by Robert Gandt
Lutz put on a pained expression. “Well, I really don’t think it means anything. But one of my colleagues, a fellow named Feingold—”
“Herbert Feingold?” Swinford was leafing through his notebook. “Works in the RAM lab of Calypso Blue?” The furrowed-brow look again. “What does RAM mean?”
“Radar absorbent material. Feingold is a physicist.”
“Okay, fine. What about him?”
“Well, just that lately it seems that Herb—he’s a bachelor too—seems to be spending a lot of money.”
“On what?”
“Oh, the night life I guess you’d call it. He’s taken up heavy gambling, something he didn’t do before. He always loses a bundle, thousands sometimes, which he never seems to mind.”
Swinford was writing furiously in his notepad. “Where do you think he gets the money?”
“I wouldn’t want to—”
“But you have an idea.”
Lutz shook his head. “I know what you’re suggesting, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s just too hard to believe that a guy like Herb Feingold would ever do anything, you know, disloyal.” He looked at the three agents. “But there were those little hints. I guess you just never know about some people, do you?”
<>
Maxwell was right. Boyce was up to something.
They were alone in the air wing office. Boyce had sent Catfish Bass off to flag plot to retrieve the day’s air plan. He was taking special pleasure in having the Air Force pilot run errands for him. Bass invariably got lost wandering the passageways, still bashing his shins into the knee knockers. Boyce loved it.
Now Maxwell was seeing all the usual warning signals. Boyce was pacing the narrow compartment like a caged bear, gnawing on the cigar, hands jammed in his pockets.
He made one more circuit of the compartment, then stopped and removed his cigar. “Okay, now hear this. I’ve got an idea. We have to run it by the admiral, of course, and when he cleans out his underwear he’s gonna forward it up the chain. This one will go all the way to the commander-in-chief. But this President has a set of balls. I’ll bet a case of twelve-year-old Scotch that he signs off on it.”
“Signs off on what?”
“The Black Star, Chinese version.”
Maxwell could hear the warning bells, loud and clear, going off on his head. “Ah, what exactly are we going to do, CAG?”
“Do?” He removed the cigar and looked at Maxwell as if he were a retarded sixth-grader. “What do you think? We’re going to steal their little toy.”
CHAPTER 11 — SOVREMENNY
USS Ronald Reagan
Taiwan Strait
1045, Saturday, 13 September
It took eighteen hours.
When the Flash Priority message arrived on the Reagan—transmitted at the highest level of urgency via the carrier’s Athena satellite connection—Boyce let out a war whoop. “Ha! I told you, didn’t I? This is a president with cojones.”
Boyce, Maxwell, Admiral Hightree, and the Group Operations Officer, Captain Guido Vitale, stood around the long steel table in the SCIF—the Special Compartmentalized Intelligence Facility—located deep below decks in the ship’s Surface Plot spaces. On the bulkhead next to them was an illuminated map of the Taiwan Strait, covering all of Taiwan and the coastal mainland of China.
Maxwell glanced at the tasking order. “How do we know this came via the President?”
“We know,” said Hightree. “The spooks have an authentication system that verifies the origin of Flash Priorities.”
Boyce said, “You can bet there’s no way in hell CNO and the Joint Chiefs would give this the go ahead without the Commander-in-Chief signing off.”
Hightree looked worried, like a man whose destiny was slipping out of his control. “Gentlemen, this operation has fallen into my lap, whether I wanted it or not. But listen to me. Every detail of the plan will be reviewed by me and my staff before your people lift a finger.” He looked pointedly at Boyce. “Is that understood?”
Maxwell had to sympathize with Hightree. He was new to strike group command—less than three months—and he was not eager to take risks.
Not as eager as Boyce. “Yes, sir,” said Boyce. “Understood.”
“It’s supposed to be a Taiwanese operation,” said Hightree, “which means we get a sign off from the ROC government before we go anywhere, do anything. They supply the logistics, the insertion team, all the firepower.”
“So why do we have to be involved?” said Guido Vitale. He was a former patrol plane pilot who served as Hightree’s group operations officer. Vitale and Boyce butted heads on a daily basis. “Why do they need us at all?”
“Because it’s our problem too,” said Boyce. “The Black Star poses an immediate threat to Taiwan, but in the long run it’s a huge danger to the United States. It’s our own stolen technology being turned against us. We’re just gonna steal back what is rightfully ours.”
Vitale had a sour look on his face. “And who did you have in mind to do the stealing?”
Boyce was studying the remains of his cigar. The end was gnawed into a wet sliver. “Well, obviously he has to be a pilot. But not an ordinary pilot. Someone capable of climbing into an exotic jet he’s never seen before and flying the thing away.”
Hightree and Vitale were nodding. Boyce was deliberately keeping his eyes on the map of the Strait.
Maxwell was getting an old feeling. It was the same feeling he always got when he sensed something coming up with his name on it.
“Of course, he has to be a volunteer,” Boyce went on. “We all understand that it’s a high risk operation. But if I know my man, he’ll take the job.” His gaze swung away from the map.
Maxwell felt all the eyes in the room on him. That damned Boyce. Some things never changed.
<>
Don’t let them see you cry.
Charlotte Soong made a frozen mask of her face, trying her best to appear expressionless. She could feel the eyes of the general staff—senior officers of the Air Force, Army, Navy—all watching her, waiting for her reaction.
The news was devastating. Another frigate blown out of the water. A destroyer severely damaged. F-16s falling from the sky like shotgunned pigeons. Something—an invisible airplane—was killing Taiwanese jets.
Now it was killing ships. Her senior officers were divided about what to do next.
They were in the war room, a fortified chamber inside a bunker that extended for three hundred meters into the side of a hill. Connected by tunnels to the executive palace in Taipei, the bunker contained a military command center, an executive office and private quarters, and a communications post.
She had not yet told the general staff about the proposed raid on Chouzhou and the stealth fighters. The plan had been developed in secret and was known only to a handful of her aides and officers. General Wu had been involved with the planning, and he was not pleased. He considered an operation on Chinese soil to be too risky. If the mission failed—and he predicted it would—it would only embolden China to launch its own invasion force.
“What should I tell our flotilla commander?” said Admiral Weng-hei, the navy chief of staff.
“What do you mean?”
“Should I tell him to withdraw his forces from the Strait?”
Charlotte still didn’t understand. “You mean, turn over control of the sea to the Chinese navy?”
“If we wish to preserve our surface forces, we have to withdraw.”
She tried to read Weng-hei’s face. Nothing. She looked then at General Wu, standing at the wall-sized graphic display. Wu wore the same blank expression, giving her no guidance.
A feeling of despair swept over her. The war was turning against them, and the senior officers were making sure that the responsibility—and blame—fell on her.
“I need time to consider the situation,” she said, struggling to keep her face impassive. “I’ll be in my quarters for the next hour.” She could feel her lower lip beginning to t
remble.
Not until she’d exited the briefing room, ignoring the hostile glares of the officers, closing the door of her private quarters behind her, did she allow the mask to dissolve. She slumped into the red satin chair next to the dresser. The tears she’d been holding back sprang from a well deep inside her.
It was too much. She should never have accepted the position of President. They were right, Huang and Lo and the others. She had no qualification, no skills, no right to take her country and all its people with her into an abyss of death and misery.
She would resign.
Brave men were dying out there in the Strait. Why? Because she was filled with the need to prove herself? Or was it her own lust for revenge for her husband’s assassination?
Through her tears she looked up at the framed photograph on the dresser.
Kenneth, what would you do now?
The handsome, bespectacled man in the photograph smiled back at her. Charlotte squeezed her eyes closed, feeling again the pain of her loneliness. How long had it been? Four years and a few months since the rainy April night they found him shot through the heart on the doorstep of his Taipei office.
They had been a team, Dr. Kenneth Soong and his vivacious wife, Charlotte. He, the scholarly, idealistic statesman who, everyone said, would someday lead Taiwan to its rightful sovereignty. She, the bright and dutiful helpmate who stood beside him, laughed at his convoluted jokes, edited his speeches, consoled him on his defeats.
Helpmate. The word had a bittersweet flavor as she dredged it up from her memory. The public perception of the Soongs was of a complementary pair—he the strong and resolute leader, she the supportive assistant.
It was a charade.
Gazing again at the smiling face, Charlotte forced herself to recall the truth. Despite Kenneth’s undeniable brilliance, he was a man bedeviled by self doubt. She always knew that he lacked something—an inner strength, firmness of conviction, a sense of direction. He needed a compass. Charlotte supplied it.
It all came back to her now—the late night sessions during which she bolstered his wavering confidence, coached him for the next day’s confrontation in the legislative Yuan, instilled in him courage that he did not possess.
She was his compass. And his courage.
No one outside their little circle knew the truth. Together the Soongs climbed through the labyrinthine politics of Taiwan, battling both the factions that wanted war with China and those who preached capitulation. Kenneth Soong and his minority party were on the brink of winning leadership of Taiwan when his enemies decided to remove him. He had become too great a threat to their plans.
A feeling of utter hopelessness washed over Charlotte. Kenneth was gone, and with him her strength, her font of knowledge. Kenneth would know how to deal with this crisis. His analytical mind would sort out the false information from the true. He would know what to do.
But he would be frightened to death.
She nodded, looking at the smiling face in the photograph. Yes, sad but true. Kenneth would be wallowing in his own fear. His exterior manner would be firm, clear-eyed, focused on the objective. Inside, he would be screaming for help. Kenneth needed a compass.
I am the compass.
She wrestled with this thought for a while. She didn’t believe in destiny, at least not in a metaphysical sense. It was pure happenstance that she occupied the office of President. She was an accident of history. Any of her cabinet ministers or officers on the general staff could manage the country better than she.
Yes, she would resign. She would turn the office over to Franklin Huang.
Something inside her instantly rebelled at this thought. No. She couldn’t identify the source of her misgivings, but it was there. A strong voice was yelling at her. I can’t quit. Not now.
Her thoughts returned to the war room. She could feel the gloom that pervaded the yellow-lighted room. Generals and admirals were quibbling over withdrawal, containment, retreat. They were good, well-intentioned officers, each with a different perspective. They needed direction.
I am the compass.
She felt the intelligent brown eyes of her husband gazing at her. She could hear the words he would have for her. Do it, Charlotte. You know what has to be done.
She rose from the red chair. Peering into the mirror over the dresser, she dabbed at her eyes, freshened her make up, gave her flowing black hair a once-over. She hooked her talisman, the umbrella, over her right arm.
On her way out she delivered a curt nod to the sentry, then strode back to the war room thirty meters down the hall.
They looked up as she entered.
“More bad news, Madame President,” said Weng-hei. “The flotilla commander reports that two more of his ships have been sunk, a destroyer escort and a frigate.”
“Sunk by what? A submarine?”
“He doesn’t know. Possibly an aerial attacker that was undetected. They had no warning.”
“The invisible enemy again?”
The admiral nodded. “The commander has requested permission to withdraw his ships for rearming and repair.”
She studied the admiral’s grave expression for a moment. He looked like a man who had resigned himself to defeat. “Withdraw? Is that what you recommend, Admiral?”
“If we wish to preserve what naval strength we have left, yes.”
“Without control of the Strait, we will have lost the war.”
“Perhaps. But we still have aircraft overhead. We have submarines on station. We can—”
“Enough. There will be no further talk of withdrawal. Taiwan cannot afford such a luxury. Admiral, your task is to destroy the enemy’s navy, not run from it.”
Weng-hei looked as if he had been jolted with an electric current. “I did not mean that we should run. Only that—”
“I understand your meaning. Let me explain your duty in very simple terms. So long as you have one ship left afloat, you will use it to attack the enemy. Is that understood?”
The admiral’s face drained of color. “Yes, Madame President.”
A hush fell over the briefing room. General Wu, who had been studying the wall-sized graphic display, turned and gave her a curious stare. At the duty desk, an army colonel’s mouth dropped open as if he’d seen an apparition.
Her eyes swept the room, pausing to gaze at each of them. “Listen to me, each of you. The invisible weapon that the PLA is using against us has been identified. A plan has been proposed to deal with it.”
She told them about Operation Raven Swoop, leaving out the specific details of time and force size. She also left out any mention that Americans would be involved.
When she was finished, she glanced at her watch. “General Wu will brief you on the mission and explain the support functions that the commandos will require. Wish them luck, gentlemen. Taiwan’s fate rides with them.”
Taking long, purposeful strides, she walked past them to the red lighted exit. As she left, each of the officers, one after the other, snapped to attention.
<>
“Okay, assuming I took the assignment,” said Maxwell, “who is the second pilot?”
Boyce looked up from the op plan. “Who says it has to be a pilot?”
“I do. I need somebody in the back seat who can run the Black Star’s systems.”
“How about a Taiwanese Air Force pilot? Some guy who speaks English and can talk you through the check lists and instruments.”
Maxwell shook his head. “He ought to be an American. I don’t want problems with chain of command if we have to do something innovative.”
“That raises the ante, putting two Yanks on the ground in China. They’ll have a field day if they catch you.”
“You mean, losing me is okay, but two of us is another matter?”
Boyce shrugged. “Since you put it that way, yes.”
“Whoever it is has to understand some Chinese.”
“Why?”
“Even if they made this Dong-jin a carbon copy
of the Black Star, everything will be in Chinese. I’ll need help figuring out the instrumentation, the systems, the displays. I won’t even know how to start the thing without a translator.”
“Sounds like our choice is pretty clear, doesn’t it?”
Before Maxwell could reply, a rapping sound came from the door. Boyce opened the door. “Come on in, Major Bass,” he said. “We were just talking about you.”
<>
Bass waited until Boyce finished with his proposal. “No fucking way,” he said. A second later he thought to add, “Sir.”
Boyce just smiled. “But you’re the right man for the job.”
“I don’t know shit about stealth jets, and that’s the way I want to keep it. I’m a fighter jock, not a test pilot.”
Boyce was perusing a manila file folder. “Your mother is Chinese, according to your records.” He studied him for a moment. “You don’t look Asian to me.”
“My father was Irish. I take after him.”
“But you speak Chinese fluently.”
“Not any more. I forgot it. Every word.”
Boyce sighed. “I’m seriously disappointed in you, Major. Don’t you Air Force people feel a sense of duty?”
“To the Air Force maybe. Not to the Navy. With all due respect, sir, you guys are crazy as loons. Can I leave now?”
“No.” Boyce looked again at the folder. “According to this file from General Buckner, you have a career path that looks like an earthquake.” Boyce made a show of leafing through the file. “I can’t believe some of this stuff. Can this be true? You really got caught in the Langley O-club parking lot with a colonel’s wife—”
“She assured me they were separated.”
“By approximately fifty yards, according to this. That was until her husband found you in the back seat of your Thunderbird. Which resulted in your transfer to Myrtle Beach, which was where you—”
“May I see that file, sir?”
“No.” Boyce flipped a page. “It says here that you buzzed a sailboat off the coast at Myrtle Beach with an F-16. A boat that happened to belong to—”
