Lash-Up

19 Incidents

“Ten seconds, Skipper.” The XO’s voice held a warning. Lieutenant Commander Jeff Kerry was the nervous type, but right now he felt it was an appropriate response.

“All right, down scope.” Commander Leigh Taylor, captain of Santa Fe, shook his head. “The coast to the north is littered with lights. Picking out any navaids, even when you know where to look, is virtually impossible.” He tapped the chart. “But I got a laser range and bearing to this pier on the eastern side of the harbor.”

“It’s good, Skipper,” Lieutenant Mark Larson, the navigator, reported. “The bearing’s consistent with our dead-reckoning position. We’re steady on course zero two zero, depth under the keel is twenty feet. Yeshu Island is eleven hundred forty yards to the northwest, bearing two nine two. Set and drift unchanged, just over one knot east with the flood tide.”

“Very well.” Taylor acknowledged the report.

“The intercom buzzed. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Third salvo is ready.”

Taylor nodded, and the XO pressed the “talk” switch. “Torpedo Room, Conn. Understood. Good work on the fast reload. Stand by.”

The captain was already standing at the door to the sonar shack. “COB, what’s the closest contact?”

Master Chief Sonarman Patrick McCarthy was not only the senior sonar technician, he was chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. Taylor was sure Santa Fe had been given this assignment because of McCarthy’s skills. He was a small man, but his flaming red hair and Boston accent testified to his Southie upbringing.

“Sierra five two is now six hundred yards away, closing with a slight right bearing drift. She’s likely outbound for the western gap in the breakwater. The next closest is Sierra five seven at eight hundred yards, but she’s pointed south and away from us.”

Taylor nodded and hit the intercom switch. “Torpedo Room, Conn. Launch Slims seven through nine.” Raising his voice slightly, he announced, “As soon as they’re away, I’m going to take her as close to the bottom as I can and increase speed. We’ll get out from in front of Sierra five two.”

The fire-control technician called out the tube as the Slim was launched. With the third one, Taylor issued a quick reminder. “Diving Officer, keep a steady watch on the trim forward.”

“Aye, sir, watch the trim forward. I’m being very careful. I don’t even like Chinese food.” Chief Harris was using the weight of water in the sub’s trim tanks to keep her on an even keel. The sub had just lost a little over two tons out the torpedo tubes, almost seven tons overall. If the chief didn’t bring in the same weight in water, Santa Fe would be buoyant. This close to the surface, she might “broach,” or accidentally surface. Doing this in the middle of a hostile naval base, in fact right in front of an approaching patrol boat, would be a Bad Thing.

Taylor laughed with the rest at the chief’s quip. The navy called it a “Mark 67 Submarine Launched Mobile Mine.” But “Slim” was a lot easier to say. Santa Fe had just sent three of them into the Chinese base in Yalong Bay. Actually, it was the third set of three. The torpedo room was loading the last salvo now, making twelve altogether.

Based on the old Mark 37 torpedo, it would swim to a preset point, shut off its motor, and wait on the bottom for the right combination of pressure, sound, and magnetic field — for example, the kind made by a large Chinese warship or submarine.

The little Haiqing-class subchaser coming toward them wouldn’t be enough to set one off. She only displaced four hundred tons. A fifteen-hundred-ton frigate, or an even larger destroyer, though, would trigger an explosive charge big enough to break her in two.

“Sierra five two is at four hundred yards, bears zero eight six, speed six knots.”

“Make your depth eight five feet, increase speed to six knots.”

“Sir, the harbor shelves sharply ahead. We can hold this course and speed for just over a minute.”

“Understood, Mark.”

Santa Fe had been at three knots, bare steerageway, while she launched her mines. Doubling that speed was risky but would get the sub to one side of the patroller’s path.

“Sir, given the listed draft of a Haiqing-class, their keel should clear our sail. Barely. Maybe five feet.”

The navigator added, “That’s about all we have under us.” He didn’t sound happy.

Larson’s report was immediately followed by a rhythmic whoosh, whoosh that quickly grew in volume and then faded just as quickly.

“Make your depth seven zero feet, make turns for three knots.”

The helmsman acknowledged the order. Larson didn’t say anything but looked relieved. The acoustic intercept receiver chirped madly in the background, diligently warning Santa Fe’s crew of all the active sonars in the area.

Taylor asked, “Sonar, Conn, was Sierra five two still using a search ping interval?”

McCarthy nodded emphatically. “Conn, Sonar. Yes, sir. No change in the ping interval. She sailed on by and is continuing on course. No indication they detected us, although we were in the main lobe for a few pings.”

“With luck, our return blended in with the bottom,” Taylor remarked.

“That or the sonar operator didn’t know what he was looking at.” Kerry grinned. “The return was probably pretty mushy. Our hull coating is particularly effective against those high-frequency sets.”

“What’s he doing now, XO?”

“He’s in our baffles, Skipper.” Kerry shrugged helplessly. The noise from a ship or sub’s engines would blind a sonar if it tried to look aft. It was called “the baffles” because the builder actually installed a noise-absorbing baffle in the sonar dome to block any sound from that direction. Sonar would be of no help.

Nodding his understanding, Taylor stepped up to the number-two scope, raised it, and brought it around to face aft.

They all watched the television repeater that showed the periscope’s view. Low waves lapped over the lens as it emerged, just inches above the water. The captain panned the scope to the left a short distance, then right. “There,” he announced. The green-black low-light image showed the patrol craft’s starboard quarter. “Still headed for the western exit,” Taylor concluded.

Kerry said, “If he was curious, he’d have turned by now.”

Taylor ordered, “Down scope,” and pressed the intercom switch again. “Torpedo Room, Conn. How much longer on the fourth salvo?”

“Conn, Torpedo Room. Two down and one to go. The third Slim is going in now, sir. Another minute, tops.”

“Understood.”

“Captain, that increased speed for a moment moved us a little farther north than planned for the last salvo, but we’re still within margins.”

“Conn, Torpedo Room. Reloading complete. We’re ready down here, sir.”

Taylor looked over at Kerry, who nodded. “We’re clear, sir.”

“Then launch Slims ten through twelve,” Taylor ordered. “And good riddance. When I shoot something, I like to hear a ‘boom’ right away.”

Taylor waited for the report from the torpedo room before changing course. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Mines away, reloading with Mark 48 torpedoes.”

“Torpedo Room, Conn. Understood. Stand by.” Taylor glanced at the chart. Larson pointed at the sub’s track. “Planned course of one six zero is still good, sir. It’s fifteen hundred yards to the firing point. That’s fifteen minutes at current speed. The tunnel entrance will bear zero five five at sixteen hundred yards.”

“Very well. Helm: Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one six zero.” The new course would not only take them to their next waypoint inside the harbor but also closer to the southern exit, a three-hundred-yard opening in the breakwater on that side of the harbor.

“I think Mr. Larson and I will both feel better if I take a fix.” Checking the chart, the captain said, “I’ll take a range and bearing to the south corner of the main pier. After that, I’ll increase speed to five knots. That will still give the torpedo room enough time to finish reloading.”

“Bearing to the south corner of the main pier should be zero nine five, Skipper.” Larson reported.

The XO took up position, watching the television monitor that would display the scope’s image, and the clock, while Taylor turned the periscope, still down, to the eastern bearing. “Raising numbertwo scope.”

On the television screen, the black-green image of the main pier was part of a confused muddle of lights; then Taylor upped the magnification, and the rectangular shape was clearly visible. He aligned the crosshairs squarely on the south corner and pressed the button under his thumb. “Bearing, mark. Range, mark.”

“Bearing one five one, range two seven double-oh yards,” Larson reported.

They waited for the captain to lower the scope. After a moment, the XO said, “Ten seconds, Skipper.”

“Stand by,” Taylor answered, and swung a little to the left. The image shifted on the screen and then flashed from green-black to natural light. Kerry tried to interpret the image, but the captain ordered “Down scope” sharply and snapped the hoist control ring to the down position.

The XO was already rewinding the video, then stepping through it in slow motion. The changing magnification made it more a succession of still images than a video, but after a few moments, he stopped the image on the main pier.

“Yes, that’s when I saw it,” Taylor commented. “What do you see moored at the pier?”

Kerry answered, “A sub, and a lot of activity on the pier.” There were what looked like cranes, as well as lights that looked bright green in the false-color image.

Taylor ordered, “Step forward a beat.”

Now the image was centered, and larger. “That’s too long to be a diesel, or even a nuke attack boat,” the XO commented.

“I concur. Step forward some more.”

This was where the captain had shifted to natural light. Now the image was bathed in white light, and while the scene was darker, it was somehow easier for the eye to interpret. Bright lights bathed a long jet-black hull while cranes worked aft of the sail. “That is a Type 094 Jin-class ballistic missile submarine,” Kerry said, almost reverently.

“At the main pier. In the open,” Taylor added quietly. “And it looks like she’s loading missiles.” He paused only for a moment. “Helmsman, come left to one seven zero. Make turns for five knots. Observation, stationary target, main pier. Stand by for bearing and range.”

Even while the scope was going up, the XO said, “Skipper, our orders are to torpedo the tunnel door, trapping the boomer inside.”

Taylor steadied the scope and called out, “Bearing, mark! Range, mark! Down scope!” As the scope was sliding back down, the captain replied, “But remember our briefing? The intel weenies said they couldn’t guarantee it would be inside. This removes any doubt. Where’s Sierra five seven?”

“Still heading slowly south, probably for the same exit we are, range is twenty-one hundred yards.” Sierra five seven was also an escort vessel, one of the new Type 056 corvettes, larger and with better weapons and sensors than the older Haiqing patrol craft.

Taylor stepped down from the periscope stand and looked at the paper plot, then the fire control display. “Hmmm, he’s just in the right place to be a major pain in the butt. We’ll have to plug him at the same time as the boomer.”

“That’s close to minimum enable run, Skipper,” the XO warned.

“Then we’ll shoot quickly. First we shoot tubes one and two at the Jin, cut the wires, then tubes three and four at Sierra five seven. Two weapons each. Set the acoustic seekers to ‘off’ for the first two weapons, high speed. The Jin is stationary, no Doppler, and the seekers would pick up too many echoes from the pier. The magnetic fuse will be good enough.” Taylor was speaking quickly but carefully. “Send out the second pair at medium speed, forty knots, minimum enable run. By the time the weapons hit the Jin, the others will have acquired the 056 and will be homing.”

The XO acknowledged the orders and relayed them to the fire-control technician.

Taylor then announced, “Firing point procedures. First the Type 094 SSBN, tubes one and two, then Sierra five seven, tubes three and four.”

“Ship ready,” called out the OOD.

“Solution ready,” barked Kerry.

“Weapons ready,” said the weapons officer.

“Stand by for final observation on the SSBN, up scope!” Taylor yanked on the hoist control and waited for the barrel to rise. Snapping out the handles, he quickly placed his forehead against the eyepiece. “Bearing, mark! Range, mark!”

“Bearing, one four five degrees. Range, two one double-oh yards.”

“Solution matches!” Kerry exclaimed.

“Ready, shoot!”

As the scope was lowered, the hull shook twice as the two Mark 48 torpedoes were expelled from their tubes.

“Impulse return, normal launch. Torpedo course one four five, speed six five knots, acoustics off,” reported the fire control technician.

“Conn, Sonar, own ship’s weapons are running normally.” McCarthy’s voice was just as steady as it was during their last exercise.

Taylor barely acknowledged the report when they all heard a faint rumble.

“Shift targets. Shoot on generated bearings, Sierra five seven, tubes three and four,” Taylor ordered.

Once again, Santa Fe shook as she launched more torpedoes.

“Conn, Sonar. Second set of weapons running normally. Also, the rumbling is off our starboard quarter, assessed as the reflection of an explosion aft, possibly one of our mines going off.”

“Sonar, Conn. Aye. Report status on Sierra five seven.”

“Conn, Sonar. The contact’s blade rate is increasing, bearing rate is drifting to the left. Yep, Sierra five seven is zigging to port.”

“Detect. Detect. Detect. Homing. Both weapons have acquired the target,” the fire-control tech sang out.

“Then his turn won’t matter.” Taylor ordered, “Cut the wires on tubes three and four and close the outer doors.”

Suddenly, two extremely loud and near simultaneous detonations rocked the boat. Everyone in the control room grabbed on to something to steady themselves.

“That was the boomer,” Kerry observed looking at his stopwatch. Taylor only nodded. There still was the business with the escort to conclude.

“Conn, Sonar. Weapon number four has sped up and is closing on Sierra five seven,” announced McCarthy. “Weapon number three has drifted away from the target and slowed down; it’s executing a reattack search.”

By the time Taylor acknowledged McCarthy’s last report, another loud explosion shook Santa Fe. Only one torpedo had hit the corvette, but that would be more than enough.

“Observation. Up scope,” Taylor ordered, and had the scope pointed straight at their second victim as the lens cleared the water. Low-level light and visible light images both showed the warship on its port side, its stern missing, covered in flames.

Once he was sure he’d gotten a good picture, Taylor panned the scope left. The Type 094 SSBN was gone, only debris and a large fire marked its last-known position. Facing south toward the open sea, the two lights that marked the opening in the breakwater were visible. Taylor took bearing and range to both, calling out “Mark” each time.

“Port light bears one six nine degrees, range seventeen hundred yards. Starboard light bears one seven eight degrees, range one six eight zero yards,” Larson reported.

“Helm, come left to course one seven four. XO, how does that match the HF sonar?” All U.S. subs had a high-resolution mine-avoidance sonar fitted to look forward. It was designed to show underwater obstacles.

“I show the gap between one six eight and one seven eight degrees. The image is clear.”

“Very well. Mark, what’s the water depth?”

“One hundred feet here, sir, sloping down to one hundred and fifty at the breakwater entrance, and deeper once we’re outside.”

Taylor ordered, “Make your depth nine zero feet. Increase speed to twelve knots.” He saw some concern on the XO’s face and explained. “We were supposed to be a lot closer to that breakwater before we fired a torpedo.”

“We’re going to leave a wake on the surface, Skipper.”

“It’s night, and the wake’s next to a sinking corvette.” The captain glanced at his watch. “And we’ll be outside the harbor in five minutes. Keep your eyes on the HF array, XO. I want to split the uprights.”

“Keep my eyes on the display, yes, sir!” They were going too fast now to use the periscope. They would have to depend on the display to keep them from ramming the breakwater.

After a few minutes, the XO reported, “Slight left drift. The southern opening bears one six five to one nine seven, recommend coming right to course one seven nine.”

“Helm, come right to course one seven nine.”

”Conn, Sonar. Faint explosions to the south.”

Taylor nodded while keying the mike. “Sonar, Conn. That should be Captain Walsh in Columbia. Are the explosions consistent with torpedo detonations?”

“Yes, sir!” shouted McCarthy from the sonar shack.

Taylor was ready to celebrate, but they weren’t out of the woods just yet. One SSBN, one corvette, and possibly one something else sunk or damaged. Not bad for a night’s work, he thought.

Santa Fe had snuck in, using stealth and darkness to hide her entry, but there was no time to be subtle. Her squadron mate USS Columbia was blowing a hole in the ring of escort vessels outside the harbor and, in general, creating a ruckus to draw Chinese attention away from Santa Fe. And if the air force was doing its part, U.S. fighters had entered Chinese airspace to shoot down any ASW aircraft that might be overhead.

The opening in the breakwater swelled on the mine-hunting display until there was nothing but open water on the screen ahead of them.

And they were out.

“It was Vietnam’s taking the Paracels back that started this.” Hugh Cambridge was President Jackson’s secretary of state. He sounded exasperated more than unhappy. Defense Secretary Peck and General Kastner, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, nodded agreement, but Kastner added, “Don’t forget the Spratlys.”

Cambridge waved the general’s words aside. “The Philippines already had troops on Thitu Island when the shooting started. They just reinforced the garrison.”

Peck backed up the general. “I disagree, Hugh. A few months ago, the Chinese would have raised a major stink about a military buildup on a contested island.”

“Both those situations are different than the issue before us,” President Jackson declared. “Vietnam recaptured territory from a hostile state. Our only role was making it too dangerous for the Chinese to intercept the landing force.”

General Kastner added sarcastically, “We didn’t even find out about it until our patrol planes spotted the ships coming out of Da Nang. There was no notice, and absolutely no cooperation between us and Vietnam.”

“In the second case,” Jackson argued, “the Philippines, a U.S. ally, reinforced the troops on an island they already possessed. The Chinese may claim it, but they can’t bully the Filipinos right now.”

“The critical words are ‘right now,’” Secretary Cambridge argued. “Once this conflict ends, what’s to prevent the Chinese from reverting to their old ways? They fought a battle in 1974 to take the Paracel Islands away from Vietnam. Will they try it again? And this latest move is just going to make it worse.”

“So your recommendation is that I tell the Japanese no,” Jackson stated.

“I didn’t say that, sir,” Cambridge protested. “There are consequences with either answer. If we say we’re against it and they occupy the islands anyway, that only reinforces the notion that we have no influence in the region.”

“At least they told us what they’re doing, before they do it,” Peck observed.

“When they’re two days away from sailing,” Cambridge countered acidly. “And it wasn’t so much asking for permission, as it was, ‘By the way, we plan on placing military forces on Uotsuri Island. We’d like to coordinate with any operations you have planned in the area.’ They don’t really need our help. The Japanese task force includes two of their Aegis destroyers.”

Peck nodded. “They can take care of themselves, as long as the Chinese don’t concentrate too many assets against them.”

“Will the Chinese do anything at all?” Jackson asked. “Firing on a U.S. ally that currently isn’t involved in the war? China has enough problems without adding the Japanese to the list of combatants.”

“They’re already mad about our ships and planes operating from Japanese bases,” Cambridge pointed out.

“And have done nothing,” Jackson responded. “We haven’t attacked targets within China. If they strike Japan, all bets are off. General, are there any military implications of the Japanese operation that we should be aware of?”

Kastner grinned. “If the Japanese are going anyway, I’ll make sure PACCOM has good comms with their people. It’s part of the Chinese coast I won’t have to worry about.”

“Look at it from China’s point of view,” Cambridge protested unhappily. “After all, that’s what you pay me for. First, we start shooting up their navy, which they were going to use to exert control over the South China Sea. Now, while we’re keeping their fleet busy, all the smaller nations are using the opportunity to grab disputed territories. It’s all about the fishing rights and the oil and mineral deposits,” the secretary observed. “Did you know there are three oil-exploration ships getting ready to sail from Japanese ports? Each from a different company?”

“Mr. President, as far as I can see,” Peck argued, “this is all part of that ‘cost of aggression’ you included in your speech. It’s certainly more than they bargained for when they started shooting down our GPS satellites.”

“Which they are still doing. We lost the fifteenth satellite today,” Jackson observed. “And they show no intention of stopping. All right. Whether or not we say yes, the Japanese will seize the Senkaku Islands and formally make them their own. Their nationalist prime minister chalks up a win, along with their economy. It will be another loss of face for China and another crimp in their future plans for economic expansion.” He paused. “I’m not unhappy with that. Hugh?”

“I can make it work, Mr. President.” The secretary of state sounded resigned.

Secretary Peck was more positive. “I’m in favor of anything that gives the Chinese heartburn.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jackson replied.

They’d all heard the news of the incident before being summoned to the fourth-floor conference room. Every video screen on the base that was tuned to the news showed the same thing: rolling explosions and waves of orange flame billowing out of a chemical plant in Indiana. It was a bad one.

Ray waited, along with Schultz, Colonel Evans, and Josh Blake, the head of the IT section, for the Defender department heads to arrive. Biff Barnes, as the mission commander, was also present.

Given the urgency of the summons, most of the senior people had shown up within minutes, but Ray insisted on waiting until every department was represented. It was a very full room, with eight of nine department heads and the others at the front. Ray tried to not look too much at Jenny, representing her C3 section, but they did exchange smiles.

A large flat-screen display at the front of the room showed the Indiana chemical fire, less than an hour old. The sound was muted, but a banner across the bottom read, “At least fifteen dead, dozens wounded.”

The last to arrive, breathless, was Gail Summers, deputy head of propulsion. “Sorry, Aaron can’t stop what he’s doing.”

“Then you’ll have to brief him,” Admiral Schultz replied. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

Ray didn’t even wait for her to sit down. “The chemical plant explosion in Indiana was not an accident. The Chinese defense ministry has taken responsibility for the explosion, calling it ‘a strategic attack on the U.S. war machine.’ It says more will follow.”

Ray saw the reaction on many of their faces, but they were quiet, waiting. He only paused for just a moment, then explained, “That’s bad news, of course, but we didn’t call you here because of just that.” He nodded toward Admiral Schultz. “But because it’s a cyberattack, the admiral and I have decided you all need to know that eight days ago we arrested a Chinese spy, here at the project.”

They’d remained silent at the news of a Chinese cyberattack, but now almost everybody expressed surprise. A few started to ask questions, but Ray, raising his voice slightly, said, “We’ve kept it quiet this long because, as far as we know, the Chinese don’t know he’s been arrested. Colonel Evans will explain what happened.”

There was immediate silence as Evans spoke first about the suspicions of a spy, without mentioning Lewe’s role, then about the dead drop and the use of video surveillance to get confirmation. Evans kept it short and left the spy’s identity for the end.

“It was Glenn Chung, in the IT section.” That provoked another verbal reaction from the group, but Evans kept talking, and they quickly fell silent. “We briefed Josh immediately after the arrest, of course.” He motioned to the IT section head.

Josh Blake was in his late thirties and a little overweight. Glasses and premature baldness only emphasized his round face. He held up a plastic envelope with a small black plastic box inside. “We found six of these attached to hubs on different secure servers. They capture and record anything that passes by. The FBI has the other five. I’ll pass this one around. Do not break the evidence seal. If you do, Colonel Evans will make whoever does fill out the paperwork.”

He handed the device to Ethan Kirsch, head of the power section, who examined it and passed it on. Blake said, “My people, assisted by others from the FBI and other three-letter federal agencies, have checked every network and transmission line, and we appear clean. But after this latest incident, we’re checking everything again.”

Evans added, “Note that it looks handmade. We don’t know if Chung built these himself, but virtually all our IT gear is off the shelf. If you see anything else that looks homemade, of any size, contact me immediately, and I mean it. If you see any strange behavior from your IT systems, or from anyone working on your IT systems, call me first, then call Josh for tech support. Put me on your speed dial, if I’m not there already.”

The colonel paused for a moment and looked to Schultz. The admiral stood and said, “Some of the material Chung sent could be used to facilitate sabotage” — he held out his hand to forestall the immediate questions — “which is why there were bomb dogs all over the complex last week.”

Schultz added firmly, “I believe that if the Chinese were able to sabotage Defender or make some sort of cyberattack on us, they would have already done so. There’s no indication that Chung placed any other devices, electronic or explosive, outside of the computer networks, and we didn’t find anything after a most thorough search. But we can never be one hundred percent certain. Which is why we’re telling you now.”

Ray said, “For the moment, this stays at the department head level, although you can brief your deputies,” he said, nodding toward Gail. “But nobody else, and don’t even discuss this with each other. If you see anything that seems off, contact Colonel Evans immediately and let him make the call about whether it was your imagination or not.”

Ray heard the klaxon in his office. It was a security alert, but this time, there was no announcement over the loudspeaker. He ran to the window but couldn’t see anything. Then the three short bursts sounded again, followed by the PA announcement of an unidentified approaching aircraft.

His first thought, of the hydrogen and oxygen tanks at the pad, was so frightening that his mind raced. Then he heard machine gun fire, close by. Desperate to know what was happening, he dashed down the stairwell next to his office and ran outside.

Others were standing outside the annex, tasks forgotten as they pointed to the west. He didn’t see where the firing had come from. The hangar doors, normally open, were closing.

An open-topped Humvee loaded with armed Marines roared up. An officer waved frantically and yelled, “Everyone get inside. Take cover!”

A pair of Marines jumped out and started herding them back toward the annex, but one of them recognized Ray. “It’s Mr. McConnell, hold up,” and pointed toward the officer.

Ray nodded his thanks and headed for the vehicle at a trot, but as he approached, a Marine began firing a heavy machine gun mounted on the roof. The sudden noise almost knocked Ray off his feet. The officer, a lieutenant directing the fire, spotted Ray and pulled him off to one side.

“It’s a full alert. Radar’s detected a slow-moving aircraft headed for the complex. It’s already inside the prohibited zone, and the pilot won’t answer on the radio.”

McConnell heard machine-gun fire again and realized there must be several guns. The one nearest him fired again, and the gunner was pointing his weapon up. Ray followed the line of tracers, and saw a small speck. It looked like a light plane still a few miles away.

“He can’t hit anything at that range,” Ray shouted.

“He’s trying to warn him off,” the officer shouted back. The lieutenant picked up the vehicle’s radio microphone. “This is Hall. I can see him. It’s a light plane, a Cessna or something like it. It’s at low altitude, and it’s headed straight for the hangar.”

“What’s that fool doing?” asked Ray.

Hall shrugged. “You tell me. It could be a suicide attack or loaded with commandos. Or he could just drop leaflets that say, ‘Save the Whales.’”

The radio squawked, and Ray couldn’t hear what was said over the firing, but the lieutenant had a headset. He said, “Understood,” then reached in to tap the gunner on the leg. When he stopped firing the lieutenant told him, “They’re not taking the hint. The major says, ‘Bring him down.’” The gunner nodded and began firing again.

Ray could see other squads racing into position, and more weapons opened up on the approaching plane. It was closer now, and he could hear the plane’s small engine snarl as the pilot opened up the throttle. Its speed increased slightly, and he lowered the nose. Was he going to crash into the hangar?

Tracers surrounded the plane. Ray knew intellectually how hard it was to hit even a slow aircraft with a machine gun, but right now he was infuriated with the gunners who couldn’t hit something that large, that slow, flying in a straight line.

It was closer now, and he could see it was a high-winged civilian plane, a four-seater. He’d flown them himself. It was nose-on, headed straight for him. The drone of the engine increased quickly, both in pitch and volume.

Although he couldn’t see any weapons, he suddenly felt the urge to run for cover. They hadn’t planned on an air raid. And the hangar would provide poor protection; it wasn’t designed to withstand a direct attack.

Something fluttered out from the side of the aircraft, and for a moment Ray thought the machine gunners had actually hit. Then he recognized the shape as one of the side doors. A parachute jump? But they were too low, no more than a few hundred feet.

They were almost over the hangar, and Hall shouted, “Hold fire!” then repeated the order into the radio. He explained to Ray. “If we hit it now, it could crash into the hangar.”

Assuming that isn’t their plan, Ray thought.

McConnell watched the aircraft’s path, wishing it would vanish. It didn’t, but at the last moment it did veer a little to the left. He saw a man-sized object leave the plane and drop toward the ground. It had fins on one end and a point on the other. It looked like nothing so much as a giant dart.

Ray stood and watched the object fall, looking even more dartlike as it fell nose-first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the Marines, with better reflexes, were all hugging the ground.

It struck almost exactly in front of the hangar, exploding with a roar. The concussion was enough to stagger him a hundred yards away, and misshapen fragments cartwheeled out from the ugly brown smoke cloud.

Ray was still standing, dazed and unsure of what to do next when a pair of Marine Super Hornets zoomed overhead in pursuit of the intruder. His eye followed the jets as they quickly caught up with the Cessna, still in sight, but now headed away at low altitude.

One of the Hornets broke off to the right, then cut left across the prop plane’s path. McConnell heard a sound like an angry chainsaw, and a stream of tracers leapt from its nose in front of the trespasser. The other jet was circling left, and had lowered its flaps and landing gear in an attempt to stay behind the Cessna.

Lieutenant Hall’s radio beeped, and he listened for a minute before turning to Ray. “They’ve ordered the pilot to land, and he’s cooperating.” Glancing at the lethal Hornets circling the “slow mover,” Hall said, “I sure would.”

Remembering the bomb, Ray ran toward the hangar. Acrid fumes choked and blinded him, but he ignored them, then almost stumbled on the debris littering the once-smooth surface. Slowing down, he picked his way over metal fragments and chunks of concrete. His heart sank when he saw the hangar door through the clearing smoke. Buckled and peppered with jagged holes, half of it had been torn from its tracks.

Admiral Schultz appeared out of the clearing smoke and stood beside Ray. He saw Schultz look him up and down, then ask, “You look fine. Is everyone okay?”

Ray stared at him for a moment, then replied, “I don’t know.”

“What about Defender?”

“I haven’t checked yet.”

Schultz shook him by the shoulder, not roughly, but as if to wake him. “Ray, snap out of it. We’ve got to check for casualties and see about the ship. Stop gawking and get moving!”

Ray nodded and started to check the area. He spotted people he knew and set them to work. He saw Marines working as well, moving from person to person, making sure everyone was all right, helping some who were hurt.

A few minutes later, Lieutenant Hall trotted up to Schultz and saluted. “Sir, they’ve got the intruder lined up for landing.”

“Right, let’s go, then.” He called over to McConnell. “Ray! Get over here!” Ray had overheard the lieutenant and was already heading for the Humvee.

The lieutenant drove almost as fast to the runway as he had to the hangar. A sentry at the end of the airfield spotted the Humvee’s flashing light and waved them onto a taxiway, pointing to the far end. A cluster of vehicles surrounded the Cessna, and the two Hornets whooshed overhead, as if they were daring it to take off.

Ray spotted Colonel Evans, standing to one side as armed Marines secured the plane. Its two occupants were being half-dragged out of the plane and efficiently searched. A man and a woman, both were in their early twenties, dressed in fashionably ragged jeans and T-shirts. To Ray’s eyes, they looked like a couple of college students, straight off the campus.

“Don’t put weapons in space!” yelled the man as he was searched.

“Down with Defender!” the girl shouted. “We won’t let you turn space into a battlefield.”

Ray was in shock. He wanted to grab both of them, show them the damaged hangar, the injured being taken to the hospital.

Evans’s face was made of hard stone, and Schultz looked ready to order two executions on the spot. But neither man moved or said a word. Maybe they couldn’t for fear of losing their cool. Ray didn’t, either. He watched the Marines cuff the two individuals and lead them away.

Later that day, Ray reported to the admiral. Schultz’s office was filled with people. General Norman, down from Camp Pendleton, occupied the only other chair, and an air force JAG officer, the public affairs officer, and Defender’s security officer took up most of the remaining floor space. They’d all been waiting for Ray.

Ray didn’t bother with introductory remarks. “The engineers say they can fix the apron where the bomb struck by tomorrow evening. They’ll use the same material designed to repair bombed-out runways. It won’t last, but it will be fine for the moment.

“The hangar door took the brunt of the blast and stopped most of the larger fragments. They’ve found twelve pieces of shrapnel that penetrated the door and bounced around inside the hangar. Two fragments hit Defender. One hit the floor and ricocheted into the belly, and the other struck the leading edge of the port wing. The preliminary reports indicate no internal damage, and they’re already prepping for repairs. Both will take a little time to fix, but shouldn’t delay the launch. Other fragments wrecked some test equipment, and there are a few dents in the far wall.”

“Thanks, Ray,” said Schultz flatly, holding in his rage. He turned toward Evans.

The colonel began his report. “They’re not Chinese agents — or, if they are, the Chinese are making some bad personnel choices. Their names are Frank and Wendy Beaumont, and they’re siblings, students at Berkeley. They’re well-known peace activists at the school and belong to several political organizations. The plane is their father’s, and both have been taking flying lessons.”

“We think they had help with the bomb, probably from an engineering student. It was an improvised shaped charge. The boy, who’s a sophomore and a political science major, described it in detail and claims he did it all himself, but I doubt it.”

Schultz nodded, then looked at his public relations officer, an air force captain borrowed from Edwards’s staff. They’d added the new billet after Defender’s disclosure on the Internet. His job was more accurately described as “public opinion officer,” since, officially, Defender still didn’t exist.

The captain said, “The press is having a field day with this incident. Half the headlines read, MARINES FIRE ON COLLEGE STUDENTS, and the other half say, MARINES FAIL TO PROTECT SECRET SPACECRAFT. Either way, we can’t win. Some Web sites are speculating that Defender was badly damaged, and of course we can’t show them that it isn’t.”

Schultz replied quickly. “Let them say it. If the Chinese think we’re hurt, that’s fine. But make sure you show them the people who were hurt in the blast.” The admiral continued, “I just got off the phone with the hospital. We had five personnel hurt, one seriously enough to need surgery to remove a bomb fragment. All of them are expected to recover fully.”

“I’m grateful nobody was killed,” General Norman rumbled. “But we can’t assume that there won’t be another attack. I want to personally apologize for letting that plane get through. It won’t happen again. The commandant has told me I can have anything I need to protect you and this base. I’m bringing more people down from Pendleton. For as long as you need it, we will stay at full alert. We’re keeping fighter patrols and helicopter gunships overhead twenty-four/seven. There will be no further interruptions.”