Onslaught

by David Poyer

  He came out of the dark fast, swinging something, but she’d already crouched and as he stumbled over her she rose and lunged past. The gun. In her purse. But her hands closed on air. It wasn’t there. In the dark, she whirled, facing the heavy breathing between her and the door.

  The monster, between her and the escape to the street …

  She pushed the terror down and kept backing away. Scream. But who would hear? This deep in the steel belly of the ship. The J-phone … behind him, not her.

  A click at the door. He was locking them in.

  A sliding whisper, soft-soled shoes, slipping toward her. Backing away, she half stumbled over something soft on the floor. Her purse? She bent, felt for it, her very fingertips hoping for the hard outline of the 9mm.

  But it was too soft. For a moment she gripped it, mind empty.

  A blanket?

  Yes. A soft, soft blanket.

  Spread on the floor of her cabin.

  The fear rose then, and clutched her throat like strangling fingers as he strode across the tiles toward her, brushing past one of the chairs by the round table, skirting it.

  The head! With a lock on the door. But as she dashed for it he altered his course, as if guessing her intention. Hard fingers on her shoulders, and a shove in the dark thrust her back against the desk. The computer, keyboard, monitor—

  A hand gripped her shoulder, and something cool and sharp pressed against her upper chest. “Don’t fight me,” a strange low voice growled. Deep. Reverberating. “Or I’ll have to kill you.”

  Not a voice she recognized, but that deep bass … “Kaghazchi?” she muttered. But got no answer. Realizing, too late, that if it was him, she’d just asked for her own death.

  She thought desperately, searching for some advantage, a way to call for help. She couldn’t see, but at least she knew where things were. But oddly, he seemed to also. He hadn’t stumbled over the chairs. He’d changed his stride when she’d edged toward the lavatory.

  No more time to think. He was on her, both hands at her throat. He was much bigger than she was. Taller.

  So it was going to be a fight. Either that, or give up and let him rape her.

  Most encounters went to the ground, and if your opponent was stronger, you ended up being punched or wrestled to the floor. Then, basically, kicked and stomped to death. Or in her case, raped. And if this was the Iranian, most likely killed afterward.

  She’d gotten some defensive/offensive tactics in the academy, half based on mixed martial arts, the other half boxing. She hadn’t done well. Some agents kept on with MMA, aikido, karate … but once graduated, the only self-defense training they were actually required to do was expandable baton recertification.

  The baton, in the desk! She felt behind her, clawed the drawer open with hooked nails. Groped for the smooth heavy cylinder.

  A sharp thin edge at her throat. The knife. Both women had mentioned it. A smooth edge. A heavy, cloying breath, and the smell of … lemons? The softness sliding, giving way underfoot. Her left hand scrabbled at his back. Smooth cotton. A belt.

  His hands were at her neckline, tearing at her clothes. She got an elbow between them and tried to lever him away. But he was too strong, and kept ripping downward. Cool air on her skin. The prick of the knife again. The bear growl. “Stop it. I’ll cut your throat out.”

  She didn’t want to go to the floor, but some remnant of advice surfaced from the certification. Try to stay on your feet. But if you can’t, turn the tables.

  She had just enough time to think, Allah, help me. Help me fight. Amin.

  She levered his arm away, twisted, and buckled her knees, sliding instantly downward. Thrust her left leg out, and hooked his ankle. Reversed the baton, in her right hand, and slapped it down as hard as she could into the outside of his thigh. At the same time she bucked with all the power of her hips, with her haunches braced against the solid, bolted-down steel of the desk.

  The leverage, and probably pain, too, reeled him back. She scrambled to her feet, left foot planted, panting, taking the ready position for the next strike. “You’re under arrest!” she shouted, though the constriction in her throat made it choked and weak. “Stay back! Stop resisting. You’re under arrest!”

  The baton was an impact weapon. From the ready position, she could swing across her body both forward and back. They told you to aim for the extremities of the bad guy—elbow, knee, clavicle, upper arms, thighs, and shins. If she struck to the chest or head, that was deadly force. Still, against a knife, deadly force was justified. “Stop!” she yelled again, and stepped forward.

  Flick the baton into extension … and strike. She couldn’t see where, but she battered him again and again, flailing down in the dark, kicking with her boots at his legs. Stamp on an ankle, he’d be lamed. Get him in the crotch, and she could get cuffs on him. Take him right now.

  Instead, he rolled up off the floor, and his harsh breath hovered a few feet off, level with her own. Like two battling wolves, each smelling blood, they crouched opposite each other. Stealing a moment to get their breaths.

  “You’re dead now,” that strange voice grated. It couldn’t be his normal voice. He was disguising it. But he didn’t seem to have an accent. Maybe it wasn’t Kaghazchi. “But first…” it trailed off into panting. Strange, the other seemed to be growing more tired than she was. She felt totally alive, totally focused. She could see in the dark. Her muscles possessed enormous power. He might kill her, yes. But she’d hurt him. Marked him out.

  But who was it? Benyamin? Wenck?… Lenson? Certainly the captain would know his way around the unit commander’s stateroom.

  A little more trickled back from the annual recert. The combatives trainer, a diminutive agent from the Philippines. Sergio? Regio? Move and hit. Don’t stand still. And when you hit, hit hard! She took her stance, left foot out, right back, got her balance, backed to the left, getting the desk out from behind her. The baton made little circles. She cocked her arm, tracking ragged breathing in the dark, the squeak of soles on tile deck. If he got within arm’s length, she’d go for face or neck. A side strike. Paralyze the shoulder, take out an eye. Then low, for the knee, drop him again.

  Instead, there was a squeak and a clank, and a rush of air.

  A heavy weight with steel protrusions crashed out of the dark into her face. She gasped and reeled back as the desk chair, swung a second time, caught her in the chest, knocked the baton out of her grasp. It rattled into the dark.

  He came in after it. Something heavy and hard hammered down on her head. The butt of the knife … She gasped, trying to claw his face, but another chair-swing knocked her to her knees. And another, down onto cold tile. She gagged, his arm across her throat. His other hand tore at her pants. Buttons popped. A knee in her belly drove the last air from her lungs.

  Helpless under his weight, she blinked as a jagged glare sectioned her vision, bright as lightning, the world come apart into light. A harsh hot breath in her ear.

  His weight, on her.

  Like before.

  Just like before.

  She screamed, only his arm pressed so hard she couldn’t. Couldn’t even breathe—

  His outline above her, dark, crouched. The shape of his head.

  More light, behind him.

  The open door. A scream, but this one … not her own?

  The weight shifted abruptly, then lifted. A swift movement above her; she rolled her head to the side, only just in time. The knife-point slammed into the tile beside her ear, dragging across it.

  Then he was off her, and Ryan was screaming again. Something flew across the room and burst against the desk, shattered, throwing shards. Aisha got to one elbow, gagging, something broken in her throat. Dimly registering a scuffle near the door, a stumbling struggle, another scream.

  Then the doorway was empty, and Ryan was groping toward the desk. The corpsman found the switch of the desk lamp, and light burst forth, dazzling. The freckled face, the blond-red eyebrows leaning clo
se above her. “You all right? Aisha! You okay?”

  “Who … who was it? Did you get a—”

  “I couldn’t see. Too dark. He ran past, almost knocked me down.” Ryan helped her up. Helped her pull her pants up, put her clothing back together. “Um. Hm. Did he—”

  “Not quite. You got here just in time.” Aisha straightened, wheezing as pain lanced neck, head, throat. A jagged scar gleamed where the deck tile had been gouged open. He’d meant to bury the blade in her throat. She could almost see the blood, pooled, spattered on the white bulkheads. Her own.

  Her knees buckled and she caught herself on the younger woman’s shoulder. She squinted around, looking for something left behind. Something, anything, to identify her attacker.

  But saw only a soft-looking blue blanket, lying rumpled on the deck.

  22

  Tysons Corner, Virginia

  AT seven in the morning, the China Emergency Group was back in session. But now not all the seats were occupied. Google had pulled out, along with the other commercial interests. There were more uniforms, fewer civilian suits.

  Blair flexed her lower spine in the rather too-well-padded chair, wishing she’d brought her pain pills. But she had to be sharp for this.

  Haverford Tomlin winked from across the table. She returned the general a half smile. Ms. Clayton was in a dark blue pantsuit, nursing a mug of tea. A sideboard held coffee, cinnamon buns, doughnuts, a bowl of oranges.

  “Quickly then.” The DIA staffer was finishing his daily update, reading from a briefing book. “The engagement last night. When allied naval forces advanced from their blocking position in the Miyako Strait to attempt an intercept of the invasion forces—”

  Blair lifted a hand. “What ships were involved?”

  “USS Mitscher, Savo Island, Curtis Wilbur, submarine Pittsburgh, plus Japanese and Korean naval units. I can give you their names—?”

  “No, proceed,” Ms. Clayton said, with a glance at Blair that read I know what you’re wondering.

  “Mitscher was hit by three missiles, and heavily damaged. Savo Island was hit as well, but not as badly.”

  “Casualties?” Ms. Clayton said, with another glance at Blair.

  “Fourteen wounded and seven dead aboard Mitscher. Two casualties reported from Savo Island. Minor burns fighting fires.” The staffer glanced at his notes. “One of the Japanese destroyers, Chokai, was hit too. No report is available yet from her. A Korean frigate was sunk, though most of her crew was rescued. Republic of China naval surface forces attempted to coordinate with the attack, and also scored sinkings, but were largely destroyed. On the exhaustion of its ordnance, TG 779.1 withdrew.

  “Meanwhile, our submarines carried out independent attacks farther west and south. We’re not sure yet exactly who sank what, but altogether a heavy toll has been taken on the invasion force. Especially a group of transports carrying a Category One mechanized force ROC intelligence has tentatively identified as the 124th Amphibious Mechanized Infantry Division. Reports indicate two of the ships sunk carried most of the heavy armor intended for the invasion.”

  The retired Army general said, “That’ll set back their timetable.”

  The DIA guy shook his head. “Not where they’ve landed, sir. That’s rice cultivation. Very bad tank country.”

  “Then why bring them? They’re not stupid, Jerry.”

  Blair interrupted. “We can argue that later. But they are ashore? I understood from the news, driving in this morning—”

  The briefer nodded. “Correct, Ms. Titus. They’ve established two beachheads. One near the city of Hsinchu. The other, farther south. An airborne division is landing at the Hsinchu airfield. And Taipei estimates two more elite divisions are on their way across now. A second wave, again, with heavy air cover. The operational headquarters are in Putian, under a Lieutenant General Pei.”

  The general muttered, “I know him. A hard, ruthless Party man. Will the Taiwanese fight?”

  “They seem to be doing so, sir,” said the staffer. He was wearing a uniform today too, Marine greens. “Judging by the reports out of Taipei.”

  “Why, you’re in uniform, Jeff,” Ms. Clayton said, as if she’d only just noticed.

  “I’ve been activated, ma’am. This will be my last day at SAIC. I’ll be turning over to Miss Reich here.” He nodded to an anxious-looking young woman in her twenties.

  “Well, we’ll miss your insights. But, actually, we may have to wrap up here, too. Pass our planning to the Chiefs and PaCom. Depending on—” She nodded to Blair. “Blair, you’re in touch with Senator Talmadge. What’s the status on the use-of-force resolution? You were involved in that, correct?”

  “Actually, I wrote it. Rewrote, anyway.” She put her hands to her lower spine, trying to adjust it herself.

  “What does it cover?”

  “Air and sea power, plus ground troops, with a one-year reauthorization on commitment.” Something popped in her back, and she suppressed a wince. “He’s bringing it to a vote this afternoon. I’d like to be there, if you can do without me.”

  “The taxis aren’t running, and the Metro’s still closed. We’ll have you driven over. What’s your opinion? How will it go?”

  She remembered the conversation at the Monocle. “It’ll be close. On one side, the hawks in our party, with the moderates in theirs. On the other side, our own peace wing, plus Tea Party types and libertarians. For different reasons, they’re saying forget the Pacific. Concentrate on rearmament. Deal with whoever comes out on top.”

  The general stirred. “We abandon our allies, we’re—”

  “I told the senator that, General. But he’s not sure the Taiwanese will fight. If they do, I think he’ll support them.”

  Clayton murmured, “You’re also getting close to your election.”

  Blair smiled unwillingly. “My main debate’s tonight.”

  “Good heavens. Well, best of luck.”

  The staffer, still on his feet, cleared his throat. “If I may resume? As I was saying, they have two beachheads. Taipei reports fierce fighting. Heavy casualties on both sides. But ROC force numbers are eroding, while the mainlanders are still pouring in men.”

  Tomlin said, “China holds air and sea control in the strait now, correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Their sortie-generation rates are higher than prewar estimates. We still control the sea passages north and south of the island. But our numbers in theater are eroding too.”

  No one said anything. The general sketched silently on his notepad. Doodling, Blair noticed, something that looked like either a shark or a stylized rocket ship. Over and over.

  “All right,” she said at last. “Our mission here was to formulate a long-term strategy. In response to various possible Chinese moves. Now they’ve made one. How do we respond?”

  “That, indeed, is the question.” Clayton went to the sideboard, stirred sugar into a second mug of tea. “Bearing in mind that whatever we produce here goes to the Chiefs and the West Wing. Jeff? You were going to work us up a detailed plan.”

  The DIA guy took a chair along the wall, parking his binder. The Marine staffer twisted in his seat, a motion that gave Blair’s pelvis a sympathetic twinge. The slide he brought up on the far wall read SECRET NOFORN: OPERATION COMEBACK.

  “As General Tomlin remarked several days ago, a breakthrough has to be contained at the flanks. Even if the invaders secure Taipei, it will take time, probably weeks, possibly even months, to establish control over the rest of the island. Especially if the ROC ground forces retreat into the uplands. The eastern half of Taiwan is quite mountainous.

  “Our strategy will depend on what allies stand with us, and which bases remain when the dust settles. And also, what side Russia comes down on; if they back Zhang, the blockade will have less effect.

  “However, if we can build a coalition, hold the second island chain, and cut off and isolate the invasion force on Taiwan, we might have the reserve capability, in terms of naval and ai
r forces, to engineer another Stalingrad. As you directed, that’s what this plan outlines. But it may be a longer, tougher struggle than anyone expected.”

  Blair said, “What about the force-reconstitution timeline? Logistics?”

  “You’re right, ma’am, major questions. Especially with the sabotage reported on the Canal locks, and since the Navy now suspects several nuclear submarines made it out into the Pacific. We can expect the enemy to place every obstacle to our buildup that he can, up to and including diversionary attacks and raids on Hawaii or the continental U.S. This would impact not just our counteroffensive, but our ability to either reinforce or extract our troops in Korea and Okinawa.”

  The general said, “As an aside: the major here mentioned he was being activated. But I’ve arranged for him to be attached to the Joint Chiefs J-5, Strategic Plans. So the transition should be seamless from here to their planning cell.”

  Blair tapped her foot, trying to ignore the ache in her hips. Noting the arrows of attack. Noting, also, that all the forces listed were from Guam, Hawaii, or the continental United States.

  As Clayton had directed, the staffer had planned for no one now in theater to survive or return. They were abandoning them. Bataan again. Corregidor, all over again.

  She rested her chin on her fists as the slides flickered.

  * * *

  THE car dropped her at C and First. She’d been to the Hart Senate Office Building many times, though Talmadge preferred the Russell. The hearing was closed, which meant she had to show her ID to the guards at the door.

  The room itself was an immense, modern space with lofty ceilings, done in white and blue, with the senators elevated on a long dais. Most of their seats were filled, a signal that this would be an important session and end with a vote. They were leafing through briefing books. To her surprise, a lot of the blue-upholstered audience seats were vacant. She took one in the second row. Mindy shot her a smile. She was in Blair’s old seat, behind Talmadge. Hu Kuwalay sat beside her, head down, scribbling something.

  The chairman tapped the gavel. This would be a closed hearing under Rule 26, Paragraph 5(b), since they’d be discussing national security information. They had a quorum and were not in conflict with the floor schedule, but opening remarks would be limited to five minutes.