Virginia Class

6

"Seaman Wallace, do you understand that this is captain's nonjudicial punishment?" Garrett said. "A captain's mast, in other words. That means you tell me your side of the story, I tell you my side, and then I tell you what I'm going to do about it."

Wallace stood at awkward attention in front of the desk. He gulped and swallowed, managing an unsteady nod. "I… I understand, sir."

Damn. Wallace's voice was shaking. The kid must be scared half to death. But Garrett had to say these things. "You may request a summary or special court-martial instead, if you wish to have legal representation or call witnesses."

"My recommendation is that you take the mast, son," Chief Fred Giangreco said with a wry grin. "A court would hit you with everything a captain's mast would, plus maybe a lot more."

Giangreco, the boat's master-at-arms, sat wedged into the back corner of the office, squeezed in between the desk and the small coffee mess Garrett maintained for informal visits to this cubby. Two made it crowded; three was downright claustrophobic.

But the MAA was Virginia's chief of police, in a sense, the enlisted man responsible for maintaining order and making sure the rules were obeyed. And it was vital to establish the form and working of shipboard discipline from the very start.

"I'll go with whatever you say, sir," Wallace said.

"Good enough." Garrett tried to keep his voice gentle. It would serve absolutely nothing to terrorize the kid. "Do you understand why I put you on report?"

"Uh… because I screwed up on watch."

"What did you do? Or not do?"

"Well, sir, I didn't see that speedboat on the radar."

"Specifically, you didn't see it, designate it as a target, and report it to me or to the officer of the deck. Do you see why that was a problem?"

"Yes, sir! If that had been a kamikaze boat, he could've sunk us!"

"Maybe. But it's not just the problem posed by that one speedboat. The Virginia is a United States warship. And we are, whatever the civilians might think, at war with a vicious, determined, and cunning enemy. It is our absolute duty to our country, to this submarine, and to our shipmates to be alert, to be vigilant, to be situationally aware of what is going on near this vessel at every moment." He paused. "Tell me what you were doing when you had the board."

"Well, it was pretty confusing. Chief Kurzweil was showing me how to try and separate genuine targets from waves and buildings and stuff like that."

"You had a pretty complicated picture to sort out."

"Uh, I guess so, sir."

"Did you ever have to deal with a radarscope picture like that in training?"

"Oh, sure. I mean, yessir. But, well, I guess it wasn't quite the same as the real thing."

"I guess not. Were you confused?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe, a little. I didn't notice the speedboat. The return was, well, Chief Kurzweil said it was 'intermittent.' "

"The target was low in the water, and the swell would mask it occasionally, sure."

"It was mixed in with the reflections from buoys and sailboats and stuff. I guess I just didn't notice it moving. If it had been on the screen all the time, maybe I would have."

"Did you know there was a control setting that would let the computer sound an alarm if an object was on a collision course with this boat?"

"Yes, sir. We learned about that in school. Chief K switched it off because it kept going off when we were in the channel. False alarms."

"Uh-huh. Chief Kurzweil and I have already had words about that."

He swiveled his chair to check the flat-panel computer screen mounted in the bulkhead. Currently, it was repeating the control room navigation screen, with the image of a nautical chart superimposed with colored lines showing the Virginia's past course and projected future course, along with blocks of navigational data — bearing, speed, depth, positional data taken from a GPS satellite. At that time, they were passing the island of Nantucket, moving northeast. Depth, one hundred feet. Speed, twenty-five knots. It was good to be in Virginia's natural element — running submerged. Even in home waters, a submariner never felt entirely safe on the surface.

What was the best way to proceed with Wallace?

"Tell me this, son. While you were in that chair, watching the scope… did youfeel on top of things?"

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Did you feel in control? Did you feel as though you knew what you were doing and that you were able to handle any situation that might come up?"

"Uh… no, sir. I didn't."

"Explain."

"Well… there was just so much going on, you know? And Chief Kurzweil was talking and pointing out things on the screen, and I was having trouble figuring out what anything was. I mean, the buoys with radar reflectors are pretty obvious, and so are the larger ships. But the little ones look just like waves sometimes. And sometimes, all I was getting was this kind of smeared green mess. I didn't know what to look at!"

"So… what did you do wrong?"

"Uh… I didn't identify the speedboat, sir?"

"No. Chief Kurzweil didn't spot it right away, either. He was right there, and he has a lot more experience than you do. If it had been that obvious, he would have spotted it." He should have spotted it, Garrett thought, but he didn't tell Wallace that. "Nope, what you did was fail to tell Chief Kurzweil that you were in over your head. He put you in that chair, gave you the watch. You should have told him that you were having trouble separating out the potential targets or correctly identifying them."

"Oh… "

"Always ask for help if you don't understand something. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Don't worry about feeling stupid or foolish or anything else. Your shipmates' lives depend on you knowing what you're doing. If you don't, sound off!"

"Yes, sir."

"To drive that home, I'm giving you twelve hours extra duty. One hour a day. You'll log 'em with the MAA here."

"Yes, sir." Wallace looked crestfallen.

"I'm letting you off easy, son, because I don't think what happened is entirely your fault. I want you to think, next time. Let someone know if you're in over your head. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Dismissed."

"Aye aye, sir!" Wallace turned and fled through the door.

"You were light on him," Giangreco said. "Twelve hours is a slap on the wrist."

That, Garrett knew, was very true. A captain was authorized to hand out stiff punishments indeed at mast — up to and including two hours a day extra duty for forty-five days, thirty days correctional custody, or a fine amounting to half of two months' pay.

"You know and I know, Chief, that he wasn't the problem. He shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"Poor judgment on Kurzweil's part, I agree, sir. What are you going to do about it?"

Garrett sighed. "There's not much I can do. I cannot and will not undercut the authority of my CPOs. Letting Wallace know I've talked to Kurzweil about it is as much as I could get away with. And I can't let Wallace learn the lesson that it's okay to goof off on watch… or to just let things slide when he's not sure. Otherwise I would have dropped it."

"I think Wallace is a good kid, sir."

"I think so, too. He's eager to please. I think he'll do okay. I'm more worried about Chief Kurzweil. He's going to have to prove to me that he understands the men in his charge. What they can do. And what they can't do."

"You want me to say something to him, sir?"

Garrett shook his head. "No. He knows he's on notice. We'll see what happens."

"I expect so, sir. You know, being locked up in one of these things for months on end is just about guaranteed to bring out the worst in men."

"True. It also brings out the best."

In Garrett's experience, it was tough predicting which would have the upper hand.

A knock sounded at the open door. Commander Jorgensen stood in the opening. "Captain Garrett? Fourteen hundred hours, sir. Time to break out the orders."

"Thank you, Pete. Call in Lieutenant DeKalb and the COB, will you?"

"They're both here, sir." He moved aside so that Garrett could see both Lieutenant DeKalb, Virginia's navigational officer, and Senior Chief Bollinger standing in the passageway.

"Ah. Well, come in as much as you can."

"Everyone inhale," Giangreco joked.

"Master-at-arms, I think our business is concluded."

"Yes, sir. Time for me to make my rounds, anyway."

Giangreco squeezed past the others. The exec took his seat, while the navigational officer and the chief of the boat both stood just inside the doorway. Garrett keyed in the combination of the safe, opened the door, and pulled out Virginia's sailing orders. After the exec verified that the seal was unbroken, Garrett used a penknife from his desk to cut the string and pull out the sheaf of papers inside.

The others waited while he read.

"Well, my informants were right," he said at last.

"What course, Captain?" DeKalb asked.

"North. We're going under the Pole." He heard the intake of breath from the others. "Our orders are to evaluate Virginia's under-ice capabilities and technologies. And after that, we take the Bering Strait south, putting in at Yokosuka for supplies."

"Japan!" Bollinger said. "It's been a while."

"Should be interesting," Garrett said. "If you think Greenpeace is a pain in the ass over nukes, you should see the Japanese."

"They have reason," Jorgensen said.

"It's not like we have nuclear weapons on board," DeKalb pointed out. "Just a nuclear reactor."

"Some folks over there are still touchy about that," the COB pointed out. "They assume any U.S. warship is carrying nuke warheads, and, of course, official U.S. naval policy is to neither confirm nor deny…."

Garrett was paying little attention to the animated conversation as he dropped the orders on his desk. Japan! Already he was wondering if he would be able to wangle the time and the opportunity to see Kazuko while he was there.

If he could just talk to her, convince her that they could make their relationship work….

General Han Do Liu grinned broadly, spreading his arms. "Welcome, brothers, to Small Dragon Island!" He spoke in broken Arabic, for the benefit of the visitors. Captain Jian masked the scowl he felt behind a bland and indifferent face. Han was going out of his way to impress these… foreigners.

The irony of that thought surprised him. The word he'd used was gwailo, used much in the same manner as the Japanese gaijin … and meaning, roughly, "foreign devils." That was what the citizens of the Middle Kingdom had called the foreign barbarians for centuries, but by the nineteenth century it was synonymous with the white foreigners of Europe and America. These foreigners were sworn enemies of the Americans, and somehow the name didn't seem to quite fit.

On the other hand, foreign barbarians were pretty much the same, whether they came from New York City or Karachi.

Or Kabul.

They sat around the long, broad table in the base conference room, Jian and Han and members of their staffs, and the motley collection of al Qaeda fanatics. Men so dedicated to their religion that they were willing to die for it were an enigma to Jian. A lifelong atheist, he did not trust such people, or their motives. Men dedicated to a cause, however, he understood well indeed, and he tried to focus on that aspect of the visitors.

"We appreciate your hospitality, General Han," the tall newcomer said. The intelligence dossier Jian had seen called him Mahmud Salah Zahid, a wealthy Saudi expatriate who now used the nom de guerre of Zaki Abar. He and his associates had arrived at Small Dragon Island only a few hours ago on board a palatial motor yacht, the Al Qahir. The yacht was tied up now alongside the Pakistani submarine in the big sea shelter; the eighteen-man crew had been quartered with the Pakistani sailors from the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen.

And now Zahid, two disreputable-looking Afghanis, and ul Haq, the Pakistani captain of the Shuhadaa, were gathered in the briefing room as if they were honored foreign dignitaries.

"Not at all, not at all," Han said affably. "How was your voyage?"

"Smooth enough, though the Vietnamese gave us some trouble when we first entered these waters. We were stopped by one of their patrol boats south of Spratly Island. We had to bribe them to be allowed to proceed."

"Ah, yes. The Vietnamese have been a problem for us in this region for some time now. They claim these islands, as do we. Ours is by far the older, and superior, claim."

"Of course, of course. But something needs to be done about these… pirates."

"It will be," Han promised. "Actually, Captain ul Haq, here, will be assisting us in that regard. Part of our mutual assistance pact, you know."

"If that can be done without jeopardizing our primary mission," ul Haq put in, speaking fluent Mandarin.

"Of course."

Jian listened to the verbal sparring with barely concealed impatience. How were these foreign devils going to be of any possible use to the People's Republic? "General Han," he said in Arabic. "Perhaps we should address the issue of inspection? Our people still have not been allowed aboard the Pakistani submarine… as was agreed upon."

Ul Haq locked eyes with Jian. "The agreement was for one of your officers to come on board as an advisor. We wish to limit contact between your people and my crew, however. It is important that they not discuss our mission."

"Our people know the meaning of security, Captain," Jian replied. His crew hasn't been told the nature of their mission, Jian thought. It confirmed the impression he'd already formed in earlier briefings with the Pakistani submarine captain. "Commander Hsing is ready to join the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen's crew at any time."

Commander Hsing Yng Tak, sitting at Jian's left, inclined his head. That was a man dedicated to a cause, one that Jian understood perfectly. Serving as Jian's weapons officer on board the Yinbi, Hsing lived and worked beneath a shadow of grief-driven need for vengeance. His older brother, another PLAN submarine officer, had been captain of a Kilo-class attack submarine sunk by the Americans three years ago. Hsing had eagerly volunteered to serve as advisor on board ul Haq's vessel, merely on the promise that he would be able to strike back at the hated Yankees.

"Commander Hsing understands that he is to communicate solely with me and my officers?" ul Haq said.

"Perfectly, sir," Hsing said, responding in Arabic. "I will not interfere with your crew."

"Then he may come on board the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen," ul Haq said. "And he is free to inspect her weapons and facilities, as you wish. We have nothing to conceal from you, our allies. But we must be careful about what the enlisted personnel hear from… outside."

"Perfectly understandable," Han said.

Jian maintained a bland expression. Fighting men should know the truth when they are sent on a suicide mission, he thought. Sending them to their deaths blindly is murder.

He wondered if Hsing fully understood. The Shuhadaa would not be returning from her deployment. Not if she was going to take on the United States Navy.

Jian decided that it was enough that he concern himself with his own submarine, his own crew. They knew why they were here, and they knew what was at stake. That knowledge, he was convinced, made them better sailors. Better warriors.

"It is settled, then," General Han said. "To review, then… Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen will commence operations in the western Spratlys as soon as provisioning is complete. Commander Hsing will serve as naval liaison, and as advisor to her officers. Captain Jian will station Yinbi de Gongji in a position from which he can protect the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen in the event of foreign naval intervention."

A neat plan… almost too neat, too perfect, and one with layers upon layers. The al Qaeda officers would be using the Pakistani submarine to carry out terrorist operations against western targets in the South China Sea… and, if possible, would include among their targets elements of the Vietnamese forces stationed among the western Spratlys. Inevitably, U.S. naval forces — in all likelihood, one of their supercarrier battle groups — would deploy to the region, hunting for the Shuhadaa.

That was where the Yinbi came into the picture.

In a sense, the Shuhadaa was the bait. While the Americans were hunting the Pakistani sub, the Chinese submarine, silent, unsuspected by the enemy, would stalk and kill the U.S. aircraft carrier. The destruction of one of their billion-dollar supercarriers might well make the cost-conscious Yankees think twice about their policy of maintaining a naval presence within Chinese waters — or of protecting the rebel province of Taiwan.

It would be revenge, too, for the losses inflicted on the PLA Navy three years before… and the best part of all was that, if all went well, the Americans would not even see the Chinese hand behind the attack. They might suspect that Beijing had provided covert assistance — bases and logistical support — but they would be unable to prove it in the court of world opinion. They would have to assume it was al Qaeda that had sunk their precious supercarrier.

The one American threat that most concerned Jian was the American attack submarine force — especially their new Seawolf class. An axiom of naval strategy was that the best way to kill a submarine was with a submarine, and the American attack subs — Los Angeles class, Seawolf class, and a new class that according to Chinese military intelligence had just become operational — were the best sub hunters in the world.

The operational plan had taken that into consideration, he knew. While he was stalking the carrier battle group that would be stalking ul Haq's Shuhadaa, other Chinese submarines would be moving into position to protect Jian's Yinbi, stalking the Yankee submarines that were certain to be operating with their CBG.

Circles within circles, plans within plans. Operation Yangshandian had taken on a vast and complex life of its own.

That last bit of information had come to him by way of his Uncle Jiasuo, an e-mail message relayed by satellite to Jian's office computer. Jiasuo had been careful with his words; government censors were certain to be screening all mail, both paper and electronic, and both men would have been in trouble if they'd typed their messages in plain romanized Common Speech. Jian had asked if there was anything his uncle could tell him about the "hopelessness of the march," an indirect reference to Yinbi's deployment. Jiasuo, guessing what was on Jian's mind, had replied with a rambling story about a man hunting a tiger by using a tethered goat. His offhand reference to other hunters protecting the first from other tigers told Jian that Yinbi would not be alone.

How many other PLAN submarines would be in the area? That he had no way of knowing. Clearly, Beijing considered it unimportant to tell him; their ideas of duty frequently held that a commander need only follow orders, not understand the plan as a whole.

Sometimes that approach was necessary, Jian knew, but he disliked being treated like a child. He would do his part, without question, but it helped to know that Yinbi would not be facing Yankee submarines alone.

Perhaps, he thought, the larger plan embraced the hope that one or more of the American attack subs would be caught and sunk as well. The Seawolf, reportedly, was fabulously expensive — more expensive even than the notorious Soviet "Golden Fish." If an American aircraft carrier and one of their Seawolfs or the new attack sub could be brought down…

Yes, it made sense. Faced with such a loss from "terrorists," America, known throughout the world for its cost-consciousness, would almost surely pull back from the western Pacific.

And that would give Beijing a free hand at last with the rebellious population of Taiwan.

He just wished that China's allies were a bit more reliable. He had no respect for these Muslim fanatics, and less trust.

Zaki, the tall Saudi, was sliding an envelope across the table to Han. "Here is the record of payment, as promised."

Jian watched as Han opened the envelope and read the slip of paper inside. It was a record of money — a very large sum of money — transferred from Riyadh to the Bank of Hong Kong. Evidently, American attempts to shut down al Qaeda's global financial network had been less than successful.

Perhaps that was the real reason Jian did not trust these foreigners. It wasn't just the fanaticism of their beliefs; it was the fact that they spent money like water. They'd bought a fair number of Pakistani military and government officials to get control of the Shuhadaa. Now they were paying Beijing for the right to use the Small Dragon base and for the assistance of the Yinbi. Such people, in Jian's experience, came to believe that they owned the people they'd paid.

And Jian belonged to no one and no thing but himself and the naval service.

"My orders," Han said, "are to await confirmation from the mainland."

"Of course."

"However, this all appears to be in order. I expect to receive the final orders to proceed no later than this evening."

"I would suggest the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen be under way tonight, then," ul Haq said. "The sooner we are at sea, the better."

"I agree," Zaki said. "With your permission, General, my associates and I will also leave tonight. We took precautions to distract the Americans and their satellites, but if they tracked us anyway, it will be safer for you if we are gone."

"So long as I have confirmation of the payment, you may leave when you wish," Han said with a shrug. "If the Americans did see you arrive, we can always tell them we ordered you in for violating our sovereign waters!"

Zaki chuckled. "That would be a difficult claim to maintain. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, nobody owns these islands."

"Nobody and everybody. We are asserting our historic claims to the Spratly Islands, however. Which is why Captain ul Haq here is going to help us with the Vietnamese problem."

"The Vietnamese will be the least of your problems, General," ul Haq said. He locked eyes with Jian.

"Your naval officers will have their hands full when the Americans respond with a carrier battle group."

"That, Captain, will be my worry," Jian said smoothly. "Not yours. If you carry out your part of this operation, we will take care of ours."

"I am gratified," ul Haq said, addressing Han, "that your people are so confident. I trust they will not be hampered by overconfidence."

"Captain Jian is one of the best submarine officers in the PLAN," Han said, surprising Jian with the overt compliment. Han was not known for being gracious or for bestowing praise. "This plan has been carefully and methodically developed, both by your people and by ours. There is little that can go wrong."

"One thing can go wrong, General," Jian said.

"Eh? What is that?"

He held ul Haq's eyes with his own, trying to judge the man's strength. "A failure of nerve, sir. By either party. But I trust that is not a serious possibility."

"It is not," ul Haq said, his voice steady. "Not for our part, at any rate."

"Nor is it for ours."

"Then," Han said, smiling, "perhaps we should toast our victory!"

Zaki scowled. "We cannot—"

"We know the restrictions of your religion." Han snapped his fingers, and an aide standing silently near the door vanished through it, to return an instant later with a silver platter bearing cups and tea. "You can join us in tea?"

The Muslims relaxed, and Zaki nodded. "Of course."

Jian, however, did not relax. It was entirely too soon, he thought, to be celebrating victory with any toast, no matter what the beverage.

He would be glad when they no longer needed to rely on foreigners.

The People's Republic of China could fight its own battles.