Shattered Trident

11. DIVISION

3 September 2016

0445 Local Time

Squadron Fifteen Headquarters

Guam

Simonis sat motionless; he simply stared at the now-blank screen. The staff members present, amazed by the orders Patterson had just given them, were likewise stunned. They looked hesitantly back and forth between each other and their commodore in awkward silence. The only discernable noise was the whirling blades of the cooling fan on the VTC computer.

Everyone in the room waited anxiously for the other shoe to drop. The commodore’s temper was a fact of life in Squadron Fifteen, and collectively the group couldn’t decide whether to beat a hasty retreat, or stay and watch the fireworks.

After an uncomfortable length of time, Simonis’s head slowly began to fall. He took a deep breath, the expected prelude to a monumental rant. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, emotionless, the volume restrained.

“Captain Jacobs, I want a draft message ordering the four boats to break away and establish a SATCOM link with squadron headquarters at…” Simonis paused as he looked at his watch. “… 0600 their local time. Flash precedence. You have seven minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the chief staff officer. Rising, the CSO pointed to an information technician to follow him. Both quickly left the conference room.

Simonis took another deep breath, then looked around the room. Struggling, he said, “With the exception of Commander Walker, everyone else is dismissed.”

As the staff filed out of the room, Walker moved up to the main table and gestured for the last man out to close the door. Pulling a chair away from the table, he quietly sat down, pen and notebook at the ready. By the time Walker had situated himself, Simonis’s face was crimson, his body shaking visibly.

“Rich, I have never, throughout my entire career, ever considered disobeying a lawful order from a superior, until now,” Simonis rasped through clenched teeth. Suddenly he lashed out with his right arm, striking a wooden chair next to him. A sharp snap and flying splinters testified to the force of the blow. Rising abruptly, he kicked the damaged chair out of his way. Stomping angrily around the table, he slammed the top with his fist and bellowed, “What is the president thinking!? Does he even have a clue as to what he’s telling me to do!?”

Walker shook his head ruefully. “The CNO and COMSUBPAC didn’t look thrilled at all. Neither did Dr. Patterson, for that matter.”

“Any sentient human being could see there is no way that four attack submarines, by themselves, can stop a war between five nations even if they expended every Mark 48 in their torpedo rooms!”

Simonis spun and paced, raising his arms in frustration. “And yet, we’ve been ordered to insert ourselves into a shooting war, under a ‘weapons hold’ provision, with the stated goal of interfering and frustrating the attacks by both sides! Is it just me? Or is this manifest insanity!?”

“Sir, Dr. Patterson didn’t say we had to ‘stop the war,’ just slow it down a bit to give the president a chance to force this Littoral Alliance to engage and resolve the crisis diplomatically,” Walker responded carefully.

The enraged commodore turned and thumped both of his hands on the table. “ELECTION YEAR BULLSHIT, COMMANDER!” howled Simonis. “To execute these orders, we not only have to give up our stealth advantage, but our boats will also have to get far closer to the hostile submarines if they are going to pull this off. Which means they will be far more vulnerable to hostile fire, and I’m not talking about shitty TEST-71 torpedoes either. The Indians have the UGST, Japan the Type 89, China has the Yu-6, and South Korea the White Shark—all top-of-the-line weapons.”

Simonis had placed both hands firmly on his head, holding it tightly between them, as if trying to contain an explosion from inside his skull. Suddenly, he stopped and threw his hands in the air. A resigned sigh escaped from his lips, followed by his head and shoulders drooping over. Looking toward Walker, he uttered tersely, “I tell you, Rich. If we don’t lose a boat over this fool’s errand, it will be a miracle.”

The operations officer remained silent; there was really no way to argue with his boss. From a military perspective, Simonis was absolutely correct. But a decision by a president was almost always based on political considerations; internal, external, or both. Sometimes, those political considerations required military forces to be deliberately placed in harm’s way, doing things they would normally not do. As a staff officer Walker could look at the situation dispassionately. He was thankful he wasn’t in the commodore’s shoes.

A knock on the door broke the uncomfortable silence. Captain Jacobs opened it and marched over to Simonis with a single sheet of paper. Taking it, the commodore leaned against the large table and read the draft message. A facial twitch showed he’d read something he didn’t like; he made some quick annotations to the draft. Thrusting it to Jacobs, Simonis ordered, “Send it, CSO. You have two minutes.”

Jacobs grabbed the message and literally ran from the room. Walker struggled to contain a smile as he watched his CSO sprint down the hallway. Even in this situation, conflicted as he was, Simonis would get a “Flash” precedence message out within the recommended ten minutes. The man was totally obsessed with following procedures to the letter.

“Well, that’s that,” exclaimed a depressed Simonis. “In a couple of hours we’ll discuss this change in orders with our four COs and then send them off to play referee.”

Walker chuckled lightly. “I don’t think that’s a very good analogy, sir. At least referees are protected by the rules of the game. Last time I checked, rules are a little hard to come by in war.”

“True. But that is exactly what the president has told us to become, referees in a fight where there are no rules,” countered Simonis sternly. “And for the near future, those four crews are going to feel very lonely.”

“But Commodore, Dr. Patterson mentioned that additional boats had been ordered to reinforce us,” said Walker, reading from his notes. “She said North Carolina was already en route.”

Simonis smiled cynically. “Yes, she did. But do the math, Rich. There are thirty attack submarines in the Pacific Fleet. Assuming eighty percent availability, that means twenty-four can go to sea. Of those, about eight boats are currently at sea, based on one deployed submarine for every three available boats. Thus, this squadron already has about half of the deployed submarines in the entire fleet!

“North Carolina left Pearl yesterday. Even at flank speed she’ll need about six days to get to the South China Sea. It would take a deployed submarine in the CENTCOM AOR another day or two to get there. The boats in port will take even longer. And you did notice that no one said a word about a carrier strike group? No, for most of the coming week, we are on our own. This mission is ours to execute, whether we like it or not.”

3 September 2016

0600 Local Time

USS North Dakota

South China Sea

Jerry, Bernie Thigpen, and the IT senior chief were the only ones allowed in the radio room during the video conference with Squadron Fifteen. Simonis wanted to keep the audience to an absolute minimum, thus only the top leadership and one tech from each boat were permitted to participate. Jerry certainly could understand why. The new orders they had received an hour earlier initially had the caveat, “Commanding Officer’s Eyes Only.” It was only after Jerry had read them that he was allowed to clue Thigpen in.

“Hoollyy Shit!” the XO had said as he started reading the new orders in Jerry’s stateroom. “Are they frickin’ serious?”

“It would seem so,” Jerry answered nonchalantly.

Thigpen’s eyes peeked over the orders. “You know, this is your fault,” he stated frankly, an accusatory expression on his face.

“Yesss, it would seem so,” replied Jerry with a sheepish look.

The XO kept reading. As he worked his way down the message, his facial features underwent dramatic change. First, his left eyebrow cocked up, then his mouth fell open, finally his face transformed into a visage of utter disbelief. Thigpen’s eyes darted back and forth from the message to his CO. His face screamed, “This just can’t be right!” Shocked, he began reading the text aloud.

“‘You are authorized to use any means at your disposal, with the exception of launching weapons, to interfere, frustrate, or spoil attacks by Littoral Alliance or Chinese submarines. The previous requirement to maintain absolute stealth is rescinded. It is expected that overt actions will be required during the execution of these orders that will reveal your presence to the belligerent parties.’”

Thigpen slowly placed the message on the desk, his awestruck face staring into space. “This is just plain crazy!” exclaimed Thigpen. Then, focusing on Jerry, he added, “You’ve created a monster!”

Jerry raised his hands and shrugged, admitting his guilt. “It would seem so.”

“Can you please say something other than that?” wailed a frustrated Thigpen.

“Like what, Bernie!?” Jerry replied, discouraged. “I had no idea the president would take that one event, with circumstances hugely in our favor, and turn it into the linchpin of a campaign!”

“Yeah, one that’s going to get our ass shot off.”

“That’s a distinct possibility,” agreed Jerry quietly.

“I… I don’t get it,” mumbled a resigned Thigpen, sitting down. “How does a lowly commander, no disrespect intended, sir, have such a significant influence on the president of the United States?” He paused and leaned forward, confused and uncertain. “Why does what you think matter so much to him? It makes me wonder, Skipper, what kind of man am I working for?”

Jerry initially remained silent. His brain raced while he ran his fingers through his hair. The questions, though uncomfortable, were nonetheless valid. And his XO deserved answers. Hesitantly, he began, “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Of course, sir. Who on this boat hasn’t?” responded Thigpen. “But I’ve also seen the nickel-sized scar on your shoulder.”

“It’s not that large!” Jerry protested.

“Fine, dime-size then, but that was still a damn big bullet that hit you!”

Jerry sighed and rubbed his face; disobeying a direct order from the CNO not to discuss the Iran mission with anyone who wasn’t properly cleared wasn’t something Jerry wanted to do. And his XO most certainly wasn’t cleared. But if he was going to violate that order to restore his XO’s confidence, then it was a worthy cause.

“All right, then, but nothing I say leaves this stateroom, understood?” he warned sternly. “Or I’ll make you walk home!”

“Cross my heart,” said Thigpen eagerly, adding the gesture for good measure.

“Okay. Yes, I was stranded in Iran with four SEALs when the ASDS self-immolated. And yes, we got into several firefights. Two were absolutely, unbelievably intense, something I’d never want to repeat. The only reason I’m here is because those SEALs are incredible warriors. I hope we have some SEALs embark with us sometime down the road. Then you’ll see what I mean.

“Anyway, towards the end of our ‘visit’ we were hunkered down in a grove of trees, surrounded by IRGC units. And I mean completely surrounded, both landward and seaward. I, uh, had a disagreement with the SEAL platoon leader about our next course of action, and I basically pulled rank and ordered an escape by sea. We stole a fast boat and hightailed it across the Persian Gulf.”

“No shit,” whispered Thigpen with rapt attention.

“Oh, it gets better. While we were making our getaway, the Iranians sent three boats after us. There was no way we could outrun them, and Michigan couldn’t help us because she was busy playing tag with an Iranian Kilo. One of the SEALs, the leading petty officer, took out one of the boats with the luckiest shot I’m ever likely to see in my lifetime, but another one worked us over pretty badly with machine-gun fire. In short order, the platoon leader, the LPO, and myself were all hit. It felt like someone had swung a bat hard against my shoulder, and then my left arm just stopped working.”

Thigpen’s face scrunched up into a grimace as Jerry described the sensation. “I bet that hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,” he commented.

Jerry paused as he mentally replayed the events after being struck. “Actually, XO, I don’t remember it hurting all that much. Oh sure, I was in shock. A 30-caliber bullet had just blown through my shoulder blade, for God’s sake. But I don’t recall feeling a lot of pain. That came later when I went through physical therapy. Now that was painful.”

The laughter in Thigpen’s voice was a welcome sound to Jerry’s ears. His XO was finding his feet again, his attitude getting back into battery.

“So there we were, down two shooters and I’m trying to steer the boat with one hand. The two remaining Iranian boats are closing in to finish us off, when out of nowhere there was this loud whoosh. The next thing I know, one of the boats just evaporates. Woof! Gone! There, off to our right, is a MH-60R, coming in low and fast. A split second later he shoots another Hellfire and that was it. I think I passed out right after that, because I don’t remember a blessed thing until I woke up in USS Decatur’s sickbay.”

Thigpen shook his head, marveling at his CO’s tale. “Now that is one hell of a sea story!”

“Yeah, one that I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” Jerry chuckled lightly. “But to answer your real question, I need to tell you what happened at the award ceremony. During the reception, the president made it clear that he believed I made several critical decisions that enabled him to keep our country out of a war with Iran. I tried to politely dissuade him from that notion. It was very much a team effort, and I thought he seriously overplayed my part in the whole operation. So here we are with a similar situation: a war has started, one that involves longtime allies and threatens to drag the U.S. in, and he thinks, ‘That Mitchell guy is out there. He’s pulled rabbits out of the hat before…’”

Thigpen’s face lit up with revelation. “And your unusual tactics only reinforced his belief!”

“That’s how I see it,” Jerry answered flatly.

“It makes sense,” replied Thigpen, nodding. Suddenly, a cynical grin popped up on his face. “Did I ever mention that I think you may be too smart for your own good?”

Jerry sighed. “Yes, XO, I believe you’ve said that before.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Thigpen.

Jerry was encouraged by his XO’s emphasis on “we”—Bernie Thigpen was back on an even keel again. “We, XO, are going to start contingency planning. If there is one thing I learned from the SEALs, it is that one can hope for the best, but should still plan for the worst. We’ll start looking at possible scenarios, come up with a set of tactics to deal with each one, and then try to break it, find the holes in our thinking and plug them. That’s what we’re going to do.”

The radio room display showed the Squadron Fifteen headquarters conference room in the center, with the four submarine COs and XOs along the bottom. None of the participants looked very happy.

“Gentlemen,” Simonis began. “By now I’m sure you’ve read your new orders. I will not read them verbatim, but I will emphasize the key points. First, consider any submarine contact as potentially hostile. A sufficient buffer separates your patrol areas, so there should be no issues with mutual interference. If you pick up a submerged contact, it will almost certainly belong to one of the warring nations, and you are to treat it accordingly.

“Second, use any means at your disposal, with the exception of launching weapons, to interfere, frustrate, or spoil attacks by Littoral Alliance or Chinese submarines. Stealth is no longer a critical consideration. Do what you can to cause the attacking submarine, or submarines, to break off and evade.

“Third, while it is not anticipated that either side will deliberately target a U.S. submarine, it is possible that weapons could be fired in reaction to the unexpected appearance of one. Use your acoustic advantage to position yourselves so as to minimize the possibility of an effective shot. If weapons are launched at you, use evasive maneuvers and countermeasures to their fullest extent before giving any consideration to counterfiring.

“You are only authorized to fire after every possible option has been taken to evade a vessel that is deliberately attacking you. This is a weapons hold provision, gentlemen. Your first line of defense is your speed, countermeasures, and anti-torpedo hard kill systems, not Mark 48 torpedoes. Is that clear?”

Every commanding officer answered in the affirmative, but Dobson and Halsey looked the least pleased with this aspect of their orders. Jerry was sympathetic to their less than desirable position; they had the two older, less advanced boats.

“Finally, gentlemen,” Simonis concluded, “exercise extreme diligence and caution in executing these orders. You’ll need to plan each encounter carefully. Make the maximum use of the environment and your superior stealth; only reveal yourselves when you are in the best possible position to spoil an attack, and you have a clear avenue of escape. Questions?”

Of course there were questions, and every one was a “what if” situation. Simonis dealt with each in stride, but became noticeably impatient after the sixth one. As Dobson started off on this third hypothetical question, Simonis cut him off.

“Gentlemen, you are commanding officers, and I expect you to command. I can’t clarify every possible scenario. This is a new situation with too many unknowns. There will always be situations that fall outside your guidance. The navy spent a lot of time and money training you to develop good decision-making skills—use them!

“I won’t try and blow sunshine up your skirts. These orders are… difficult. Interfering with another boat’s attack is far more complicated than your standard approach and attack evolution. I appreciate that it’s not something that we’ve specifically trained for; however, you have all the skills necessary to fulfill this mission. I suggest you get with your wardrooms and chiefs and figure out how to get the job done.”

Admonished, Dobson and the others acknowledged the commodore’s instruction. Simonis then personally bid each skipper good luck. He initially started to say “good hunting,” but caught himself. As soon as he finished each farewell, Simonis had that CO dropped from the VTC. Jerry wasn’t surprised that he was the last one that the commodore got to.

“Captain,” Simonis opened sternly, “I trust you’ve realized that your actions have had significant, if unintended consequences.”

Although embarrassed by the commodore’s statement, Jerry was still grateful that Simonis hadn’t aired this in front of his peers. “Yes, sir. And I regret overstepping my orders earlier. It won’t happen again, Commodore.”

“Good. Your reputation is exceptional, Captain, and even though I was quite upset over your unusual tactics, you handled yourself well.”

“Uh, thank you, sir,” Jerry replied, confused. This wasn’t what he expected at all.

A brief smile flashed across Simonis’s face. “We didn’t have a lot of time to get to know each other, to learn how each other thinks, so I have to assume some of the responsibility for what happened earlier. And if I was less than clear when you were here in my office, I hope that you now have a better appreciation for my expectations.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Very good.” Simonis nodded. “And now, Captain, I have one last item for you.”

“And what would that be, Commodore?” asked Jerry.

“All our intel says the Indian Improved Akula is still in your neck of the woods. I want you to find him, and dog him. That boat is far and away the best one in this Littoral Alliance, and its superior capabilities in stealth, mobility, and firepower make it a greater threat than three of their conventional submarines. If you can contain his actions, that will go a long way to meeting the president’s goals.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll stick to her hull like a barnacle,” Jerry stated confidently.

Simonis smiled again. “Good luck, Captain. Squadron Fifteen out.”

3 September 2016

1400 Local Time

PLAN Frigate Sanming, hull 524

East China Sea

Commander Ma Hongwei was a frustrated man. For the last two days his frigate had been running from one reported periscope sighting to another. So far they’d found a floating log, a chair, even a dead seabird, but nothing that looked remotely like a submarine’s periscope. Part of him wanted to throttle those merchant mariners who constantly radioed in false alarms. The other part of him realized that they were all running scared, and with good reason. So far, unknown assailants had sunk eighteen tankers. Eight of them had been torpedoed in the East Sea Fleet’s area of responsibility, and the fleet commander was incensed that not one prosecution had taken place.

Ma raised his binoculars and looked at the merchant ship on the horizon. It was the tanker Lian Xing Hu en route to the port of Shanghai. The navigation radar operator on the bridge said she was making just a hair under fifteen knots, which would be flank speed for this vessel. Her master was obviously in a hurry to reach the safety of the harbor. Smart move.

“Captain, the helicopter has been stowed in the hangar. The flight crew has begun repairs and refueling,” reported the officer of the deck.

“Very well, Lieutenant. Let’s head over toward that tanker before we go to the next supposed periscope sighting,” said Ma, pointing to Lian Xing Hu.

“Aye, sir.”

As Sanming’s bow started swinging to starboard, Ma took another look at the tanker. The two ships had been closing, and the merchant’s hull was now fully above the horizon. She wasn’t a VLCC, but she wasn’t small either. She was riding low in the water; full of crude oil that China’s economy lusted for. Ma frowned as he looked the ship over, there was a lot of rust on the tanker’s hull. She could use a little attention, he thought critically.

Suddenly, a sharp glint caught his attention, a bright flash from the sea surface. It was from something between him and the tanker. Searching the area carefully, he soon found a small wake trailing behind a tiny fuzzy object—a periscope! It had to be from a foreign submarine; no Chinese subs were authorized to be in this area. And judging by the flash of sunlight off the periscope head, this submarine had an inexperienced commander.

“Submarine off the starboard bow! Sound Combat Alert!”

The loud ringing of the alarm galvanized the crew into action. Men ran to their positions on the bridge while Ma kept his eyes firmly on the submarine’s periscope, one arm pointing toward the spot. The intruder was clearly moving into position to attack the tanker. He had to stop it!

“Activate the sonar, sector search centered on bearing one one five! Signalmen, tell that tanker to alter course to starboard! Inform fleet headquarters we are attacking! Provide our location!” barked Ma.

“Captain! Sonar contact bearing one one six degrees, range four point three kilometers,” shouted the OOD.

“Very well. Stay on this course. Helmsman, ring up ahead full. Prepare anti-submarine rocket launchers for firing.”

Ma watched as the wake faded and then disappeared. “She’s going deep!” he cried.

Fear for the tanker gripped the frigate captain. They were still too far away to attack with the rockets; they’d need at least another three minutes before they were close enough. The submarine would certainly shoot long before then. He needed to do something now, or that tanker was doomed, but what? Sanming wasn’t equipped with ASW torpedoes, and her helicopter would never be able to take off in time.

“Fire ASW rockets!” Ma shouted in desperation.

The OOD looked up, surprised. “But sir, we aren’t in range yet.”

“I know that, damn it! Fire anyway!” roared Ma. He could only hope that the submarine’s inexperienced captain was a little gun-shy and would choose to evade rather than press home the attack.

From the ship’s bow, the two six-tubed launchers started spewing rockets at regular intervals. Arcing gracefully in the air, they pitched over and struck the water in a preset oval pattern a little over a kilometer ahead. Acrid smoke billowed around the bridge until the wind of the ship’s passage swept it away. Seconds later, the water boiled as the twelve depth bombs exploded. As the smoke cleared, Ma could see his crew busily reloading the launchers.

“Captain,” sang out the bridge phone talker, “sonar reports they are being jammed. Last good bearing to the submarine was one one nine, range two point five kilometers.”

Ma swore but nodded. The submarine had dropped a noisemaker. He’d expected this, but it still made his job considerably harder. Running back into the bridge, he stopped at the plotting table and looked at the sub’s reported positions. She had been drawing right, it was reasonable for a submarine to change course after deploying countermeasures, but her commander would also want to disengage. After a moment of assessing, he acted. “Helmsman, come right to course one two five.”

“Captain!” shouted the phone talker. “Sonar reports multiple passive contacts clearing the jamming zone! Moving at high speed, drawing left, bearing zero nine eight!”

Ma hung his head in despair—torpedoes! He bolted for the port bridge wing, and raised his binoculars. He didn’t have to wait long. Less than a minute later, a huge column of water formed under the tanker’s bow. A second weapon detonated just a little aft of the first. The bow, torn free from the rest of the ship, was pushed under by the force of the tanker’s momentum. Giant geysers of black oil erupted from ruptured tanks. A third blast jumped out of the water farther aft, under the bridge. The damaged hull buckled from the explosive shock and the heavier aft section was literally wrenched free. Flames ignited around the stern of the tanker, sending a huge column of pitch-black smoke skyward. Lian Xing Hu was dead, murdered by the underwater assassin.

Seething, Ma screamed into the bridge, “Where is the submarine!? Find that bastard!”

“Sir, sonar reports an active contact bearing one two eight, range one point one kilometers,” announced the phone talker.

Ma smiled. The enemy was right where he thought she’d be. And this time she was within range. “Fire ASW rockets!” he bellowed.

The bow of Sanming was once again covered with fire and smoke as the two launchers disgorged their contents. Ma watched with satisfaction as the bombs exploded, heaving the water up in a neat chain of white circles. He had just turned to head back into the bridge when he felt his body being lifted from the deck. Confused, he struggled to find his feet, but before they touched back down, the ship lunged again and Ma was slammed into one of the bridge wing frames. Dazed, his head wracked in pain, Ma attempted to stand, but his left hand slipped off the railing. He stopped to look at his hands, and after straining to get his eyes to focus, he saw they were covered in blood.

In the distance, he could hear someone shouting, “Mayday, Mayday…” Ma thought it sounded like the officer of the deck, but he wasn’t sure. Finally fighting to his feet, the captain found it difficult to stand. The ship had a pronounced port list. Still confused, Ma looked aft. What he saw left him quivering. The ship had been torn in two, just forward of the stack. The aft portion was taking on water fast, as he could see huge bubbles of air around its shattered hull. With an almost perverse fixation, Ma stared as the aft section first went vertical, then plunged beneath the waves. He was still watching the swirls when the rest of the ship jerked to port. Between the dizziness and his slippery hands, Ma lost his grip and was thrown over the railing. He hit the water flat on his back, knocking the air out of him. The pain in his head was excruciating.

Ma fought his way back to the surface; his body in agony with each stroke. It seemed like an eternity before he finally cleared the water. Coughing and gasping, he grabbed a life preserver that was floating nearby. Safe for the moment, he struggled to turn in the water and see what was going on. As Ma turned around, he was just in time to see his beloved frigate roll over and come crashing down upon him.

3 September 2016

0225 Local Time

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Mac had fallen asleep at his desk for the third day in a row. He was barely semiconscious when he heard the electronic ding signifying the arrival of a new e-mail. Groaning, he began searching for his glasses with his right hand. They had to be somewhere on this desk. After failing to find them, he patted his head and discovered his glasses hanging precariously from his ears. Pulling them down over his eyes, Mac sat up straight to look at his screen. The sharp pains accompanying the crunches and pops were an unpleasant reminder that he was too old for this kind of thing.

As his eyes came into focus, he saw that he had received over two dozen e-mails since he had dozed off. But it was the subject line from a colleague at the Keelung Port Authority in Taiwan that grabbed his attention.

Mac had to read the e-mail twice, just to make sure it said what he thought it said. He then looked at his watch. The attacks were not even fifteen minutes old! The fact that the Chinese frigate used the international distress channel meant everyone and their brother would know about this attack soon. An attack on a warship was big, big news. He typed out a quick acknowledgement of the e-mail and promised to get back to him later. Fumbling for his cell phone, Mac chuckled with sadistic delight; he was going to wake Ms. Laird up this time. As he pulled up his speed-dial list, his eyes caught an earlier e-mail from a friend in the Philippines. He was a fisherman by trade, but he also had great sources of information that kept him clued in on anything going on in the Spratlys. Mac put the phone down and clicked on the e-mail.

Opening the file, Mac saw a line of three air-cushion landing craft and a Chinese Type 071 amphibious assault ship in the background. The image was of poor quality, but it was clear enough for Mac to identify the vessels. His heart began to pound. Tag was right, the Philippines couldn’t possibly be involved in the submarine campaign, and yet here was a photo of Chinese marines coming ashore on a Filipino-claimed island. This war is getting way out of hand, he thought.

He grabbed his phone and hit Christine Laird’s number. While her phone rang, Mac pulled up his now all-consuming blog covering the tanker attacks and changed the name from “Chinese Tanker Attacks” to “The Great Pacific War of 2016.” He had just finished when a very sleepy woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Christine, it’s Mac, and I have some very disturbing news.”