Warriors

CHAPTER 4

Midnight. No moon, no stars, the sea a flat black void a few feet beneath his wingtips. For a man streaking through the night over hostile waters approaching the speed of sound, at an altitude no sane man would even dare consider, Commander Alex Hawke was remarkably comfortable. He was piloting an F-35C Lightning. The new matte-black American-built fighter jet was one of many purchased and heavily modified by Britain’s Royal Navy for under-the-radar special ops just like this one.

Lord Alexander Hawke, a former Royal Navy fighter pilot and decorated combat veteran of the latest Gulf War, now a seasoned British intelligence officer with MI6, had to smile.

The F-35C’s single seat reclined at an angle of exactly thirty degrees, transforming the deadly Lightning, Hawke thought, into something along the lines of a chaise longue. Leave it to the bloody Americans to worry about fighter pilot “comfort” during a dogfight. Still, it was comfy enough, he had to admit, smiling to himself. Rather like a supersonic Barcalounger!

His eyes flicked over the dimly lit instrument array and found nothing remotely exciting going on. Even the hazy reddish glow inside the cockpit somehow reassured him. He was less than six hundred nautical miles from his designated speck on the map, the tiny island of Xiachuan, and closing fast.

Every mile he put behind him lessened the chance of a Chinese Suchoi 33 jet interceptor or a surface-to-air missile blasting him out of the sky. Although the Lightning was equipped with the very latest antimissile defense systems, the Lightning was no stealth fighter.

He was vulnerable and he knew it.

Should he be forced to eject and be captured by the Red Chinese, he’d be tortured mercilessly before he was executed. A British intelligence officer flying an unmarked American fighter jet had no business entering Chinese airspace. But he did have business in China, very serious business, and his success might well help avert impending hostilities that could lead to regional war. At that point the chances of it expanding into a global conflict were nearly one hundred percent.

Preventing that was his mission.

In London, one week earlier, “C,” as the chief of MI6 was traditionally called, had summoned Hawke to join him for lunch at his men’s club, Boodle’s. Lord Hawke had thought it was a purely social invitation. Usually the old man conducted serious SIS business only within the sanctum sanctorum of his private offices at 85 Albert Embankment, the headquarters for Six.

So it was that a very relaxed Alex Hawke presented himself promptly at the appointed hour of noon.

“Well, here you are at last,” C said, amiably enough. The “at last” was the old boy’s way of letting you know who was boss. Sir David Trulove, a gruff old party thirty years Hawke’s senior, had his customary corner table at the third-floor Grill Room. Shafts of dusty sunlight pouring down from the tall leaded windows set the table crystal and silver afire, all sparkle and gleam. Above C’s table, ragged tendrils of his tobacco smoke hung in wreaths and coils, turning and twisting slowly in the sunlit space.

The dining and drinking at Boodle’s was, by any standard, done in one of the poshest man caves in all London.

C took a spartan sip of his gin and bitters, looked his young subordinate up and down in cursory fashion, and said, “I must say, Alex, a bit of time in the down mode becomes you. You’re looking rather fit and ready for the fray. ‘Steel true, blade straight,’ as Conan Doyle’s memorable epitaph would have it. Sit, sit.”

Hawke sat. He paid scant attention to C’s flattery, knowing the old man used it sparingly and only to his own advantage, usually as some prelude to another more important subject. Whatever was on his mind, he seemed jovial enough.

“Most kind of you, sir. I’ve been looking forward to this luncheon all week. I get bored silly sometimes, up in the country. Good being back in town. This is a much-needed interlude, I must say.”

“Let’s see if you still feel that way at the conclusion. What are you drinking? My club, my treat, of course,” Trulove said, catching a roving waiter’s eye.

“Gosling’s, please. The Black Seal, neat.”

Hawke sat back and smiled. It really was good to be here, a place where a man could act like a man wants to act, and do just what he pleased without encountering approbation from bloody anybody.

“So,” Hawke said after C had ordered another drink and his rum, “trouble, I take it.”

“No end of it, sadly.”

“Spill the beans, sir. I can take it.”

“The bloody Chinese again.”

“Ah, my dear friends in the Forbidden City. Something new? I thought I was fairly well up to speed.”

“Well, Alex, you know those inscrutable Mandarins in Beijing as well as I do. Always some new wrinkle up their embroidered red silk sleeves. It’s that abominable situation in the South China Sea, I’m afraid.”

“Heating up?”

“Boiling over.”

Hawke’s rum arrived. He took a sip of it and said, “What now, sir? Don’t tell me the Reds have blockaded one of the world’s busiest trade routes?”

“No, no, not yet anyway. It may come to that. Still, simply outrageous behavior. First, they unilaterally extend their territorial claims in the South China Sea hundreds of miles south and east from their most southerly province of Hainan. All done with zero regard for international maritime law, of course. And now they have established a no-fly zone over a huge U-shaped sea area that overlaps parts of Vietnam, the Malay Peninsula, the Philippines, Taiwan, and Brunei.”

“Good Lord. And with what possible justification?”

“Beijing says its right to the area comes from two thousand years of history, when the Paracel and Spratly island chains were regarded as integral parts of the Chinese nation. Vietnam says, rightly, that both island chains lie entirely within its territory. That it has actively ruled over both chains since the seventeenth century and has the documents to prove it.”

A flash of anger flared in Hawke’s eyes.

“Bastards have created a flashpoint as dangerous as the Iranians and the Strait of Hormuz, haven’t they? Clearly global conflict implications.”

“Spot-on. And now they’ve begun insisting that every aircraft transiting these formerly wide-open routes must first ask permission of the Chinese government. Including U.S. and Royal Navy flights. Outrageous. We will not, bloody hell, ask them permission for any such thing! Nor will anyone else, I can guarantee you that.”

“The result?”

“It’s all a ruse to provoke a reaction. The new-generation Chinese warrior is a fervent nationalist, with militaristic veins bulging with pride. And, the Chinese are, as we speak, using their North Korean stooges to probe and prod at our will to prevail in this region, both at sea and in the air. I mean, you’ve got NK coastal patrols ‘bumping’ into the Yank’s Seventh Fleet in the night, near collisions with Royal Navy vessels, that sort of thing, spoiling for a fight. The North Koreans, of course, know China will back them up in a showdown.”

“An extremely dangerous game.”

“To say the very least.”

“And the Western countermove?”

“It gets tricky. Under President Tom McCloskey’s strong leadership, the United States is taking a very hard line with China. The U.S. Navy is dramatically increasing its naval presence in the region, of course. The Seventh Fleet is en route to the Straits of Taiwan. And they’ve deployed U.S. Marines to Darwin, on the western coast of Australia. Meanwhile, our own PM, in a weak moment, actually had an extraordinary idea.”

“He did?”

“I know, I know, no one believes it was actually his original notion, but that’s the official story coming out of Number Ten Downing.”

“What’s his extraordinary thought?”

“He suggests the allies consider a massive convoy, Alex. Warships from the Royal Navy, Japan, Taiwan, the Philippines, Vietnam, and the Yanks with an entire carrier battle group, the USS Theodore Roosevelt, along with seven or eight other countries. Full steam ahead right up their bloody arses and we’ll see what they bloody do about it, won’t we?”

C laughed and drained his drink.

“Well, for starters,” Hawke said, “the Chinese may elect to take out a massive U.S. carrier with one of their new advanced killer satellites the CIA was describing to our deputy directors and section heads just last week. It’s not beyond the realm of plausibility.”

“Hmm, the life of a country squire has not completely numbed your frontal lobe capacity. But you’re right. That is a consideration, Alex. At any rate, right now, the prime minister’s notion is only a good idea. Hardly a done deal, as they say.”

“Why?”

“Simple. A few pantywaists in the U.S. Congress are thus far unwilling to go along with the PM’s scheme for fear of losing one of their big billion-dollar float babies. So, alas, our convoy scheme is paralyzed at the moment. But, look, we’re not going to sit around on our arses and let this stand. No, not for one blasted moment!”

“What are we going to do about it, sir?”

“You mean, what are you going to do about it, dear boy. That’s why I’m springing for lunch.”

“Ah, yes, of course. No free lunch, as they say.”

“Damn right. Never has been. Not in this man’s navy, at any rate.”

“How can I help, sir? I’ve been sitting on the sidelines for far too long. I’ve got grass and flowers growing up through the soles of my shoes.”

C looked around to establish whether anyone was within earshot. The aural perimeter thus secured, he said, “We at Six have established a back-channel communication with a high-ranking Chinese naval officer. Three-star admiral, in fact. Someone with a working brain in his head. Someone who does not want go to war over his own government’s deliberate and insane maritime provocations any more than we do.”

Hawke leaned forward. The hook, having been set, now drew him nigh to the old master.

“This sounds good.”

“It is. Very.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“What makes you think this one is mine, Alex?”

“A wild guess.”

“Well. Nevertheless.”

“So,” Hawke said, “the Chinese are well aware that they cannot possibly afford to go to war with the West now. In a decade? Perhaps. But not now. They haven’t got the bottle for it. And, moreover, they haven’t got the arsenal.”

“Of course not. According to our chaps on both sides of the pond, they are at least five to ten years behind the West in terms of advanced weaponry. And I mean both in the air and on the sea. No, it’s an obvious political ploy, albeit an extremely dangerous one.”

“To what end?”

“Simple. They wish to divert attention away from their burgeoning internal domestic turmoil, particularly Tibet, and the daily insanity run rampant in their ‘client state,’ North Korea. Thus this bellicose show of force. Show the peasant population and the increasingly restive middle class just how big, bad, and powerful the new boys are.”

“Sheer insanity.”

“Our world and welcome to it. But you, and I do mean you, Alex Hawke, with a little help from me, are going to put a stop to it. Even if it’s only a stopgap, temporary measure. I intend to buy us some time for diplomacy or other stratagems.”

“Tell me how, sir.”

“Operation Pacifist. Clever, eh? You’ll be reporting solely to me on this. Any information is strictly need-to-know. I have arranged a secret rendezvous for you. You will be meeting with a high-ranking Chinese admiral, whose name is Tsang, on a small island in a remote quadrant of the South China Sea. An uninhabited bit of paradise known as Xiachuan Island. Tsang wants to talk about a way he sees out of this extraordinarily dangerous confrontation with the West. Then it will become a matter of whether or not we can get the PM and Washington to go along with whatever proposals you come home with.”

“Why me?”

“Security. He said any meeting with our side had to be conducted in absolute secrecy, for obvious reasons, and that he wanted a completely untraceable contact. In a remote location known only to him and me. Together we selected Xiachuan Island. Completely deserted for years. It was home to a World War II Japanese air force base, but abandoned because of Japan’s current territorial dispute with China.”

“How does one visit this island paradise?”

“One flies. There is a serviceable eight-thousand-foot airstrip there that should accommodate you nicely.”

“What kind of bus shall I be driving?”

“An American F-35C Lightning. One of ours. Especially modified for nighttime insertions. All the latest offensive and defensive goodies, I assure you. Kinetic energy weapons and all that. The sort of thing you enjoy.”

“Lovely airplane. Always wanted another crack at one.”

“Well, my boy, you’ll get one. First thing tomorrow morning, in fact. I’ve already cleared your calendar. You’ll report at seven to Lakenheath RAF. Three days of intensive flight training in the Lightning with a USAF chief instructor off your wingtip. Courtesy of CIA and President McCloskey’s White House. Then off you go into the wild blue yonder.”

“Aye-aye, sir. I think McCloskey has shown rather a lot of courage in this Chinese showdown. He’s a hard-liner and just what we need at present. I just hope he keeps his wits about him. These are dangerous waters we’re entering, full of political mines and razor-sharp shoals.”

“Indeed. The mainstream American press is hounding the president relentlessly, aren’t they? Look at his poll numbers. He just needs to stand his ground against this senseless Chinese and North Korean bullying.”

“Hmm. One thing if I may. This admiral, how high ranking is he, exactly? I mean to say, is he powerful enough to actually defuse this latest crisis?”

“High enough. He is the Chinese chief of naval operations.”

Hawke smiled. “Start at the top and work your way up. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

“Indeed.”

“And how much of a gratuity am I going to be transporting to the good admiral in return for all this assistance in defusing the global crisis from the inside?”

“One hundred million pounds sterling. Cash. In a lockbox you’ll carry in the cockpit with you.”

Hawke whistled and said, “That’s all?”

“If you succeed, it’s worth every shilling. Now, let’s order some lunch and talk of more pleasant things. I understand our mutual friend, Ambrose Congreve, is to be wed next Christmas. I assume you’re to be best man?”

“Well… to be honest, I don’t really know. I would assume so. But I haven’t heard from him on the subject.”

“Didn’t mean to step into that one.”

“Not at all. Perhaps they’ve called the whole thing off and he simply hasn’t the heart to tell me.”

Sir David picked up his menu and began to study it intently.

“Well. You will find an obsessively complete dossier on Operation Pacifist waiting for you when you get home to Hawkesmoor. Motorcycle courier just dropping it off with Pelham now. Memorize it and burn it. Now, then, Alex, what will you be having for lunch?”

“Not sure, sir. What looks expensive?”