by Andrew Watts
Chase said, “Understood. What do I need to do?”
The general handed him a file. “Some light reading. We’ll go through it quick. You’ve got a plane to catch.”
7
Eighty Nautical Miles East of Norfolk, Virginia
The two grey MH-60S Seahawk helicopters flew in a loose trail formation, two hundred feet over the water. Chase was in the first aircraft. He wore green digital fatigues, a large black cloth Trident sewn onto his left breast, above the US NAVY lettering. MANNING was on the right breast, a Velcro American flag on his right shoulder, and a small dark suitcase handcuffed to his right wrist.
Upon landing, the aircrewman shuffled him to someone wearing the white shirt and headgear of the air transfer officer. Everyone on the carrier deck had a distinct color that was associated with their role on the flight deck. The man in white motioned for Chase to follow him under the spinning rotors and into the superstructure of the enormous new aircraft carrier.
Moments later he stood at the door of the captain’s cabin. His father sat on the couch. Another man, who he assumed to be the captain of the USS Ford, sat in the dark brown leather chair next to him. A small coffee table was in the center of the room, on top of a rug with the ship’s crest.
“Chase, this is Captain Chuck Stewart.”
They shook hands. The door was closed, and Chase unlocked the handcuff and opened the briefcase. He handed a single envelope, marked with the purple TOP SECRET/SCI stamp, to his father. There were several pages in the orders, and his father looked up at Chase a few times while he read.
When Admiral Arthur Louis Manning IV, Commander of the USS Ford Carrier Strike Group, was finished reading, he handed the orders to the captain. He read the first few paragraphs and said, “You have got to be shitting me.” He kept reading and then looked up.
Admiral Manning said to his son, “What these orders tell us to do…there is only one reason for that.”
Chase nodded.
“Why the hell are they sortieing all our military assets to the Middle East and having us do this?” Captain Stewart said. “If they’re worried about China, why don’t they strengthen the Pacific theater?”
The admiral raised an eyebrow. “Why, indeed?” He stood up and walked to the back corner of the room, looking out a porthole that revealed the flight deck.
Chase said, “CINCLANT wants me to reiterate that this is for your eyes only. No one on your staffs can know about these orders right now—not until authorized.”
His father snorted.
The aircraft carrier captain said, “That’s ridiculous. Now how the hell are we supposed to get aircraft, parts, and supplies on board? It’s our staff that’s gotta do all the work and planning to make this happen.” He held up the papers. “This won’t happen unless we tell our staffs what to do.”
“Yes, sir, I understand that you’ll need to communicate what to do. The request is that you don’t inform them why, until it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“Chase?” His father spoke gently.
“Yes?”
“How many people know about this?”
“I asked the same question.”
“And?”
“Fewer than one hundred. It has the highest level of classification.”
“I see.” The admiral walked over to the couch and sat back down. “I’m going to speculate here. There could be two reasons for secrecy of that magnitude. One, they want plausible deniability. That just doesn’t fit here. We’re talking about taking protective action, not about launching a strike.”
“Not yet,” said the captain. “But those orders say to be prepared to—”
“Yes. But still—they aren’t keeping this a secret because they’re afraid of the public finding out. That’s my point.”
The captain said, “Why, then?”
“Because they don’t trust the normal channels of communication.” The admiral stopped. He looked at Chase and said, “Why on earth are you delivering this to me?”
Chase smiled. “General Schwartz is working at the CIA. I’m on Task Force SILVERSMITH with him. He made the connection and thought that my going here might be appropriate. Yours is not my only stop.”
The admiral nodded.
The captain said, “We’re going to have to break a lot of rules to get this done.”
“Yes we are,” said the admiral.
“And we’re going to have some coconspirators. Who’s gonna tell the USS Michael Monsoor and the F-35 guys about the plan?” He looked at Chase.
“Sir, I briefed the Michael Monsoor’s skipper yesterday. They’ll be at the rendezvous in a few days. And as soon as we’re done here, I’ll be headed to Eglin Air Force Base and then to Yuma to round up the F-35 support. Most units already have an activation order, but they don’t have all the information. I’m to provide that on a need-to-know basis to the unit commanders.”
The admiral shook his head. “Look at you. Secret agent man. You try to get out of the Navy, and the CIA throws you back at us.”
Chase smiled. “Sir, do you have any further questions about your orders?”
His father smiled. “No, son. That will be all. Come on, I’ll walk you back down to the flight deck.”
A few days later, Admiral Manning stood on the admiral’s bridge, watching a flight of four F-35Cs conduct the break overhead. One by one, each aircraft banked hard left, then came around and landed on the carrier.
It had been a whirlwind few days, and there were many more to come. The USS Ford had pulled back into Norfolk for a day. Thousands of personnel immediately had come aboard from the air wing and spent hours furiously unloading parts and supplies.
Families—and the ship’s personnel—were told that it was a last-minute additional training mission. But the admiral suspected that many of them knew better. Modern carrier strike group movements were planned years in advance. To conjure one up out of thin air—in a week’s time—was unprecedented.
Two days later, the USS Ford joined up with her surface ships. Two destroyers, including the latest of the Zumwalt class, the USS Michael Monsoor. A supply ship, two littoral combat ships, and a Los Angeles–class submarine. Although only a select few knew that the submarine was tagging along.
“Afternoon, Admiral.” Captain Stewart was all smiles. He loved getting aircraft aboard. That was what this ship was meant to do. He was tired of all the training and certification the Ford had been doing.
“Hello, Chuck. Anything new?”
“Sir, I triple-checked the Panama Canal for you. I am now one hundred percent sure that even with the widening they just did, we still can’t fit through. We’re gonna have to go the long way.”
The admiral shook his head. “Unbelievable. The United States made the damn canal, and we’re the only navy in the world that makes ships that are so big that they can’t fit through it. How long will it take to get to the other side?”
“Sir, the trip around South America will take several weeks.”
“How many?”
“Well, the Ford can do it in two. But we’ve got to wait up for the slowest ships in company.”
“I’m familiar…how many weeks, Chuck?”
“We think we can do it in three weeks at seventeen knots. We’ll have to plan for about four replenishments at sea during that time.”
“I know I don’t have to tell you this, but just in case there is any confusion—we aren’t stopping in port.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve made that clear to the navigator.”
“Alright. Thanks, Chuck.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and the supply officer told me to tell you that we’re having steaks tonight.”
The admiral smiled. “Well, now you’ve done it. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry on board will know that something awful is about to happen if we give them steak.”
“Yes, sir.” The carrier captain smiled and left the space.
Admiral Manning resumed watching the jets land. The F-35s had all been retrieved. Now it wa
s time for the Growlers. A pair of F-18s zoomed overhead, the first one entering the break…followed shortly by the second.
He could see an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer several miles away, pitching and rolling in the sea. A Seahawk helicopter was landing on her. The admiral sighed as he thought about his daughter. She was right where they were headed. He prayed that this all turned out to be nothing.
8
Beijing, China
The Chinese president, general secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China, and chairman of the Central Military Commission, was not having a good day. He placed his elbows on his large oak desk, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.
“Would you like some more tea, sir?” the stewardess asked.
The Chinese president waved the woman away without looking up. “No. Please give us privacy. No calls or visitors.”
It was just the two of them—the president and his most trusted member of the Politburo, who was also one of the few members of his National Security Commission.
The Chinese president said, “You must understand the sensitivity of this matter. If it appears in any way that there is dissent among the party…that I am not in complete control of the military or intelligence community…then that would not bode well for us.”
The Politburo member said, “I agree. That is why I have asked to speak with you alone.”
The Chinese president shook his head, holding out his hands. “Why do the Americans keep pressing us on this? They must know that we are being truthful.”
“As I said, Mr. President, they have a very sophisticated intelligence apparatus. For my contacts in Washington to be reaching out to me for a third time and speaking to me in this manner is very unusual. Unless there is something to it. Something that you and I are not aware of.”
The Chinese president looked up. “The Americans are getting paranoid. They have been attacked and are about to go to war in the Middle East again.”
“And you think that explains this line of accusation, even through backchannel communications?”
“I truly don’t know. I just don’t understand why these rumors of Chinese meddling persist. There is too much for us to lose if we were to behave this way. The Central Committee would never jeopardize trade with the United States by allowing the kidnapping of American citizens. And for what, they say? For a few bits of classified information? And the American suggestion that we would support an Iranian attack on the United States is nothing short of preposterous.”
The Politburo member hesitated. He knew from previous conversations that the president trusted Cheng Jinshan implicitly. He had known Jinshan, a successful businessman and member of the Chinese intelligence community, for over two decades and had even appointed him as the head of an agency that would root out corruption in the Chinese government.
Most members of the Politburo considered Jinshan a patriot, someone who would always put the Chinese people first. But everyone had enemies. Some in Beijing would like nothing more than to see Jinshan gone. He had grown too powerful, they argued. The president was oblivious to this notion. To the president, he was an invaluable asset.
Jinshan’s work in the business and intelligence worlds often overlapped. His businesses were mainly information technology related. They created and operated data tracking software for China’s Internet-based companies. Some of Jinshan’s companies also oversaw the control and censorship of Chinese media. Many considered him a puppet master. He controlled the strings that influenced peoples’ thoughts.
“Mr. President, my US counterpart apologized to me for asking again. But many of us—our diplomats, intelligence operatives, and government leaders—are getting the same inquiry. So it is with great hesitation that I broach this subject with you. The Americans want to know if there could be any possible truth to the rumors that Cheng Jinshan has organized Chinese participation in the Iranian cyberattacks, and the holding of American citizens in the South China Sea island. They say that they have information leading them to believe that Cheng Jinshan is indeed involved.”
The president frowned. “How many times must we tell them? This is insulting.”
“I understand, sir. I apologize for bringing it up again.”
“We have gone to Jinshan and to our PLA generals. They were upset at the questioning.”
“Are you satisfied with ending it there, sir?”
The president locked eyes with the Politburo member, a trusted advisor, and whispered, “They would never keep anything like that from us. It would be treason.” The president sounded like he was trying to convince himself, more than anything.
The president looked out the window of his office. A peaceful scene outside. A well-trimmed garden. Giant goldfish making ripples in the surface of a quiet pond. The Chinese president sighed and said, “I am going to ask you a question that must never leave this room.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Do you think that there is any chance I am being lied to by my own people?”
The Politburo member noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to say Jinshan’s name. He chose his words carefully. “Sir, I think that…after this much consternation by the Americans…it would be prudent to have an outside party look into the matter.”
The Chinese president did not respond, so the Politburo member took that as a sign to continue. He said, “This would have to be done in a way that would not lead to us. But I find it most concerning that eighteen Americans are still reported missing, and that two of them claim to have been abducted by Chinese forces. It is very unlike the American government to make up such a claim.”
“Many of their newspapers are calling it conspiracy theory—lies.”
“Yes, sir, but my sources tell me that many in the American intelligence circles do not put stock in these media reports. They are still investigating the matter.”
The president nodded. “Without the situation in Iran, this would be dominating their newspapers.”
“I agree, sir.”
“In that respect, we are lucky.”
“Sir, do I have your permission to look into this some more? Outside of our normal channels?”
The president didn’t reply verbally, but he looked into the man’s eyes and nodded.
Just outside the president’s office, the steward pushed the teacart into a small kitchen area. She picked up her phone to check her messages.
Her phone was very warm. She hated when it was like that. It was almost hot. She tried to tell her husband that the battery must be broken and that he needed to fix it. But her husband just shook his head at her, saying that it was normal, as if she knew nothing about technology.
Her husband had texted her, telling her to pick up some pork at the market on her way home tonight. He was going to make dinner. She smiled, as he seldom cooked. Only on special occasions. She wondered if he had finally gotten the promotion at work that he so desperately wanted.
A jingle at the door told her that the Politburo member was leaving. She walked back in to see if the president needed anything else, leaving her phone on the cart.
Two Hours Later
The software program on the phone was one of the latest and most sophisticated in the CIA’s arsenal. A joint project with the NSA, the program could turn any phone into a very capable listening device.
The challenge hadn’t been placing the program on the phone. That had been relatively easy. What had been harder was finding the right phones to listen to. The stewardess had left her GPS location information active on her phone, however. While all the high-profile members of the Chinese government had secure phones that were protected from this type of surveillance, she did not.
It was easy for the NSA to cross-reference GPS coordinates with important government locations around the world. They used this information to identify which phones would serve as the best candidates to allow them to listen in on military, intelligence, and political leaders. It took a lot of juice to record and send all tha
t data, which was why the phone was so warm to the touch.
While the CIA’s technical experts had to do a lot of ambient noise cleanup on the recording, they found—incredibly—that they could usually pick up the voices of the Chinese president from the next room when surveilling this stewardess’s phone.
Susan Collinsworth handed over the transcript. “Mr. Director, something interesting from one of our NSA collection reports.”
He took the purple folder stamped TOP SECRET/SCI and reviewed the printout of the translated conversation. He looked it over for a full minute.
“So, they really don’t know.”
“And they’re beginning to suspect the same thing we are.”
“That Jinshan isn’t the loyal Communist that he says he is?”
She nodded.
“Alright. I’ll see if I can get this to the president today. It might be hard to slow down the wheels of this thing right now, but this will certainly help if we can find evidence that links Jinshan to the Iranian attacks. Keep at it.”
“Yes, sir.”
9
Guangzhou, China
Natesh fought back another wave of nausea as their minivan curved around a corner. Everything in this godforsaken city made him sick. The food, the weather, the driving.
The strange food they served him at the Chinese military base was awful. The Chinese security men who brought them their meals must have thought it would be funny to give Natesh a local delicacy—cow brain. Natesh didn’t eat it, but just watching them go to town on it, and then eat actual chicken feet, disgusted him. The odd taste of their tea made him want to vomit. He gave it a try, but then decided to stick with bottled water, not trusting what might come out of their tap. He missed the sushi houses of Silicon Valley.
A constant smog filled the Guangzhou air. It was so thick that it limited visibility to a few hundred yards. It was like being stuck in a bad dream—the world fogged over in toxic brown. By the end of each day, he grew nauseous, and a massive headache consumed him.
