Onslaught

by David Poyer

  “That’s the Japanese? From Okinawa?”

  The answer was yes. Dan zoomed on the gaggle south of the islands, but they were maneuvering too fast to make sense of. The altitude and heading callouts spun dizzily. “Sheez … can you declutter this furball, Terror?”

  “I’ll try, Captain, but between the jamming and all the tinsel both sides are kicking out—”

  “I understand. The best you can.”

  The picture shifted. A lot of the ground return dropped out, but it was still too fast-paced for him to make sense of. Someone put a tactical voice circuit on an overhead speaker, but it was in Japanese. Slow, belly-grunted Japanese: the pilot was pulling a lot of Gs.

  “I think he just said: Splash one Fan Tan.”

  “EW: Birds away. Multiple birds away.”

  A burst of excited Japanese from above his head. “Turn that down,” Dan snapped. The swarm settled into a swirling maelstrom. A typical fighter furball. EW reported more air-to-air missile seekers and jammers.

  “Going to initial that, sir?” The messenger held out a pen.

  “Fuck,” Dan sighed. Washington was backing away.

  On the other hand, the Japanese seemed to have made up their minds to fight. And the fact that those had been ground-attack aircraft, in the Chinese strike, meant there’d been someone on the islands to bomb. He scribbled DL and tried to hand the board back, but the messenger lifted his palms. “Another one under that, sir,” he said.

  It was a protest from Berlin over Dan’s handling of the sinking of Stuttgart. A request that the U.S. convene a court of inquiry. That if found guilty of neglecting his duty to protect, of abandoning castaways, the commander of USS Savo Island be disciplined to the fullest extent of the law.

  He initialed this with a wry smile. About the least of his worries right now. “Anything else?”

  “Things aren’t going so well back in the States, sir. We overheard a MARS guy from Guam. One of those ham radio dudes.”

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “Basically everything from the banking system to the Internet crashed. Rioting in LA and DC. Fires. National Guard.”

  The air controller came on his headset. “CO, Air: Tiger flight leader reports dropping contact.” The gaggle began to disperse. On the screen, the blue symbols of friendly aircraft began to exit the furball. They rejoined in a loose V and headed for home. The red symbols of hostile aircraft, noticeably fewer, departed to the west, two at lower altitude and reduced airspeed. Damaged, or low on fuel and bingoing for the nearest friendly strip.

  “Kurama reports: Panther in a port turn. Standing by on bloodhound.”

  “Copy.” Dan reoriented his logy brain to the subsurface picture. The Han-class might be refusing combat. Or, possibly, had just been sent to see whether it would be detected. Her CO must have brass balls indeed. Or maybe they just hadn’t told the poor schmuck what he was facing. “How about number two? The snorkeler?”

  “Kurama reports: Lost contact on Goblin Charlie. Ceased snorkeling, went sinker, below thermocline, lost contact.”

  “Shit,” Branscombe muttered. Dan sagged back into his chair. Even Fang looked dismayed. “Tell Kurama: we need to regain contact. That Han could just be to distract us. Or put so much noise into the water, we drop track on his buddy.”

  “From Kurama: request permission to drop bloodhound on datum, Goblin Charlie.”

  He almost granted it, then remembered: He didn’t have authority to. Was specifically prohibited.

  On the other hand, Kurama wasn’t a U.S. national unit.

  On yet another hand, Dan was her tactical commander.

  The Japanese didn’t seem to have any doubt they were at war. But the U.S. was wavering. What the fuck? Branscombe eyed him; so did Fang. He caught Wenck’s and Terranova’s worried glances from the Aegis area. Crunch time.

  “Chip, any input?” He was playing for time to think, but maybe the Taiwanese could contribute something.

  “You should attack,” Fang murmured, in a voice pitched for Dan only. “Send them the message. America will stand by its allies.”

  Dan nodded. About what he’d expected. And the guy was right. With every passing moment, the second sub was moving farther from its last confirmed location, lessening the probability a torpedo could acquire. If it evaded them, the next indication they could have of its existence might be a torpedo in their hull, or an antiship missile breaking the surface, too close and fast to react to.

  On the other hand, wasn’t it in Taiwan’s interest to have him pull the trigger? Maybe Fang had another purpose than simple liaison. Such as, force a commitment. Get Washington off the dime.

  But … Higher knew better. At least that’s what Admiral Barry “Nick” Niles had told him once. In the Navy Command Center, deep in the Pentagon. “You’re down at level four, second-guessing what’s happening on level one. Second-guessing us,” Niles had said.

  The CNO had given him another chance. Trusted him.

  How many more chances did he have left?

  More to the point … was Niles right?

  He cleared his throat, shifting under their gazes. Right or wrong, he had to decide, now.

  But then came realization. He had to admit, he might not be fully in the picture. Not out here, at the end of a tenuous comm link, face-to-face with the putative enemy. There might be a deal in the works. Some way both sides could save face. A diplomatic solution.

  Maybe they could still defuse this. The allies would have the Spratlys soon, as a bargaining chip. To balance against Quemoy and Matsu. No American unit had been lost yet, after all. Just one German tanker … a country that wouldn’t be directly involved, even if things went hot.

  If a compromise was possible, he didn’t want to be the guy who derailed it. He clicked to the tactical circuit. “Kurama, this is Ringmaster actual,” he said reluctantly.

  “This is Kurama. Go ahead. Over.”

  “This is Ringmaster. Weapons tight. Continue efforts to reacquire, but I say again, weapons tight, on direction from Higher. Kurama, confirm.”

  The disappointment in the voice was almost palpable. “This is Kurama. Confirm weapons tight.”

  * * *

  THE helo searched for the next half hour without regaining contact. A second bird vectored to relieve it, refreshing the sonobuoy barrier between the lost-contact position and the Red Zone on the way.

  Finally Fang sighed and stood. “I will try to find my stateroom,” he murmured. “A long day.” Dark circles outlined his eyes, a counterpoint to the birthmarks on either side of his nose. Dan nodded, and gave directions: down two decks, and head aft; ask someone if he got lost.

  When the Chinese had gone he hoisted himself up too, but staggered and nearly fell. Branscombe gripped his arm, steadying him. “Y’okay, Skipper?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Fine.” But his legs felt weak. The aftereffects of Legionella savoiensis, no doubt. Plus having had practically no sleep for the last three days.

  Maybe some fresh air. Out in the passageway, he undogged a door and stepped out.

  Suddenly he was alone, forty feet above the undulating sea. They were lazying along, with one shaft powered while the other idled, to stretch fuel and limit own-ship self-noise. The bridge wing cantilevered out above him. The sun, a thumb’s width above the horizon, sparkled off the nearly colorless water.

  Was it dawn, or sundown? He wasn’t sure. He leaned over the rail, suddenly nauseated. Acid burned his throat. Fatigue dragged at his bones, as if they’d turned to depleted uranium. Small sprigs of what looked like naked grape stems floated here and there on the surface, then rolled apart, vanishing in the churn of Savo’s wake. A sea dragon, inhaling air, breathing out fire.

  He leaned there, rubbing the corded muscles in his neck, wondering dizzily if he’d made the right decision. Praying others would not pay the price, if he’d screwed up.

  Then he went back inside, and resumed the climb to the bridge.

  11

  THE stor
e was as crowded as if it was Black Friday. Shoppers pushed loaded carts, looking harried and desperate. Queekie Titus’s motorized chair whined ahead, wobbling down the baking-supply aisle. Blair’s mother wielded her little silver laser like a fairy queen’s wand, pointing the beam at what she wanted, and clicking the red vibrating spot to signal the number of units. Blair trailed her on foot, pulling things down into her quickly filling cart. The last one left; it was crippled with a squeaky, nutating wheel that locked and skidded, constantly jerking her to one side.

  “Walnuts, they’ll keep, five pounds. Sugar, that’s going fast, get ten pounds. Not that brand, Blair. General Sugar. We should ask the Holders for a contribution to your campaign, honey. King Arthur Flour. Baking powder. Yeast.”

  They were in a Harris Teeter not far from her parents’ home. Queekie had insisted they go, citing what her mother had told her about rationing in World War II. Her dad was at Sears buying oil, transmission fluid, wiper blades, plugs, and spare tires.

  As they were leaving the big house, he’d taken her aside, dropped something heavy into her purse, and snapped it closed. “Take care of your mom,” he’d muttered. “She tires easy these days. Keep her off her feet.”

  “Checkie … what the hell was that?”

  “Your .38. The one I bought you.”

  “Good Lord. It’s not loaded, is it?”

  “Damn straight it is. All that cash you’re carrying? The Galens’ daughter got robbed on the street. Broad daylight. The lowlifes know people are carrying real money again.… Remember what I said. But get whatever she says we need.”

  Now the red spot searched trembling along rows of cans. “Condensed milk, grab a dozen … no … take all that’s left. Cocoa powder. Baking chocolate. Raisins, the golden ones. All right, let’s do meats next.”

  Blair’s cell went off as she rounded the turn, into a jam-packed aisle. For a moment she couldn’t identify the ring tone. People were clawing down the last cans of Spam and tuna and corned beef and canned chicken. The store manager was waving her hands, stuttering as she explained to a growling ring of red-faced housewives that yes, everything in the store was out on the shelves. A siren howled outside, and the women quieted for a moment, then turned back to their surrounded, sweating scapegoat. The manager shook off the beseeching hands. “Shut up. Shut up! Yes, everything’s marked up. Fifty percent. It wasn’t my decision! Higher management! Cash only. No checks. I’ll close this store, I swear I will—”

  A heavyset woman in a track suit growled, “Just try to close, bitch. We’ll break the windows and take what we want.”

  Blair considered trying to make peace, but decided to finish shopping before the manager made good on her threat. She followed her mother’s whirring whine down the paper goods aisle while trying to answer her cell. The first call in days; maybe the network was coming back. Dan? But the number said it wasn’t. A 410 number, local. “Blair here,” she said, shielding the phone from the pandemonium with a cupped hand.

  It was her campaign manager, Jessica. “Blair, where are you? What’s all that screaming?”

  “At the grocery. They’re cleaning the place out.”

  “Yeah, my husband’s out buying stuff too. Can you talk? I’m here with the guy from the billboard company. Clear Channel. He’s telling me, we buy twelve, we get a break.”

  “We want twenty at the price of twelve. And they all have to go up by the end of the week.”

  A pause, then, “He’s not liking that.”

  “Tough shit, Jessica. Nobody else is buying. He’s going to have blank billboards if he doesn’t work with us. Tell him that. ’Bye.”

  Her mother was grabbing her hand, moaning. “Oh God, Blair—the toilet paper’s all gone. My mother said there was never any during the war. They had to use newspapers—”

  “Some wet wipes—” No, those shelves were empty too.

  They loaded up with Bounty paper towels instead. Her mom powered her chair, motors whining, toward the beer aisle next. “Some of that brown ale your stepdad likes. And maybe some dry whites—”

  But their way was blocked by carts being loaded. The smell of fermented yeast filled the air. Glass littered the tile. Burly men stood with arms folded, blocking Blair’s way, as other tattooed men emptied the refrigerated section. “All taken, blondie,” one growled at her.

  “We just need a couple of those brown ales—”

  “All taken, lady. Sorry.” He shrugged, and swigged from his can of Bud.

  Again she debated making a scene; again, thought better of it. Congressional candidate arrested in fracas at grocery store. Queekie made a dash for the pet food aisle, but Blair headed her off. “Get in line at the checkout, Mom. I’ll get the Purina.”

  “And food for your cat. Don’t forget your cat. Jimbo won’t eat the dry—”

  “I won’t. Relax, Mother.” She tucked the last two battered boxes of off-brand laundry detergent under her arm. “You’ve got the money, right? You didn’t leave it in the car?”

  Age-spotted hands clutched a purse. “Right here. Hurry, Blair. Things are getting ugly. And we need to go to Walgreens, get our prescriptions refilled.”

  A security guard stood by the checkout line, fingering a holstered Taser as women pushed and shoved, ramming carts, wedging them ahead of one another. A slow, bitter struggle, fought with all the determination of Antietam. But they made their way ahead, inch by inch.

  They were almost at the register when the lights went out. The conveyor whirred to a halt. Silence flooded in from wherever the hum of refrigerators and the unnoticed background music had penned it. An excited gabble rose.

  “We’re going to have to close,” the manager announced over the din. “I’m sorry, but please cooperate. We’ll open again as soon as we have power back.”

  The hubbub died down. But only for a moment. Then, into the appalled hush, one raw-edged voice broke. Outraged. Strident. “You don’t need them registers. You said, cash only. Here it is. Take it!” Hands waved fistfuls of bills, pulled from purses, pockets, billfolds.

  The manager shrank back, exchanging terrified glances with the checkout clerks. “I can’t, we don’t have any way to … We’re closing. That’s final.”

  Another voice yelled, “Hell with this. We’re takin’ out what we bought.”

  “Shit yeah.”

  “We offered to buy it. You don’t want to take our money—”

  The burly men with the carts piled with beer, ale, wine, were circling the guard, glaring him down. He hesitated, hand on his stun weapon, looking to the manager. Then backed away. Held up both hands. “Don’t want no trouble,” he said.

  The queue broke, men and women pushing and shoving. They grabbed the counter displays bare, then kicked them over. The burly men went for the cash in the register. Candy and convenience items skittered across the tile. Queekie screamed and clung to Blair, who bent over her, cradling her mother’s blue-haired head. Other customers, thronging in from outside, began looting the fruits and vegetables.

  Falling glass crashed in the manager’s office, followed by a throat-ripping scream. “Let’s get out of here,” Blair shouted, clutching her purse. She groped for the revolver, but it was hooked on something, snagged in the silk lining at the bottom. The people thronging inside were beginning to loot the carts of those going out, and men and women shouted in one another’s faces, exchanged clumsy punches, wrestling over yellow cans of Chock Full o’ Nuts, tearing apart Wonder loaves, snatching cans of tinned salmon.

  Her mother aimed her chair at the doors and hit the yellow button on the handle. The motors whined as she bulldozed through the melee, knocking a fat woman down. Muttering apologies, Blair pushed her own crippled, wobbling cart rapidly after her, elbowing off jackals until they reached the lot, where torn packaging and broken glass littered the asphalt. A siren wailed and she tensed—they hadn’t paid, no more than had the brawling others—but it was a fire truck, speeding past on the main road.

  “Are we looters no
w, honey?” her mother muttered distractedly, smoothing down disheveled hair. “Is that what the world is coming to?”

  Hitting the hatch button for the Subaru, Blair looked back over the trash-strewn pavement, at the horde streaming out of the grocery. Along the mall other storefronts were smashing outward in crystalline explosions, boiling with people who leaped or lunged through, lugging boxes and cartons. Some had blood streaming down their faces. “I guess so, Mom. Get in, all right? We’d better get out of here.”

  * * *

  SHE had to be back in DC that afternoon. But her tank was empty. Home again, her mother and the groceries unloaded and put away, she talked her stepfather out of a five-gallon can he’d squirreled away for the lawn tractor. “You’re going to have to replace it,” he warned her, gurgling it into her sedan through a funnel. “Go to a military base. I hear they still have gas. If they have transmission fluid, get some of that, too. Sears was out, NAPA was out—”

  “I don’t have a … wait a minute. I guess I do.” She’d never really had a use for the dependent’s ID they’d issued her as a Navy wife. “I’ll … try, Dad.”

  The Bay Bridge was nearly deserted. The E-Z Pass booths were closed. Cops waved her through. Amazing, how dependent the economy had become on the Web. Without connectivity, commerce had returned to cash on the barrelhead. The valuations of huge firms, worth billions weeks before, had dropped to zero. Except for occasional interruptions, the massive blackouts that had rolled over the West Coast and the heartland seemed to have missed the older, more densely knitted networks of Maryland and Virginia. But she couldn’t help dreading what the outages must mean to the defense industries. Aircraft. Missiles. Drones. Those plants were almost all out west.

  Rolling on down a nearly empty Route 50, she listened to NPR discussing the cyberattacks that had taken down cable networks, commercial air traffic control, and the Cloud. For decades, experts had predicted that doom would come in the form of nuclear weapons. Or, failing that, biologicals. But instead of mushroom clouds or the plague, Americans faced blank screens. Silent power stations. Dead phones, and no e-mail. A sobering return to 1950, for a lot of people who’d never in their lives written a paper check, mailed a letter, or read a newspaper. On the radio, a Homeland Security official was saying not all the attacks carried Chinese fingerprints, but enough did that it was clear what was happening. “We thought we were ready. We thought we had protection, firewalls, compartmentation. But every system they attacked, they’ve penetrated.”