Lash-Up

20 Final Push

Congressman Tom Rutledge left the chambers of the House Armed Services Committee disappointed and angry. It had been over a week since he had publicly demanded a hearing on President Jackson’s rogue actions, and the chairman of his committee had yet to put one on the docket. When Rutledge protested, Chairman Nussbaum merely advised patience, as there were many high-priority issues the committee had to deal with. He did pledge that Rutledge would get his hearing as soon as it was practical. The Nebraska representative recognized stalling when he saw it, and he resented being pushed aside so casually. He had legitimate concerns on the constitutionality of the president’s orders, and, despite his consistently strong public statements, only a few of his colleagues seemed to take him seriously.

Rutledge had welcomed the opportunity to be out front on the whole China-GPS crisis. He relished being the “lone voice in the wilderness,” boldly taking on the administration and its misguided response. The fact that he and the president were from the same party would only enhance Rutledge’s image that he wasn’t just playing partisan politics. But thus far, no one had seriously responded to his numerous warnings of the executive branch’s overstepping its constitutional boundaries.

The Republicans seemed quietly amused — that was to be expected — but even his party’s senior leadership had downplayed the whole issue, paying only lip service to his calls for a congressional investigation. Were they so blinded by party loyalty that they couldn’t see Jackson’s empire-building agenda? Rutledge had been fully prepared for a fight, and he expected one after he’d thrown down the gauntlet. But what he hadn’t anticipated was that no one would say anything in return; it was as if he was being intentionally ignored. And the one thing Representative Thomas Rutledge wouldn’t stand for was being ignored.

Fuming, Rutledge walked briskly, trying to purge himself of some of his pent-up frustration when his cell phone buzzed. It was a text message from Ben Davis, his chief of staff: “PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR OFFICE. URGENT MATTER WAITING.” Strange. Davis never sent anything to his boss that could be perceived as a directive. Even his strongest recommendations were couched as polite suggestions. Something big must be going on, Rutledge thought. Pocketing his cell phone, the congressman picked up his pace.

“All right, Ben, what the devil is going on?” barked Rutledge as he burst through the office-foyer door.

Davis’s face was stern and worried at the same time; his expression encouraged the representative to quiet down. “You have visitors,” he said quietly.

“Who?” Rutledge asked impatiently. He was in no mood for games.

“Ah, Tom! Good to see you’re back. We’d like to have a word with you in your office, if you please.”

Rutledge looked up to see Thad Preston in the doorway to his office. Standing next to the Democratic minority leader was the Speaker of the House, Bernard Terpak. As surprised as he was, Rutledge managed to maintain a neutral poker face. Having both senior house leaders waiting in your office was usually a bad sign.

“Certainly,” he said nonchalantly. As he approached the door, Rutledge called out to his chief of staff, “Ben, please see to it we’re not disturbed.”

Once inside, Terpak closed the door behind them. Turning to face his visitors, Rutledge asked lightly, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Surely that is not a point of debate, Congressman Rutledge,” replied Terpak tersely. The speaker’s formal tone confirmed Rutledge’s suspicion that he was about to get his ass chewed. Preston raised his hand, quickly intervening.

“Tom,” began the minority leader, “for the last two months, a number of us have quietly counseled you to give the president a chance to deal with the China crisis. Russ Urick has spoken to you, Rick Nussbaum has spoken to you, as have I, on numerous occasions. And yet you seem hell-bent on raising the issue with ever-increasing volume. Your public statements have become more and more shrill, and quite frankly many of your colleagues are losing patience with your grandstanding.”

Rutledge’s nostrils flared with indignation. It’s my duty to speak out! What the president is doing is illegal, he said to himself. Struggling to keep a level tone, Rutledge fired back, “Nobody else has had the courage to demand that the president be held accountable. He has bypassed the House and Senate with the formation of the U.S. Space Force…”

“Are you sure of that, Congressman Rutledge?” Terpak injected. “Do you seriously believe that the silence concerning the Space Force meant that none of us had a clue as to what was going on?”

A sharp chill suddenly went down Rutledge’s spine. The speaker’s stern tone told Rutledge that his questions were rhetorical, but when did the president consult with Congress? For the first time, doubt crept into Rutledge’s mind.

Preston saw Rutledge’s confused expression and explained. “Tom, before the president gave the order to form the U.S. Space Force, he called the top senior congressional leadership to the White House, briefed us on his plans, and asked for our approval. There was a lot of debate, but the gist of the agreement is that the president was given the go-ahead, but, once this crisis is over, formal congressional hearings will be held and the issue put to a vote on both floors. President Jackson also agreed to a condition required by the Senate majority leader that if Congress didn’t approve, the Space Force would be rolled back into air force. So your claims are not correct. The president did consult members of Congress, and he was given tacit approval to proceed with his plans, provided that the more formal process is followed later.”

Rutledge was stunned. Why hadn’t he been consulted? As a member of the House Armed Services Committee, he should have had a role in that discussion. The wanton disregard for traditional protocol astounded him. “What basis did he have for circumventing Congress’s proper role in this decision? How can we spend several billion dollars on this harebrained scheme without formal congressional approval?”

Preston rubbed his forehead and sighed. Terpak, being an old crusty navy vet, would have none of it. “If you’d paid any attention to the intelligence briefs given to your committee, you’d realize there is a war on, Mister. If we follow the normal bureaucratic protocol, it would be at least a year before any real action could be taken. By then, China would have a lock on East Asia, and our ability to defend our interests in that region would be severely compromised. This is an information-age war, Congressman Rutledge; we don’t have the luxury of time.”

“But the polls show…”

“The opinion polls are damn-near split fifty-fifty, Tom,” argued Preston, his voice harder. “That means it’s a nonissue. Regardless of what the president does, half the citizenry of this country will not be thrilled. President Jackson made a strong argument that we needed to act while we still could, and while we had the best chance to win. The vast majority of the members of Congress present during that meeting agreed with him, myself and the speaker included.”

That last sentence told Rutledge he would have no top cover if he continued speaking out. He would be on his own. For once in his political life, Rutledge found himself without words.

“And as a side note,” Preston continued, “the Space Force hasn’t been anywhere near as expensive as you’ve implied — less than two billion so far. Sure, the president basically gave Admiral Schultz a blank check, but the admiral has been diligent in trying to keep costs down where he could. For a major DoD acquisition program, it’s one of the better ones I’ve seen, despite its hurried nature.”

“It’s also damn far cheaper than losing several B-2s in a questionable attack on that mountain complex,” Terpak noted sharply. “And that’s in terms of both money and lives.”

Preston continued, “The bottom line, Tom, is that Defender is our best option, as crazy as it sounds. If it fails, we lose our access to space. Not just the GPS constellation, but our intelligence collection, communications, and weather satellites as well. If this ‘harebrained scheme’ doesn’t work, we’re totally screwed.”

Commander Wang Gao’s eyes shifted focus according to a well-practiced drill. Check altitude, heading, and speed. Conduct a quick visual search ahead and above, just in case any enemy aircraft were in the area. Then glance left and right to check on the rest of the formation. Repeat. Lieutenant Kuan Yu in the backseat alternated between his own visual searching and looking at the radar-warning receiver. With their aircraft’s radar in standby, there was nothing else for him to watch.

Wang’s squadron of JH-7A fighter-bombers had taken off from the Sanya air base on Hainan Island, dove down to the deck, and proceeded under strict electronic silence toward their target. Somewhere near Yongxing Dao, or Woody Island as it was known to most of the world, was a Vietnamese convoy bringing supplies and air defense batteries to reinforce the island — an island that was, until a week ago, Chinese territory.

The squadron leader frowned under his mask. He needed to pay attention to what he was doing and not let his nationalistic pride get all wound up. Traveling at just under the speed of sound a mere twenty-five meters above the ocean demanded his complete attention. If he made a mistake, he wouldn’t even have time to blink before his aircraft plowed into the water.

Fortunately, it was a very short flight. Their air base was less than two hundred nautical miles from Yongxing Dao. It was the main reason why the South Sea Fleet commander had chosen Wang’s squadron for the attack. That, and the fact that American submarines were running rampant throughout the South China Sea, sinking everything they ran across. The daring attack at Yalong Bay had been a very rude awakening.

“IP in two five miles, sir,” announced Kuan.

“Understood.” In three minutes they would come up to their search altitude and see what the Vietnamese had brought to the party. The prestrike intelligence report estimated between eight and twelve ships, including escorts. The type and number of ships determined how many YJ-83K missiles they’d need to launch to achieve the desired degree of damage, and this in turn determined how many aircraft would be required to carry out the attack.

Wang had his men work through the antiship strike-planning software, and they came up with eight aircraft carrying four missiles each. He added two additional strikers just to make sure there were enough missiles to give them a good chance of sinking everything that floats near the island — especially if there were more ships present than they thought. The other two aircraft in the squadron would carry electronic countermeasure pods, just in case the Vietnamese had some SAMs already in place, or should there be any American ships in the convoy.

“Mark IP,” said Kuan.

Wang toggled his mike, “Sea Hawk Leader to Sea Hawk Flight, climb to designated altitude and energize radars. Eagles One and Two, take point and report all electronic contacts.” As his pilots acknowledged their orders, the two ECM aircraft accelerated and began climbing rapidly. As soon as they had cleared the rest of the formation, Wang pulled back on his stick and started his ascent. He felt himself begin to relax a little as he watched the altimeter spiral upward, away from the cruel and unforgiving sea.

As the squadron passed two thousand meters, the lead ECM aircraft reported in. “Eagle One to Sea Hawk Leader, hold three air search radars in the direction of Yongxing Dao; two Positiv-M and one P-15M. The signal strength on the P-15M is strong. It’s very likely it’s detected us.”

Wang nodded approvingly. The intelligence estimate had been spot-on. Two Vietnamese Gepard frigates were part of the escort screen, and there was at least one Pechora-2M surface-to-air missile battery on the island. But there was no mention of any Americans in the formation. “Sea Hawk Leader to Eagle One, understood. Are any Americans nearby?”

“Eagle One to Sea Hawk Leader, I hold one SPS-49 and one SPY-1, radar bearing two two eight. Range approximately one five zero nautical miles.”

Wang smiled. A U.S. Aegis cruiser was to the south-southwest but too far away to respond to his squadron’s sudden appearance; the Vietnamese were on their own. Still, the Pechora-2M would be a problem. The SAM was a heavily modified SA-3 and had the ability to intercept cruise missiles. It would have to be suppressed.

“Sea Hawk Leader to Eagles One and Two, begin jamming the Vietnamese air-search radars. Sea Hawk Flight, scan for targets; prepare to launch missiles.”

Captain Bradley Alberts slid down the ladder, hit the deck, and started running toward the combat information center. “Gangway! Make a hole!” he yelled, forcing sailors to plaster their bodies against the bulkhead so he could pass unhampered. The general alarm was still reverberating throughout the ship, and sailors were scurrying to their battle stations. Lunging through the door into CIC, Alberts took his seat in front of the two main flat-screen displays next to the tactical action officer. The picture showed twelve new air contacts.

“TAO report,” he ordered.

“Captain, EW has multiple JL-10A radars in surface-search mode. The bogies are concentrating their search on the ships around Woody Island, but there have been a few scans in our direction. There’s a low probability they picked us up at this range. The contact data on the main display is from Cowpens to our southwest via the CEC data link. SPY-1 and all weapons are in standby.”

“Very well, TAO.” Alberts studied the evolving tactical picture on the two large Aegis displays; his ship was sixty miles off the Chinese aircrafts’ track. Given O’Kane’s reduced radar cross-section, he agreed with his TAO’s call that they probably hadn’t been detected. The cooperative engagement capability, or CEC, data from Cowpens was very good: Both her SPS-49 and the SPY-1 were tracking the incoming flight. Alberts’s ship had an excellent fire-control solution and could shoot on remote data alone.

“CIC, Bridge. Battle stations manned. Material condition Zebra is set throughout the ship,” squawked the intercom.

Alberts nodded to his TAO, who acknowledged the report. His ship was ready to fight. “TAO, engage tracks eight five zero one through eight five one two with SM6 missiles, single shots.” Seconds later, the ship rumbled under the vibration of twelve missiles being launched from both the fore and aft vertical launchers.

“Radar contact, eleven medium and large ships, bearing one one seven, range six eight miles,” reported Lieutenant Kuan.

“Understood,” replied Wang. Everything was going according to plan. Each of the strikers had selected their targets, and with the Vietnamese air-search radars jammed, they wouldn’t know what hit them — now to evict those intruders. “Sea Hawk Flight, launch missiles.”

Kuan hit the launch button, and the first YJ-83K dropped from its pylon; seconds later, its turbojet engine kicked in and it streaked away from the aircraft. Wang looked around at the formation and saw that the first wave of missiles was well on its way toward their targets.

“All stations, TAO. Bogies have launched vipers! Repeat, missiles are heading toward the Vietnamese formation.”

Alberts’s blood started flowing a bit faster. There could be as many as forty antiship cruise missiles on those aircraft. And since they weren’t heading toward O’Kane, he’d have precious little time to engage them.

“TAO, time to enable?” he asked.

“Sir, our birds will go active in ten seconds.”

“Very well. Light ’em up, TAO. Engage inbound vipers; fire at will.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Air, TAO. Illuminate with the SPY-1; track bogies and vipers. Break. Weapons Control. Shift Aegis to automatic and engage vipers!”

“Sea Hawk Leader, Eagle One. SPY-1 emissions, bearing due south! Very strong signal strength! An Aegis ship is very close!”

Wang heard the fear in the man’s voice. The tone annoyed the squadron leader, but the warning couldn’t be ignored. An American air defense ship had been laying in wait for them; his squadron was in great danger. But before he could key his mike, the radar warning receiver began chirping madly. “Missile alert!” shouted Kuan.

Two bright flashes suddenly blossomed in front of him, grabbing Wang’s attention. Both ECM aircraft had exploded, flaming debris spinning wildly downward.

“Break formation! Evade!” Wang radioed to his comrades, and then pushed the yoke down sharply. “Lieutenant! Launch countermeasures!”

The tight formation immediately began to scatter, but not before three more of the fighter-bombers were hit. In less than ten seconds, Wang had lost nearly half his squadron. With his aircraft in a steep dive, he yanked hard left; the loud pops and shudders told him Kuan was ejecting chaff at a rapid rate. His efforts were wasted.

A loud explosion, followed immediately by a body-wrenching jerk, caused Wang’s helmet to slam into the canopy. Dazed by the sudden impact, he tried to focus his eyes. The controls were sluggish, and there were a host of warning lights and alarms. Both engines were gone, and the hydraulic system was failing; his plane was bleeding to death.

As he struggled to keep the aircraft steady, he shouted at Kuan over the intercom. “We’re hit! I’m losing control. Eject! Eject!”

There was no response. “Kuan! I said eject!” Again, he heard nothing. Wang had to look over both shoulders before he could see Kuan’s helmet; the visor was covered with blood. His backseater was either unconscious or dead.

Wrestling with the yoke, Wang groped for the ejection system handle with one hand. Once he found it, he released the yoke, grabbed the handle with both hands, and pulled upward. A fraction of a second later, the canopy was blown off, and Wang was brutally flung into the air. The jerk from the deploying parachute sent a stabbing jolt of pain down his left arm; his head thumped mercilessly.

As Wang drifted slowly toward the sea, he tried to look around and see how many planes had been hit. Spinning about on his chute, he thought he counted seven smoke trails. Including his own aircraft, that meant that two-thirds of his squadron was gone, destroyed by those American bastards. Distress welled over him, as he could see only a few parachutes — were all the others dead? Wang shook his head, the pain rousing him from his anguish. He had to stay focused. The sea was getting bigger and bigger. He had to keep his wits about him and prepare for when he hit the water. Then there was the long swim home.

Ray stumbled into his office and headed straight for the minirefrigerator in the back corner. Grabbing a cold bottle of water, he plopped himself into his chair and guzzled the contents. Half-sitting, half-lounging, Ray looked at his in-box and felt like crying. It had grown by several inches while he had been at training. Training? A better description would be torture.

Immediately after their casualty-drill session in the recently upgraded simulator, Barnes announced a surprise PT test and proceeded to run the whole crew longer and harder than ever before. Only Skeldon truly seemed to enjoy the arduous PT workout, “Oorahing” his way to the finish line. Marines, thought Ray, they’re all raving lunatics! That was the only logical explanation he could come up with.

While they’d all passed the surprise test, some of them had just barely made it, including Ray. Of course, Biff wasn’t satisfied and warned them they’d do it all over again in a couple of days. He’s trying to kill me, Ray said to himself, wincing as he sat up straight. It’s his revenge for all those black programs I made him wade through.

Ray reached for the first report on the top of the stack and opened the folder. He felt disgusting, with a fine layer of encrusted sweat and dust on his skin and clothes. A shower sounded really good right now, but he had to review some of these final subsystem-test reports and get them out of the way before the next batch arrived.

In fact, he had to review and approve all of them before Defender could be rolled out to the launchpad and prepped for launch — and that was to happen within the next couple of days! The thought came as a shock; Defender would start her journey out to Area 1-54 tomorrow. By Saturday, she’d be erected and hooked up to her gantry. The scheduled launch date was just over a week away.

Ray stopped and shook his head in disbelief. The whole idea seemed so surreal to him. His people had been busting their asses, working long shifts to make that demanding date a reality. They’d made a lot of progress, solving one technical problem after another, and in record time, but there had been frustrating setbacks as well.

The navigation system report Ray had in front of him was one of the pieces of good news. The system had been fully checked out and deemed flight ready. The nav team had come up with a way to integrate all four satellite-navigation systems so that Defender would not have to rely on GPS fixes alone. And just in case everything went to hell in a handbasket, two stellar sextants had been installed. Come what may, Defender would know where she was at all times. Then there was the bad news.

Both the sensor fusion and data link teams were struggling with software glitches that were proving to be annoyingly difficult to isolate and correct. The last series of tests of the command-data link between Defender and the BMC had gone badly, with poor connectivity and data-transfer rates. Jenny had been visibly disappointed and frustrated at the results. Ray heard she had even hurled her clipboard across the room when the test was shut down. After the outbrief, she’d left the briefing room silent and angry, descending back into the command bunker. Ray hadn’t seen or heard from her for the last two days.

Ray was signing off on the maneuvering thruster report when a series of sharp raps broke the silence. “Morning, Ray, I’d like to…” The admiral came to a complete stop as soon as he got a good look. “My God, man! You look like shit!”

Ray immediately regretted the rapid head motion as he looked up. He waited while the pain passed, then said, “Thank you, sir. I didn’t think you’d notice.” A slight smile popped on his face.

Schultz placed the stack of papers in his hand on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Looks like Biff is running a tight ship,” he remarked.

“Yes, sir. We’ve nearly tripled the training schedule. Biff still has us reviewing basic procedures, but he’s got us working casualty drills at least twice a day now. He’s trying to cover every possible contingency.”

“As he should.” Schultz smiled. “He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. As unpleasant as that may be.”

“We’ve talked off-line, away from the other crew members. He’s worried, Admiral.”

“About anything in particular?”

“No, just everything,” Ray replied while slowly sitting back. “Defender is unproven, the weapons are unproven, the command and control is unproven, and the crew is unproven. We’ve tested each individual subsystem to death, but the integrated whole gets its first real test when we take her up in a little over a week.”

“You getting cold feet, Ray?” asked Schultz. There was a serious tone to his voice.

“No, sir. I’m just trying to be realistic. In theory, this should work. But we both know the path from theory to practice can be a bit bumpy at times. Under normal circumstances, I’d be ecstatic with how far we’ve come. But things aren’t normal, are they? And there’s an awful lot riding on this mission.”

Schultz nodded. He knew where his technical director was coming from. “Ray, there is a risk of failure in every human endeavor. But in war that risk is considerably higher because you aren’t in control of a big chunk of what’s going on. You can plan all you want, strive to minimize the possibility of failure, but in the end you can’t guarantee success. That’s why it’s called a calculated risk.” The admiral rose and started pacing.

“Both you and Biff realize the risks associated with this mission are higher than we’d like, and you’re both doing your damnedest to knock that risk down, but we’re running out of time, and we’ll have to take our chances. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe in kamikaze missions. I wouldn’t condone a fight with a high chance of failure and crew loss. But, even with the risks, we are still the best bet in town. Our mission has the highest probability of success and the lowest for casualties of all the other options, save giving up.”

“Tell that to Jenny,” responded Ray quietly.

“She’s not happy, I take it.”

“We’ve talked several times — or, rather, she’s talked and I’ve listened. As much as she supports the mission, and as proud as she is that I’m flying, she’s still scared to death, and she’s told me so. She knows she can’t have it both ways, but that’s just how she feels.”

The admiral sighed and shook his head; this was a major disadvantage of having a loved one cleared to know what was going on — they knew the reality behind their fears. “Jenny’s a big girl,” Schultz finally replied. “She’ll find a way to deal with it.”

Ray nodded silently.

“Now you go hit the shower. We’ll talk about the command data-link problem after you’ve washed up,” ordered Schultz.

“Yes, sir. I shall cleanse myself and cease to be an affront to thine eyes,” Ray teased.

“My eyes!?” countered Schultz. “It’s my nose I’m worried about!”

Shen grumbled as he read the latest progress reports, a typical mixture of good and bad news. The army had done reasonably well, having reached the outskirts of Hanoi slightly ahead of schedule. But recent messages reported PLA units had started running into stiffer resistance as the terrain became more urban. Intelligence reports also indicated that the Vietnamese were establishing strong lines of defense south of Hanoi near the cities of Vinh and Dong Ha. The first was not as well fortified or manned as the second, indicating it was more of a delaying tactic — a speed bump to slow the advancing Chinese columns. Estimates put the defenses at Dong Ha as being far stronger — and, further, it was being fed daily by fresh shipments of arms and supplies through the port of Da Nang, a port kept open and active courtesy of the American navy.

The Americans had turned the South China Sea into a meat grinder, with the Chinese navy and air force taking significant casualties fighting for control of that strategic body of water. Despite the best efforts of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, the seas along the front remained contested. U.S. submarines seemed able to strike at will up and down the Chinese coastline. And under the coordinated cover of an American-carrier strike group, the Vietnamese navy boldly seized Yongxing Dao — a tremendous embarrassment to the PLAN and China.

A hastily thrown together air strike was sent out to stop the Vietnamese from consolidating their position, only to be butchered by an Aegis ship that lay silently nearby. And while the navy pilots courageously pressed their attack, they only succeeded in causing moderate damage to the ships in the convoy, at a cost of nine fighter-bombers shot down and another two damaged beyond repair. Virtually an entire squadron sacrificed for nothing! Shen crumbled the report into a ball and threw it at the wall in frustration. The war was turning into a conflict of pure attrition, something he had carefully sought to avoid.

“If only those fools would have listened to me!” he shouted to himself. Shen jumped out of his chair and began pacing frantically, trying to read between the lines of the sterile daily reports. The personnel losses were worse than he had imagined, and even if the Vietnam campaign continued on its favorable course, the navy and air force would emerge from the war in a weakened state. The longer the war went on, the weaker they would be.

Still, his anti-GPS campaign was proceeding perfectly. The Dragon’s Mother had only moments ago claimed her sixteenth victim. In less than a month, the U.S. would have only a few hours of 3D coverage left, and none during the night. With their long-range precision-strike capability neutralized, the Americans would have to rely on other methods to execute their attacks — methods that would increase their casualties. Shen was convinced that as soon as the body count started climbing, the Americans would sue for peace.

A sharp knock at the door disturbed the general’s train of thought. “Enter,” he snapped.

Colonel Hsu, Shen’s intelligence officer, opened the door and walked into the office. “Excuse me, General, but I have a report that the Americans have launched another GPS satellite from Vandenberg.”

Shen sighed deeply; the news was annoying, but not unexpected. “You’ve confirmed this?”

“Yes, sir. We have U.S. news coverage of the launch, as well as space-radar data. The satellite was placed into a standard GPS orbit.”

“Very nice of them to tell us what they’re doing,” remarked Shen cynically. “Well, that should be their last one. They shouldn’t get another one for many months now. Anything else?”

“No, sir. Is there something the General wants?” Hsu asked.

Shen frowned. He hadn’t seen a new intelligence report on the Defender vehicle in over a week. There could, of course, be fresh reports still making their way through official channels, but the general had specifically asked that anything new be delivered expeditiously. It wouldn’t hurt to ping the system. If new reports were coming, he’d at least be informed of that.

“Yes, Colonel, check with your colleagues to see if any new intelligence reports on Defender have been received. It’s been a while, and I wish to be kept up to date with any developments.”

“Certainly, sir. But I thought you believed Defender would take far more time before it can be launched?”

Frustrated and tired, Shen thundered impatiently. “Yes, Colonel, I still believe that, but that doesn’t mean I wish to remain uninformed! Wisdom demands that we must consider the alternative, even if it’s impossible!”

“Yes, sir! At once, sir!” replied Hsu as he rushed from the office.

Stewing, Shen found himself considering dark thoughts. If Defender were real, if it could interfere with his GPS campaign, then the war would likely go on longer than his current estimated timeline. Such an outcome would not bode well for China.