Deep War: The War with China and North Korea - The Nuclear Precipice

by David Poyer

  The enemy was driving civilians ahead of them as shields. Taiwanese from the villages. They emerged from the smoke holding each other’s hands, families clinging together, helping each other over fallen trees and along the ridges between shell holes.

  The marines would have to machine-gun women, children, old men. Or else be overrun.

  But they had to hold. Or the whole force could be pushed back, into the sea.

  And then they would lose the war.

  The fucking war, the endless pinche fucking war that got more desperate every day.

  In his pocket, Sergeant Hector Ramos fingered the pink plastic rosary. Whether they held or not, he wouldn’t be going home. He knew that now. He no longer cared. It didn’t matter. But he knew.

  Maybe Mirielle would remember him.

  23

  Cam Ranh, Vietnam

  THE searing sun was impossible to look up into. It weighed on his shoulders like hot anvils. Heat boiled from the weathered tarmac. It burbled above the steel roofs of the stripside buildings, warping the scrub-covered hills that surrounded the airstrip.

  Dan had helicoptered from Peralta to Liscombe Bay as the strike force retreated seaward after the Uppercut strike.

  It had been costly but could have been much worse. Kuklenski’s Standards had taken out the cyberjacked Tomahawks, splashing them harmlessly at sea. The UAVs Dan had recalled from the coast had blunted the enemy air attacks. Chinese airfields, radars, jamming sites, and missile batteries along the coast had been destroyed. The main targets, the submarine bases, were damaged, though still operational.

  Australian and Indian submarines had caught the enemy surface force sortieing from Hong Kong. They’d sunk the destroyer and an accompanying submarine, and a long-range Air Force strike had blown apart the catamaran missile boats.

  Now he was at the principal Allied support facility in the southern theater of operations, taking a rattletrap taxi with a broken air conditioner from the international terminal, where the flight from the carrier had dropped him, across the base to headquarters.

  The Corps of Engineers had built this airfield in 1965. During the U.S. involvement, most of the cargo to support American troops had been landed at the port, and fighter, bomber, and reconnaissance missions had flown from here to Laos, Cambodia, North Vietnam, and throughout the Republic of Vietnam.

  Now Cam Ranh served the Allies. Contrails chalked a clear sky. A C-5 trundled in from seaward, so huge and slow it hardly seemed to be moving at all. The cab passed fighters, their radomed noses just visible between revetments hastily Legoed of concrete castings ramped with bulldozed earth. An engine screamed, rising to full power. The taxi halted as a bomber rumbled in overhead, touching down with a whiff of smoke from its tires. Then, when the crossing gate came up, they proceeded across the strip, past a line of tractor trailers hauling wheeled bomb racks stacked with JDAMs and standoff missiles, to judge from the stenciling on the containers.

  The headquarters lay east of the field, on a low hill surrounded by concertina. A sign at the entrance in various languages and scripts directed arriving personnel to different commands: Indian, Australian, U.S., Japanese. The driver braked at an upraised palm from the Vietnamese guarding the gate. A machine-gun team lounged by their weapon. Dan baked in the airless heat while the guards checked his ID and called in to confirm his access. At last they stepped back and gave him a whipcrack salute. He tapped one off in return, and the taxi, backfiring, jerked ahead again. A squad of Indian troops in turbans, khakis, and shorts, in a brisk, arm-swinging route step, snapped to “eyes left” as he passed.

  “U.S., sir,” the driver said, pulling in and braking so sharply Dan’s head jerked forward. He passed a couple of bills over the seat back, probably too much, and the woman jumped out and scurried around to his door.

  Headquarters, Allied Command, South China Sea/Forward Operating Base Cam Ranh Bay/Naval Facility Vietnam was a cluster of gray and tan prefabs separated by graveled walkways. A two-story barracks built out of containers rose on the far side of the hill. A blue sea, a glittering array of solar panels, and a beach were visible beyond, with more chain-link and guard masts. When he shaded his eyes his sea-trained gaze assembled a patrol boat from the hazy horizon. Closer in the sun glittered off creamy surf, vanilla sand, and the illuminating radar of an I-Hawk battery. Asians in green jumpsuits and red-billed caps were misting down the missiles.

  A sergeant came out to welcome him, but Dan was early. He got to cool off in an air-conditioned corridor. Several other officers gathered, shepherded by aides. Short, dark men, mostly, in unfamiliar uniforms. A civilian employee, a Viet woman, headed past carrying a tray of fruit drinks and cookies.

  He was crunching an orange wafer she’d rather grudgingly parted with when a familiar voice said, “Why, if it isn’t my old buddy Dan.”

  He stood to shake Jack Byrne’s hand. The civilian adviser to the commander in chief, Pacific, was in white tennis shorts and a bright orange short-sleeved shirt printed with outrigger canoes and palm trees. “Nice,” Dan said, rubbing the material between two fingers. “Silk?”

  “You bet. No point in a suit here, they told me.”

  “What are we doing here? Any idea?”

  Byrne took off his sunglasses and peered at his cell. “You’re early, but that’s good. We’re meeting with the deputy and the J-3 first.”

  Dan passed a hand over his wet hair, which felt icy in the cold air. “Tell me it’s good news. Or am I on the carpet? For arrogating tactical command from Admiral Simko, I mean.”

  “AMPG. Above my pay grade. They asked me to sit in while they talked to you. Since we go back, I guess. You attending the 0900 briefing?”

  Dan said he was here as directed, and that was all he knew.

  The sergeant came back, led them down the passageway, knocked, and held open a door.

  * * *

  WHEN he snapped to attention three steps inside, a gaunt officer in Army tans and the three stars of a lieutenant general looked up from a ratty sofa beside a bamboo desk.

  Randall Faulcon, deputy commander in chief, Pacific Command. They’d last met at Camp H. M. Smith, when he’d put Dan in charge of planning for the strike on the sub base. To his right a shorter, balding naval officer in trop whites sat with legs crossed. He wore three stars as well. Dan knew him too: Vice Admiral Bren Verstegen, the command’s operations deputy. They both got up, and Faulcon saluted Dan’s Congressional while Verstegen straightened to attention. Dan inclined his head to acknowledge the honor.

  “Take a seat.” Faulcon pointed to a rickety-looking folding chair. “Jack, another over there. You both know Admiral Verstegen, from our J-3.”

  Dan nodded and took the chair as the sergeant went to parade rest, still standing. Faulcon said, “Lenson, I see your wife occasionally. Very sharp woman. We’re lucky she survived the crash.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Faulcon inspected the ceiling. “Let’s get to business. I’m a student of General Grant’s campaigns. Grant never abandoned a field, even after he was defeated. He renewed the action as soon as he could. And usually ended victorious.

  “Today’s meeting will coordinate a renewed assault on the South China coast. The APs already clobbered us there, so they won’t expect us to push the same button again. Since they’re heavily engaged in Taiwan, a major attack in the south should bring their remaining air and naval reserves to battle.

  “Operation Rupture will be a major landing, not a raid. The objective is to seize and permanently hold Hainan Island.”

  Dan cleared his throat, suppressing a fidget. He liked the idea of hitting the same place twice. It didn’t sound like he was going to be chewed out. But if not, then what the hell? Was he getting a ship again? “Yes, sir,” he said, just to stay in the conversation.

  Admiral Verstegen said, “We’ll go into the planning at the meeting. It’s already well advanced.”

  Byrne shifted in his chair. “Um, General, Admiral, I don’t think Dan
knows about his new orders yet. He just flew in off the carrier.”

  They looked surprised. Faulcon scratched his scalp. “Well … Admiral Simko was originally slated for this command. But as you know, he’s sidelined for now. The heart attack. That clarify things?”

  “Um, sorry, sir,” Dan said. “I’m not exactly—”

  Verstegen leaned forward. “DoD’s reactivating Ninth Fleet to oversee operations in the south. I’ll leave the planning staff to take command. You’ll serve under me, in command of Task Force 91. Your expeditionary strike groups will carry out the softening-up strikes, pulling in as many enemy forces in South China as you can. Then, when they’re attrited to an acceptable level, cover the amphibious assault.”

  He paused, frowning. “And cover the withdrawal, if it should fail.”

  Both men looked bleak then. Dan sucked air, searching for something to say. But could only come up with, “Um … Tim’s in no danger, is he?”

  Faulcon raised his eyebrows. “Simko? He’s under medical care. As far as I know, he’ll recover. But he’s definitely not fit enough to run a major operation.”

  “He’s a good officer,” Dan said. His Academy classmate had been the only one between him and a cashiering, after Dan had transgressed his ROEs during the India-Iran conflict.

  “Lenson deserves to know,” Byrne put in. “Dan … he was warned in advance, about the possibility of bottom-laid missiles.”

  Dan turned that over. An oversight like that didn’t sound like the guy he knew. But then again, Simko hadn’t looked well. “Seriously? And didn’t…?”

  The admiral uncrossed his legs. “Let’s just say we need someone else for the next try. We’ve discussed this, but most of the people who are qualified to command are occupied elsewhere. Lee Custer’s free, but there’s no way we can have someone with that last name in charge of an operation this risky. So we’ll probably slot him in for logistic support. Could be a bit awkward. He’s senior to you. But the two of you’ll just have to cope.

  “Your name came up next. You’re already read into enemy capabilities. You led Strike Seven effectively. And you always seem to come through under pressure … in my view, the most important attribute of a commander in wartime”

  “I made one bad call,” Dan said. “In the Central Pacific. Almost lost the task force.”

  Verstegen nodded. “We know. But you managed to bring the enemy’s main submarine force to battle, when Admiral Lianfeng wanted them to stay covert. And you learned not to underestimate your enemy.

  “Finally, I read the after-action reports on Uppercut. Your plan for the raid worked. And when you had to take over, calling the UAVs back saved us massive casualties. Possibly, forestalled a major defeat.”

  “Well done,” Faulcon put in.

  Dan touched a knuckle to his teeth. “Um, thank you, General, but … they had the advantage from the get-go in cyber. They penetrated our comms. Even turned our own missiles back on us.”

  The flag officers exchanged glances. Finally Verstegen murmured, “We needn’t worry about that from here forward.”

  Dan blinked, not sure he’d heard that aright. “Are we certain of that? I mean…?”

  “It’s been taken care of,” said Byrne. “By a special operation. Deep in China.”

  Dan dropped his eyes, not wanting to argue, but not really eager to accept this cup, either. “So, not Tim. But what about Jennifer Roald? She’s qualified. And the right rank.”

  Faulcon glanced at his watch. “She’s good, I agree. But we have other plans for her.”

  Dan felt like he was protesting too much. “If those are the orders. What’s the bad news?”

  Verstegen grinned unwillingly. “The bad news. Yeah. We don’t have enough forces. Not after our losses in the last two operations. Everything else, we’ve committed to Causeway. We have to prevail in Taiwan. They push us off there, this war’s over.

  “So, this next phase is going to get pretty much whatever we can scrape up. Allied ground forces, not American. Retreaded ships. Essentially, three expeditionary strike groups, built around Hornet, Bataan, and a combined Vietnamese/Indonesian force centered on Makassar and Surabya.”

  “Will we have carrier support?”

  Faulcon said, “Two heavies, but they’ll be held far back, out of DF-12 range.”

  “Sir, I’m still a captain,” Dan said. Then realized how opportunistic that sounded, and wished he’d kept his damn mouth shut.

  The J-3 nodded. “Two stars come with the job. That good enough for you?”

  It felt unreal. Ping-ponging back to admiral, but this time with two stars instead of one? Making him a rear admiral, upper half. But it had happened before in wartime. Marshall had leapfrogged officers up two or even three ranks, to get the right man in the job. “Um, that’s not my point, sir. I’m not negotiating here.”

  “Then let’s play ball, goddamn it. The Indonesians know you. The Indians. The Viets respect your combat experience. You wouldn’t be sitting here if Jim Yangerhans and Nick Niles didn’t have confidence in you.”

  He looked away, trying to make sense of his feelings. Why was he wavering? This could be his last chance for a major command in wartime. What every naval officer was supposed to live for. Was it his fucking lack of self-confidence? Or that he really had lost his taste for battle?

  Verstegen: “So. You aboard?”

  “I guess I am, sir.” He stiffened his tone. Faking, as so often before, assurance he didn’t really feel. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll do my best.”

  “Pick your staff. Just make it multinational.”

  A tap at the door. The sergeant again. “General, phone call.”

  Faulcon got up. So did Dan and Byrne. “It’ll all be explained at 0900. So I’ll ask you to excuse me.” At the door, though, he turned back. “Bren, have you got—? We want him to rank his commanders.”

  “I brought a spare pair,” Verstegen said. “Sergeant, can you help us out here?”

  The J-3 took two sets of three five-pointed chromium-plated stars out of his pocket and rolled them on the desktop as if playing craps. They came to rest and lay glittering there. The sergeant unbent from parade rest and unclipped a Leatherman tool from his belt. He snapped off one star from each set, leaving two each. Verstegen added, “But the rank—”

  “I know, sir. Duration only,” Dan said, unpinning the eagles on his collar.

  The other nodded. “Later I might be able to … well, let’s see how it goes.”

  Faulcon was shaking Dan’s hand when a short man in a tropical uniform peered into the room. Byrne waved him in. “General Pham Van Trong, Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Meet Admiral Daniel V. Lenson, one of our most highly decorated officers.”

  Dan tried his Naval Academy French on the Vietnamese, and they managed a few pleasantries before Verstegen led them down the hall.

  * * *

  THREE more men stood around the conference table, already making inroads on the fruit drinks and cookies. One had a violet beret and a truculent squint. Another was a small-featured, extremely short, dark-skinned officer in what looked like Royal Navy whites.

  The one in whites spotted Dan and rushed over. “Daniel Lenson?”

  They shook hands. “The same. And you are?”

  “My name is Ramidin Madjid. You do not know me, but I served with you once! Yes! As executive officer of Nala.”

  “Nala,” Dan said, not registering the name—a ship?—but not wanting to say so. “Of course.” He caught his reflection in the glass surface of the table. Faint, almost ghostlike. But with two stars on each collar.

  “You knew my mentor in the Indonesian Navy. Grand Admiral Waluyo Supryo Suriadiredja?”

  Dan nodded then, remembering hazy days years before. In the Java Sea.

  The Tiny Nation Task Force had hunted pirates while a geopolitical game unfolded around them. He’d chatted with Suriadiredja through a hot afternoon on the bridge of USS Oliver C. Gaddis, leading a higgle-piggle formation of Malaysian,
Filipino, Singaporean, Indonesian, and Malaysian patrol vessels. Suriadiredja had predicted China’s expansion southward. “I don’t see it,” Dan had said then. To which the leather-faced admiral had answered, “In the same way none of us can see a tree growing.” The old Indonesian had anticipated China’s step-by-step advance into the South China Sea, gradually supplanting U.S. power throughout Asia.

  He cleared his throat and looked away from his reflection. “I knew him, yes. Have to admit, he saw further ahead than anyone else. How’s he doing?”

  Madjid said, “He is long retired, but well. And now we are involved in the war he foresaw. Together, as he expected we would be.”

  “I haven’t seen much of your navy recently,” Dan said. “I know you’ve modernized since I steamed with you. Your submarines have been active with our fleet. And with the Indian Navy.”

  The Indonesian nodded. “It took time for us to mobilize, and even more time to … you know we have a large enemy minority. Of Chinese ethnicity, I mean. I am happy to say now that issue is settled. We hope to lend our shoulders to the wheel more strongly, going forward. To support our allies, and lay the foundations for increased stature in the postwar world.”

  Dan was wondering what “settled” actually meant when an aide called, “Attention on deck.”

  Faulcon introduced himself, then Verstegen as commander, Ninth Fleet, and Dan as commander, Task Force 91. The deputy went around the table. “Our Allied members are Admiral Madjid, Republic of Indonesia Navy, with Major General Isnanta, commandant of the Korps Marinir—the Republic of Indonesia Marine Corps. General Pham Van Trong, chief of staff, People’s Republic of Vietnam. And Admiral Vijay Gupta, commander, Indian navy operations in the South China Sea.

  “Our countries, plus the heads of state of the Republic of Korea, Japan, and Australia, agreed on a combined strategy to end the war at the principals’ meeting in Singapore. Welcome, everyone. I’ll turn the floor over to Admiral Verstegen.”

  In laconic sentences, with printed handouts marked TOP SECRET, the new fleet commander outlined the renewed assault on the South China coast. “Operation Rupture will be a major landing, to seize and hold Hainan. First objective: further degrade enemy defensive and offensive assets. Two: land an Allied ground force and clear the island. And three, prepare for possible further operations to seize a foothold on the mainland.” He glanced at Byrne. “Intel, any comment?”