“Good strategic question. I wish I could tell you what I know, but I can’t right now.” He looked around. “Yes, Ozzie.”
“With everything involved in a big operation like occupying Taiwan, the folks on that island must know what’s coming. I mean, PRC bases for shipping, airfields, and several infantry and armored divisions—all of that’s got to draw attention. Why haven’t we heard anything from them or the UN?”
“Hell, the UN doesn’t matter since China has a veto. As for Taiwan, they’ve lived in the shadow of the PRC for about fifty years—their military is on constant alert. Also, the Chinese have American politicians in their hip pocket. There hasn’t even been any contingency planning for operations involving the PRC for several years now.” He snorted his contempt. “Hell, dozens of White House staffers don’t even submit to presumably mandatory security checks, so don’t expect the military to buck policy. Maybe it would help if some senior uniformed people would stand up and risk their careers, but there aren’t any left.” He looked around the room full of former military professionals. “There just aren’t any left.”
Fifteen
Answers
Hijacking a moored aircraft carrier is no small task. It requires planning, cunning, and most of all, nerve.
It also helps to have well-placed contacts.
Representative Tim Ottmann announced a later meeting after the first one broke up. He impressed upon Terry Peters the importance of having everyone involved in the program present to take a tour of the Chinese and Russian facilities at El Toro.
“Have you talked to Captain Albright?” Ottmann asked Peters.
“Yes, he’ll be here with his exec. I also told our active-duty instructors to attend. That’s Lieutenants Arliss and Horn plus Lieutenant Commander Cartier from the LSO school.” Peters inclined his head slightly, regarding the New Yorker with amused suspicion. “You’re up to something.”
Ottmann made a small come-hither gesture with two fingers. Though they were alone in the room, Peters stepped closer. “I want the Chinese and everyone else to think that we’re having a last conference here before qualifications begin day after tomorrow. As far as you and anyone else knows, there’ll be a reception until late tonight in my suite. Wei and his students will attend, and I’ve even invited some of the Russians.”
“Okay.”
“While the Santa Cruz’s captain and exec and the active-duty guys are here, including your LSO, there’s not much chance of anyone thinking the ship’s going to sail, is there?”
Peters’s eyes gleamed in admiration. “You’re a sneaky bas …”
“Thanks. A helo will pick you up here at 2230. Would it be suspicious if you and Robbins both disappeared at that time?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Skip. Are you going to serve booze?”
“All the adult beverages anybody wants to consume. Except your guys, of course. As soon as I get word from you that the ship’s under way, I’ll tell Zack your overhead time. His flight will land aboard, load ordnance, and get the final brief.”
Peters nodded. “Sounds like your plan hasn’t changed much.”
“Now, there’s one more factor in our favor. The harbor pilot is one of our guys, Ben Tolleson. He’s a master mariner and probably could run the ship without much help. Except for flight operations, of course. But you’ll be in full command once you exit the harbor.” Ottmann searched his fellow conspirator’s face. “Are you really sure you can drive that boat?”
“Well, it’s been quite a few years, Tim. I conned Independence before she entered the yard. But yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay. Now, while we still have time, I need to let you know about our inside source.”
“Why tell me? Do I really need to know?”
Ottmann smiled. “Oh yeah, you really need to know. He’s flying in one of the two-seaters tomorrow morning.” Ottmann rapped on the wall of the adjoining bedroom. After a few seconds the door opened and Terry Peters gaped at Mr. Wei Chinglao.
Sixteen
Half-Truths and White Lies
Tim Ottmann invited Wei to take the most comfortable chair while the Americans sat on the couch. Wei produced a cigarette holder and inserted a Camel before lighting up. He blew two near-perfect smoke rings before he began to speak.
“Mr. Peters, I have not been completely truthful with you. However, you will understand the need for security.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The old MiG pilot put down his cigarette. “Mr. Peters, the primary Chinese trait is patience. We take the long view of history, but now, in the twenty-first century by your reckoning, some of us realize that events have accelerated far beyond our accustomed pace. The world economy and global communications have forced a radical change upon us. Unfortunately, most of the venerable leaders in Beijing are unable to grasp that fact. Tiananmen Square was just one example.
“Frankly, various American administrations have made the task of reform-minded Chinese more difficult. Your politicians tried to have things both ways: supposedly opposing the successors of Mao while trying to exploit China’s emerging economy. The hypocrisy of Republican and Democrat administrations has left China convinced that America stands only for profit and expediency. That attitude has, ironically, reinforced the old men’s determination to seize Taiwan. They believe that after an initial flurry of protests, Sino-American relations will return to the status quo ante.”
“Will they, sir?”
Wei looked at Ottmann, who nodded. “Most assuredly. As far as America is concerned, I shall explain the consequences for China. But first, I concede that China has too much influence in your internal affairs to prevent, as you say, business as usual. Too many public figures have accepted illegal contributions; too many are compromised in other fashions.” Wei shook his head. “You would not believe how many people or how many ways.”
Peters felt a small shiver between his shoulder blades.
“Now,” Wei continued, “you ask why my colleagues and I are working with men like Mr. Ottmann. The reason is that we are Chinese patriots. Oh, some of us still believe in Marxism, but that is almost irrelevant. Instead, we look at this Taiwan folly and see unnecessary risks. Therefore, we decided to upset the nuclear blackmail part of the plan. Without the assurance of American capitulation, the operation is too dangerous to proceed. Even if it succeeds, the rest of Asia would unite against us, economically and militarily. We would be forced into the type of military spending that ruined the Soviet Union.”
Peters ingested the revelation, emotionally breathless at the implications. “Mr. Wei, why don’t the Politburo and the Chairman understand these things?”
Wei dismissed the concept with the wave of a hand. “You know of America’s so-called Beltway mentality, Mr. Peters? We have the same thing in Beijing. From there, the world appears logical and orderly, bound to fit the outmoded perceptions of the office holders. Our ‘wise old men’ still view the world through Marxist prisms, even though many of them are political pragmatists. They know their time is running out, and they are determined to cling to their attitudes until the last moment.”
Peters leaned back, rubbing his eyes as if in disbelief of what he had heard. He rolled his shoulders and faced Wei once more. “All right, sir. You convinced me. How do we proceed?”
“Our intention is to have the Santa Cruz at sea without anyone knowing of it here until the last possible moment. Surprise will be important in sinking the Penang Princess, and we must assume that her captain will have some form of communication with agents here at El Toro or in Long Beach.”
“That’s right,” Ottmann added. “Remember the original plan, Terry? We were going to have your instructors qualify in one day and stay aboard that night. Then the Chinese pilots supposedly would fly out the next day with some of the other instructors to begin the main qualification period.”
Peters snapped his fingers. “And we’re going to launch the strike the same day as the instructors’ CarQuals.”
; “Exactly, Mr. Peters. However, in our long-range planning we only had a time frame. We knew the best time of year for an invasion of Taiwan, and we knew the decision had been made to insert the nuclear weapons a few days before that date.” He raised his hands in a semihelpless gesture. “Therefore, our planning could not be as precise as we hoped.”
“All right,” Peters replied. “But Mr. Wei, I don’t understand something. You got a promise from me to get you a carrier landing. How does that fit into the plan?”
Wei almost smiled. “I made it known to my pilots that I wanted to share their experience. Now, if they see me in one of your aircraft, they are unlikely to be suspicious. But it also suits our larger purpose. First, your government and my faction wish to emphasize the Chinese participation in this operation while minimizing American involvement. My authority is accepted among the Chinese aboard the ship, and will not be questioned.
“Therefore, in keeping with the Chinese emphasis, we will need PRC pilots. I am one; Mr. Hu will be the other.”
Peters glanced at Ottmann, then back to Wei. “Why Hu? He’s one of those who was almost cut from the program.”
“Mr. Peters, Hu is my sister’s son. I trust him.”
Ottmann could almost hear the wheels clicking in Peters’s skull. “Terry, when Mr. Wei says we need Chinese on the mission, it’s part of the plausible deniability. No active-duty Americans are involved, and we emphasize that PRC pilots flew the mission.”
“I see. We ATA folks are retired while the flight-deck troops are Chinese or inactive American reservists.” Peters winked at the congressman. “A half-truth isn’t quite the same as a white lie.”
Ottmann made a point of shaking hands. “Terry, welcome to the wonderful world of politics.”
Seventeen
One of Our Carriers Is Missing
It was just past midnight, but the floodlights on the flight deck, and those along the pier on F Avenue, provided ample illumination for the Jet Ranger that Wei had leased. The pilot, who had flown SH-60s, was more than willing to set down directly on Santa Cruz, saving Peters and Robbins a long walk from Navy Landing a mile and a half away. They waved good-bye, then turned and entered the island en route to the bridge.
“Think they’ll miss us at Wei’s reception?” Robbins asked.
“Not likely, with all the free booze and fresh crab. Did you see how our boy Igor was sucking it up?”
On the O–9 level Peters entered the red-lit bridge. He saw an older man, graying with a two-day crop of stubble, talking to the watch officer. “Mr. Tolleson? I’m Terry Peters.”
“That’s me,” the harbor pilot replied. He regarded Peters openly, assessing the aviator who would take this ship to sea. They shook hands. “Our friend told me to expect you.”
“Well, it’s early for the usual watch change, but I think we’ll do all right.”
“I hope so, skipper. I’ve never hijacked a carrier before!” Tolleson smiled. “By the way, do you know your officers of the deck? Mr. Odegaard and Mr. Mei. Gentlemen, this is Captain Peters. He’ll be relieving Captain Albright today.”
Peters greeted the American and his Chinese counterpart. “Yes, I’ve met both these gentlemen.” He knew that Odegaard was a retired reserve commander; Mei had been aboard destroyers and frigates; reputedly he was an above-average ship handler.
“All right, gentlemen, let’s get started. Captain Albright said to expect four boilers on line and four standing by, provisions for two days, and a full complement sufficient for carrier qualifications tomorrow. We’re running under our own power without connections to shore. Also, I’m told we have tugs standing by. Is that correct?”
“All correct, Captain.” Odegaard nodded toward Mei. “We’ve checked with the department heads and we’re ready to go.”
“Very well.” Peters inhaled, held the breath, then let it out. “On the bridge, this is Captain Peters, I have the conn.” He turned to Robbins. “Robo, check with the weapons officer—Medesha? I want you to eyeball the Mark 83s before we push off.”
“You got it, boss.” He disappeared down the ladder.
Peters turned back to his bridge watch. “We’ll light off the other boilers as we clear the channel, but right now it’s important to get under way without drawing too much attention.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Odegaard replied. “The plant is lined up in parallel. We’ll use those four boilers to provide steam for the main engines.”
“Good. Ah, let’s see … I know the elevators are raised. Are they locked?”
“Yes, Captain. We can confirm that with the deck division if you prefer.”
“Not necessary.” Peters strode to the starboard side of the bridge, assessing the topography of his new domain. He turned to the watch standers. “Let’s test the rudders. And I’d like to confirm that we have up radar plus navigation and comm.”
The helmsman was a retired merchant marine and active yachtsman who relished steering eighty thousand tons of steel. He tested the tiller and reported that he had full control of the two rudders.
Mei came to attention. “Captain, I have personally inspected the navigation equipment. I also consulted the communications watch officer. We are ready.”
“Very well, gentlemen.” He looked to Tolleson. “Captain, request you make up the tugs, sir.”
“Right, Cap’n.” While Tolleson communicated with the tugs that would pull the carrier’s deadweight outboard against the onshore breeze, Peters saw to the pierside procedure. He waited for word from Robbins before the remaining brow was wheeled back from the starboard quarterdeck. The call quickly came from the weapons division.
“Weps to bridge.”
Odegaard responded, leaning into the speaker. “Bridge aye.”
“This is Robbins. Tell the captain we’re cocked and locked.”
Peters grinned beneath the brim of his “A-4s Forever” ballcap. “Cocked and locked” was verbal shorthand for the occasion: Robbins had seen the thousand-pound bombs and confirmed that there were suitable fuzes on hand.
At a nod from Peters, Odegaard broadcast over the 1-MC general-announcing system. “Set the special sea and anchor detail. Single up all lines and make all preparations for getting under way.”
Peters waved to his de facto executive officer and the harbor pilot. “Mr. Odegaard, Mr. Tolleson. We’ll move to Aux Conn.” While they stepped eight feet aft to the auxiliary conning station, sailors on the pier removed the first of two heavy lines securing the carrier to each of eight stanchions along the ship’s 1,046-foot length. Meanwhile, Tolleson directed both “made-up” tugs into position at the bow and stern.
Taking nothing for granted, Peters leaned out of Aux Conn, looking fore and aft to confirm that all was ready. He called behind him, “Let go all lines.” The order was repeated, echoing metallically through the moist maritime darkness as pierside personnel released the final eight hawsers linking Santa Cruz to shore.
Peters turned back inboard to face his bridge crew. “Gentlemen, I see no reason to stand on ceremony. Captain Tolleson, you’ll give your orders directly to the helmsman, if you please.” He chuckled slightly. “We do things differently in the Skyhawk Navy.”
Tolleson scratched his beard, beaming his approval of the nonregulation procedure. “Right you are, Cap’n.” He waited until he judged the ship forty to fifty feet from the pier, then said, “Son, give me left standard rudder.” As the helm swung through fifteen degrees of arc, Tolleson announced, “Back one-third on number one and two; ahead two-thirds on three and four.”
Peters watched the “spinning” maneuver move the bow away from the pier, ponderously swinging to port. The watch officer, peering through the window, called to Tolleson. “We’re fair, Pilot.”
Tolleson spoke into his walkie-talkie, clearing the tugs of their chore.
As the big ship maneuvered in the turning basin, Tolleson called, “All ahead one-third.” Santa Cruz grudgingly edged up to five knots as Tolleson smoothly coordinated rudder comma
nds and orders to the tugs. With the bow properly positioned, he turned back to Peters. “She’s all yours, skipper.”
Peters warmly shook hands with the friend of Wei Chinglao. “Nicely done, sir. You’d better catch your taxi if you don’t want to make this cruise.”
Tolleson laughed. “I might enjoy it at that.” He slapped Peters’s arm and disappeared through the hatch, en route to the stern, where he would take a jacob’s ladder down to the tug.
Captain Terence Peters, USN (Retired), felt the faint throbbing of the engines through the soles of his brown aviator shoes. Peering ahead into the Pacific darkness, he modulated his voice in what he intended to resemble confident authority. “All ahead two-thirds.”
Eighteen
Ready Deck
The A-4s dropped their tailhooks and entered the Delta pattern two thousand feet overhead the ship in a descending left-hand carousel. Thaler, Delight’s wingman, crossed his leader’s tail from the left to establish right echelon beside Ostrewski with Vespa outboard.
Delight reached the initial point three miles astern of the carrier, approaching parallel to her starboard side. He looked down from eight hundred feet and felt a rumble of excited satisfaction in his belly. After months of planning and training, there was the former USS Santa Cruz with a ready deck, steaming upwind and eager to receive him. Zack led his little formation ahead of the ship’s white-foamed bow. He checked his airspeed—steady on three hundred knots—and prepared for his break turn.
Ahead of the ship, Delight laid the stick over to port, brought the throttle back to 80 percent, hit the speed brakes, and pulled. His vision went gray at the periphery, but he rolled wings level about a mile and a quarter off the port side, descending through six hundred feet while headed aft.
Delight’s left hand automatically found the gear and flap handles, and he felt his A-4F decelerate through 220 under the additional drag. He shot a glance at the angle-of-attack indicator, cross-checking with airspeed.
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