by David Poyer
“Her, yeah, but from intel too. Zhang’s promised a violent response to a landing on Taiwan. Or any violation of China’s territory.”
Chief Quincoches stepped onto the quarterdeck. His eyes widened as he took in her shorts, dropped to her sandals, then rose again. He coughed into a fist, averting his gaze. “Um, loadout’s complete, Skipper.”
Cheryl nodded to return his salute. “Very well. How are the tests going?”
“In progress now, ma’am. Uh, you headed ashore? Captain.”
“Just for a couple of hours.” She turned back to Branscombe. “Taiwan, which they took by force.”
“It’s still a warning. If we attack Chinese soil, we can expect the worst.”
“But we already did. Right? Operation Recoil, the strike on Ningbo. But he hasn’t retaliated for that.”
“Yet.” Branscombe scowled.
Crossing to the lifelines, she looked down at the small colorful wrasses that milled in the clear water between the hull and the pier. Then aft, at a yard tug moored astern of the cruiser. “If he does, where? Honolulu? LA? San Diego?”
“They’re starting to evacuate. There are demonstrations, riots against the war in San Francisco, Chicago—”
“They can’t expect us to make peace now. After Roosevelt, and the way they’ve wrecked our economy.” She contemplated the pier, where a lift crane was backing away. It had spent the morning loading newly arrived missiles into Savo’s magazine, aligning each carefully vertical before lowering it into the cell. Technicians tested its connections; then the cell door was sealed, hiving it belowdecks.
Retiring from the strike on Ningbo, the cruiser had barely avoided sinking. Deliberately grounding on a submerged seamount, Cheryl had let her rest on the bottom for a night and a day while the Damage Control teams feverishly localized the flooding, built temporary shoring, dewatered flooded spaces, and welded hasty patches over the holes. The next night she’d ballasted up, gotten under way again, and ghosted through the Ryukyus, seeking radar shadows and staying as far from the Chinese airfields as she could.
And the luck of the damned had been with them. On her rendezvous with USS Megan McClung east of the Ryukyus, Fleet had given Cheryl a choice. Transfer her crew to the destroyer, and let McClung sink the battle-damaged cruiser with a torpedo. Or debark all nonessential personnel and try to make it home.
Cheryl had chosen the second alternative, and McClung had stood by her during the excruciatingly slow voyage back.
Now USS Savo Island lay nestled deep in port, too crippled to venture back to sea. Or so the Tiger Team flown out from Pearl had judged. Too much topside fire and blast damage. The port engines and reduction gears too wrecked by blast, fragments, and flooding to repair. Damage to the main hull girder. Compromised watertight integrity. It would be impossible to replace the aft radar arrays without a major shipyard availability, and no spares were available anyway.
Cheryl had fought for funding, for priority, but it was denied. Instead all but fifty crew members had been ordered back to the States. Most of Savo’s remaining ordnance had been transferred to other hulls. Leaving the ship with only small-arms ammunition, some Standard SM-2 antiaircraft rounds, and the SM-X rounds they’d just loaded.
Making a total of six antiballistic rounds in her forward magazine, and the two forward phased array radars still operational.
“Pretty obvious what they’ve got planned for us,” Branscombe said, after a pause. “I wasn’t sure at first what you wanted the safe room for.”
“Now you know?”
He nodded grimly.
After the shipyard teams had left, and she’d accepted, reluctantly, that Savo wasn’t going to be repaired, she’d gone to DC Central to study the ship’s plans with Lieutenant (jg) Jiminiz and Senior Chief McMottie.
Chemical, Bacteriological, Radiation—CBR-designed—warships had a “citadel” deep in the hull. Armored, and with charcoal-filtered air, it could be isolated from the outside environment. But Ticonderoga-class ships had never had CBR protection beyond the usual Circle William and washdown systems.
After considerable discussion, they’d selected air-conditioning machinery room #2. A Spartan compartment with only a few pieces of machinery and a gray-painted steel deck, it was far aft and two decks down. Protected by several thicknesses of steel from blast and fragments, it was also flanked by fuel storage. The tanks, which she’d topped off, would give them neutron shielding.
The engineers installed ventilation and jury-rigged filters. They led in air lines from the high-pressure tanks, and stocked the compartment with self-contained breathing apparatuses, MREs, water, battle lanterns, protective suits, and buckets to crap in. Finally, she had paracord strung down from the topside accesses, so anyone could reach the safe room in total darkness, fire, or smoke, just by following the nylon strand. Even if Savo sank alongside the pier, she couldn’t settle far before coming to rest on the harbor bottom. When the attack was over, the crew could regain the main deck through an overhead hatch and escape trunk.
A direct hit, of course, would vaporize everything: steel, fuel, and flesh. But short of a thermonuclear warhead landing within a kilometer, she hoped they could survive.
In fact, thinking it over, she’d done just about all she could do to get ready. The ship wasn’t going anywhere, so it didn’t really need much in the way of warm bodies. Those she had left, mainly to run the hotel functions, power system, Aegis, and the forward magazine, knew their jobs. She had total confidence in them.
“Well, I’m going ashore,” she told the comm officer. “We’ve got local cell, right? Call me if anything changes. I won’t be too long.”
* * *
A warm breeze blew steady and clean off the Pacific. She felt guilty, but after so long, she just had to get off the fucking ship for a few hours. It felt strange to be out of uniform. Curious to be walking on grass, or even asphalt, instead of steel.
She caught the shuttle (the only person in it) to the base pool. After a short swim, taking it easy on her arm, she luxuriated in a long, hot shower, lathering, rinsing, and conditioning, not caring for once about saving water. She dressed again, and decided to hit the Exchange.
The parking lot was almost empty, as was the store. Many of the employees, military dependents, had been evacuated early in the war, or had left of their own accord. Large sections were closed off with metal security screens: the optometrist’s, the flower shop, the cosmetics counter. Unfortunately, that was where she’d hoped to find shampoo and soap without the sulfiates that made her itch and flake.
She scratched between her fingers nervously. Maybe in the drugstore section? She walked the aisles of clothing and computers, liquor and magazines, noting the empty shelves. Where a colorful cornucopia of Chinese- and Korean-made products had once beckoned … She paused at a mannequin in a bathing suit. At the pool, her flowered two-piece had felt loose. She’d lost even more weight than she’d thought.
Where had she bought that one? Oh … wait. Damn.
Their honeymoon, in Tahiti. On the beach in front of their hotel, Eddie had dared her to take off her top, when the Danish tourists were strolling around without theirs. Reluctantly, she’d tried it, and to her surprise enjoyed the sun on her breasts. Though she’d drawn the line at him taking pictures.
Now she wished she’d let him snap all the fucking photos he wanted. If it would have given him pleasure …
How would she ever get used to being a widow? A “widow.” It sounded so nineteenth-century. There were going to be a lot of widows after this war. Widowers, too. But she and Eddie had spent so much time apart, deployed, it didn’t really feel as if he was gone now. Not dead, so much as just … somewhere else.
She closed her eyes. —Eddie, are you there? I wish I’d let you take that picture.
—Maybe I did, babe, when you weren’t looking.
But that was what he would have said, not what he’d actually …
She shook her head furiously. Fuck! Stuff it
down, Cheryl. Just like everything else you don’t want to feel.
The jewelry store’s steel-chain shutters were drawn. She hooked her fingers on the links, staring through like a captive ape. Christ, she couldn’t escape the past. They’d bought their rings here. Haggled a little, though there was never much room for haggling at the NEX.
That had been, what, two years ago. Then …
She clenched her fists. So many warnings. China could not have risen without American know-how, financing, and technical support. But gradually it had turned from a client, a friend evolving toward democracy and openness, to a glowering rival. Crushing dissent. Stealing intellectual property. Penetrating American databases and defense networks. Carrying out a long-term, cunningly plotted succession of salami-sliced aggressions.
But administration after administration had looked away. Borrowed Chinese money. Fought with the opposing party. While a huge, ancient, and intensely proud nation had gathered strength for the final contest.
And turned, at last, from rival to enemy.
“Hey there,” said someone behind her.
She flinched, jerked from angry thoughts. It was a marine, a second lieutenant, in uniform. He looked startled, then a bit disappointed. As if not expecting her, when she turned, to be older than he was. “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ma’am. She compressed her lips in what might just pass as a smile. Though she didn’t feel like smiling. “No problem.”
Still, he didn’t leave. “Lot of echoes in here. Since all the dependents left.”
“Uh-huh.”
He glanced at her hands. She didn’t have her ring on. She’d taken it off, since it seemed to exacerbate the red eruptions. She thrust both hands into her pockets.
“I’m from the garrison,” he said. “You?”
“The cruiser in the harbor,” she muttered.
“Yeah? Say … the Starbucks is open. Maybe if you wanted to—”
“No thank you.”
“Just be nice to have somebody to talk to—”
“See you later.” She turned and walked away. Feeling his eyes on her back, but not caring.
* * *
BUT Starbucks didn’t actually seem like a bad idea. She ordered a green tea latte. Grande. With a red velvet cake pop, yeah. Amazing, that they were still shipping cake pops to Hawaii. Or maybe they made them here. Life went on. Even when some people lost husbands, wives, children …
She sipped the hot comforting liquid, revisiting what had just happened. Someone had found her attractive. From the back, which wasn’t quite as complimentary. But still, the first time anyone had seen her as anything but “the skipper” for months.
But how had she felt? Insulted? Interested? Hostile?
Or maybe some mixture of all three …
More honey might be good. She was stirring it in when her phone went off. She snatched it up. “CO here.”
“Officer of the deck. Base just announced attack conditions. They’re going to close the gates.”
“What?” She frowned. “Fuck … Any idea what for?”
“Flash message coming in now, Radio says.”
The PA system came on. It crackled, then someone said, in Filipino-accented English, “Attention, Navy Exchange patrons. Attack condition red. Attack condition red. All personnel take ready shelter until you are told it is safe to leave. While in shelter, tune in to local radio stations for further information.”
She rolled her eyes. Had to be a drill. No way the Chinese would attack Hawaii. Still, she ought to get back. “On my way.”
She tucked the phone into her bag and rushed outside. Maybe the shuttle would be at the stop. But of course it wasn’t. Carrying the latte, she oriented by Missouri’s masts and began walking rapidly downhill, toward the highway overpass that led back to the harbor.
A moment later sirens started to wail. Her phone pinged with another warning. She cursed and broke into a run, two-pointing the cup into a trash can.
She ran more than half a mile, over the overpass, through the gate, flashing her ID, then pelting down the pier. By the time she reached the brow she was sucking wind. She hauled herself aboard, yelling at the petty officer, “I left my Hydra on charge. Do you—”
He handed it to her. Danenhower answered at the first call. “Tell me this is a drill,” she gasped out.
“I don’t think so, Skipper. We got a flash,” he said. “Not sure about what yet.”
She still couldn’t quite believe it, but no one sent flash messages without good reason. “Air attack?” She scanned the sky, though any strike would still be far out.
“Doubtful. We sank one of their carriers, and the other’s damaged, in port. They don’t have the shore-based range to hit us here.”
“Where are you?”
“CIC.”
“See you in a sec.”
* * *
THE Combat Information Center was chilly and dark as usual, though only a few consoles were manned. The Air Control and ASW teams had flown back to San Diego. Chief Wenck was still here, though, and Petty Officer Terranova—Donnie and the Terror were bent over the radar console. And Matt Mills was still with them, thank God. As Cheryl slid into the command seat a staccato note sounded. The all-too-familiar musical tone was the cuing bell for a missile-launch detection.
So this was no drill.
But it was still possible it wasn’t headed their way.
Mills slipped headphones off and unlooped the beaded chain with the launch keys. “Captain? We’re getting cuing from Japanese Air Control fusion center.”
When she draped the steel around her neck it was still warm. “Japan, good.”
“But it’s going to lag. They bounce it up from Kyushu to whatever nanosatellite’s overhead, then it relays and downlinks.”
“Copy. Got a launch point?”
He tapped the keyboard, and the center screen zoomed while the rightmost remained steady. Cheryl studied them, chin propped on fist.
The right screen, ALIS’s view of the world, was extremely constricted. The ballistic missile defense mode sucked down so much computer and radar power that instead of an all-around view, they now had a cone of awareness maybe 5 degrees wide.
But the center screen showed Asia. The launch point was over Savo’s radar horizon, of course, far out of range. The callouts were in Japanese characters. They cycled on and off inland from the coast. Far inland.
“Way north,” Mills noted. “That’s got to be close to the North Korean border.”
“Look at that boost rate,” Wenck called. “It’s solid fueled, but heavy.”
The Chinese had expended most of their road-portable IRBMs to soften up Taiwan and Okinawa before invading. It seemed unlikely they’d been able to build many since, considering the famine and power interruptions the intel summaries kept saying were endemic.
But they still had a powerful ICBM force, larger and more accurate than the Allies had suspected before the war.
A chill ran up her spine. This was it. The nightmare.
Folding her arms, she sat back. Forcing herself to concentrate. Not to give way to emotion. She had to play this out by the book.
Fortunately, they’d rehearsed a scenario like this. But there was bad news too. Pearl had originally been protected by three Army THAAD batteries, one at the Pacific Missile Range Facility at Kauai, the other two at Hickam Air Force Base. All had been directed by separate AN/TPY-2 tracking radars. But under intense public pressure, Washington had pulled all fixed antimissile defenses back to California and Alaska. A move protested by the Joint Chiefs, but in vain.
Now Savo Island, moored with her remaining radars facing northwest, owned the Defense of Honolulu mission. The only protection the base, and Oahu’s population, had.
And most Hawaiians had stayed put. Over half a million U.S. citizens, not counting those on the less populated islands scattered like an unstrung lei across the blue Pacific.
“First-stage burn
out. Separation,” Wenck murmured from the console.
“Watch for more,” she told him. “They’re not going to fire just one. Not if this is a major attack.” She reached for the red phone, still with that sense of near dream. This could not be happening … yet it was. “Matt, did you inform Washington? And the base commander?”
“Seventh Fleet did, via nanochat. I called Base Ops. They’re putting it out to civil defense, Hickam, and the other bases.”
“Where’s that first incomer targeted?”
Terranova said, “Can’t say for sure until pitchover, ma’am. But we’re the most likely target.”
“I agree,” Mills said. “They’re still boosting. So this is a long-range shot. And the initial azimuth’s pointed right down our throat.”
Two minutes later the missile’s boost phase ended. ALIS had developed a track, computed intercept trajectories, and was initializing the SM-Xs.
The target was Oahu. The lit circle of the area of uncertainty lay over the island, jerking this way and that as Aegis recalculated. In roughly twenty minutes, as the missile began to drill down through the mesosphere, the AOU would contract down to the IPP, the point of predicted impact.
Cheryl sat back, scratching between her fingers. The lead missile, and so far the only one, was still far out of range. It was entering midphase, coasting in a great arc through near space. Despite its tremendous speed, there was no friction heating. It was head-on, too, so not only was it infrared-dim, its radar cross section was at a minimum. “Focus on where we expect to pick it up,” she muttered, though she figured Wenck had the reentry window already locked on.
Several minutes passed, during which she called the state civil defense authorities, at the command center on Diamond Head. They confirmed receipt of the warning, said they were getting instructions out to the citizenry, but sounded as if there wasn’t much they could do but advise everyone to shelter in place. “We can’t evacuate the city. Not with twenty minutes’ warning. We’d just expose everyone, out in the open. Won’t you be able to shoot it down?” the woman asked anxiously. But Cheryl couldn’t give her much reassurance.
