The Art of War: A Novel
Page 40
Hanna turned the boat so he was heading straight for the center of the Hornet task group.
Now the Chinese boat went active on its sonar. Ping.
It was turning toward Utah.
If the Chinese skipper fires a torpedo, this will be World War III. But he won’t, Hanna told himself. He’s been surprised, humiliated, lost a bucket of face, but he won’t pull the trigger. I hope.
“He’s accelerating, Captain,” sonar reported.
“Range?”
“About five miles, sir.”
“Give me a real hard starboard turn, Chief. I want to turn and point our nose right in front of him and go charging in like we’re going to ram.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Start pinging, sonar. I want to go close, but I don’t want to trade paint.”
“Yes, sir.”
The deck tilted as the chief had the helmsman bring Utah hard starboard. She came around like an airplane with her planes and rudder biting the water with a fierce grip. Then she straightened out.
“Faster, Chief. Another ten knots, I think.”
The Chinese boat was a bit to the left and perhaps fifty feet above them. The distances became stark as the two submarines rushed together, now at a combined speed of almost fifty knots, about sixty miles per hour.
“When we are one mile apart, we turn her, Chief, to port, go down his starboard side. We will fire more noisemakers as we pass.”
And that is what they did. They fired three more noisemakers as they were abeam the Chinese sub, then hit the turbulence she had left in her wake. The boat bucked and writhed. No doubt the Chinese sailors were also getting bounced around in Utah’s wake.
“Passive on the sonar,” Roscoe Hanna said. “Turn us to the south, Chief, and let’s get the hell out of here as fast as we can go.”
*
When the four Zulu Cobras from Hornet rendezvoused with the eastbound Sealions, two sections of F/A-18 Hornets were already overhead. The helicopters were under the overcast, flying at about one thousand feet. Their position lights twinkled in the vast darkness over the night sea.
Above the overcast, the fighters were probing the night with their radars while being illuminated by Chinese search radars. The pilots could hear the baritone tones as the radar beams swept over them. This information was data-linked to an E-2 Hawkeye in an orbit at thirty thousand feet over United States, and from there passed to the Combat Information Center and Flag Plot aboard the ship. From there it went by satellite to the White House Situation Room, where Cart McKiernan and Jake Grafton were watching.
Real-time text messages from Captain Joe Child and Lieutenant Howie Peavy scrolled across one of the large projection screens. The SEAL raid had been a success; all the men were coming out; they had egressed after sinking a harbor patrol boat and taking out several machine gunners aboard Liaoning.
“A nice job,” the CNO muttered. At the duty desk, one of the officers was on the telephone, no doubt briefing Sal Molina.
Grafton and the admiral watched as two bogeys climbed away from an airfield near the Qingdao naval base in real time, rendezvoused and headed out to sea, eastbound and climbing.
McKiernan looked at his watch. “The SEALs cracked that keel two and a half hours ago. Since then the PLAN has been trying to figure out what happened and what to do about it.”
These two had discussed all this, of course, before they went to see the president for approval of the SEAL raid. “The Chinese will be surprised, embarrassed and probably outraged,” Grafton argued, “yet they won’t shoot unless they are fired upon. No Chinese officer is going to take the responsibility for starting World War III.”
“You hope,” Jurgen Schulz glowered.
The secretary of state, Owen Lancaster, cleared his throat. He was a white-haired Brahmin who had been helping hold up the New England end of the establishment for at least fifty years. Although no one knew how he voted, if he did, he had been routinely appointed to key ambassadorships by thirty years’ worth of presidents. This president had elevated him to run the State Department, to the relief of a great many Americans who expected another party hack.
Lancaster was no fan of Jake Grafton, with whom he had crossed swords several times in the past. Still, he eyed McKiernan and Grafton carefully, then spoke to the president. “The Chinese need to be taught a lesson. That bomb in Norfolk was a gambit approved at the very top. We can’t let it pass. If we do, sooner or later we will be in a shooting war in the Far East or we will be run out of there with our tails between our legs. We must make our choice now. Tomorrow will be too late.”
The president deferred to Lancaster. “Do it,” he told Cart McKiernan.
So Grafton and McKiernan had gotten their permission. Now they sat in the back row of the White House Situation Room watching jets rush together over the Yellow Sea and hoped they had correctly predicted the Chinese reaction.
Yet neither man was really worried. Even if some Chinese pilot opened fire, he would quickly go into the sea, and cooler heads would prevail in Beijing. Political provocations are wonderful PR for the home folks, but when one encounters naked steel, it is time to reassess. Are you ready to fight?
The two American sections of Hornets, two fighters in each section, turned so that the Chinese formation went between them; then they turned hard to come in at an angle from each side, a classic rendezvous. But as the Chinese pilots knew, the Americans were in their rear quadrant pulling lead. If the Americans chose to shoot, they were perfectly set up for it.
The flight leader reported that the Chinese jets had their external lights on, as the American fighters did. Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington passed that comment on to Washington immediately, and both McKiernan and Grafton relaxed a bit when they heard it. The Chinese pilots had not been sent to shoot down an American plane or two. If they had, they would have never let the Americans get into a firing position.
McKiernan slapped Grafton on the shoulder again and dug a pack of chewing gum out of his pocket.
When the last of the helicopters and fighters were back aboard ship and Hornet had recovered her two Sealions, McKiernan and Grafton stood, stretched and strolled out of the Situation Room. They met Sal Molina coming in.
“We’re going over to the Willard for steaks and drinks,” Grafton told the president’s man. “You want to come along?”
He did. Late that night the Willard valet at the door hailed taxis to take all three men home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
If we desire to avoid insult, we must be able to repel it; if we desire to secure peace, one of the most powerful instruments of our rising prosperity, it must be known that we are at all times ready for War.
—George Washington
Not a word of the events in Qingdao harbor or the Yellow Sea that January night ever made it into print, the Internet, or broadcast radio or television. It was as if Liaoning were still afloat. Satellite reconnaissance showed that she probably wasn’t.
Three days after the event, the Chinese ambassador, who spoke excellent English, called on the State Department to deliver a note from the Chinese government. He was ushered into the office of the secretary, Owen Lancaster.
“Before you deliver your note, sir, I have something to show you,” Lancaster said. “Then, perhaps, you and I can have a private, off-the-record discussion.”
Lancaster’s limo was waiting. Without a word being said, the driver headed for Joint Base Andrews, the air force side. The limo was waved through toward a hangar surrounded by air force MPs wearing helmets and sidearms and carrying assault rifles. Some of them had dogs on leashes.
A colonel escorted Lancaster and his guest into the hangar, which was empty except for a bomb dolly in the middle of the thing. The colonel let Lancaster and the ambassador proceed alone. Lancaster stopped beside the bomb dolly.
“This, Mr. Ambassador, is a Chinese nuclear weapon. It was recovered from the Norfolk naval base, where it was submerged near the entrance to the harbor.”
“Mr. Secretary, I am unfamiliar with weapons. I have never even seen one. I have no idea what nation produced this one, if it is indeed a weapon.”
“Your government has been less than forthright with you, sir,” Lancaster said. “This weapon was armed and within two hours of detonating when it was found. You were there in Norfolk, sir, and had it exploded, you would now be dead, along with several million Americans.”
“I repeat, sir—”
“Don’t bother,” Lancaster said, holding up his hand. “I feel somewhat certain that you called today at the State Department to lodge a protest about the sabotage of your aircraft carrier, Liaoning, at the Qingdao naval base, several days ago. Rest assured, sir, that the United States government knows no more about that incident than the government of the People’s Republic knows about this weapon you see before you.”
The Chinese ambassador said nothing.
Lancaster continued. “However, it must be said, unofficially and off the record, privately from me to you, that certain people in our government thought it would be fitting and proper for this weapon, made in China, to be returned to China, placed under Liaoning, and detonated.” Lancaster made a gesture. “Although I know nothing about any of this, I assume that since I have not heard about a nuclear detonation in China, and since the weapon is physically right before us, such counsel was wisely rejected.”
“Quite so,” said the ambassador, who felt called upon to wipe his forehead.
“Unless you wish to take a photo or inspect the weapon more closely, I suggest we return to my office, where you can present your note.”
But when they returned to Foggy Bottom, the ambassador decided not to present the note.
A week after the Liaoning incident, the Chinese government made a routine announcement: A new officer had been named head of the PLAN. What had happened to Admiral Wu wasn’t mentioned, but intelligence agencies later learned that he was arrested on the order of the Paramount Leader, shot and quietly buried.
*
Sarah Houston and I flew home across the big pond. The truth is I was sort of tuckered out from all the vacationing. I have never had all the sex I wanted, but when we boarded the plane in Singapore I was perilously close to having had all I could stand. And I was kinda almost in love with Sarah Houston.
I had been really in love once before with Anna Modin, and I knew the signs. I was having a devil of a time keeping my eyes off Sarah. Just looking at her and hearing her voice delighted me. It wasn’t love yet, but maybe in time it might be. Anna was still a living presence with me, but she was gone … forever. Life is for the living. Somehow I was going to have to get my head around those realities. Someday.
We got off the plane in San Francisco exhausted and jet-lagged to the max, retrieved our luggage, signed out a rental car and set forth upon the highways. Sarah got busy with her cell phone as I drove. After a while she announced, “The president nominated Jake Grafton for director of the CIA. Sent his name to the Senate.”
We rode along silently, each of us thinking about that. We talked about what Grafton might have each of us doing.
Mom seemed to like Sarah. She wanted to know all about Singapore, so we told her some lies. In fact, we hadn’t seen much of it outside the hotel. I didn’t mention the morgue.
“I’ve got a new boyfriend,” Mom announced. “He’ll be here for dinner, in about an hour, to meet you, Tommy, and of course Sarah.”
I tried to be casual. “What happened to the old one, Bertie What’s His Name?”
“We broke up right after you were here the last time, Tommy.”
“Oh,” I managed.
“Then he left a week or so ago, moved away apparently. They haven’t seen him at the country club.” She shrugged. “I hope he wasn’t devastated by the breakup, but these things happen.”
Sarah nodded sagely, and I said “Oh” again.
When I had recovered a bit, I said, as casually as I could, “So tell us about the new guy.”
“You’ll like him,” she assured me. “He is reasonably good-looking, athletic and very talented. Extraordinarily so.”
“Talented at what?”
“He’s a body artist,” Mom told us, as if it were a secret.
A vision of some kinky sex thing flashed before my eyes. After all, I knew my mother. But maybe I was going too fast. “What’s a body artist?” I asked.
“He does tattoos,” Sarah told me with her eyebrows up.
I gave Mom my best lying grin. “I hope it works out for you,” I said. Sarah patted my arm.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For their kindness in reading and commenting upon various portions of the manuscript, the author wishes to thank Gilbert F. Pascal, Jerry A. Graham, and RADM Daniel H. Stone USN Ret. A special thank you to Deborah Jean Coonts, who read every word of every draft numerous times and didn’t surrender.
The author also wishes to acknowledge the wisdom and seemingly infinite patience of his long-suffering editor, Charles Spicer of St. Martin’s Press. Thanks, Charlie.
Also by Stephen Coonts
Saucer: Savage Planet
Saucer: The Conquest
Saucer
Pirate Alley
The Disciple
The Assassin
The Traitor
Liars & Thieves
Liberty
America
Hong Kong
Cuba
Fortunes of War
The Intruders
The Red Horsemen
Under Siege
The Minotaur
Final Flight
Flight of the Intruder
With William H. Keith
Deep Black: Death Wave
Deep Black: Sea of Terror
Deep Black: Arctic Gold
With Jim DeFelice
Deep Black: Conspiracy
Deep Black: Jihad
Deep Black: Payback
Deep Black: Dark Zone
Deep Black: Biowar
Deep Black
Nonfiction
The Cannibal Queen
Anthologies
The Sea Witch
On Glorious Wings
Victory
Combat
War in the Air
Writing as Eve Adams
The Garden of Eden
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN COONTS is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels that have been translated and published around the world. A former naval aviator and Vietnam combat veteran, he is a graduate of West Virginia University and the University of Colorado School of Law. He lives in Colorado.
Follow Stephen Coonts on Facebook and visit his Web site at www.coonts.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 2
7
Acknowledgments
Also by Stephen Coonts
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE ART OF WAR. Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Coonts. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: aircraft carrier by Purestock/Superstock; ocean and sky by Istock; U.S. Marines photo/Alamy
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Coonts, Stephen, 1946– author.
Title: The art of war: a novel / Stephen Coonts.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015038676 | ISBN 9781250041999 (hardback) | ISBN 9781466839205 (e-book)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Espionage. | GSAFD: Spy stories. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3553.O5796 A88 2016 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015038676
e-ISBN 978-1-46683920-5
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First Edition: February 2016