The Art of War

CHAPTER TWENTY

When Captain H. Butler Spiers, the commanding officer of Naval Base Norfolk, got home after McKiernan’s brief he poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s, added one ice cube and, still wearing his coat, went out onto the enclosed porch of his quarters. The temp was about fifty, and there was a breeze. The lights of the base made the overcast glow. He lit a cigar to go with the whiskey.

He knew what he was going to do, although he had refused to admit it to himself. When he had told Admiral McKiernan he wanted leave because his daughter was going to have a baby, he had been a wee bit less than honest. His daughter lived in an apartment complex just a few blocks from the community college where her husband was a history instructor. In Norfolk.

Spiers was never going to make admiral, and he knew it. Command of NB Norfolk was the final tour of a thirty-year career that had started in minesweepers. He then went to destroyers and after commanding one had been chief of staff for an admiral. After a tour as an instructor at the War College in Newport, he became CO of the base here, which was, by the way, a major command for an officer of his rank.

He and his wife, Katherine, Kat to her family and friends, had only one daughter, even though they had tried for more children. Her name was Ellen, or Ellie. She was something of a flake. She had never been a good student, yet, poorly informed or misinformed with only a few facts, she arrived at opinions about people, politics and morals that were unshakable, and always Liberal with a capital L. For Ellie, life was not complex but simple. And everyone who disagreed with her was wrong. She walked through life with a certainty and confidence that were awe-inspiring. The truth was, her father didn’t like her.

Nor did he think much of her husband, Harold, another mediocre intellect who had managed a master’s in history from some little college in Georgia that no one ever heard of and wormed his way into the substrata of academia, where he would undoubtedly spend the rest of his working days, happy as a termite. Harold and Ellie. A perfect match.

Kat was the one he cared about. She had doted on Ellie, everything for Ellie, and no doubt spoiled her. The news of Ellie’s pregnancy had filled her with joy. She was going to be the world’s best grandmother, just as she had been the world’s best mom; it was her destiny, the yardstick by which Kat measured the value of her life.

She should have had three or four kids, Butler Spiers thought again tonight, as he had many times through the years. The real problem, Butler told himself, was that Kat hadn’t really been cut out for life as a naval officer’s wife. The constant transfers meant that she couldn’t have a career. For a woman of her intelligence and education, that left her only one outlet, her daughter. Kat had concentrated too much love on one child, one of average intelligence, physical ability and attractiveness. The incandescent glow of her love had merely reinforced Ellie’s inability to see the world from any vantage point other than the pedestal on which her mother had placed her.

Now the grandchild, a boy, was due in three weeks.

With a possible Chinese nuclear warhead ready to detonate at the naval base. Jesus Christ!

If it detonated, Kat and Ellie and Harold and the boy yet unborn would instantly perish. Kat didn’t deserve that.

He had about finished the cigar when he heard her car in the driveway. He left the cigar in an ashtray and went inside. He had poured himself another drink when she came in, smiling.

She had spent a few hours with Ellie, talking about the baby to come. “They decided to name the boy Harold Butler,” she told him, a grand announcement.

“At least they didn’t decide to name him Herman,” he said. Herman was his first name, and he hated it even more than Butler, which had been his mother’s family name.

He took another sip of whiskey and led her out onto the porch. She hadn’t taken her coat off, and he was still wearing his. He stubbed out the smoldering cigar and faced her.

“I want you to go back to Ellie’s, get her and Harold and take them to your mother’s place in Massachusetts. Ellie can have the baby there over the holidays.”

She stared at him, trying to understand. “Harold won’t be done with school until the end of the semester, five days from now. He can’t leave.”

“He can call in sick, and if that doesn’t work, he can quit his job. He can get another job in New England. We’ll help with the family finances until he does.”

“Butler,” she said, shaking her head, “I won’t do it. And they won’t go. Harold had a devil of a time finding this job. The baby shower is three days from now. Invitations have been sent. Two dozen women are coming, her friends and—”

“You must talk them into it.”

“I can’t. It’s silly. I won’t try.”

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. He didn’t want to tell her classified information, but there was no other way. So he told it.

She had a few questions, then sat processing it.

“You can’t tell them the reason,” he said, even though in the back of his mind he knew she would have to, as he had. “If this gets out, there’ll be mass panic. Everyone on the peninsula and over in Newport News will try to leave, and the roads are just too small. Worse, the watcher may hear of it and decide to detonate the weapon without waiting for the carriers. We don’t know that he is waiting for the carriers, but it’s almost a certainty. If the mission was simply to blow up the place, he could have already done it.”

“Maybe the SEALs will find the bomb,” Kat whispered.

“Perhaps,” her husband admitted. “And maybe they won’t. Do you want to save Ellie and Harold and the baby? Or not?”

“You’ll still be here.”

“I’m a naval officer. This is my duty post. I’m not leaving.”

She went upstairs to pack.

Butler Spiers sat huddled inside his coat feeling very old. He had just betrayed classified information for personal reasons. If the powers that be ever learned of this, he was ruined professionally. He might even go to prison. If the bomb hadn’t already killed him.

Yet he had to do it. He owed it to Kat. Owed it to her for the thirty years of her life that she had given him.

He finished his drink and went inside and poured another.

He almost wished the damn bomb would go off. For him, that would not be a tragedy.

The news about the routine security exercise at the Norfolk naval base made the Norfolk/Virginia Beach television stations’ ten o’clock news. Choy Lee and Sally Chan watched some footage of ships and the base public relations officer’s explanation on one of the channels as they lay in bed. They had eaten a nice dinner at a seafood place on Route 60, just west of the navy amphibious base at Little Creek. They ate and drank wine at a table by the window and watched the lights of ships come and go in the bay. Night had already fallen under an overcast sky. Afterward, they went to Sally’s apartment and made love. Finally they turned on the news.

Zhang had never told Choy that the Americans were going to have five carriers in port over the holidays. Still, Choy was worried. Both he and Zhang were spies, reporting on ship movements, and the Americans were taking steps. Choy reflected that there were undoubtedly a lot of things Zhang knew that he hadn’t told Choy.

Then there was Zhang’s new Boston Whaler, with an iPad wired to the radar. At least, Choy thought it was wired to the radar. What it was for he had no idea, but it worried him. What would the Americans say if they found it? And they might. A Coast Guard boat could stop them at any time for an inspection. Safety or otherwise.

“What’s wrong?” Sally Chan asked, snuggling against him.

The devil of it was that he was in love with Sally. At first this was supposed to just be companionship and sex, but somewhere along the way it had become more than that. Much more.

And Sally Chan was as American as apple pie and the Fourth of July. So were her parents. Oh, they were proud to be Chinese Americans, in the same way Italian Americans, Irish Americans and African Americans were proud of their heritage. But this was their country! What would Sally think if she knew he was an agent of the Chinese government? A spy? Reporting on U.S. Navy ship movements? Would she dump him? Call the FBI and report him?

Then there was Zhang. Somehow, lately, the mission had subtly changed. It was no longer photographing warships and reporting on their movements — Zhang was watching the carrier piers. The area around the carrier piers. Looking with binoculars at every harbor craft, watching for something. What? He never said, and Choy never asked. Somehow he knew that was the wrong thing to do.

Now a “routine security exercise.” There hadn’t been a security exercise at the base all summer and fall. Why now? Were the Americans looking for him and Zhang? Had the mission been compromised? Or was he just suffering the intelligence agent’s normal professional paranoia?

“I love you,” Sally whispered.

Choy had other things on his mind. He distractedly pecked her on the forehead.

When Jake Grafton got home that evening, Callie had beef brisket, salad, and cucumbers and onions marinated in vinegar waiting. They ate at the little round table just off the kitchen where they normally ate breakfast.

“When are you going to have Tommy take this security system out?” she asked. Jake had told her several days ago that the bomber had been arrested, although it hadn’t been in the newspapers.

“Oh, I dunno,” he said, frowning. “No one is monitoring it. Thinking about leaving it in place, just in case. You can never predict when—”

“I want it out,” Callie said forcefully. “I am sick of looking at those little cameras or whatever they are and being constantly reminded that someone tried to murder us. That someone did murder Anna Modin. We’ve got to move on.”

“Well…”

“If Tommy’s too busy,” she said, “I’ll call Willie Varner and ask him to come do it. His lock shop is in the telephone book.”

“Maybe you should call Willie,” her husband said, surrendering gracefully. “Probably be quicker.”

“So how was your day at the office?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Got shouted at and shouted back. We progress, I think, but slowly.”

Her voice sharpened just a bit. “Have the people at the White House said anything about nominating a permanent director?”

“No. I think their plate is as full as mine.”

“Jake, you can’t keep doing this CIA thing twelve to fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. There are other competent people.”

“Right now we have a problem that soaks up my time,” he explained. “It will be resolved in a few weeks, one way or another, and then I’ll be a forty-hour-week dude or I’ll resign.”

She eyed him. “You’re serious, I hope.”

“I can’t keep this pace up. You are absolutely right about that. I’ll burn out and won’t be any good to anyone. On the other hand, I owe it to the families of the people who got murdered to hang in there. People like Mario Tomazic’s daughter … and Tommy Carmellini. I’m in their corner.”

“Jake,” she said, sliding her hand over his, “I understand, but I need more of your time. I am still very much in love with my husband. I don’t want to see you just when you bring your dirty clothes home to exchange for clean ones. That wasn’t why I married you.”

He squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. “A few more weeks, hon. Then it’ll be over.”

Or, he thought, I’ll be dead along with a few million other people and it won’t matter. Being Mr. Smooth, he kept that thought to himself.

Sarah Houston was still at work on the hard drive of Jerry Chu’s laptop when I was ready to leave for the day. I had been watching over her shoulder. It was like watching someone translate Egyptian hieroglyphics; I didn’t understand any of it.

“I’ll be along after a while,” she said. “Take my house key from my purse. It’s there beside the desk.”

Her lock was a Yale, and I could do them blindfolded, but I didn’t brag. I took the key. On my way out the door she said, “I changed my mind about Chinese. I’ve had enough Chinese for one day.”

“So have I,” I said. On the way to her place I stopped at a supermarket and purchased a few items from the deli counter. Gourmet Tommy. Got a bottle of wine — twelve bucks — and some more coffee, since Sarah was almost out.

I was standing at the window thinking about Anna … and Fish and that bitch Kerry and good ol’ Jerry Chu … when I heard Sarah rap on the door. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I went to open it, and paused a few seconds to rearrange it. Sarah didn’t deserve me in a foul mood. Maybe she didn’t deserve me at all. She could do a whale of a lot better.

I opened the door. She had a sack of stuff, too.

She gave me a kiss as she sailed by, headed for the kitchen.

Amazingly, I felt better. She could do that for me.

“What did you get out of that computer and thumb drive?” I asked as she put away groceries.

“It’s going to take a couple more days. I doubt if I can ever crack the quantum code, but there may be a way to get messages before he encrypted them. That may be all that is possible.”

“Um.”

“Got all the numbers off the phones and sent the phones by courier to the FBI.”

“They’ll be pleased.”

She eyed me. “Why do I have a feeling you shouldn’t have grabbed that stuff?”

“It was an illegal arrest. No search warrant. No arrest warrant. Any half-decent lawyer can probably get the evidence suppressed, if there is any, and get Chu off … if he ever comes to trial. They have him on a national security hold right now, incommunicado.”

“So why didn’t you let the FBI get a warrant?”

“We don’t have a week for them to dither. If a nuke goes off in Norfolk, the judge scrutinizing the affidavits and FBI agents standing in front of him will feel the floor shake and think there has been an earthquake. Poof, another million or two souls on their way up or down.”

“So what did Grafton say about it?”

“Nothing to me. He might tomorrow, or he might not. With Grafton, you never know. You take a risk and everything turns out okay, he’s happy. If I’d gotten Jerry Chu arrested on my say-so and nothing was found, not so happy.”

“We still don’t know if he’s dirty.”

“Oh, he is. I got a good look at his face.” I yawned and stretched. “But if they want to fire me, I’m ready to go.”

She opened the wine bottle, poured for the both of us and handed me a glass. After she had an experimental sip, she asked, “If they fire you, where would you go?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t thought much about it. Maybe trade the Benz in on a used motorcycle and just hit the road. There’s a lot of America I haven’t seen. There are days when I think I ought to be out there in the middle of it while it’s still America.”

She looked at me and I looked at her.

“When is Anna’s funeral?”

“There won’t be one. They released her remains and I had them cremated. She was in tiny little pieces.” I had to swallow a couple of times. “I’m picking up the ashes tomorrow at ten and taking them to Hot Springs, Virginia. Gonna scatter them there. We had good times there, at the Homestead. I think she would have approved.”

Sarah was watching me over the rim of her glass. After a bit she said, “The doctors amputated Fish’s arm yesterday. Not enough circulation to his lower arm.”

I didn’t say anything. Just stood holding the wineglass, wishing I had killed the bastard.

“Tommy?”

“Your key is on the counter,” I said, trying to keep my voice normal. “I’m not hungry. How about a rain check?”

I placed my glass of wine, still full, on the counter. Got my coat and let myself out.

Lieutenant Commander Zhang of the People’s Liberation Army Navy also saw the television news feature about the “routine security exercise” at the Norfolk naval base, and although he didn’t understand most of the English, the footage of a carrier coming into the carrier piers captured his attention. He resolved to buy a newspaper in the morning and have Choy Lee translate it for him. He was becoming more and more concerned about Choy’s fixation upon Sally Chan, the daughter of the man who owned the restaurant, yet he still needed his translation skills. For a little while, anyway.

Zhang wondered what Choy had told Sally. Had he compromised the mission? Whispered secrets had a way of spreading quickly, like wildfire in dry grass.

He automatically fingered his cell phone, which was charging on his nightstand, and lit a cigarette. If Chinese agents in Washington or up and down the coast, or communications hackers in China, learned that the American navy had changed its plans and diverted carriers elsewhere, he would get an encrypted message on his iPad. Or a telephone call with a code word. Thinking about the contingencies, Zhang realized he must be ready to detonate the bomb with minimum warning. Better too early than too late. On the other hand, the richer the target, the greater the reward.

At heart Zhang was a gambler. Admiral Wu knew that, which was why he had chosen him for this mission. No panic, but a nice judgment about when to get as much as possible. That was what Wu and Zhang both wanted. That was what China needed if it was to become the major power in Asia.

He sat for a moment staring at the television with unseeing eyes, thinking of the Japanese navy’s mistakes at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. They had a great plan and they pulled it off magnificently, yet the ships they sank were battleships, obsolete weapons in the fledgling air age. The real prizes, the real strategic assets, were the U.S. Navy’s three aircraft carriers. They were at sea when the blow fell on Pearl, so were untouched. Had the Japanese ignored the battleships and waited for the carriers, or lingered to hunt the carriers in the open sea … Well, undoubtedly the war in the Pacific would have gone a lot differently, and probably better, for Japan.

The Japanese also failed to damage or destroy the aboveground storage tanks at Pearl that contained the fuel oil the fleet burned. Had they done so, the Americans would have had to transport fuel from the American West Coast and would have had no place to store it, which would have severely limited the fleet’s combat radius until new tanks could be constructed.

The Chinese plan was better than the Japanese. Today’s American carriers were all nuclear powered, but the facilities to build, repair and refuel them were in Newport News; the explosion would put that shipyard out of action for years, if not for decades.

The Japanese overestimated America’s readiness. Had they an inkling of the true state of affairs in Hawaii, they could safely have taken much greater risks and probably achieved greater, perhaps decisive, results.

Zhang didn’t think he had made Japan’s error. No, the danger here was erring the other way: underestimating the enemy’s readiness. He had only one bomb, which would do catastrophic damage, and he had taken every precaution he could.

Zhang took a last long drag on his cigarette, stubbed out the butt and lit another. Wait for the carriers, he told himself. But don’t wait too long.