, Chief of Naval Operations. “Not much remains of the Pacific Fleet,” Admiral Healey began. “Four Pacific carriers, plus the Atlantic carrier Lincoln and most of their surface escorts, have been sunk. Additionally, China has infected our MK 48 torpedoes with malware, which shuts down the torpedo whenever a Chinese submarine emits a sonar pulse at a specific frequency. As a result, we’ve lost every fast attack submarine in the Pacific. Only our SSGNs — Michigan and Ohio — have survived, along with the two MEFs aboard their amphibious ships. We’ve assigned every P-3 we have to an anti-submarine barrier between China and the amphibs to protect them, and so far China seems content to keep their submarines close to shore. But without the Pacific Fleet to ensure safe passage to Japan, our two MEFs are useless, stranded at sea. As far as our strategic forces go, our ballistic missile submarine fleet remains intact, and every SSBN has sortied to sea, ready to launch at a moment’s notice.”

There was silence as the president and his military advisors digested Admiral Healey’s last statement. Brackman hoped everyone considered this a conventional war only — the United States would not resort to the use of nuclear weapons unless they were used against them first.

The president seemed to share Brackman’s position, turning the conversation back to conventional forces. “What about reinforcements? Can we send the Atlantic Fleet into the Pacific?”

“We can, Mr. President,” Healey answered. “But it will take much longer than normal. The Miraflores Locks in the Panama Canal have been destroyed and three oil tankers were sunk in the Suez Canal. This means Atlantic Fleet ships will have to travel around the bottom of Africa or South America. The nuclear-powered carriers can make it in three weeks, but they’ll be slowed down by the conventional-powered ships. Taking into account the speed of our refueling tankers, we’re talking a month before the Atlantic Fleet carrier strike groups reach Japan. By all accounts, that will be too late.”

“Additionally,” General Hodson added, “China has developed a way to jam every U.S. military satellite. GPS, recon, and communication satellites are down. The only comms we have with the Fleet right now is via the X37B Orbital Test Vehicle — a small drone version of the space shuttle, outfitted with sensor and communication packages. We have two X37s. One is already in orbit and we’ll be sending the second one up as quickly as possible, which will give us limited message capability. Without our satellites, Pacific Command is paralyzed. What little we could glean of the situation has come from weather satellites, their optics refocused on the Western Pacific.”

General Hodson sorted through the papers on the conference table, locating a stack of black-and-white photographs, which he spread across the table for the president to review. Of the fifty-six surface ships that entered the Strait, only a dozen remained afloat, each one on fire, black smoke angling upward as the winds blew westward. The four carriers that had entered the Taiwan Strait were missing; they were on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

“What about Air Force bombers,” the president asked, “operating from Guam?”

General Mel Garrison, the Air Force chief of staff, replied, “Long-range bombers remain a viable asset. However, due to the long flight times, we’re unable to maintain a persistent presence. For the scenario we’re talking about, we need constant tactical air support. That means Air Force fighters operating from bases in the region, or carriers off the coast. We have neither.”

A somber silence enveloped the Command Center as the General’s words sank in. As Brackman surveyed the officers seated around the table, he sensed something he had never felt before. The United States military had always been confident, convinced they would prevail in any conflict. Tonight, there was desperation in their eyes as they attempted to come to terms with the United States’ defeat. Yet at the same time, he sensed a grim determination. A determination shared by their commander-in-chief. His expression hardened as he spoke.

“You’re not giving me any solutions, gentlemen. I want options!” The president slammed his fist on the table, punctuating his statement.

There was a long silence before a general on SecDef Jennings’s side of the table spoke. “Two can play this game, Mr. President.”

The president turned toward Major General Carl Krae, head of Cyber Warfare Command, who followed up. “China knew they couldn’t defeat us in a fair fight, so they cheated.”

“How’s that?” the president asked.

“Cyber warfare,” General Krae replied. “They figured out how to jam our satellites and infect our weapon systems with malware. But two can play this game.”

“Explain, General.”

General Krae turned to the two-star Admiral seated beside him. The Admiral introduced himself first. “Rear Admiral Tim Moss, Mr. President. With the data on the flash drive Miss O’Connor obtained, we know how to revise our torpedo algorithms to make them immune to the Chinese sonar pulse. Even better, we can add an algorithm that will make our torpedoes home on the sonar pulse, virtually guaranteeing a hit.”

“That’s well and good, Admiral,” the president replied, “but we don’t have any fast attacks left in the Pacific. And with both canals unusable, no way to get the Atlantic Fleet submarines there in time. So how does that help us?”

A smile flickered across Admiral Moss’s lips. The unexpected glimmer of confidence caught Brackman’s attention, and he glanced first at the president, then back to Moss as the Admiral continued. “Our submarines don’t have to head south, under Africa or South America, to reach the Pacific. They can travel over the top of the world, under the polar ice cap, cutting the transit time to Japan to twelve days. By the time they exit from beneath the ice cap, we’ll have a fix for our torpedo software they can download and install into their torpedoes.”

The president absorbed the Admiral’s words, identifying its major flaw. “Our satellites are down, so how are our submarines going to download the new software?”

Moss turned to the two-star Admiral beside him. “Rear Admiral Michael Walker, head of Naval Special Warfare Command, will explain.”

“We bring the satellites back up,” Admiral Walker offered.

The president raised an eyebrow. “And how do we do that?”

“Like General Krae mentioned, two can play this game. It won’t be easy, but pending your approval, we’ll send a SEAL team from USS Michigan into China to inject a virus — developed by General Krae’s team — into the PLA’s command and control system. The virus will disrupt the jamming of our satellites and take down every Chinese satellite in the process, as well as knock every new-generation Chinese missile battery off-line. With our satellites up, we’ll be able to download the new torpedo software to our submarines and bring our GPS-guided weapons back into play, all while we cripple Chinese command and control and their missile batteries.”

“How do we get the virus to the Michigan with our satellites down?” the president asked.

“We can transmit the software via one of the X37s. The virus will be a relatively small program, which the X37 communication suite can transmit while it passes overhead. For the large torpedo software download, however, we’ll need our normal communication satellites, which have a geostationary orbit and a larger data rate.”

“The plan sounds doable, but what’s the point? We can’t help Japan defeat China with just submarines. We don’t have any carrier strike groups left in the Pacific, and the Atlantic Fleet carriers will take too long to get there.”

Admiral Healey, Chief of Naval Operations, answered. “There is one additional Pacific Fleet carrier, Ronald Reagan, in overhaul at Pearl Harbor. If we can get her underway, we’ll land an augmented Atlantic Fleet carrier air wing aboard.”

General Ely Williams, Commandant of the Marine Corps, joined in. “And then we can take advantage of the one flaw in China’s battle plan. They struck our Pacific Fleet too early, before either MEF landed on Taiwan. Had they waited, both Marine Corps divisions would have been stranded on the island. However, both MEFs are at sea and available. Additionally, TWO MEF from the East Coast was deployed to the Mediterranean, and their ships made it through the Suez Canal before it was sabotaged. That gives us three MEFs in the Pacific, and if we can clear a path to Japan, we can land three divisions of Marines to assist, as well as bring three Marine air wings into play.”

“There’s one weakness in our plan,” Admiral Healey added. “It’s crucial that the three MEFs be protected from air attack while they off-load their Marines and equipment. China has destroyed or has control of every air base in the region, meaning our air support has to come from ships. Reagan will be augmented with two additional Super Hornet squadrons, but that gives them only seventy-two aircraft to defend against the entire PLA Air Force, which had over one thousand fourth-generation fighters at the beginning of the conflict. We don’t know how many aircraft they’ve lost in the battle for Taiwan and Japan, but it’s likely they can throw several hundred aircraft at the Reagan Task Force.

“In that case, they’ll overwhelm the outer layer of our air defense, leaving it to Reagan’s surface ship escorts, consisting of only six cruisers and destroyers. If China takes out Reagan’s escorts, or they simply run out of anti-air missiles, we could lose not only Reagan, but every amphibious ship in the Navy, not to mention stranding or sinking three Marine divisions and their equipment.”

As the president absorbed Admiral Healey’s grim assessment, General Williams picked up the conversation. “We have a partial solution, Mr. President. Our Marine air wings normally include Harrier jets for ground support. However, we can replace two squadrons with Joint Strike Fighters. The Marine Corps has the Bravo version of the aircraft, which has a short takeoff and vertical landing capability and can deploy from our amphibious assault ships. We can configure the Joint Strike Fighters for tactical air support instead of ground support, augmenting Reagan’s air wing. The fly in the ointment with this plan is that the Joint Strike Fighter hasn’t been authorized for combat yet — but with your approval, we can deploy them.”

“The same goes for the Navy,” Admiral Healey joined in. “We also have two squadrons of Joint Strike Fighters, which we can land aboard Reagan in place of two Super Hornet squadrons. That would give us almost a hundred fighters, of which half would be the new Joint Strike Fighter, which is far superior to anything in China’s arsenal.”

There was silence in the Situation Room before SecDef Jennings summed everything up. “There’s a lot that has to go right with these plans, Mr. President, but we believe it’s doable.”

After a long moment, the president announced his decision. “Proceed with your plans, gentlemen. Send the Atlantic Fleet carrier strike groups into the Pacific and the Atlantic submarines under the ice. Get Reagan underway, augmented by Joint Strike Fighters, and insert the SEAL team into China.” The president paused, fixing each General and Admiral at the table in succession with a steely glare.

“This time, failure is not an option.”

46

As nightfall retreated across the Pacific Ocean, the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard, normally placid at this time of day, was a frenzy of activity. Although the skies were clear, a cyclone of men and machines had converged on a large gray warship moored in Dry Dock One. Heavy cranes lifted ordnance across the wharf onto the ship, while smaller cranes swung pallets of supplies to sailors waiting topside. Along the wharf to the south, in a small building serving as the ship’s temporary offices, Captain Charles “CJ” Berger stood at the window, oblivious to the cacophony of sounds around him. He stared at the naval message in his hand in stunned silence.

It was an impossible task. He’d been given seven days to get underway and another twenty-four hours to piece his aircraft carrier together enough to conduct flight operations. Four squadrons of Super Hornets, along with two squadrons of Joint Strike Fighters and a slew of Growlers and Hawkeyes, were scheduled to land aboard his carrier in eight days, where they would be packed inside the Hangar and on the Flight Deck, butts to nuts as if it were a crowded men’s locker room. As Berger wondered how he would fit all of the aircraft aboard his carrier, he looked up toward the dry dock, and the collection of gray parts one might call a ship.

USS Ronald Reagan was in the middle of a yearlong overhaul, scheduled to replace USS George Washington as the Fleet’s Japan-based carrier. However, now that George Washington had been sunk, it looked like that replacement would occur sooner than planned. Unfortunately, the shipyard had spent three months tearing Berger’s ship apart and had just begun the painstaking reassembly with refurbished and replacement systems. There was a modicum of good news; this was a non-refueling overhaul, so both reactors and their engine rooms were still operational. Propulsion would not be a problem. However, the Flight Deck was in tatters, all four catapults and the arresting wires completely disassembled. It would take a Herculean effort to undock the ship — two weeks minimum — and another month to reassemble the required systems and train his crew to safely conduct flight operations.

There was a knock on the door and Berger acknowledged. Captain Tim Powers, his Executive Officer, arrived with the Shipyard Commander, Captain Debra Driza, and a half-dozen civilians. His XO’s face was flustered. Although they hadn’t exchanged words after the XO handed the message to Berger this morning, he no doubt shared his Captain’s opinion the task was impossible. However, the first words out of Captain Driza’s mouth indicated the Shipyard Commander did not share those feelings.

“We’ll have you underway in seven days as directed, CJ.” The civilians shot uneasy glances in Driza’s direction as the Captain continued. “Hull integrity will be restored and we’ll flood down the dry dock in seven days. Will you be able to bring at least one reactor and engine room up by then?”

Berger was caught off guard by the Shipyard Commander’s optimism. It took a second to digest her question, realizing the onus had been placed upon his crew. “Yes,” he answered. “We’ll be ready to get underway.” Berger still grappled with the impossibility of the shipyard’s task, but pushed past it. “What about supplies?”

“As you can see, we’ve already begun,” Driza replied, “but we’ll only have enough time to load one month of consumables and sixty percent of your ordnance.”

Berger nodded, a frown on his face. “That’ll have to do then. Will we be able to top off JP-5?”

“Yes, jet fuel won’t be a problem.”

“What about my catapults, arresting wires, and elevators?”

“We’ll work around the clock until you undock, and we’ll have shipyard Tiger Teams aboard to continue reassembling your critical flight systems along the way. You should have at least one arresting wire and elevator in operation by the time the air wing arrives. The Tiger Teams will continue working as you transit the Pacific, and your carrier should be fully operational by the time you reach Japan.”

Berger nodded again, not yet sharing the Shipyard Commander’s optimism. They needed a minor miracle. He turned to his Executive Officer. “Round up the department heads. We’ve got some work to do.”

47

Inside the submarine’s cramped sick bay, measuring only six feet wide by fifteen feet long, Christine O’Connor sat on the cold metal examining table, her legs dangling off the edge as the ship’s Medical Officer, Commander Joe Aleo, prepared to inspect her right arm. Christine removed the sling from her shoulder, then unzipped her blue coveralls down to her waist, exposing her white T-shirt. After she pulled her right arm from the coveralls, Commander Aleo peered closely at the bullet’s entrance and exit wounds.

As Aleo examined the wounds, Christine’s thoughts drifted to the message they had received a few hours earlier. Two days ago, the United States Pacific Fleet had been virtually wiped out. Michigan’s crew had been in the dark at first — the submarine message broadcast had gone down as the four carrier strike groups swung inside the Taiwan Strait. Michigan, along with her sister SSGN, Ohio, had been left behind on the east side of the island to protect the amphibious ships from any Chinese submarines that slipped past the fast attacks.

It had been maddening, cut off from communications, unable to determine what was going on, able to discern only that the situation had taken a turn for the worse when the amphibious ships suddenly reversed course, heading away from Taiwan at maximum speed. Unable to obtain further orders, Captain Wilson decided to accompany the Marine Expeditionary Forces east into deep water. As Michigan searched the skies for a radio signal, it was only a few hours ago that the submarine had received a lone transmission.

The content of the message spread through the crew like wildfire, and after the shock wore off, the Navy SEALs had gone to work, converging on the Battle Management Center. The Navy SEALs were nothing like what Christine had imagined. Instead of Rambo, they more closely resembled computer geeks. Thus far, they huddled around their laptop computers and consoles in the Battle Management Center, meticulously reviewing mission plans. In her limited interactions with the SEALs, they had been polite and respectful, not the aggressive, testosterone-laden demeanor she expected from the Navy’s elite killers.

Commander Aleo released Christine’s arm, pushing the sling to the side of the examining table. “You won’t need this anymore. The wound has healed nicely and you should have full use of your arm in another week, after your triceps muscle finishes healing. Feel free to use your arm as much as you want, so long as you can tolerate the pain. Take one of the eight-hundred-milligram pills of ibuprofen if the pain gets too bad.”

Aleo stepped to the side and Christine hopped off the examining table, flexing her arm again before shrugging back into the top of her coveralls, zipping up the front.

“Thanks, Doc.” Christine had learned a lot during her short time aboard Michigan, and had picked up some of the unique vocabulary. Whether the submarine crew included a Corpsman or a Medical Diving Officer like Commander Aleo when SEALs were aboard, they were universally referred to as Doc.

“No problem, Miss O’Connor. Let me know if you need anything else.” Aleo unlatched the door to his infirmary, holding it open for Christine.

Christine stepped out of Doc’s office into the starboard side passageway of Missile Compartment Second Level, almost running into someone as she rounded the corner. A quick glance told Christine the Navy SEAL standing in front of her was no computer geek. Lieutenant Jake Harrison had just stepped out of the showers, wearing nothing but a pair of flip-flops and a white towel held loosely around his waist with one hand, a toiletry bag in the other. Damp brown hair clung to his forehead, and Christine couldn’t keep herself from surveying his broad shoulders, her eyes involuntarily moving to his muscular chest, then down to his abdomen, where a long, flat expanse of muscles disappeared beneath the white towel. There was no way around it; Jake was still an attractive man.

But Harrison was no youngster. He was the same age as Christine, much older than his rank implied. He had enlisted twenty-four years ago, commissioned an officer after reaching the rank of Chief. If the quiet rumors were true, they had been an eventful twenty-four years. The Navy SEALs aboard Michigan were tight-lipped about the missions they’d been on, but Christine had gleaned that Harrison had led numerous forays against insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Christine caught a smile from Harrison in her peripheral vision, and she realized she was still staring at the top of his white towel. She looked up toward his deep blue eyes, the temperature of her cheeks rising. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed her stare or her reddening face. He was undoubtedly used to those kinds of looks from women, even if that woman happened to be the president’s national security advisor.

However, Harrison wasn’t staring at her face, and Christine’s blush turned even warmer when she realized Harrison had taken advantage of the few seconds while her eyes wandered. The blue coveralls she wore fit snugly to her curves, and Harrison wasn’t the first man aboard to have his eyes drawn to her breasts, straining inside the confining jumpsuit.

Harrison’s eyes met hers, and neither person said a word for a moment, until he broke into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Chris,” he said as he gripped the towel tighter around his waist. “Sorry for the lack of clothes. But I see you’re also missing some attire.”

Christine didn’t understand his comment until she followed his eyes to her right arm. “Oh, my sling. Doc just took a look and said I don’t need it anymore.” She flexed her arm into a muscle pose, wincing as her triceps burned from the effort. She suddenly felt embarrassed, showing off like a teenage boy on the beach, a strange role reversal.

“That’s good to hear,” Harrison replied. “Then it won’t be long before you’ll be working out with us SEALs. I mean, not that you need to work out. You’re still in great shape.”

Before she could respond, Lieutenant Karl Stewart, Michigan’s Weapons Officer, turned the corner behind Christine. “Oh, there you are, Miss, O’Connor. The Captain asked me to remind you about the mission brief in the Battle Management Center at 1500.” The Weps’ eyes went to Harrison, standing naked aside from the towel wrapped around his waist. “You better get a move on, Jake. You’re up in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Harrison replied. “I just wanted to clean up before the brief.” He nodded his respect to Christine as he stepped around her and continued on his way.

With Lieutenant Stewart standing beside her, Christine resisted the urge to turn and watch Harrison as he headed down the starboard side passageway. The muscles rippling down his back would have been a pleasant sight.

Fifteen minutes later, Christine was seated at one of the twelve consoles on the starboard side of the submarine’s Battle Management Center, along with Captain Wilson, his Executive Officer, and the submarine’s four department heads — the Weps, Eng, Nav, and Suppo. Navy SEALs, led by Commander John McNeil — head of the four platoons of SEALs aboard, occupied the remaining five consoles, with another seven SEALs gathered at the back of the room. At the front of the Battle Management Center, Lieutenant Harrison stood beside one of the two sixty-inch plasma displays hanging from the bulkhead. This time, Harrison was fully clothed, wearing the standard Navy blue camouflage uniform, similar in design to what the Marines wore, as opposed to the solid blue coveralls worn by the submarine crew.

Commander McNeil kicked off the mission brief, beginning with a summary of the information provided in the message received by Michigan in the early morning hours. “As you’re aware, our response to China’s invasion of Taiwan did not go as planned. All five carriers have been sunk, along with most of our surface combatants and every submarine except for Michigan and Ohio.”

McNeil paused momentarily, his thoughts no doubt matching those of every person in the room. The crew of every fast attack submarine in the Pacific Fleet — over three thousand men — were now entombed inside steel coffins resting on the ocean bottom. No one commented during McNeil’s temporary pause, and he continued his brief.

“China defeated our Pacific Fleet because they were able to jam our military satellites, knock our Aegis Warfare Systems off-line, and dud our torpedoes. The mission we’ve been assigned will reverse that advantage. Lieutenant Harrison will brief the details.” McNeil turned to Harrison.

“In a nutshell,” Harrison began, “our job is to insert a virus into the Chinese command and control network, which will disrupt their jamming of our satellites as well as disable Chinese command and control and every new-generation Chinese missile launcher. To accomplish this, we must inject our virus into the central command and control node — the communications center in China’s Great Hall of the People, located in Beijing.”

Harrison pressed the remote control in his hand, and the monitor beside him energized, displaying a map of the Western Pacific. “We’ve got more planning to do, but here’s what we’ve got so far.” Harrison zoomed in toward China, stopping when the coastal waters to the west of Tianjin filled the screen. Several miles offshore, a green X blinked on the display.

“First, Michigan must reach this location in the Bohai Sea, which puts our SEAL Delivery Vehicles in range of the Chinese coast. From there, we’ll launch two SDVs with six SEALs — four in one and two in the second, with the remaining space used to transport the weapons and equipment we need. I’ll lead the mission, with the rest of the team comprised of Chief O’Hara, Garretson, Crane, and the girls.”

Christine didn’t understand who Harrison meant by the girls, but it seemed it was a reference to two large, muscular SEALs standing at the back of the group, who fist-bumped each other as Harrison continued. “We’ll be met at the insertion point and escorted to a CIA safe house in Beijing, where we’ll rest during the day before the hard part begins — entering the Great Hall of the People.”

Harrison pressed the remote again, and the display shifted to a satellite view of the Great Hall of the People. “We haven’t received any mission Intel, so we’ll have to go with what’s in our database. The communications center is located on the third floor of the South Wing. That means we’ll enter along the south side of the building, breaking through an emergency exit door or through a window. Of course, the doors and windows will be alarmed, so we’ll have to move fast once we’re inside. Unfortunately, we don’t have schematics of the building, so we’ll have to sort out a path to the communications center once we’re inside.

“Every member of the team will be trained on what type of computer terminal we need and how to upload the virus, since there’s no telling how many of us will reach the communications center. I won’t lie to you — although I expect at least one of us will reach our objective, it’s unlikely any of us will make it back out. We’ll have the element of surprise on the way in, but not on the way out.”

Harrison paused for a moment, letting his bleak assessment sink in. After his eyes scanned the other five SEALs assigned to the mission, he turned first to Captain Wilson and then to Commander McNeil. “Subject to your questions, sir, this concludes my brief.”

Silence settled over the Battle Management Center as Christine digested the assignment — practically a suicide mission. If they could gain access to the Great Hall of the People without being noticed, however, they might be able to slip in and out quietly, returning safely to USS Michigan. As she stared down at her hands, locked around her knee, she remembered a crucial detail about her escape from the Great Hall. She released her knee and turned her right hand over, examining her palm. The palm Yang Minsheng had entered into the security system, which gave her the ability to unlock the security doors throughout the building.

Christine raised her hand. “I can get you into the Great Hall of the People.”

There was a surprised expression on Harrison’s face as he asked, “And how would you do that?”

Christine explained how her palm print had been entered into the security system and how she had opened the security doors as she escaped from the Great Hall of the People. As long as her entry into the security system hadn’t been discovered, gaining entrance into the building would be easy compared to forcing their way in. Additionally, she recalled the commands Yang had entered to pull up the schematics of the Great Hall on the security panel, which would allow them to determine the best route to the communications center. However, after explaining how she could help, Harrison brushed her off.

“Thanks for the offer, Miss O’Connor, but I’m afraid that’s not an option. This mission is far too dangerous for a civilian, and frankly, your participation would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

Christine could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, driven by a confluence of emotions. Her offer of assistance had been dismissed, and she wondered whether it was because Jake cared about her, or because he thought she was a helpless woman. As far as she was concerned, both of those reasons were unacceptable.

“I disagree with you on both points,” Christine replied. “Whether this mission is too dangerous for me is my decision, not yours, and as far as being more of a hindrance than help, I doubt that. Whatever difficulties my presence creates will be far outweighed by gaining clandestine access to the Great Hall of the People. I recommend you reassess your position, Lieutenant.” Christine’s eyes bored into him.

Harrison was undeterred. “That’s my professional assessment, Miss O’Connor, and you will not be a member of this mission unless I am overridden.” Harrison glanced at Commander McNeil, seated next to Captain Wilson.

After a long moment, McNeil replied. “You have valid points, Miss O’Connor, and your offer of assistance is accepted.” He looked toward Harrison. “Plan accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” Harrison replied curtly, displeasure on his face as he wrapped up the mission brief. “Everyone is dismissed except O’Hara, Garretson, Martin, and Andrews. Crane, you’re out. Your seat has been taken by Miss O’Connor.” Harrison cast a scowl in Christine’s direction. “Miss O’Connor, I’ll brief you separately on what to expect during the mission.”

Christine nodded, uncertain whether to be pleased or angry at Harrison’s reaction. One thing was certain, however: a private conversation with him was long overdue.

An hour later, Christine was seated alone in the Executive Officer’s stateroom, having asked the XO for an opportunity to speak with Lieutenant Harrison privately. She was seated in the XO’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, facing the closed door. An extra chair had been dragged into the stateroom, positioned only a few feet away. Not that there was much choice. No matter where she put the chair in the small stateroom, in a few minutes she would be uncomfortably close to a man who had never been far from her thoughts.

Twenty-four years ago, Christine had left Fayetteville and Jake Harrison behind, headed to Penn State on a four-year gymnastics scholarship. Regardless of Harrison’s opinion, it had been a difficult choice, leaving the man she loved behind. There would be time for marriage and children, just not then. But after graduating with a degree in Political Science, she’d been swept into a life of Washington politics. She’d get in touch with Jake soon, she kept telling herself, when the time was right. Only by the time she was ready, Jake had chosen another woman. Apparently, eleven years was too long to wait. Christine settled down instead with Dave Hendricks, their marriage ending after a turbulent ten years, his life ending three years later in the kitchen of her town house. But that was not entirely her fault.

There was a knock on the door.

Christine answered. “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing Lieutenant Harrison standing in the entrance, his stiff posture accompanied by cold, dark blue eyes. He’d been summoned to the XO’s stateroom not by Christine, but by the president’s national security advisor, made clear when she instructed the Messenger of the Watch. She was still steamed about how Harrison had treated her during the mission brief, dismissing her ability to contribute.

There was an awkward silence as Harrison stood in the doorway at attention. Finally, he spoke first. “You requested my presence, ma’am.” His tone was formal, his face expressionless.

Harrison’s demeanor made Christine regret the words she relayed through the Messenger of the Watch. This wasn’t how she wanted things to go.

“Please be seated, Jake.” She used his first name and put a warm smile on her face.

“I prefer to stand, Miss O’Connor.” He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, looking at Christine only when he spoke.

She fought back the desire to put a hard edge into her voice, ordering him to take a seat as directed. Instead, she decided to try again.

“Jake, I apologize for the wording of my request. I don’t want to talk to Lieutenant Harrison, the Navy SEAL. I want to talk with Jake Harrison, the man I once dated.” Christine said nothing more, waiting for his response.

After a moment, Harrison’s eyes drifted toward Christine, and the stiffness in his shoulders softened. “Request permission to close the stateroom door.”

“Please do.”

Harrison stepped inside the stateroom and closed the door behind him, then grabbed the vacant chair and swung it around backward as he sat in one fluid motion. He folded his arms on the back of the chair and stared into Christine’s eyes. He was only an arm’s length away, his chair a few inches from Christine’s legs.

“What would you like to talk about, Chris?” His demeanor had softened, but his eyes and voice were still hard.

“It’s time we cleared the air, Jake.”

Harrison nodded subtly. “Me first or you?”

“I’ll start.” Christine locked her fingers around her knee. “I don’t want our personal past to affect our professional present, and I think there might be some of that going on here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You had to be ordered to include me on the mission, when my participation makes perfect sense.”

“It does not make perfect sense, Chris. I explained my position during the brief, and it has nothing to do with the fact that we were once engaged.”

“We were never engaged!”

Harrison pulled back a bit. “You said yes, and the ring went on your finger. That sounds like an engagement to me.”

“I changed my mind and returned the ring the next morning.”

“Still,” Harrison insisted, “I believe my statement is more accurate than yours.”

Christine pursed her lips together a second before replying. “All right, I concede your point. But that has nothing to do with today’s discussion.”

Harrison blurted, “It has everything to do with today’s discussion!” He clamped his mouth shut a second too late; the words had already been spoken. He paused a moment before continuing, his eyes searching hers. When he finally spoke, the hard edge was gone from his voice.

“I loved you then, and I still love you today in some capacity. I don’t want anything to happen to you, and if you accompany us, you won’t make it back. We’ll have the element of surprise on our side when we enter the Great Hall of the People, with or without your help. Making it back out is another issue altogether, and odds are none of us will. My professional opinion is that we don’t need your assistance, so I see no point in needlessly sacrificing your life.”

Christine let Harrison’s words sink in, but she kept going back to the one phrase, trying to put it into context.

I still love you …

The words had an unexpected effect on her, and only then did she realize she had wanted to hear those words from the moment she laid eyes on him in the Dry Deck Shelter. She struggled to maintain her composure, her mind going in several different directions at the same time. Finally, she decided it was best she get off this track. Now was not the time to let long-buried emotions surface.

“Fair enough,” Christine replied. “I respect your opinion, but I don’t agree, so I’m going with you. Hopefully this will be the last of that discussion.” She paused before continuing. “Now it’s your turn. It sounded like there was something you wanted to get off your chest as well.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll get straight to the point.” Only he didn’t. He fell silent for a while, searching for the right words. He finally found them.

“I wasn’t good enough for you, was I?”

Christine hesitated before replying. How is it he still doesn’t understand? “You were more than good enough for me, Jake. It’s the timing that wasn’t good.”

“The timing for what? Love? There’s a right time and a wrong time to fall in love?”

“We were only eighteen.”

“We were old enough.”

“I wasn’t ready. I had a gymnastics scholarship to college and I spent my afternoons and evenings in the gym. I didn’t have time to be a wife or — God forbid — a mother at that age.”

“I didn’t ask you to become a mother, only a wife.”

Christine waved away his words. They had rehashed this issue dozens of times. Neither could persuade the other, and it appeared things hadn’t changed. “We’ve been over this before. I loved you and would have married you if you had waited for me.”

“I waited long enough. It looked like you were more interested in being wed to Washington politics than to me. Did I embarrass you? Were you too afraid to introduce a simple corn-fed Midwestern boy to your sophisticated friends? An enlisted man to boot?”

“You could have been an officer — you could have gone to college with me and earned a commission instead of enlisting.”

“I am an officer, if you haven’t noticed. And the path I chose was far more difficult and honorable than simply being knighted an officer because I graduated from college. I earned my commission, working my way up the enlisted ranks, and I’m a far better man for it.”

“That’s not what I meant, Jake. I meant we could have gone to college together — you had the grades, just not the desire. We could’ve graduated and built a life together.”

“And I could’ve ended up with a bullet in my head.”

Jake’s words sliced through Christine, leaving behind the image of her ex-husband’s body on the kitchen floor of her town house, blood spreading across the stone tiles.

“That’s so unfair, Jake.” It was Christine’s turn to pull back slightly, the memory of her struggle with her ex-husband flooding her body with emotion. “Dave drove a knife almost straight through my neck.”

Harrison’s eyes moved toward the thin scar on the left side of her neck, barely discernible now. “I’m sorry. It must have been difficult for you.” He reached toward her, his fingers caressing the faint, inch-long vertical scar.

The warmth of Harrison’s fingers, his gentle touch, sent shivers through Christine’s body. She pulled away even farther. There was another awkward silence until he lowered his hand to his side.

“I’m sure you gave Dave a run for his money,” Harrison added. “I’ve never met a woman as strong as you. Or as flexible.” He broke into a wide grin.

Christine couldn’t help but smile at the memories; the times they’d escaped to the loft in his father’s barn, spending hours talking, and … She suddenly found herself leaning toward Harrison. She needed to change the subject.

“So, are you married?” She already knew the answer, but she and Harrison had never discussed it.

“Yes,” Harrison answered. “It took me a while to find someone like—” He stopped, his eyes probing Christine’s, until she mentally finished his sentence.

Like me.

She could feel the heat in her neck rising toward her face, and she searched for a way to divert her thoughts, to hide the feelings surging inside her while she struggled to discern their meaning. Is it possible I’ve never gotten over him?

“Do you have any kids?” she asked.

“I have one daughter. A ten-year-old. She’s into gymnastics, like you.” Christine smiled as Harrison continued. “Speaking of gymnastics, it looks like you haven’t wandered far from the gym.” He surveyed her body, his eyes moving slowly up her lean legs and narrow waist, his gaze undressing her along the way. Had any other man ogled her so blatantly, Christine would have slapped him. Instead, she struggled to keep from taking his hand, pressing it against her cheek. Her bed lay just a few feet away, and she fought the urge to lock the door and pull Harrison into her arms, dragging his hard body on top of hers.

There was a knock on the stateroom door, thankfully distracting Christine from her thoughts. “Enter,” she said.

The door opened, revealing the XO. “Oh, I didn’t realize you two were still talking.”

“That’s quite all right, sir,” Harrison replied as he stood. “I’ve still got some mission planning to do, now that Miss O’Connor is accompanying us. I better get hot.”

Speaking of getting hot, Christine thought as Harrison left the stateroom and Lieutenant Commander Greenwood entered. She hoped neither man noticed how warm her skin felt.

48

“Sir, casting off all lines.”

“Very well.” Captain CJ Berger acknowledged the Officer of the Deck’s report as he reviewed the status of his aircraft carrier from Auxiliary Conn on the starboard side of the Island. Night had settled over Oahu, and the deck lights illuminated the large warship floating in Dry Dock One of the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard. Along the dry dock wharves and on each side of the ship, personnel were casting off the mooring lines, and inside the ship, the Sea and Anchor Detail was set, the crew ready to get Reagan underway. Whether the ship itself was ready was another question altogether.

The last seven days had been a nightmare. After receiving the order to get underway in a week, Berger had met with his department heads, concluding their pre-underway checklists were useless. The ship was still in pieces with many systems inoperable, preventing the completion of pre-underway checks on what was usually considered essential equipment. Berger decided instead to wing it, tossing the checklists into the recycle bin and ordering his department heads to rely on the crew’s experience, especially on their seasoned Chief Petty Officers. Tell each division Chief to be ready to get underway in seven days and leave it at that.

One crisis after another had reared its ugly head, each one presenting a seemingly impossible problem to surmount. But his crew and shipyard personnel resolved each issue until only one remained. One that Captain Berger was staring at, midway down the aircraft carrier’s starboard side. Both nuclear reactors were up and Electrical Division was in the process of disconnecting shore power. From the look of things, however, the long list of problems plaguing their underway preparations hadn’t reached an end. The ship was due to get underway in two minutes and shore power was still connected.

The ship’s Chief Engineer entered the Bridge wearing an unpleasant expression. Stopping next to Berger, Commander Andrew Fellows explained. “We’re having a problem disconnecting shore power. The pierside relay has failed and the shore power cables are still energized. The shipyard estimates it will take four hours to replace the relay.”

Based on the orders hand-delivered to Berger the previous day, getting Reagan underway on time was crucial. They had already been delayed twelve hours due to complications, consuming what leeway existed, and they couldn’t afford another four-hour delay.

Berger asked his Chief Engineer, “Are all personnel clear of the shore power connections?”

“Yes, sir,” Fellows replied.

Returning his gaze aft, Berger noted the dry dock caisson had been removed, providing egress into the channel where four tugs waited, their white masthead lights reflecting off the black water, ready to twist Reagan onto its outbound trajectory. Turning to his Officer of the Deck, Berger ordered, “Get the ship underway, Lieutenant.”

Fellows blurted out, “Sir! Shore Power is still connected.”

“Not for long,” Berger replied, failing to keep a grin from creeping across his face. “We won’t need shore power anytime soon. Besides, I’ve got two dozen shipyard Tiger Teams aboard, and I’m sure there are a few electricians who can repair the damage.”

Commander Fellows nodded slowly as the Officer of the Deck complied with Berger’s order. “Helm, all back, one-third.”

Berger felt the subtle vibration in the deck as the aircraft carrier’s four propellers began churning the water. Slowly, the hundred-thousand-ton carrier started moving aft, pulling the shore power cables taut as the ship eased out of Dry Dock One. As Reagan continued aft, the shore power cables ripped from the ship in a brilliant shower of yellow sparks.

A grin settled on Commander Fellows’s face. “Sir, shore power has been disconnected.”

Seconds later, the Officer of the Deck reported, “Shifting colors, Sir. The ship is underway.”

“Very well, men,” Berger replied.

Very well, indeed.

49

In the Great Hall of the People, the early morning sun slanted through tall colonnade windows as Xiang strode down a corridor along the eastern facade. Huan joined him on his right as they traversed the long hallway toward the conference room, where the other seven Politburo members awaited Xiang’s arrival. The unscheduled meeting had been arranged barely an hour ago; it was necessary to evaluate the new American threats.

Although China’s military offensive was proceeding as planned, a few wrinkles had appeared. The United States was creative in its response, and whether the new American initiatives posed a threat to China’s plan was a question Xiang and the rest of the Politburo wanted answered.

Huan pushed the heavy conference doors inward, providing passage for China’s president. The other seven members of the Politburo were already seated around the polished ebony conference table. Huan took his seat along the perimeter of the room as Xiang settled into his chair at the head of the table.

At the front of the conference room, Admiral Tsou stood at attention, awaiting acknowledgment from Xiang.

“At ease, Admiral.”

Admiral Tsou relaxed somewhat, although most would still have described him as standing at attention.

“Before you begin this morning’s brief, Admiral, I commend you on the success of your plan thus far. Your preparations were meticulous and the execution, flawless.”

Admiral Tsou nodded in appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“However,” Xiang added, “even the best-laid plans can go awry, and it has come to our attention that America has not conceded defeat. Can you expound on their response and how we plan to counter it?”

Admiral Tsou answered, “The United States is responding in ways both expected and unexpected. I’ll begin with the expected. The first phase of our offensive — the invasion of Taipei — produced the desired result. America committed its Pacific Fleet and most of it was destroyed. America still has their Marine Expeditionary Forces, but without the Pacific Fleet to clear a safe passage for them ashore, the MEFs will remain at sea aboard their amphibious ships, unable to assist Japan.

“However, the United States is attempting to rectify that. Satellites have detected the Atlantic Fleet carrier strike groups heading south, presumably around the tip of South America or Africa into the Pacific. We also detected Atlantic Fleet submarines sortieing from their homeports, all headed north during their surface transit to their dive points. We suspect they are headed beneath the polar ice cap and will reach the Pacific in the next few days. We’re not sure what their plan is once they reach the Pacific, since their torpedoes can also be disabled.

“Additionally,” Admiral Tsou added, “satellite recon has determined that America was able to get their last Pacific Fleet aircraft carrier, Ronald Reagan, underway during the middle of a one-year overhaul, and an Atlantic Air Wing has departed the East Coast of the United States.

“However, my assessment is that the Atlantic Fleet carriers and the Reagan pose no threat to our plans. We will sink Reagan once it comes within range of our Dong Feng missiles, and the Atlantic Fleet carrier strike groups will arrive too late. We also have plans to address the Atlantic Fleet submarines making the under-ice transit. Without getting into the details, let me assure you that most of these submarines will never reach Pacific waters, and any that do will meet the same fate as their Pacific Fleet counterparts. We did not expect America to give up after their Pacific Fleet was destroyed, and we have prepared well for their response.

“Now for the unexpected. America is planning to insert a SEAL Team into Beijing from one of their guided missile submarines. We will eliminate this team once they arrive, hopefully after determining their objective. The United States has apparently identified a weakness in our plan, and it would be wise for us to understand and correct this deficiency.” Admiral Tsou paused a moment before continuing. “Subject to your questions, this concludes my brief.”

There was silence in the room as Xiang’s eyes moved across the other seven men seated at the table. One by one, each man nodded their satisfaction. Xiang turned to Admiral Tsou. “Thank you, Admiral. Keep us informed.”

50

On the westernmost tip of the United States, where the Alaskan archipelago curls north toward the frigid Russian peninsula of Kamchatka, a light snow was falling across an already-white landscape. On the shore of the small, four-by-six-mile island, inside a nondescript two-story building blending into the snowbanks, Tina Dill rubbed her cold hands together as she sat in front of her radar console, monitoring air traffic along the Pacific Northwest. She pulled her thick jacket close around her neck as she glanced at the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling, wondering if it was blowing hot air or cold. It seemed the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees since she relieved the watch two hours ago.

Tina tried to remain focused, glancing at the other five operators at their consoles. They seemed similarly bored, despite America’s predicament. The Pacific Fleet had been virtually wiped out, and now High Command — whoever that was — was worried China would send their Air Force east toward American bases on Guam and Hawaii, or even Alaska. Satellites in orbit would normally have detected China’s bombers the moment they took off from their airfields, but China had managed to take the satellites down. However, Tina figured it didn’t really matter.

Although the radar installation Tina worked at was a relic of the Cold War, it was up to the task. The COBRA DANE radar system, built in 1977, utilized a powerful phased-array radar, which was now incorporated into America’s Ballistic Missile Defense System. Tina found it ironic the facility was built to safeguard the United States from the Soviet Union, given that her supervisor, seated at his desk behind her, was a Russian. Actually, Dimitrious Loupas was a U.S. citizen. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Dimitri emigrated from Siberia to the United States with his family.

A blip on Tina’s radar screen caught her attention. She sat up in her chair, selecting the sector in question, then zoomed in for a better look. A sortie of aircraft had taken off from Anqing Air Base in the Nanjing Military Region of China, headed out over the Pacific Ocean. A frown formed on her face; Anqing was the home of the PLA Air Force’s 10th Bomber Division. Tina called for her supervisor over her shoulder.

“Dimitri. I’ve got multiple bogies departing China’s airspace on course of zero-nine-zero. Probable Xian H-6 bombers.” Tina began assigning COBRA DANE trackers to the aircraft.

Dimitri looked up from his computer, and a moment later was standing behind Tina, examining her display. “How many?” he asked.

Tina finished assigning the trackers. “One hundred and twenty.” She looked up at Dimitri. “10th Bomber Division has only forty H-6s. They must have ferried 8th Bomber from Guangzhou and the 36th from Lanzhou to Anqing.”

“That’s every H-6 in their inventory,” Dimitri replied.

As Tina and Dimitri studied the radar display, the aircraft began veering to the north.

“That’s odd,” Tina muttered. “Why would they head north?”

Dimitri peered over Tina’s shoulder as the bombers steadied on a northeast course, paralleling the coast of Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula. “Yes, that is odd. I wonder where they’re headed. They don’t have the legs to reach the continental United States.” The red icons continue their trek northeast, and Dimitri followed up. “Maybe they’ve implemented a refueling capability. Keep an eye on them, and if they go over the top, hand them off to NORAD.”

“Will do.” Tina’s eyes narrowed as she studied the icons marching steadily northeast, wondering what the hell they were up to.

51

First Lieutenant Liang Aiguo examined the navigation display in the cockpit of his Xian H-6F bomber. His aircraft was flying over the Arctic ice cap, and there was still no indication of his target. Looking through his cockpit window, Liang could see additional Xian bombers strung out in a linear formation, the line of aircraft extending as far as he could see in both directions.

The voice of Liang’s Navigator came across the speaker in his flight helmet. “We will reach the release point in five minutes.”

Liang acknowledged the report, then returned his attention to the barren landscape. Five minutes ahead, there was nothing. Just ice and snow. He wondered what the purpose of his mission was. He studied his radar display again, then lifted his tinted visor and peered more closely through his cockpit window. All he could see was the flat white ice, interrupted by wandering ridges where the ice floes buckled.

“One minute to release point,” the Navigator reported.

Liang lifted a switch on his panel, opening the bomb bay doors, then turned his attention to the ordnance they were about to drop on nothing. His aircraft carried twenty thousand pounds of free-falling bombs. Enough to blast a small city into the Stone Age. A green light illuminated on his panel, indicating the bomb bay doors were open and locked in place.

Liang activated the speaker in his flight helmet. “Bombardier, you have permission to drop.”

The H-6’s Bombardier acknowledged the order, and when their aircraft reached the release point, he began dropping their ordnance. To Liang’s left and right, the entire line of H-6 bombers began releasing their payloads, the bombs falling to earth in a cascading rain of metal.

Liang shook his head. He had no idea why they were dropping their bombs here. But one thing was certain. They were going to blow the ice pack to bits.

52

Just below the Arctic ice cap, USS Annapolis surged south toward the Bering Strait and the Pacific Ocean, leading the twenty-four Atlantic Fleet submarines making the inter-fleet transit across the top of the world. Standing on the Conn of his Los Angeles class fast attack submarine, Commander Ramsey Hootman leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the display of his Sail High-Frequency under-ice sonar. His eyelids were getting heavier, but this was no time to leave Control for an hour or two down. Annapolis was approaching the most hazardous portion of her passage under the ice cap and there was no way he could tear himself away now. Had he managed the transit better, he might have been able to nab a few hours of sleep before reaching this point. But the ice pack seemed to be conspiring against him.

Two days earlier, Annapolis had slipped under the polar ice pack, proceeding at ahead flank through the deep water portion of the Arctic Ocean. The Commanding Officer’s Eyes Only message had instructed him to abandon all caution; time was paramount. As Annapolis began the most dangerous leg of its underwater journey — transiting the Alaskan continental shelf toward the Bering Strait passage — Ramsey had maintained a high speed, slowing only to ahead full. But the high speed increased their peril.

The last portion of their voyage beneath the ice cap required transit in water depth less than six hundred feet. Although the bottom was mapped, not every feature was known and water depth could decrease rapidly. Additionally, although the thickness of the ice pack was normally uniform, there were also random ice keels jutting downward, blocking the submarine’s path. Ramsey had already been forced to detour twice. That was difficult enough traveling alone, even more perilous with two submarines following closely behind.

Two Virginia class submarines, New Hampshire and the Virginia herself, were hot on Annapolis’s heels. Not far behind them were both of the Atlantic Fleet’s SSGNs. Their loadout of 154 Tomahawk missiles each was sorely needed in the Pacific, now that Ohio and Michigan had launched theirs, and most of the surface ships were lying on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

As Ramsey pondered the Navy’s decision to risk both of the Atlantic Fleet’s SSGNs in the dangerous under-ice transit, his immediate concern was the two Virginia class submarines following closely behind Annapolis. The trio were transiting at an uncomfortably high speed, and if Annapolis had to slow down unexpectedly, he had to rely on the awareness of Virginia’s crew to prevent them from ramming into the back of Annapolis, and the same for New Hampshire’s crew behind Virginia, avoiding a disastrous underwater fender bender.

As if on cue, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. We’re picking up some unusual broadband noise ahead.”

Ramsey examined the spherical array display on the Conn. The background noise level directly ahead had increased significantly. The Sonar Supervisor followed up, concern in his voice. “Conn, Sonar. The intensity is increasing rapidly. If it continues at this pace, it’ll interfere with our under-ice sonar. We won’t be able to detect where the ice keels are.”

As the Sonar Supervisor finished his report, Ramsey heard the unusual sound: a deep rumbling, audible through the submarine’s hull. The watchstanders in Control exchanged questioning glances, and Ramsey’s uneasiness grew as the volume increased. He walked over to the sonar shack, opened the door, and stuck his head inside the dark room, illuminated only by the glow from the sonar displays. The Sonar Supervisor was standing behind the three sonar operators on watch, pressing a set of headphones to one ear. The Chief looked up from the monitors as Ramsey spoke.

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

The Sonar Supervisor shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything like it. It isn’t coming from a specific bearing. More like a wide swath, advancing toward us.”

Ramsey returned to the Conn, viewing the broadband monitor with mounting concern. The increasing sound level was starting to blank out the forward sector of the spherical array sonar. Ramsey glanced at the monitor to the left. The same thing was happening to the under-ice sonar. In a few minutes Annapolis would be blind, unable to ping and detect a return from the ice above, or directly ahead. Ramsey turned toward the Officer of the Deck, stationed on the Conn between the two periscopes, staring at the under-ice sonar with the same concerned expression.

“Slow to ahead two-thirds,” Ramsey ordered. “Inform Virginia and New Hampshire on underwater comms that we’re slowing.”

The Officer of the Deck complied, relaying the propulsion order to the Helm, and Annapolis began to slow as the rumbling continued to increase in intensity. The OOD attempted to contact the two fast attacks as directed, his voice going out on the underwater communication circuit — not much more than a speaker transmitting into the water. Ramsey hoped the two Virginia class submarines heard the report over the rising background noise.

Ramsey studied the sonar screens intently, searching for a clue to the unusual noise. It was broadband only, with no discrete frequencies, but as the sound grew louder, the rumbling was punctuated with loud bangs, which sounded like explosions. The noise was racing toward them, and in another minute, there would be so much noise in the water that their under-ice sonar would no longer be able to pick up its return. Annapolis was about to go blind, just like the two fast attacks behind her.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

The nursery rhyme rolled around inside Ramsey’s head as he tried to understand what was happening. He was hearing explosions — he was certain of it — accompanied by the rumbling reverberations bouncing off the ocean bottom and the ice pack above. But then a new sound reached Ramsey’s ears; sharp, ear-splitting cracks. Finally, it dawned on him.

“The ice pack is breaking apart!” Ramsey shouted to no one in particular. Someone was bombing the ice pack, blinding Annapolis and every Atlantic Fleet submarine making the under-ice transit. Even worse, as the ice pack broke apart, the jagged ice was shifting, twisting and repositioning, some fragments shifting up while others sheared downward, directly toward Annapolis. Although the submarine’s steel hull was three inches thick, the ice keels would tear through the submarine’s skin like papier-mâché.

Ramsey shouted so everyone in Control could hear him over the deafening noise. “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Helm, back emergency!”

Annapolis began to slow as the propeller churned the water in reverse. Ramsey worried Virginia might ram into the stern, but he didn’t have any choice. Until the situation stabilized and Annapolis could paint a picture of the underwater world with its under-ice sonar again, it was best not to move.

As Ramsey’s submarine coasted to a halt, he called out, “Helm, all stop!”

The intensity of the noise peaked and then began to abate, but as the rumbling explosions swept past Annapolis, the sharp cracking sounds intensified. As his crew listened to the dreadful noise with upturned faces, Annapolis shuddered and began tilting to starboard, accompanied by a loud screech coming from the starboard side of the ship.

Ramsey held on to the Conn railing as the submarine listed fifteen degrees to starboard, the loud screech sounding like someone raking their fingernails down a chalkboard. An ice keel was shifting downward, impacting the submarine’s hull, and Ramsey hoped the hull remained intact. Even though the water depth was less than Crush Depth, if the submarine went down under the ice pack, there’d be no way for the crew to escape.

The screeching sound ended and the submarine began to right itself. But as Ramsey breathed a sigh of relief, the Flooding Alarm activated, followed by a 4-MC emergency report.

“Flooding in the Engine Room. Flooding in Engine Room Upper Level.”

There was little Ramsey could do. An Emergency Blow would send the submarine careening up toward the ice pack above, potentially impaling the submarine on another ice keel. If they couldn’t stop the flooding and pump the seawater out of the bilges, they’d become a permanent fixture in the under-ice landscape. As Ramsey listened for the follow-up report from the Engine Room, the nursery rhyme began rolling around in his head again.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

53

Four hundred feet below the ocean’s surface, as Michigan continued her westward transit toward China’s coast, Christine O’Connor sat across from Captain Murray Wilson at the small fold-down table in his stateroom, his dark brown eyes probing hers in silence. She had asked a straightforward yet difficult question, one that had been hovering on the periphery of her mind from the moment she met Wilson in Control her first day aboard. It was obvious the answer was difficult as well; the submarine captain was searching for the right words.

For the last ten days, Michigan had been lurking east of Japan, guarding the amphibious ships from Chinese submarines while preparing for the SEAL mission. Twenty-four hours ago they had headed west at ahead two-thirds, stealthily approaching the Nansei island chain curling down from Japan’s southwestern island of Kyushu. They would soon pass through the Tokara Strait, where they would likely encounter Chinese submarines protecting the supply lines to Japan from any American submarines that had survived the Pacific Fleet’s demise.

Wilson had ordered the crew members not on watch into their bunks. He expected they would get little sleep from the time they entered the Strait until their mission was complete and Michigan was safe again in deep water. Christine had taken advantage of the temporary lull in the ship’s activity to ask Wilson for a few moments of his time. As the second hand on the clock in Wilson’s stateroom ticked toward the twelve o’clock position, Christine realized Wilson had been silent for over a minute.

Finally, Wilson answered. “No, I don’t blame you for the predicament I was put in. It was the president’s decision to sink the submarine my son was on, and he would have come to the same conclusion even without your recommendation. It was the only option.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Christine replied. “I keep telling myself the same thing. Yet it’s hard not to feel responsible. For failing to stop the Mossad’s launch order against Iran. For failing to devise a better response. For forcing you into an unimaginable position.”

“No one forced me to do anything, Christine. Admiral Stanbury asked for my assistance, and I willingly gave it. We couldn’t let Kentucky launch and annihilate an entire country. When you weigh the lives of seventy million versus one hundred and sixty, the scale tilts one way. Fortunately, things turned out better than they could have. But enough of that episode in our lives,” he added. “What else would you like to know?”

Christine was happy to leave the Kentucky incident behind, moving to the next topic on her mind. “Why did you turn down flag rank, and end up in command of Michigan instead?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair. “I turned down promotion to Rear Admiral because I wanted to end my career at sea, not behind a desk. I told Stanbury what I wanted and he made the arrangements. There are only two submarines in the Pacific Fleet a captain can be assigned to — Michigan and Ohio, and Michigan was due for a change of command. A few strings were pulled, and I got the orders.” Wilson smiled for the first time since their discussion began.

Their conversation was interrupted by the Officer of the Deck’s voice, emanating from the 27-MC speaker in Wilson’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a submerged contact, designated Sierra four-five, bearing two-nine-three. Range and classification unknown.”

As Wilson retrieved the microphone from its holster next to the speaker, Christine decided they were fortunate indeed to have Wilson in command, the most experienced submarine officer in the Fleet. Wilson spoke into the microphone. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.” The Officer of the Deck repeated back the Captain’s order as Wilson stood, returning the microphone to its holster. “Let’s head to Control.”

Christine followed Wilson out of his stateroom and was almost bowled over by the Messenger of the Watch and LAN Technician of the Watch, sliding down the ladder from Control. One was on his way to the Chief’s Quarters and officer staterooms, the other headed aft to rouse the crew from their bunks in the Missile Compartment. After the two men passed by, Wilson and Christine ascended the ladder into Control.

Michigan was still in its normal watch rotation, with only one-third of the crew on duty. The Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Steve Cordero — the most experienced junior officer aboard — stood on the Conn between the two lowered periscopes, his eyes fixed on the sonar display. Wilson stepped onto the Conn, stopping next to Cordero, examining the display as he motioned Christine toward the fold-down chair on the starboard side of the Conn. Christine settled into the chair as she listened to the two men’s conversation.

“Sir, the ship is on course two-nine-zero, ahead two-thirds, four hundred feet. Hold six surface contacts, all distant contacts. Sonar is still analyzing Sierra four-five.”

Additional personnel began entering Control, energizing dormant consoles and donning sound-powered phone headsets as their displays flickered to life. The Executive Officer and Weapons Officer also arrived, followed by the submarine’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kasey Faucher, who relieved Lieutenant Cordero as Officer of the Deck. Cordero manned the last dormant combat control console.

The XO hovered behind the three consoles keeping track of target position, while the Weps hunched over the Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console. The Weps cast furtive glances in the Captain’s direction, and Christine wondered why, finally realizing the reason. If the submerged contact was a Chinese submarine, each torpedo aboard Michigan would become a dud as soon as the Chinese submarine transmitted a sonar pulse.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-five is classified Yuan class diesel submarine.”

Michigan was defenseless.

That fact was not lost on Wilson as he loudly announced, “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Lieutenant Commander Faucher retains the Deck.” He followed up immediately with, “Helm, ahead one-third,” slowing the ship to its lowest bell, reducing the amount of noise put into the water by the submarine’s propeller and main engines.

After peering over Lieutenant Cordero’s shoulder, studying the combat control console display, Wilson issued another order. “Helm, right full rudder, steady course north.”

The Helm twisted his yoke to the right and the submarine turned slowly to starboard, putting Sierra four-five on the port beam in an attempt to drive around it.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-six, bearing zero-one-five, classified submerged. Analyzing.”

It looked like Michigan had turned directly toward another Chinese submarine. Wilson ordered his submarine to reverse course. “Helm, continue right, steady course two-zero-zero.” If they couldn’t go around the first submarine on one side, they’d try the other.

Michigan eventually steadied up on its new course to the south. Wilson stood next to the Engineer on the Conn, studying the sonar display. He was waiting for their towed array sonar to finish snaking back and forth from the turn, straightening out so it could transmit reliable bearings. While they waited, Sonar followed up.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-six is also classified Yuan class submarine.”

Wilson acknowledged Sonar’s report, and Christine’s eyes shifted between Wilson and the XO, wondering if either submarine had detected Michigan yet. A torpedo in the water would be a clear indication, but could the crew figure it out some other way?

The XO spoke into his sound-powered phone mouthpiece, acknowledging a report from Sonar, and the three operators manning the submarine’s combat control consoles began adjusting the parameters to the contact’s solution.

A moment later, the XO announced, “Confirm target zig, Sierra four-five, due to upshift in frequency. Sierra four-five has turned toward own ship.”

Wilson called out, “Helm, ahead two-thirds.” Michigan was speeding back up, attempting to turn the corner around Sierra four-five. But then more bad news came across the 27-MC.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new submerged contact, Sierra four-seven, bearing one-eight-zero.”

Wilson acknowledged, assessing the position of the third submarine — almost directly ahead — for only a second before issuing another order. “Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course one-zero-zero.”

With three submarines blocking Michigan’s path, there was no hope of slipping through, so Wilson had reversed course, heading out the way they had come in. It looked like they would have to fall back and attempt to penetrate the Chinese submarine barrier at some other point. As Christine wondered whether they would have better luck next time, a powerful sonar ping echoed through the hull.

“Conn, Sonar! Sierra four-five has gone active. Ping-steal range, six thousand yards.” Seconds later, two more sonar pings reverberated inside control. “Conn, Sonar! Sierra four-six and four-seven have also gone active. Ping-steal range ten thousand yards each.”

Wilson stepped off the Conn toward the combat control consoles on the starboard side of the ship. “Geographic display,” he called out. The XO tapped Cordero on the shoulder and seconds later a geographic display appeared on the Lieutenant’s console, displaying Michigan and the three Chinese submarines. They had Michigan bracketed, one behind with the other two on Michigan’s beam. As Wilson studied the display, a 27-MC report blared across the speakers.

“Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-eight-five! Correlates to Sierra four-five!”

Wilson responded immediately, “Helm, ahead flank! Launch countermeasure!”

The Helm rang up ahead flank on the Engine Order Telegraph, and Christine knew that back in the Engine Room, the Throttleman was spinning the ahead throttles open as rapidly as possible, pouring steam into the Main Engine turbines. One of the Fire Control Technicians seated at his combat control console pressed a button on his display, ejecting a torpedo decoy into the water. Christine felt tremors in the submarine’s deck as the ship’s propeller dug into the water, accelerating Michigan toward maximum speed.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing two-eight-five!”

Wilson stepped back onto the Conn, unfazed by Sonar’s report, alternately studying the sonar and combat displays. The torpedo was chasing Michigan from behind, but with a Chinese submarine on each side of the ship, there was nowhere to turn. Unless the torpedo was distracted by Michigan’s decoy, it looked like the Trident submarine was headed to the bottom.

A bright white trace burned into the sonar display, but Christine found her eyes glued to the geographic display in front of Lieutenant Cordero. The torpedo chasing them was just now reaching their decoy. She watched intently as the torpedo passed by Michigan’s decoy, her heart sinking into her stomach. But then the torpedo turned around and headed back toward the decoy.

It worked. Christine watched as the torpedo swam in circles around the decoy, attempting to destroy the small countermeasure. But just when her spirits began to lift, another report echoed across the 27-MC.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing two-eight-three! Sierra four-five has shot a second torpedo!”

Christine looked up at Captain Wilson, still standing on the Conn, studying the Sonar display. A moment later he announced, “Launch second countermeasure.” However, he issued no new orders to the Helm. With a Chinese submarine on either side, Michigan was constrained on course, so another torpedo decoy would have to do, along with the submarine’s speed. Michigan was slow by American submarine standards, but she was nuclear-powered and could easily outrun the three diesel submarines chasing her. Outrunning their torpedoes was another matter.

Every ten seconds, Sonar called out the bearings to each torpedo, with red bearing lines annotated on several of the displays. A minute passed and the Navigator, supervising the various electronic plots, called out, “Second fired torpedo has been vectored around our decoy.”

Wilson stepped off the Conn again and stopped by the geographic display, examining the bearing lines to the second torpedo. The torpedo had been steered forty-five degrees to the right, then back to base course chasing Michigan, passing to the right of the submarine’s decoy. The Chinese torpedo was obviously wire-guided and the Chinese crew well trained. It would be a race to the finish, hinging on whether the torpedo ran out of fuel before it reached Michigan. The Trident submarine was already at ahead flank, so Christine figured they had a fighting chance. But as a glimmer of hope appeared, a series of reports echoed across Control.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing one-nine-zero! Correlates to Sierra four-seven!” A few seconds later, another report followed. “Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-one-zero! Correlates to Sierra four-six!”

Two more bright white traces appeared on the sonar monitor on the Conn, one on each side of the display. Every ten seconds, Sonar called out bearings to the three torpedoes chasing them, and not long after, solutions for the three torpedoes appeared on the geographic display on Lieutenant Cordero’s console. The first torpedo was chasing them from behind, headed directly toward Michigan. However, the two on each side were fired at a lead angle, taking into account Michigan’s ahead flank speed, traveling to an intercept point ahead of the Trident submarine. Michigan was completely bracketed. They couldn’t slow down and had nowhere to turn.

Christine sensed the restrained panic in the Control Room. The low murmur of orders and reports between watchstanders had ceased, the quiet in the Control Room pierced only by Sonar’s announcements reporting the bearings to the three torpedoes. One by one, the watchstanders in Control looked toward Wilson, wondering if he would find a solution to their dilemma.

Wilson studied the geographic display on Cordero’s console for a moment, his arms folded across his chest. The torpedo behind them had closed to within three thousand yards and would catch up to Michigan in four minutes. The torpedoes on each side of the submarine weren’t far behind, only five minutes from impact. There was nowhere Michigan could go to evade the torpedoes, except up or down. The XO reached the same conclusion.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Greenwood called out, “recommend Emergency Blow.”

“That won’t work,” Wilson replied. “We’re too big and we won’t change depth quickly enough. Even if we do, we’ll be a sitting duck on the surface. However…” Wilson rubbed the side of his face as he stared at the geographic display, tapping Lieutenant Cordero on the shoulder a second later. “Overlay bottom contour.”

Cordero complied, and after several push-button commands, depth contours appeared on the display. Each level of the ocean bottom was displayed in a different color, increasing in brightness from a dark blue to bright yellow, as the water depth decreased. Up ahead, to starboard, was a small patch of bright yellow.

Wilson turned toward the Quartermaster. “Report bottom type.”

The Quartermaster replied, “Silt bottom, with intermittent rock formations.”

Wilson suddenly ordered, “Helm, right full rudder, steady course one-seven-zero. Dive, make your depth seven-five-zero feet.”

The Helm and Dive acknowledged, followed by another report from the Quartermaster. “Sir, charted water depth is eight hundred feet.”

“Understood,” Wilson replied. Stepping onto the Conn, Michigan’s Captain called out loudly, “Attention in Control. I intend to drive Michigan toward the bottom, searching for a rock outcropping along the way. If we detect one, we’ll bottom the submarine on the opposite side, hoping the torpedoes chasing us lock on to the rock formation instead. Carry on.” Turning toward the Quartermaster again, Wilson ordered, “Energize the Fathometer.”

The Quartermaster complied, and seconds later the submarine’s Fathometer began sending sonar pings down toward the ocean bottom, measuring the water depth beneath the submarine’s keel. On the Fathometer display, Christine watched the depth steadily decrease as Michigan sped toward the ocean bottom. The Dive called out the submarine’s depth change in one-hundred-foot increments, finally reporting, “On ordered depth. Seven-five-zero feet.”

The Quartermaster followed up, “Eight fathoms beneath the keel.”

The first torpedo was only two minutes behind them. Michigan would reach the shallow patch of ocean bottom in about the same time. Wilson’s eyes shifted between the display on Cordero’s console and the Fathometer readout as the three torpedoes sped toward them.

“Conn, Sonar.” The Sonar Supervisor’s report echoed across the quiet Control Room. “Torpedo bearing two-seven-zero has increased ping rate. Torpedo is homing!”

Wilson said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Fathometer. Suddenly, water depth began decreasing rapidly, reported by the Quartermaster. “Six fathoms beneath the keel … Five fathoms … Four fathoms…”

They were passing over a rock outcropping. But how high would it rise? Any higher than fifty feet and Michigan would slam into the rocks. With the submarine traveling at ahead flank, the rocky bottom would inflict significant, if not fatal, damage.

As the Quartermaster called out, “Zero depth beneath the keel,” Michigan shuddered, knocking some of the personnel standing in Control off balance. Wilson grabbed on to the Conn railing, his eyes still fixed on the Fathometer. The Dive turned toward the Captain, looking for direction. Michigan was barreling along the ocean bottom at ahead flank speed, receiving who-knew-what kind of damage. Meanwhile, the torpedo behind them continued to close.

“Conn, Sonar. One minute to torpedo impact.”

Sonar’s report was barely audible above the racket as Michigan plowed along the ocean bottom, but the loud scraping sounds suddenly ceased.

Wilson immediately called out, “Helm, back emergency! Dive, bottom the submarine! Don’t break the bow dome!”

Wilson had just ordered the Dive to perform something they had never trained on or even simulated. He would have to trust the Dive to figure out how to do it without wrecking the submarine, especially its bow-mounted sonar.

The Dive cast a worried glance at the Captain before turning back quickly toward the Ship Control Panel, simultaneously ordering the two planesmen in front of him, “Three down, Full Dive fairwater planes.”

Christine felt tremors in Michigan’s deck as the ship’s massive seven-bladed propeller began spinning in reverse. Michigan tilted downward three degrees as it slowed, and seconds later, a shudder traveled through the ship’s hull as Michigan rammed into the ocean bottom again.

As the submarine’s speed approached zero, Wilson called out, “Helm, all stop!” and the Helm twisted the Engine Order Telegraph to the ordered bell. The tremors beneath Christine’s feet ceased, and Michigan came to rest at a ten-degree tilt to starboard. The racket of the submarine’s grounding was replaced by a serene silence, penetrated only by the high-pitched pings of the torpedo behind them.

“Thirty seconds to torpedo impact.” The Sonar Supervisor’s report echoed across the quiet Control Room.

Christine examined the geographic display. The torpedo was approaching the protrusion in the ocean bottom Michigan had just passed over. If they were lucky, the torpedo would lock on to the rock outcropping instead of Michigan.

“Twenty seconds to impact.”

A few seconds later, a deafening explosion filled Christine’s ears, followed by hollow tings echoing through Control as chunks of rock bounced off Michigan’s steel hull. After another minute, the sound of high-speed propellers, accompanied by high-pitched sonar pings, streaked overhead from starboard to port, followed a few seconds later by identical sounds passing from port to starboard. The other two torpedoes had missed Michigan, hunkered down on the ocean bottom, indistinguishable from a large rock formation.

After the second torpedo passed overhead, Captain Wilson began issuing orders. “Rig for Reduced Electrical Power. Shut down the reactor.”

The submarine’s Engineer, on watch as Officer of the Deck, relayed the Captain’s orders, and throughout the submarine, all nonessential equipment was secured, reducing the electrical demand to within the submarine battery’s capacity. As the crew continued securing nonessential loads, Wilson tapped Lieutenant Cordero on the shoulder again.

“Relieve the Engineer as Officer of the Deck.” Wilson turned to the Engineer. “Get the Turbine Generators and all nonessential loads secured as quickly as possible. The Chinese submarines are going to be overhead in a few minutes, sniffing around to ensure the first torpedo finished us off, and we need to look as much like a rock as possible. Also inspect the Engine Room to determine if we sustained any damage while driving along the bottom.”

The Engineer acknowledged, and after he was relieved by Lieutenant Cordero, the submarine’s senior department head proceeded aft. As the crew rigged the submarine for Reduced Electrical Power, the ventilation fans in Control drifted to a halt, and an uneasy silence settled over the Control Room. The nuclear-powered submarine’s battery was small by diesel submarine standards, and wouldn’t last long. Even if they successfully simulated a rock, they could not sit on the bottom forever.

Five minutes later, the Engineer’s voice emanated from the speaker on the Conn. “Captain, Engineer. Both Turbine Generators are secured and the reactor plant is shut down. All nonessential machinery is secured. There is no noticeable damage in the Engineering spaces, although it looks like we sucked quite a bit of silt into the main condensers before we were able to secure the Main Seawater Pumps. Once we start the reactor back up again, we won’t be able to sit on the bottom for long or we’ll foul the main condensers.”

Wilson acknowledged the Engineer’s report, then queried Sonar over the 27-MC. “Report status of sonar systems.”

The Sonar Supervisor replied, “We’ve lost the towed array, but the spherical array appears fully operational.”

“Sonar, Conn. Aye.” As Wilson examined the sonar monitor at the front of the Conn, a faint white trace materialized from the random static.

A moment later, the Executive Officer turned toward Wilson, one hand on his sound-powered phone earmuffs and his other holding the mouthpiece. “Sir, Sonar reports a new contact, Sierra four-eight, classified Yuan class submarine. Most likely one of the three previous contacts.” Before Wilson could respond, a powerful sonar ping echoed through Control.

Conversation in Control ceased again as Captain Wilson and his men listened tensely with upturned faces, as if they could see the Chinese submarine lurking above them. Lieutenant Cordero joined Wilson in front of the sonar display. As the white trace and random static reflected off their pale faces, two additional faint white traces appeared on the monitor. Seconds later, two more pings echoed through Control, one slightly louder than the other.

Wilson turned to the Chief of the Watch, seated at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control. “Chief of the Watch, pass over the X1J, secure all MC comms. Sound-powered comms only.”

The Chief of the Watch acknowledged and passed the order over his sound-powered phones. A moment later, the ship’s Engineer returned to Control. Wilson asked quietly, “How long will the battery last?”

“At the current discharge rate, six hours.”

Wilson rubbed the side of his face again, eventually turning toward his Executive Officer. “XO.” He motioned for Lieutenant Commander Greenwood to join him on the Conn.

As the XO stepped onto the Conn, Wilson relayed the Engineer’s information. “Eng estimates the battery will last six hours. We might have to remain on the bottom much longer than that before we convince our friends we’re dead, so we need to get the discharge rate down to a trickle. I’m taking everything off-line, including all tactical systems. Any objections?”

The XO shook his head slowly. “They’re not doing us much good right now anyway.”

Wilson issued new orders to Lieutenant Cordero, and one by one, the console displays in Control faded to black until every watchstander sat in front of a dormant console. The overhead lights in the Control Room suddenly extinguished, and a second later, yellow emergency battle lanterns flickered on, casting an eerie yellow pall across the men and equipment in Control.

Christine leaned toward Captain Wilson, catching his attention. “What do we do now?”

Wilson’s dark eyes probed hers for a moment before answering.

“We wait.”

54

It was just after midnight when Captain Steve Brackman and the president descended the single flight of stairs into the basement of the West Wing, stepping into the crowded Situation Room. The entire military hierarchy was present — the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with SecDef Jennings and various Cabinet members. In the few hours he’d been away, Brackman hoped the Japanese Self-Defense Force had stabilized its positions. But the look on the faces of the men in the room, accompanied by a glance at the eight-by-ten-foot monitor in the Situation Room, told Brackman the situation had deteriorated faster than expected.

In the eight days since the assault began, China had gained complete control of three of the four main Japanese islands; only portions of Honshu remained in Japanese hands. As expected, defense of Tokyo — the largest city on the island and the location of the Emperor’s palace — was fierce. However, the PLA Army had pushed past both sides of the city and reached Tokyo Bay, completely encircling Japan’s capital. Although the fate of the Japanese forces cut off in Tokyo was a concern, the status of Honshu’s eastern shoreline was the more important issue.

The only way to defeat China was to land the three Marine Expeditionary Forces. Hopefully, with the Marines’ superior air and ground firepower, along with the augmented air wing aboard Reagan, they could hold out until additional Marine Corps and Army troops arrived. Although the MEFs were equipped and trained for contested amphibious assault, the casualties suffered storming a defended beach could be enormous. Thankfully, most of the eastern shore of Honshu was still controlled by the Japanese Self-Defense Force. But at the rate the JSDF was retreating, there would soon be no viable beachheads in friendly hands.

The stress was getting to everyone. Brackman could sense the frustration smoldering inside the president, and discussions amongst the Joint Chiefs of Staff were on the verge of flaring into confrontations and accusations. How could the United States have been caught so flat-footed; how had malware been inserted into their weapon systems; and how were their satellites and tactical data links so easily jammed? Even worse, threatening to ignite the situation with its implications, not a single Atlantic Fleet submarine had emerged from under the Arctic ice cap. The lead submarines were now six hours overdue.

Brackman took his seat at the conference table as the president settled into his chair and asked for an update. Admiral Grant Healey, Chief of Naval Operations, answered. “Ronald Reagan continues toward Japan and has linked up with the three MEFs. We’d normally keep the MEFs well behind until the situation stabilizes, but we don’t have time. We project we’ll lose the last beachhead in three days, so we have to start moving toward shore. Of course, we’ll have to call everything off without the Atlantic Fleet submarines. Without fast attacks to clear a safe path to Japan, Reagan won’t be able to get close enough to sustain flight operations, and you can forget about landing the three MEFs. The Chinese submarines will sink the amphibs as they approach the coast.”

The president nodded tightly as Healey fell silent. “What’s the status of the Atlantic Fleet submarines?” the president asked. “Were they sunk when the Chinese bombed the ice pack?”

Healey hesitated a moment before answering. “I don’t know, sir.”

The president silently digested Healey’s answer. Brackman had felt the uneasiness in the room deepen as each hour passed without word from any of their submarines. Each element of their plan had to succeed: the Atlantic Fleet submarines had to complete their under-ice transit, Reagan had to reach striking distance of Japan, and most important of all, the SEAL team had to succeed.

As the president stared at Admiral Healey in silence, Brackman was distracted by the appearance of a blue icon on the monitor hanging against the far wall; a lone symbol appearing in the Bering Strait between Alaska and Russia. The other eyes at the conference table followed Brackman’s to the monitor, the mood lifting instantaneously as another icon appeared five miles to the east, and a few seconds later, another icon to the west. The lead Atlantic Fleet submarines had completed their under-ice transit and had entered the Pacific Ocean.